As you may know I turned 40 this year, and thus begins my third decade as an official adult. Every decade, every year is uncharted territory at its very beginning. And it is usually only in hindsight that we understand each year, each decade and the lessons we drew from them. It strikes me that there are some people who never recognize those lessons and blithely carry on their lives in a kind of stasis of mind. As if at some point in their lives they reached a level of learning they were comfortable with and froze their development in amber. Never evolving past a certain point, never changing, never becoming more than the simple sum of their parts; their years are simply an enumeration, not a teaching tool.

I do not want to become one of those people.

Mr. Prairie and I married when I was 23, so the majority of my twenties were about learning how to be a married person. Together we learned how to forge a partnership of equals, a team. The two of us against the world.

We began trying to have children when I was 29, so my thirties were consumed with the babies. First with the thought, “Are we ready to do this?” When the answer came back, “Ready as we’ll ever be,” we jumped in, both feet, eyes closed. It was not as easy as it is in the movies. Five years of trying, tests, procedures, drugs, heartbreak, disappointment, giving up, then giving back in, hoping, crying, and miscarrying. Then success, we triumphed, I triumphed over the body that had thus far only betrayed me. I not only struggled with infertility, I wrestled it to the ground and kicked its ass. Then followed eight months and one week of fear and high-risk status.

But the consumption by everything baby did not end with my son’s birth. There was a year of post-partum depression, undiagnosed of course. I had no idea until the fog of hormones lifted and I got to experience “normal” again. And just when I was getting used to being “normal” again, I got pregnant (planned) with my daughter. Another ride on the baby-go-round! Luckily, I did not experience PPD that time around.

Now, facing forward into my 40’s, I wonder what the future lessons will be. But I suspect this decade will be about learning how to be the grown-up version of me. Wunderkind, wild child, young woman, those times have come and gone. It is time to let go of any remaining shred of reticence or timidity. It is time to reach for the things I want. It is time, and long passed, to claim the title Writer for myself.

And I want to triumph over my body once again, this time making it fit my self-image. But I will save that struggle for a future post.

Happy Holidays to All our Friends and Family!

Well, this year has gone by fast! And it was an action-packed year, at least by Prairie family standards.
I turned 40 this year. (40!) Monkey started kindergarten and discovered cafeteria food. And since kindergarten is now an all-day affair, Pumpkin finally gets some time to herself, some time with Mama to herself, and some much-needed peace and quiet. It’s tough to be the baby.
In the interest of finding some peace and quiet myself, and some money, I got a job. One that pays. I work part-time in a bank call center now. I told Mr. Prairie that even if every single caller yelled at me (they don’t) it would still be quieter than our house!
Then we had a House fire. OK, a garage fire. There was an electrical fire in the garage and due to the fact that John was home with the kids while I was at work, and did everything right, and also to the incredibly fast response time of the Tulsa Fire Department, the fire’s damage was confined to the garage. But we lost power, of course, and part of the house filled with smoke.
So, we stayed in a way-too-small-for-the-kids hotel room for three weeks that felt like an eternity. The good part—it was, in reality, only three weeks and not an eternity. I owe those firefighters a batch of cookies!
Mr. Prairie, who is my big-time hero for saving my babies from a fire!, has gone into business for himself. He is now doing web design, information architecture, user experience, and lots of other things that I don’t understand, from home. Part of the reason he chose to strike out on his own was to spend more time at home with the family.
Well, in the just-over-a-month that he has been working for himself, he has flown to Tennessee and New Jersey! And he’s busier than ever, but at least he’s got a great boss. He has wanted to do this for a very long time, but it was the fire that gave him that extra little push to do it.
It was as if the fire cleared out the underbrush that obscured his path, and then lit the way. Fire is such a mainstay of human experience. For thousands upon thousands of years we have both feared fire’s awesome, destructive power and valued its usefulness. Fire warms our hearths, cooks our food, and heats our water. And while we no longer rely on fire to provide light for our homes, we still fondly recall the days when we did. Ever wonder why candle shops do such brisk business in this electric age?
Candlelight has long played a roll in holiday traditions. Candles in a menorah are the central symbol of Hanukah, representing the re-consecrating of the temple ordered by Judah Maccabee. The menorah needed to burn all night, every night for re-consecration but there was only enough oil for one night. But miraculously the oil lasted for eight nights, long enough to prepare more oil.
Kwanzaa uses a candleholder called a kinara, containing seven candles of red, green, and black, to represent the seven principles of Kwanzaa. Those seven principles are: Unity, Self-determination, Collective work and responsibility, Cooperative economics, Purpose, Creativity, and Faith. (Much thanks to the Official Kwanzaa Website.)And while candles aren’t the most important symbol in Christmas celebrations, they do play many traditional roles.
In Ireland it was traditional to place a lit candle in the window and leave the front door unlocked, as a sign of the hospitality Mary and Joseph were denied on the night of Christ’s birth. And in many countries the candle in the window is a sign of welcome for the Christ Child, Himself, who is said to wander the countryside looking for homes in which He will be received. He could be in the guise of a beggar or a poor, hungry child. You never know how He will appear to you, so it is important to offer hospitality to all who come to the door on Christmas.
Candles in the Advent wreath are lit in the weeks leading up to Christmas. There are accompanying prayers for each candle, one lit per week, that remind believers to focus on the true meaning of Christmas.
Queen Victoria popularized Christmas trees in England. Her German-born husband, Prince Albert brought Christmas trees, a German custom, into their home. The queen was well loved and widely copied, so since she had a Christmas tree, everybody else wanted one, too. Candles were placed directly on the branches, and later in little holder-clips attached to the branches. These lights on the Christmas tree symbolized the Star of Wonder that illuminated the Magi’s way.
Today we have replaced the candles with electric lights, which makes me happy because one house fire was one too many. People even put electric “candles” in their windows. The fire itself was replaced, but we retained the light.
The lights that surround and infuse theses holy days remind us to BE the light so desperately needed in this world. We need to be the light that illuminates others and ourselves. We need to be the light that shines into the darkest, dankest recesses of humanity. We need to be the light that beams into stormy seas and guides foundering hearts to a safe harbor.
If we would all be that light, we could banish hatred and intolerance. We could drive out ignorance and fear. And we could extend a beacon of hospitality and hope to those who need it most.

Happy Holidays from the House of the Burning Prairie!

So, the Motrin™ Moms are all in a tizzy about a commercial that was on the intertubes. And drunk with the mighty mom power they exerted to force Motrin™ to remove said offending commercial. Please.

As always, I wanted to see what the shooting was all about and watched it. It cracked me up.

I wore both the kids in one of those front carriers and hauled the youngest around in a baby carrier that detached from the base of her car seat. And you know what, hauling kids around hurts, which ever way you choose. Back, neck, arms, shoulders–they all hurt. I swear some days even my hair hurt.

One child liked the front carrier more than the other, but I’m not going to debate the relative merits of attachment parenting versus any other kind. And that’s not what Motrin™ was doing. And despite the baby-wearing-specific rancor that the commercial stirred up, I don’t believe that the moms’ reactions have anything to do with that aspect.

The problem here is ambiguity, the ambiguity that is inherent in modern motherhood. And it has been my experience that most people can’t handle ambiguity. Ambiguity, grey areas, uncertainty, don’t sit well with most folks. We want the world and all of its myriad experiences categorized, listed, corralled, classified, organized, neatly put into little labeled boxes. Why do you think home organization is such big business? Not to keep our houses uncluttered, but to keep our souls uncluttered. We long for simple answers in a world of increasingly complex questions.

Motherhood is one of those increasingly complex questions. And it didn’t use to be that way. Used to be that if you were a woman, married, and physically capable of having children, you did. It was a given, a certainty, just the way of the world. Then various, reliable means of family planning were developed, giving women and their partners the ability to have children or not according to their own schedules. Motherhood was no longer a given, but a choice. And since having a choice between two options, have a child or don’t have one, is more complex than having no choice at all, one layer of complexity was added to motherhood.

Then there’s the issue of mothers working outside the home. This used to be a no-brainer–if you needed to work, you did. If you needed to stay home with your kids, you did. And nobody thought anything of it. This notion of being a stay-at-home-mom by choice is a relatively new thing.

Throughout history, mothers have worked, usually at jobs that earned them little or no recognition, for paltry compensation. You’ll often hear social conservatives decrying the feminist-inspired influx of women into the work-place, with the resultant taking of jobs meant for white, christian men. But that’s just stupid. Women have always worked: on farms, in factories, in the family business, in other peoples’ homes, in one-room schoolhouses, in hospitals, in restaurants. And even women who didn’t receive paychecks worked, behind-the-scenes, doing all the hard, tedious, thankless tasks that keep life running smoothly.

Of course there were wealthy women who never had to lift a finger; women with housekeepers and nannies to do all the slog-work of mothering. Doubtless these wealthier women had a much different experience of motherhood that did their poorer counterparts.

It has always been thus, and thusly, it ever shall be.

Now we have a largely manufactured mommy war, bitterly waged by who exactly? The average mom, of the working or stay-at-home variety, does what she has to do to keep her family running. Working moms work outside the home because it makes sense, economically, to do so. No splurging on luxuries, the average working mom works to put food on the table, clothes on backs, and gas in tanks. For the average stay-at-home mom, staying home with the children, for at least a few years, also makes sense economically. We found out that almost my entire salary would be eaten up by childcare costs, so it made sense to stay home. Now I have a part-time evening job that makes sense, because I can carry the Prairie Family’s health insurance.

No, the combatants of the mommy war appear to all be women of above-average earning potential. We have one camp accusing the other of sacrificing family and farming out motherhood to strangers. And on the other side, we have accusations of betraying the feminist cause by giving up lucrative careers. But these are all women most of us are never likely to be able to emulate financially.

So how does this manufactured war affect the rest of us? And, more importantly, what does it all have to do with Motrin™? We are stuck in the cross-fire. Pow pow, we should all have rewarding careers. Pow pow, we should all be spending every waking moment making our children’s lives more enriching. Pow pow, betraying the cause. Pow pow, betraying our children.

No wonder most of us feel beat up. We are trying to live up to standards set by women with impeccable safety nets. Nannies, housekeepers, private schools, private tutors, spa days. It’s an impossible standard to meet, but being mothers we blame ourselves. There must be something wrong with us if we can’t be all things to all people.

Motherhood should be all-fulfilling, dammit! We should be blissfully happy all the time, dammit! Nothing should ever pierce the veil, dammit!

And when something comes along, like that commercial, and reminds us that motherhood is not going to make us all happy, all the time, then we get uncomfortable. We get belligerent, we join together to shout, “HOW DARE THEY!!!!!” But it doesn’t have to be that way.

Once you embrace the ambiguity of motherhood, you’ll find this commercial as funny as I do. Once you realize that the responsibility for your happiness cannot be dumped on your children’s shoulders, you and your children will actually be happier. Once you understand that the complexity of motherhood has no simple answers, then the better off you will be. Too bad there’s not a pill for that.

The Prairie Family is back home! The House of the Burning Prairie may still be a little rough and smoky around the edges, but we are sleeping at home tonight. And the next night, and the night after that, and so on and so forth. It will be a long time before I willingly sleep in another hotel,  so our next vacation had better be in easy driving distance from the House.

I love you, silly old ghost-lousy House, I promise to never take you for granted again.

Work is going forward on our House, hopefully we’ll be out of Hotel of the Burning Prairie by Halloween. It’s not bad, really, just a little cramped for two active kids; and the fold-out bed I’m sleeping on is killing my back.

Pumpkin is about the only one of us who seems unaffected by our situation, probably because of her age. And her generally role-with-the-punches temperament, which she developed as a result of being Monkey’s little sister. My patience is cut short and frayed at the ends. Work feels like a rest at this point. Hubby’s, shall we say, “artistic” temperament is more pronounced. (And people say women are moody!). At one point, he looked at me and told me he felt stressed and didn’t know why. I looked at him, mouth open in disbelief, and said, “Hello! You were in a House fire, with the babies!” And he said, “Oh, yeah.” Like it snuck up on him, unawares.

I wasn’t there during the fire itself, so I can deal with this at a remove. But I told Hubby he needs to start processing this or he’s going to suffer from PTSD. He was in a House fire, with the babies! I told him that he’s my hero for keeping my babies safe, but he still has a lot of stuff with which to deal.

Monkey is still processing all of this and he probably will be until well after we move back into our House. He thrives on routine and doesn’t care for change, so he’s acting out more than usual. He cried twice this week when I dropped him off at school, something he usually doesn’t do. But our situation is anything but usual.

There was a substitute on his first day of school after the fire, but his regular teacher was back the next day. She said that he told her all about the fire, “in great detail.” When Monkey and Pumpkin play, I hear a lot of pretend involving fires. I know that this is part of his way of dealing with what happened, and all the changes that have resulted, so I just listen but don’t intervene. Part of his way of dealing involves art. Monkey is just as creative and talented as his father, and just as temperamental.

He tells us he wants to be an architect when he grows up; he wants to design and build cities. The walls of our room are now sporting what Monkey calls his “art museum.” He has been prolific, drawing and constructing submarines, safety signs, volcanoes with cave men, and many, many houses. I told Hubby that I think Monkey’s drawing so many houses because he’s not in his own right now. He misses our silly, old, ghost-lousy House of the Burning Prairie.

And so do I.

Like all parents, we have been stressing the importance of honesty to our children. But every time I told one of them to always tell the truth, I felt like a fraud. And I couldn’t understand why.

In the past two weeks I have had to admit some uncomfortable truths to myself. You see, I haven’t been happy in a very long time. But if you had asked me how I describe myself the answer would’ve been “happy,” until about two weeks ago. I’m not sad or mopey or depressed, and I confused the absence of depression with true happiness. If I had been more honest, I would have described myself as angry, thwarted, dissatisfied.

My husband said that I have been unhappy for as long as he can remember. And he’s right. There are bits and pieces of happiness in my life–Hubby, Monkey, Pumpkin. But running underneath it all is a fetid stream of disappointment and it has been there since I was a teenager.

It seems cliched and too easy to lay the blame on my parents, but they at least got the ball rolling. My parents were two very unhappy people. Dad always seemed happiest in his absence from home. When he wasn’t at work, he was at church, stuffing his life full of other people and crowding us out. He joined a bass fishing club so he could be away on Saturdays as well, free from the thought of all his many obligations.

Mother was an unhappy woman from a long line of unhappy women. My maternal grandmother never was allowed to fulfill her potential and she made damn sure that her daughter wasn’t either. To be fair, both of my parents seem much happier now. They take fun vacations and smile a lot more. Perhaps it was having children that turned them both into such curmudgeons. Now the pressure is off and they can afford to loosen up a little. And they are much better grandparents than parents.

I never felt as if my hopes and dreams carried any weight. Writing was the first thing I really wanted to do. I wrote my first free verse at 12, it wasn’t very good, but I was 12. I read it proudly to my parents who promptly belittled everything about it. They stabbed me right in the dreams.

As I matured, others took notice of my writing and praised me for it. But no amount of outside encouragement could make up for its utter lack in the home-front. Journalism seemed like a good outlet, so I joined the school paper. (And not at my parents’ prompting mind you. My driver’s ed partner encouraged me. Thanks Gina!) But journalism and I weren’t a good fit. And nobody ever informed me that you don’t have to write for the paper to have a career in writing.

I loved to write stories and used the typing practice my parents forced on me to write them. My dad would read the stories to check my typing progress and laugh at me for my ideas. I learned to push my dreams down where no one would laugh at them anymore.

When college time loomed, I quietly sent off for information from Bryn Mawr and Mt. Holyoke. I wanted so badly to go to a women’s college and study writing, but I knew better than to voice those desires. Again and again I silenced my dreams, refusing to give them voice.

Denying myself my hopes and dreams became a kind of survival mechanism. If I didn’t tell anybody what I really wanted, they couldn’t laugh at me, denigrate me, dismiss me. And after a time I forgot who I was and what I wanted. I forgot why I wasn’t happy.

I began looking for other things, outside things to make me happy. If I only do this thing, then I will be happy. But nothing outside of me had the power to make me happy or unhappy.

I always knew I wanted marriage and a family, so I married the love of my life, who loves me, happy or sad, good or bad. Adjusting to married life kept my mind occupied for a long time. Then just the busyness of life took over and I forgot, for a time, about the unhappiness. But then we started trying to have a baby and ran into some difficulties.

Unhappiness threatened to overwhelm me. My body was betraying me daily, steadfastly refusing to get pregnant. I mistakenly believed that my infertility was the cause of my unhappiness and when I finally had a baby, everything would be all right.

What a terrible burden to put on a baby. Then post-partum depression hit. I was in the deepest, blackest pit in the dungeon. Alone, unnourished, with only the dank, stony walls of my prison to comfort me. Even after I came out of PPD, I still had a load of anger and resentment to carry around.

No matter what I tried, I couldn’t off-load that anger and resentment. Too often they would come bubbling up to the surface, spilling over onto my poor family. I thought going to nursing school would “fix” me. But I don’t really want to be a nurse. I’m certainly capable of being a nurse, but I’m not suited to it. Maybe I was trying to curry favor with my impossible-to-please mother.

Finally I couldn’t take anymore denial–I had to admit to my husband and to myself just how I really felt. I had to admit that I am not the basically happy person that I fancied myself to be. I am not a happy person, there I admitted it. I was honest.

Then I had to figure out why. It felt like there was something missing inside, but what? What is this shape in my heart? The one that I can trace with my mind, the way you can trace a missing tooth with your tongue. Oh yes, that is the shape of my dreams, my hopes, the thing I really want but have been unable to say aloud in too many years.

I want to be a writer! An author, the kind that gets recognized and paid for her words. The kind whose thoughts are valued and whose ideas see the light of day in the printed word. I want my words, my thoughts, my ideas, my fine sharp mind, to be set down in print.

With a boldness I have never expressed before, I claim my dreams. Never again will I allow any thought of my parents to dictate what I do and do not write.So, to all my readers–I am now open for business as a writer. If you know anyone who needs a writer be sure to let me know and let them know, too.

Attention politicians (mostly male, mostly hetero): Your sex lives are none of my business! Please stop calling your mating habits to my attention.

I am exhausted with all of your petty little sex scandals, so stop it! It’s like you all are just a big group of over-grown 5-year olds. My 5-year old is a good boy, but he has trouble behaving like a good boy all the time. He doesn’t always mind, he can be mean to his little sister, and he’s developed a very bad habit of calling (mainly) me an idiot. So needless to say, he gets in his fair share of trouble. And when he has to deal with the consequences of his actions, he tends to cry and say he’s sorry, he didn’t mean it. And I accept his apologies, but tell him it would be much better for him if he didn’t do the things he has to be sorry about.

So wouldn’t it be easier for you people to just not do anything you’re going to have to apologize for later? Save yourselves the trouble of hiding and denying and then, finally, making a forced, crocodile-tear-filled public statement, wronged spouse dutifully by your side. Why make the world, mainly me, witness to your disgrace? Practice some discretion, some tact, some taste, how about some good judgment. Don’t get caught with your pants down by never having your pants down in the first place. Lordy, do I have to do your thinking for you?

Apparently I do.

First things first, don’t cheat! Seems easy, right? Let’s take it step-by-step, if you are a budding politician or think that you would like to be involved in any sort of government anything and you haven’t stepped out on your spouse yet–don’t. Just don’t. If you are a more established politician and you have remained faithful to your vows, good, keep doing that. But if you are now, or have been in the past, cheating on your spouse, stop this instant! Put on your pants and go home.

Next, we’ll talk about why you shouldn’t cheat. Beyond the fact that it’s wrong, cheating is just plain dumb and stupid. Unless you and your spouse have a previous mutual agreement that yours is an open marriage, cheating is a serious breach of trust. And if you do have an open marriage, don’t go into politics. Most of your constituents just aren’t going to understand. Blame the Puritans. But I digress. At least pretend like you know it’s wrong.

On to the dumb and stupid part. You do not live in a vacuum, or on a desert island, or in an impenetrable shell of your own colossal ego. You are not as discreet as you think you are. Waiters see you, bellboys see you, security guards see you. Even if your spouse is totally blind-sided, there are way more people than just the two of you who know your dirty little secret. Perhaps your lover told a friend, in strict confidence of course, and that bouncer can be bribed. And you can’t quite discount the idea that you may been set up all along.

You will be found out. Some nosy reporter will make a shocking discovery and then the whole world know. And then I’m going to know. And that’s the real problem, I’m sick of hearing about it. Could we please just get some politicians with some freakin’ standards here?!

I think a big part of the problem lies in the kinds of people who seek public office. The mix of self-confidence and self-delusion that cause some people to decide that they would make fabulous governors or senators or city council members also makes them feel as if they are above reproach or even temptation itself. Ah, pride cometh before the fall! When your mind is on lofty goals (you are saving your little corner of humanity!), it is so much easier to stumble. And then there are those people who have such inflated senses of their own importance and superiority that they honestly believe that the rules that govern us mere mortals do not apply to them.

As a college freshman, I dated one such budding sociopath, I mean politician. His stated life-goal was to be a politician, he wanted to run for some kind of office. I was oh-so-very naive and not very experienced with dating. After a disastrous high school run of entrenched geekitude and unrequited crushes (the best kind!), I was flattered that such a handsome, ambitious guy found me worthy of his attention. This situation could’ve ended with heartbreak and teen pregnancy, but I had worked out, in advance, exactly what I was ready for in a relationship and what I wasn’t. When I wasn’t ready to commence a full adult, sexual relationship, he dumped me (in the middle of a party) for someone who was. To my eternal shame, I dated him again about a year later. I still wasn’t ready and he dumped me again, telling me I was selfish. You know, for not ignoring my own wishes and immediately caving in to his!

So when I see these politicians up on the dais, boo-hooing because they got caught, I always think of that boyfriend. And how I could have ended up one of those women, standing up there beside a disgraced man. Except for those pesky standards of mine! You know, the ones I worked out long before I was ever in a position to exercise them.

That’s what you politicians need to do, work out your standards before you actually need them. Decide way ahead of time that things like soliciting call-girls and hitting on interns and pages are bad things. Don’t pick up random strangers or have long-standing affairs. Ask any loving, faithful spouse how he or she would want to be treated and do that. Understand that being a faithful spouse is a pretty high standard, and exceed it. Because being faithful to the public you serve should be an even higher standard. And if you figure all these things out before temptation throws itself in your path, then you may not be as vulnerable to that temptation.

And then I may not have to find out how you get your jollies. Really people, too much information.

I am currently watching Ni Hao, Kai-lan, even when the kids aren’t in the room. Right now, we are having a TV problem–it’s 10 years old, takes about an hour to warm up and until then the picture flips and distorts. So once the TV is on, it is on for the day, whether anybody is watching it or not. When the kids leave, I just mute the sound.

Anyway, Kai-lan is a nice show, Pumpkin likes it more than Monkey does, and even repeats the Mandarin words. The visual style is very simple and colorful. The characters remind me of a cross between Hello Kitty and an Avon “It’s a Small World” perfume bottle I had when I was a little girl. The only problem I have is not with the show itself, it’s with Nick, Jr. Love the shows, hate hate hate the commercials. I would pay cash money if my oldest didn’t have the Chuck E Cheese theme song memorized now.

The next show, Pokemon DP, is definitely a favorite of Monkey’s. He plays Pokemon something-or-other every night with his daddy, he’s got a bunch of the cards, and he adores the show. I’ve always liked anime, Robotech was one of my favorites in high school. The show is as intricate as the video games. Last week, Monkey found one of my pens and wrote a little “R” on the pocket of his grey t-shirt. He told me it’s because he’s a member of Team Rocket. Pumpkin hates the show and screams, “That’s not my favorite!” whenever Monkey watches it.

One show they both agree upon is a classic: Popeye. They love it! And they take turns pretending to be Popeye and Bluto. I hear a lot of talk about spinach, but it’s just the pretend kind. Actually offer them real live spinach and they act like you just served up a poop sandwich. One interesting thing–while they like to run around and make straws into corn cob pipes, they don’t hit each other! So that’s good. Another interesting little tidbit, it’s always Popeye and Bluto, Olive Oyl never figures into it. I don’t mind that at all. Olive Oyl makes the rest of us dames look bad! Seriously, that character plays into so many negative stereotypes of women that I’m glad she’s not included. She’s fickle, she’s irrational, she’s ditzy, she’s a bad driver, and she’s only a prop to further the Popeye/Bluto rivalry dynamic.

I’d be really worried if either my son or my daughter wanted to identify with such a character. But I’d be pleased if either one pretended to be Dora or Kai-lan. But alas, strong, capable, identifiably-human girl characters are few and far between. Well, there’s always Velma.

Every single one of my teenage years took place in the 80’s. I know this is the time about which I am supposed to wax nostalgic. But I won’t. I’m absolutely sure that there are some pathetic souls who look longingly back on their high school years as the their peak years, their best years, after which all else is downhill. That is so sad. When I left my high school, and the little town it was in, I shook its dust from my tiny shoes and never looked back. I even refused to attend my 10-year class reunion, thinking that a mere decade was not enough time in which real change can occur. In me or others.

This year I turned 40, officially entering middle-age and marking my 20th anniversary of not being a teenager anymore. In that 20 years I: have been married for 17 of them, had two beautiful, infuriating children, started writing again, swallowed the bitter pill and attended my 20-year class reunion, but I still don’t think I’ve reached my peak. I feel that I still have way more to accomplish, more to offer the world.

So I’m not one of those crotchety, stuck-in-the-past, “you kids get off my lawn!” types. The world of the 80’s was no utopia: cold war, the constant threat of nuclear war, apartheid, famine, AIDS, Ronald Reagan. But there were certain elements of the 80’s that I miss. The wildness and experimentation in fashion–clothes, hair, make-up, anything and everything goes. The music, oh the music. My iPod is just stuffed with music from the Eighties or with artists that got their starts in the 80’s. And not Top 40 stuff either, it’s New Wave, punk, or electronica. Artists that changed the aural landscape of music.

Something else I miss–the movies about teenagers. I was thankfully too young to be subjected to the “Porky’s” franchise but I was of an age to truly enjoy and relate to all the John Hughes movies. If you couldn’t relate exactly to one of his characters, at least you could relate to all the free-floating angst. Some movies were about the brand-new feelings and experiences that all teenagers have to go through, but which they all feel are unique unto themselves. “No one has ever felt this way before!” On a side note, I will have to try very hard not to laugh when I hear this kind of drama from my kids. It’s not the raw and new feelings that are so amusing, it is the absolute certainty that no one else in the history of humanity has ever felt thusly. Sixteen Candles springs to mind.

Some movies were subversive fun, all about refusing to submit and conform yourself to someone else’s goals and expectations. Fast Times At Ridgemont High and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off are both lovely examples.

We have bought a lot of these movies on DVD, and they hold up very well. Some of the movies I liked back then, seen first through naive and uncritical eyes, haven’t retained their charm. Dirty Dancing, oh the shame. I loved that movie so much that I cut off a pair of Levi’s just like Baby’s and wore them with white Keds. I think I watched it with my mom. And Footloose. I went to see this little gem with my friend Sheila and we loved it!!! Unalloyed adoration! We saw it at the dinky little one-screen movie theater that was then tucked into a corner at Ne-Mar Shopping Center in Claremore. Afterwards, we danced around like mad idiots, probably causing many shoppers to laugh their asses off at us. Did I mention that we were dancing on the covered sidewalks of Ne-Mar Shopping Center in Claremore, Oklahoma? Just want you to get the full effect.

And I won’t even go into Red Dawn.

We had our share of gross-out or overtly sexual or slasher movies. The aforementioned Porky’s is one such sterling example. Not to mention Nightmare on Elm Street. I actually lost sleep over that one. Curses on you, Wes Craven! So I’m not saying that all the teenage movies from the Eighties were more culturally worthy than the ones made in the 90’s or this decade.

And I’m not some conservative anti-everything curmudgeon who bemoans the coarsening of our culture. I just don’t think that recycling the same movie plots over and over is very fun. One plot I find particularly annoying is the ugly/nerdy/smart unpopular/miserably unhappy girl is magically transformed through the power of fashion and lipgloss into the prom queen. Along the way she has a magical awakening to the awesomeness of the high school Big Man on Campus, the one she either previously dismissed or secretly desired.

Over and over again we are presented with the smart but somehow socially unacceptable, unworthy of love girl who only becomes a fully realized, completely worthy person when she is turned into a beautiful, sexy girl. The nerd-girl, smart-girl cannot be celebrated for her brain power alone. Her talents are secondary or worthless in the face of her non-adherence to accepted beauty norms. She cannot be celebrated for her independence of spirit, she can only be feted when she conforms and sublimates herself to love! Only in the connection to a sought-after male is she deemed worthy.

There are three movies which point out the problem from different perspectives. There is one scene in The Breakfast Club which I find problematic. Ally Sheedy’s interesting, wholly subversive character is transformed with a headband and an eye pencil into a completely ordinary, socially-acceptable girl, whereupon she catches the fancy of the Big Man on Campus-in-residence. I always identified with Ally-before, not Ally-after.

Never Been Kissed is, of course, a more recent movie in the magic-makeover vein. While I generally enjoy this movie, I find the end to be both edifying and frustrating. At the prom scene, Drew Barrymore’s character, Josie Grossy, who is no longer gross, finds that she cannot make herself conform to the expectations of the popular crowd and forcefully rejects the kind of kids who used to reject her. The frustrating part is that when she finally receives her “first real kiss” from Sam, she is the transformed Josie still. She is no longer the slightly frumpy, mousy grown-up Josie from the beginning.

And finally, the Revenge of the Nerds movies. The nerds triumph over their rivals in all their nerdy glory! The nerds do not need to conform to societal norms to achieve success. My big problem is not the dearth of similarly triumphant lady nerds, but the fact that the nerds still crave and “win” hot girls. We see that the nerdy girls are no prize.

Why can’t the nerdy/smart girls triumph in all their nerdy, brainy, awkward glory? I am, and always have been, a nerdy girl. I didn’t have to transform myself into a living Barbie doll to find love, or success. Somebody, somewhere give us a Revenge of the Nerd-Girls movie!

Addendum: The movies listed are by no means all of my most favorites or my most hateds. Feel free to use the comments as an open forum. Tell us what you did and/or did not like about the 80’s or its pop culture. And share with us your most favorite and most hated movies from the Eighties!

So, I’ve been doing some research on women’s fashions in the Civil War-era, specifically the incidence of pants-wearing women, and have found some very funny stuff.

Here’s a big news flash for all my readers who may be unfamiliar with various lunacies of the fundie crowd: pants are sinful. At least on women. Here’s my favorite online resource about hell-bent ladies’ trousers– Jesus-is-savior.com. My most favorite part is how, in his fervor to denounce all of us panted hussies, he gives free advertising to rap artist, Chingy. Mr. Stewart, after not getting enough titillation-factor from the title alone, felt it necessary to include all of the lyrics, suitably sanitized for our virgin eyes of course. I find it very interesting that Mr. Stewart is apparently taking his cultural direction from Chingy. I mean, come on, he is totally ignoring the incredible artistic contribution of one Trace Adkins and his incomparable “Honky Tonk Badonkadonk.” Man, that’s just sloppy.

I won’t even go into the historical flap that women’s pants have caused; the modern stuff is too much fun! Whenever one of these discount-theologians wants to back up his (usually a man, sometimes a defeated woman) personal biases, he quotes Deuteronomy or Leviticus. Yeah, these guys always use the Old Testament when they feel the need to condemn others, but I just always wonder how many of them have eaten bacon or a cheeseburger recently. Oops.

But Deuteronomy says that women shouldn’t put on things that pertain to men! And that men shouldn’t dress like women! Oh noes! Interestingly enough, nobody wore pants in the Old Testament. Everybody wore some version of a robe-like garment. So even if one is given to a literal interpretation of the O.T., except for that whole bacon-thing of course, there is NO specific prohibition against women wearing pants! But God-fearin’ folk will work themselves up into knots fretting about, not poverty, not injustice, not genocide, not oppression, not violence, but pants. Pants. Let the absurdity sink in a bit. Let it roll around in your brain for a while, as you try to understand someone whose faith is so shaky, so tenuous that it can be destroyed by pants. O.K., by women in pants. The devil’s own pants.

If you would like to see the preponderance of this opinion for yourself, just google women wearing pants, you’ll see. Another common theme in the know-what’s-better-for-women-than-the-women-themselves crowd is bringing up dubious sociological studies that allegedly prove that the eyes of both women and men are drawn to a woman’s butt and crotch when she is clad in pants. As opposed to what happens when said woman is dressed in a shapeless, ankle-grazing calico bag of a dress, where people look only at the woman’s face. My opinion on that one is that people are desperately trying not to stare at the hideous dress, because staring is rude.

And you know what, people notice each other’s appearances. We all look at faces and hairstyles and clothing and even shoes. We notice if someone’s hair is unkempt, we notice if a woman’s slip is showing, we notice if a kid has on an emo belt, and yes, we notice if someone has a nice caboose. Sighted people always notice appearances first, so what. Women have shapes, curves, actual physical bodies, and if a man can’t handle that it’s his own fault, not the woman’s.

The anti-pant crowd wants women to believe that shapeless dresses are somehow freeing. Freeing us poor, helpless frails from the unwanted lustful stares of big, bad men who just can’t help themselves in the powerful presence of our awesome sexiness. And they say feminists hate men. But I’m not in charge of another person’s lustfulness, I’m only in charge of my own. And that’s another thing. Men wear pants, does that mean I’m supposed to stare at them and not be able to control myself?

I guess the assumption is that women don’t lust after men. Maybe we’re too busy tempting hordes of fine, upstanding christian gentlemen into sin with our devil-pants. So, on one hand, we are wicked temptresses, well-versed in the siren-call of trousers-wearing. And on the other hand, we are demure, innocent creatures, who never lust after anyone, suitable only for patronizing and protecting. The only reason that fundamentalist heads are not exploding over this dichotomy is because fundamentalists are given to living unexamined lives. But, guess what, women do lust, so what.

But, but, but. Lust is a sin! You say that like it’s a bad thing. Hate to tell these people, but lust is sort of the very thing that has kept the human race going during the worst of times. The Great Depression wasn’t the most stable time to have children, but humans just insisted on reproducing. Times of war, disease, and famine are terrible times to bring children into the world, but since one of those things is almost always happening, what are we to do? Let the human race die out because we think lust is icky? But I digress.

For centuries, women were hobbled by their clothing. Corsets made it difficult to breath and impossible to move freely. Hoop skirts made the mere act of sitting down an exercise in embarrassment. Long skirts and multiple petticoats had to be held aloft as women walked around, effectively tying their hands. And those long skirts and petticoats often cost women their lives, by catching fire or becoming heavy with water and drowning them, or by catching in machinery. Long sleeves could also be caught in household or farm or factory machinery, causing injury or death. Yards and yards of heavy fabric were literally shackles around the ankles of the women who had to wear them.

And this pining for the modesty of an earlier time is misplaced at best. Corsets and bustles were designed to exaggerate the natural curves of a woman’s body. And we fetishize what we take pains to hide. There were times when the bodices of dresses were cut just barely high enough to cover the nipple, yet a stolen glimpse of black-stockinged ankle was scandalous! And trust me, people given to the practice of fetishisizing women are only going to be spurred on by the all-covering, ankle-grazing dress. Imagination is often more titillating than reality. “What’s under that dress!”

The issue here really is freedom, or rather, freedoms. Fundamentalist men, of all stripes, want the freedom that comes with not taking any responsibility for their own baser desires, and instead, off-loading all of society’s ills onto all women. I should actually say all females, because these men get started with the woman-blaming while the women are still little girls. Hello? Purity Balls?

And pants give freedom to women. The freedom to move without restriction, the freedom to do the hard work that our lives require, the freedom to run if we need to, and the freedom to fight if we must. The freedom to not worry about a stiff wind, the freedom to get dirty, and the freedom to have warm legs.

It is this feminine freedom that the fundamentalists fear. Before the freedom of pants and the throwing-off of the corsets, men could rest assured, basking in the certainty of their superiority over the “weaker sex.” But it was the clothes, the fabric shackles that kept women weak and helpless. The days of corsets and crinolines and fainting couches are over! Now we have the vote, our own jobs, and the devil’s own pants–the fabric shackles are off.