Month: June 2015

The Politics of Fear (February 19, 2009)

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I have heard this term bandied about a lot recently on CNN, blogs, and out of the mouths of other talking heads. “The politics of fear,” alludes to Obama’s supposed strategy of scaring us into taking the wrecked economy seriously. The theory put forth by the cynical is that President Obama takes advantage of the current climate of panic to push forward his left wing, Democratic agenda. Although I first heard the phrase from the nonpartisan, but always cranky Lou Dobbs, I smell the influence of Rush Limbaugh and his ilk in selling this concept to the people of America. So there we have it, “the politics of fear” takes its place as a catch phrase for 2009, much like “Main St./Wall St.,” “Joe the Plumber,” and “Yes, We Can” reflected the political atmosphere of 2008.

But here’s my problem with the accusations by some that the Obama adminstration is somehow working the paranoia of the average American to its advantage: if anything I don’t know if Obama’s message has been dire enough. Agreed that he definitely used forceful rhetoric to get the always inept Congress (and I lay the blame in a bipartisan manner) to act on a stimulus package. But what part of Obama’s address was untrue I’d like to know? The following are actual headlines encountered while perusing theNew York Times in the last two days. Now, the Times may lean to the left, but I doubt there are a lot of sane folks on the planet who would accuse it of yellow journalism:

  • Newly Poor Swell Lines at Food Banks Nationwide – As the recession continues, more people who are unused to asking for help are picking up free groceries.
  • Stocks Slip on Bank Uncertainty And Economic Woes
  • $275 Billion Plan Seeks to Address Housing Crisis
  • Wall Street Quietly Searches for Direction
  • Fed Offers Bleak Economic Outlook – The Federal Reserve cut its economic outlook for 2009 on Wednesday and warned that the United States economy would face an “unusually gradual and prolonged” period of recovery as the country struggles to climb out of a deep global downturn.

Now my dear readers, I must ask, since I am no economist, which of these stories are in any way fraudulent or based on opinion, rather than fact? Do those who assert a “politics of fear” honestly believe that there is some great conspiracy between Obama, the Fed and the media designed to convince us all that Doomsday is approaching, just so the Democrats can foist their agenda on us? This seems disinegnuous and self-protecting at best, delusional and dangerous at worst. We are a nation suffering in part because of our collective unwillingness to look toward the future, confront reality and address systemic problems. It seems to me that buying into the “politics of fear” is just another way to hang onto the status quo and avoid doing any real work. That was the Bush legacy, not the Obama motivation. Our new Prez is certainly not afraid to tackle issues, issues that in many cases should have been dealt with before I was born. I am grateful to Obama for taking these lame duck accusations on the chin and pushing forward.

I considered this topic because of what’s going on in my own home. My husband has been out of a job for almost two months. After weeks of sending out resumes, working his inside connections and lowering his expectations on what he’s willing to do for money, he finally got a hit from a small company in the Chicago suburbs. However this lead, like so many during these times, turned into a painful near miss this week, actually the day of his birthday (Tuesday). He got all the way to the offer round, and then was not selected. We are starting to eat into our savings, and all economic indicators point to no relief on the job market any time soon. This is taking a major toll on my hubby, a man who perhaps more than most, ties his self-worth to his career and earning power. When he hears Lou Dobbs, or any other pundit, accusing Obama of playing the “politics of fear” with his sobering messages about the State of our Union, it is all I can do to restrain him. In our experience, and those of our friends and acquaintances, the economic reports are usually lagging behind what we see and hear on the front lines. If anything, the situation is much worse than the wags are saying.

I am about to give up on 2009 entirely. We are approaching the end of the first quarter, and I (and Bill Clinton) do not believe we’ve hit bottom yet. It is only then we can begin to rise again. This puts me in the unique position of praying for a faster, rather than a slower crash.

If all of this mess was just a distorted view brought on by the “politics of fear,” I would think I would have woken up from this nightmare by now to find a gainfully employed husband, my 401k portfolio having recovered the 38% value I lost in 2008, and my sister able to sell her house and move her expanding family to a place with enough space for their kids to grow.

Friday the 13th (February 13, 2009)

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Reading Jen’s post this week made me realize again how not ready I am for children. I have enough trouble getting myself (and my impish husband) out of bed in the morning, washed dressed and fed, without adding actual dependents into the mix. I think I have mentioned before that the Husband Unit is presently without a job, and has been for 6 weeks now. We are OK, far luckier than many people for certain, but hubby spends enough time agonizing over his failure to provide as it is without the additional stress of having little mouths to feed. Beyond the economic stressors of parenthood, there are random and sudden bouts of illness or infestation (such as Jen is coping with), the constant lack of sleep or time for oneself. I already have to remind myself on a near daily basis that I am 30, no longer 20 (see Atlanta posts from last week). But as I round the corner toward 31, in-laws foaming at the mouth for the next generation of Boops, I often find myself wondering if I will ever feel “ready” or at least capable. I tip my hat to Jen and all the other multi-tasking super parents out there.

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, for some a Hallmark holiday, for others, perhaps the one time a year that they stop and to use a well-worn phrase, smell the roses. The next few days are packed with personal significance for me, so I thought I’d use the occasion to send a couple of blog Valentine’s to my loved ones.

    • To my sister, Jen, who turned 28 1/2 this week: I know you know this already, but it bears repeating. The day you were born was one of the happiest days of my life. Though I was only 2 years old myself, I can recall the day you came into this world with clarity. And that is because there has never been anyone happier to be a new big sister than I was. You may be a career woman, mother of two and all around capable force, but you have and always will be my baby.
    • To my best friend of 17 years, Gary, who is enduring a trying family crisis at this time: you are a rock of good sense and maturity, while still remaining a beacon of good times and belly laughs, the kind that make you feel like you might pee your pants. I don’t know what my life would be like without that.
    • To my husband, who turns 28 years old this coming Tuesday, coincidentally, the very same day we shared our first kiss and I knew I was really in for it. You alternately infuriate, shock, entertain and love me like I have never been loved. You are a maelstrom of chaos and contentment, all in one. I thought I was pretty complex until you and your rock star attitude turned my world on its ear. I have never looked back.
    • To my nieces, undoubtedly the two cutest and sweetest little ladies to ever grace this planet: KK, may you always be the character that has brought sunshine into all of our lives. “Aunt Bucky” felt connected to you from the moment you rained explosive diarrhea on her good jeans at the tender age of three days. Rosebud, thank you for reminding me that if a 20-month old can do 50 squats in a row without fatigue, a full grown woman ought to be able to do 10 pushups without tears. I never imagined a baby could motivate me to get to the gym, but there you go. A big shout out to their father as well, who has more than a small hand in affecting the good natured sweetness of these gals.
    • To all my girls, you know who you are: C, JTho, TWebb, the ghetto fabulous Yee, Di, Jane and the Roux sisters. Holla!
    • To my A.D., who is boy crazy and giggles like a school girl though she is well into her fifth decade. I am without a mother figure and have been some time. Thanks for reminding me to lighten up, and that you will always be there.
    • To Perez Hilton, Barack Obama, Entertainment Weekly, David Sedaris and CNN: I gave up a lot of my spare time and brain power to you folks in 2008, and it was well worth it.

ICYMI – Recap of MOTHER/DAUGHTER RELATIONSHIPS: What Are They? (June 21, 2015)

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“She died right after I left. I laughed and cried. Mom had gotten the last word.”

— Julie Roberts

“She was depressed at home, but otherwise the life of the party.”

— Carla Nigl

“I didn’t think of her as a woman. Her fuss was understated – and ignored by me.”

— Elizabeth Marsh

“I understood more of what she went through when I had my own kids.”

— Elizabeth Gomez

Stories of daughterhood were as paradoxically unique, yet universal, as the women who shared them onstage on Tuesday, June 16. Part of the ABOUT WOMEN conversation considering what it means to be a woman shaped by the influence and love (or lack thereof) of another woman, the evening offered an open, judgment-free forum for reflection on the complexities – the joys, sorrows, pain and pleasure – of the mother/daughter relationship.

Although the vignettes shared by Carla Nigl (who also happens to be ABOUT WOMEN founder Nikki Nigl’s beloved mother), Eli Marsh, Julie Roberts and Elizabeth Gomez differed in geography, ethnic culture, socioeconomics and other variables, it was a truth universally acknowledged by the women in attendance that there is no size fits all interpretation of the bond. Although Roberts acknowledged, “Our mothers are often the first loves of our lives,” several of the speakers spoke of the scars the manifold experience can leave behind. As Roberts continued, “You never forget watching your father cry.”

Sometimes, as Nigl and Roberts attested, a daughter is prematurely forced into a parent role by the ravages of mental illness. In other cases, girlhood serves as rigid and mystifying experience. Gomez was raised by an immigrant mother “who worked hard but shared little.” Yet what struck me about the stories was the unifying lack of bitterness. To a woman, the speakers confessed gratitude for the challenges they endured as a part of their upbringing. As Marsh said, “Even if the experience was terrifying, preparing for tonight was an exercise in healing.”

Despite the unique features of each speaker’s reality, the event’s attendees found much solace in shared experience. One of the strongest messages from the ABOUT WOMEN community has always been this: “You are not alone. We are not alone.” That truth was reinforced by the mother/daughter relationship conversation. Nigl offered an appropriate summation: “I wanted a mom like my friends had, but I found out later that no one’s family is perfect. No one’s mother was perfect.” Echoed Gomez, “She did what she thought was right. How can you be perfect when you’re always learning?”

As is completely appropriate with relationships so layered and diverse, there was no resolution. The vibrant dialogue about mothers, daughters and the personal implications of that bond is as old as womanhood itself. Yes engage it we must, in order to learn grow, and as ABOUT WOMEN founder Nikki Nigl proudly asserts, “Prepare to take over the world.”

Live from Hotlanta! It’s Becky Boop! (February 2, 2009)

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

From time to time, my job as a Manager of Dental Material Standards at the ADA (is everyone still awake?) affords me a travel opportunity. To say that my work is Dullsville is an insult to the residents of that fictional town, but I do try and make the most out of these mini-excursions. Once I went to New York City for a two-day training session on American National Standards: Administration, Publication and Accreditation. I did my best not to stab myself right through the retina with a pen during the course of meetings, and this work was made easier by what I have come to refer to as my favorite solo date: a walk to Times Square where I treated little old me to dinner at one of many local diners, a cocktail or three at a sexy lounge, and a showing of Hairspray featuring enough gay 80s and 90s icons to make one’s head explode – Jim J. Bullock, Lance Bass and Tevin Campbell in one shot? I waited only for a walk-on by RuPaul to make my fantasy complete.

Today I find myself in Atlanta. Or not so much Atlanta as a suburb. Or not so much a suburb as an industrial park in the middle of nowhere, where I am esconced in a Courtyard Marriott until 9:15 AM tomorrow morning. That’s when my shuttle bus will pick me up and whisk me away to the glamorous ANSI ISO Member Forum! (shouted like Rod Roddy unveiling a pop-up camper to a Showcase Showdown contestant). At this point, it appears that my dinner options consist of the bags of peanuts I swiped from the first class cabin of my American Airlines flight, or something called Order Inn Hospitality Services. In addition to loathing this vendor for the cutesiness of their name, I resent any attempt to sell me bar food and call it cuisine. But that’s the South for you (as well as the Courtyard Marriott).

It would seem I am in for a dull night, but at least I am consoled my own state of Tears on the way here (a term originally coined by my sister, but in 2000, carrying a negative connotation). A state of Tears is achieved when one is so taken aback by their own fabulousness that the shock can only be expressed through the release of a good crying fit. Without a violent outburst of emotion, when one is in a state of Tears, there is liable to be some form of tectonic shift, resulting in a tsunamni or hurricane situation heaped upon an unsuspecting villager. Therefore, one must pause to recognize these little situations where one’s own chutzpah and personality transcends the genric nature of a situation. Such a moment occurred for me today as I reached O’Hare airport in Yellow Cab.

It is a sign of these troubling economic times that I left for the aiport at 9:00 AM and had the highway to myself. The airport had the foot traffic level of a Sunday afternoon, and my 11:40 AM flight had plenty of room. I was so early for my flight that I was offerred the chance to upgrade to first class for a mere $90. Score! They were going to charge me $15 to check my bag anyway, so I looked at the additional $75 as an investment in a better nap, the possibility of real food and best of all….liquor. I believe at this point it is a well-known fact that the generally accepted “blue law” of not drinking before noon is comfortably waived in the following circumstances: St. Patty’s Day, one’s birthday, a bikini wax appointment, and all activities related to air travel.

My seat was now 6F, a window in the back of the first class cabin. I was snuggled under a fluffly red blankie and waited for the free swag! To my utter disappointment, my fellow first class travelers appeared unaware of the waiving of the blue law. When offerred pre-flight beverages, they chose the mundane coffee, soda, etc. Not wanting to boldly advertise my own shameless air drunkeness, I compromised with a mimosa (Hey! There’s orange juice right?). I resented the inclusion of any liquid I could have gotten in coach for free, but I was not about to let a little bit of teetotaling by my seatmates ruin my party. Once we were safely in air, the air hostess brought me my first huge glass of red wine, and thankfully, kept them coming.

I passed out, er fell asleep, about 30 minutes before we landed. I woke up right around the time we touched the runway in Atlanta, nearly sleeping through an opportunity to wipe a small amount of red colored drool from my cheek. I called my husband, as promised, the moment I landed and deplaned. As I raced around for the nearest hole in the ground where I could vacate my wine soaked bladder, I dialed with the free hand that wasn’t clutching futilely at my lower abdomen. My husband listened to the first few syllables of out of breath slurring before correctly concluding, “You got first class? Oh baby!”

Is it any wonder I married this man?

The Worst Week Ever? (January 24, 2009)

Becky SarwateLeave a comment
Jen and I promised a weekly point/counterpoint feature for our readers, “My End or Yours?” It was with 100% good faith that we made the commitment to deliver the piece every Friday. However, it has become clear that 2009 is slated to be a most unpredictable year, rarely in the positive sense.
 
On Jen’s side (I am speaking for her since she has more important business to  address), her littlest munchkin has contracted Respiratory syncytial virus (RSV). Thankfully, it appears the baby, with any luck, will not contract pneumonia or worse, but I’d appreciate the good wishes and prayers of you fine people anyhow.

On my side, where to start? Insomnia, an odd falling out with my personal trainer, a husband who continues to be beaten by a stagnant job market, a nearly untenable office environment at my own job. And then folks, the icing on the cake…

I dosed myself with Nyquil last night in an effort to achieve something more than four hours of sleep. Miraculously, this finally worked, where wine, sleeping pills and sex had failed me earlier. Now perhaps my body had simply hit the wall, but I am choosing to view the good people at Vick’s as angels of mercy. I was zonked out from 10:00 PM until 8:00 AM this morning. I woke up, finally feeling refreshed. It is brutally cold in Chicago, but the sun is shining and I was ready to embrace the day.

I had a 9:00 AM appointment with my new personal trainer (the former one is dead to me – another story for another time), and made my way to our car to make the short drive to the gym. The last thought I remember having before my mind went blank is” “Damn it Eddie! Why did you have to park in such deep snow?” As it turned out, this question was superfluous. Why, you may ask? Because I can’t very well drive anywhere without a full set of tires can I? I worked my way toward the driver side door only to notice a broken jack burrowed beneath a thick layer of ice at my feet. My eyes continued to move Southward and this is when I noticed the rear tire was gone. For some reason, I stared dumbly for what felt like hours before my mind was able to process that I had been vandalized.

Now readers, I live right in the middle of an affluent City neighborhood, on a street that is simultaneously well lit, well traveled and well patrolled by the Federales (that is the cops for you you non-Spanish speakers). Before I could realize the emotional fallout of this violation, I adopted a thoroughly scientific approach to sussing it out. How could someone jack up my car, steal a tire and simply walk away unnoticed? Acquaintances of mine have since theorized that the broken jack left behind, as well as the fact that I continue to have three good tires, suggests a crime interrupted. Normally I am empathetic to those who have had their work disrupted, but in this case I am counting my blessings.

My favorite part (I say this with obvious sarcasm) of having your car vandalized is that you are the one who has to make all the phone calls and fork over the $500 deductable. The cretin who committed this act dropped our car, as it appears, rather hard on the ground as they made their getaway, and it’s more than possible the axle, or some other part of the vehicle, has sustained damage. I guess I’ll know more on Monday when the State Farm adjuster comes to have a look. As I have alluded, my husband is presently out of work and this is just one more thing to deal with that wasn’t needed.

My insurance agent says that in times of depression, crimes such as these become more prevalent. He says he is getting 3-5 calls a day from people who suddenly find themselvs without tires. Really? What about Americans coming together in times of crisis? Must we all go Lord of the Flies on each other?

The reason I have put a question mark beside the title of my post is that I am loathe to say the worst is over. It seems that when I make these assumptions, the Karma Genie pops up out his hiding place to remind me that things can, and will be worse yet. Case in point: I have a meeting with the tax man later today.

Is anyone else having a hideous week like Jen and I? Lie to me people. Tell me that things are going to get better. I typically thrive on brutal truth, but for the moment, reality is just a bit too rough for my stomach.