Olympians, mammals, Mayim and hair

Remember when Mayim Bialik was that awkwardly cute child star in Blossom? 

Well, she’s all grown up and still on screen.  She was recently nominated for an Emmy for her role as Amy Farrah Fowler on The Big Bang Theory playing a character not so dissimilar to herself being a neuroscientist.  She’s also married to her once Mormon now Jew by Choice husband.  They have 2 kids and maintain a very traditional, kind of frummy Jewish home which she mentions often on kveller.com’s site in her own blog there.  Ok, gnug with the background information.  

I read kveller every now and again to plug into my people though I tend to turn off when the articles take on an instigating tone for the sake of comment fishing.  I refused to engage, for example, when Mayim Bialik announced to the Jewish online public that she did not and has not ever shaved her legs or armpits.  When I read her post, my hairs stood on end – not that I have very many after a few successful laser hair removal sessions ridding myself of hair from my ankles up to my bikini area and onwards to my underarms. 

It’s not that I was disgusted by the thought of a hairy gal like many who posted unfortunate, judgy comments on the kveller facebook page.  I get it.  Shaving is time consuming and dangerous if you’re in a hurry and some feel just as attractive with a full leg-o-hair than without.  What bothered me was Mayim’s suggestion that putting down the razor was a feminist choice. To shave is to deny what is natural and mammalian about us in order to succumb to society's prescription of what is beautiful.

Yes, we are mammals.  But we, as human mammals, have opted out of certain natural behaviors that distinguish us from many mammal behaviors.  As a rule (I say understanding that there are always those exceptions), we don’t shove our noses in strangers’ anuses to determine the other’s gender or health status.  We don’t stop in the middle of our walk to search for the appropriate patch of grass on which to defecate.  Because we don’t lick ourselves clean, we prefer bathing with soap.  And on the subject of grooming, we brush our teeth – at least twice a day – and the better teeth groomers among us never forget to floss.   And, regardless of how hot it is outside, we wear clothes in public.  And most people choose clothes carefully to conform with some sort of style.

Why does grooming always have to mean anti-feminist?

When I was in college, I let my leg hair and under arm hair grow until I looked like a patchy Chia Pet.  I was fighting the patriarchy’s notion of femininity and normalizing hairy girl-legs by sporting them as often as possible.  I tried to pretend that I felt empowered, but the fact was, I didn’t like it.  Eventually, I shaved.  Was I caving in to social norms?  Yup.  Don’t we all cave to one degree or another?  From the accessories we wear 

to hair styles

to clothing choices

we make decisions that your standard mammals are not able to make.  We choose to fly in the face of what’s natural and establish ourselves as thinking, cleaning, styling and grooming humans.

IF I were to admit that I go for a Hollywood waxed look on occasion, you know I'm not doing it to please my man.  And, no, I'm not pleasing my woman either.  Not only do I prefer my hairless legs, bikini area and underarms on women, but I prefer smooth, hairless men bodies, too.  I’m an equal-opportunity supporter of hairlessness.  Waxed chest of a swimmer?  Shaved legs of a biker?  Back-crack-and-sack wax?  I'm a fan.

Watching the Olympics this year has me thinking about all sorts of interesting subjects like patriotism, the controversial decisions of the IOC not to take a minute of silence to remember the 1972 assassinations of Israeli Olympians in Munich and the historically abysmal Olympic coverage in the UK.  But mostly, I’ve been thinking about hair.

When I was watching the men’s Olympic trials for gymnastics, I was distracted by one particular male gymnast who had not, unlike many of his teammates, shaved or waxed or trimmed. Hitting the iron cross on the rings, his armpit hair on display, I could not take my eyes off the bushy nests growing under each arm.  I didn’t like it.

Iron cross as performed by a groomed gymnast

I’m not pushing my preferences on other people.  I’m not saying that other people shouldn’t find hair gloriously sexy.   Nor am I suggesting in some sort of Cosmo article sort of way that if your man likes a shaven vag that you should comply. I’m saying, leave politics out of my hair preferences.  Don’t assume I’m less of a feminist because I prefer to rid myself of most of my body hair.

Speaking as someone who believes that a person should be mindful of throwing rocks out of her own glass house, if my legs looked like Mayim Bialik’s in an unshaven state, I might not shave either.  And  I certainly wouldn’t judge other people’s politics until I had walked a mile in someone else’s gorilla legs.  

Taking my parenthood pulse

We had been viewing videos from Levi’s earlier days on the planet.  We had a good selection of clips.  Levi singing Twinkle Twinkle.  Levi dancing to music.  Levi hiding in a tent.  Levi using an abacus to determine the cube root of 216.  You know, the usual.

Though we did own a video camera in 2003 when Asher was born, we didn’t whip it out all that often, and the videos we have remain on the mini cassettes that we can view either on the camera itself or by connecting it to the television.  Hooking it up to the television requires the skills and patience of a military bomb disposal expert with an advanced knowledge of wiring and explosives and what make televisions work.  Needless to say, we don’t watch those videos much.

“Are there any pictures of Asher when he was a baby?” asked Levi who seemed more concerned about the disproportionate number of Levi videos we were watching than Asher was.

“Well, we do have some videos that I’ll have to find somewhere, but I can show you some baby pictures.”  We may have more videos of Levi at the ready, but we’ve got an almost-complete baby journal of Asher.  Levi’s is the almost-blank baby journal.  I ran to get the journal to prove to both children that Asher’s life has been well documented.  It had been ages since I’d cracked it open.  Somehow, it seemed unnecessarily mawkish to reminisce about a child’s early childhood when he’s still in the early intermediate stages of childhood.

Of course, one forgets how brief and contained infancy is in its special block of experience and time that I personally could have only described as miserable. But looking at the photos of baby Asher literally just out of the womb and still plugged into his prenatal growth tank looking all goopy and red, one can not help but appreciate the miracle of life and the overwhelming sense of possibilities one feels at that moment.  We were in awe of his existence.

I stared at the photos of newly born Asher and couldn’t snuff out the question that bubbles up occasionally ruining a perfectly good, happy moment.  “Could I ever stop loving them?”

Sure there are highs and lows to this parenthood gig.  Sometimes, in a Wayne's World moment of visualization, I wiggle my fingers from up high to down low repetitively making the required doodle doodle doodle doodle doo (or something) sound effects, and I envision what could be – toys replaced with art, the playroom converted to my lady cave (not be confused with my lady bits which are far too dainty to be compared to something so gaping and, well, cavernous) and the occasional visit from grown children living independently at least 15 miles away from their childhood home whose locks have been changed to avoid spontaneous laundry stops.  But no matter how they infuriate, aggravate or exacerbate, I always love them.  I will always love them, right?

You’ll forgive me my question.  It’s to be expected from the daughter of parents who seemingly stopped loving their own children.  My father died a year ago yesterday.  I hadn’t seen or spoken with him in 13 years.  His death was traumatic only in that I had to spend time with my mother who insisted it was Dad’s doing that kept us all apart, the distortion of truth that comes from desperation and fear.   Way to throw Dad under the bus, Mom.

Is there anything my boys could do or say that would stop me from loving them?  From speaking to them?  Is there anything they could do or say that would prevent me from ever meeting their children?  I play the game to spot check myself and to convince myself that I am not my parents.

I know it sounds like a despairing exercise, but it’s actually quite reaffirming.  I run through the list of transgressions such as finding selfish and/or stupid partners, committing a heinous crime or joining the Tea Party and/or becoming a correspondent for FoxNews.  I count to 10 and imagine myself hugging either of my politically misguided, blow-hard sons after he is released from prison and sharing him with the shrew he loves even though that partner is an idiot and even though he contracted genital warts shortly after they met, and I know that I will still love him.  I will forever love them both.  

I am not my parents, and I will come to the same affirming conclusion every year at this time, a year after my father officially left me for good.

Identity crisis

Unlike years past, I am not freaking out about my wardrobe, the parties or the panels at this year’s BlogHer conference.  After 3 years, I know what’s what and I know I’m going to have a fantastic time with my friends at the very least.  I may learn a thing or two at a panel.  I may make good writing connections.  I may find some good swag to bring home to the boys.  But all of that extra stuff is cake.  Or maybe it’s vodka.  Or vodka and cake.

Of course, it’s impossible for me to remain completely stress-free in these few weeks leading up to BlogHer.  Obsessing helps me feel like I’m doing something important.  The object of my angst and obsession this year?  Business cards. 

I have some business cards left from last year’s run, but I don’t have enough.  Well no. I very well may have enough, but no Jewish girl would settle for just enough.  Ever go hungry at a party hosted by a Jew?  We over buy, over prepare and over feed.  It’s what we do.  It’s an oldy-worldy host thing.  Just as well, really because I wouldn’t mind making a few minor tweaks to my business card – specifically to my title.

Freelance Writer & Blogger is fine, but it could be better, me thinks.  

I could glam it up a bit.  Publisher at Peaches & Coconuts.  Yeah, that sounds good, right?  But I do more than write blog posts for Peaches & Coconuts.  When I’m left with a surplus of cards after the conference, will I be happy to use them in any capacity?  Could I present them with pride to any publisher or literary agent or neighbor at the block party?  Perhaps, I need a title with a wider scope.

I should take a one-title-fits-all approach and just use Writer.  It’s simple and all encompassing like the word Queer was supposed to be for the LGBTQQWTF community – an umbrella word for all othered sexualities and genders.  Not everyone was a fan.  Some took issue with the historically negative connotations of the word and others felt it didn’t do justice to their own specific other-hood.  And that is why, boys and girls and polygenders and nongenders and pangenders and omnigenders and et ceteras, many have rejected Queer and left us with an acronym that’s as long as a diner menu and whose string of initials vary depending on who got which memo regarding the groups that require representation.   Luckily, there are no political snags associated with the title Writer. 

Mommy Blogger on other hand, well that’s a completely different can of worms. I guess if I wanted to define myself as someone who only ever writes about motherhood and my children and the village it takes to … get me drunk after a week alone with them, I could use that title. So that’s not going on my card.  Neither is Queer Mommy Blogger though it would certainly be a conversation starter, memorable even.

Writer is a safe choice, but it certainly doesn’t stand out as much as Queer Mommy Blogger. Perhaps it’s a bit too general, and I need to LGBTQQ it and represent all the kinds of writing I’ve done to date. 

Columnist because I had an online column for a year and change.

Ghostwriter because I wrote an article for a friend that one time.

Journalist because once I wrote an article for a print newspaper.

I did get cash money for a sponsored blog post, so I could add Commercial Partner or Online Marketer or something more direct like Brand Whore. 

I'm not feeling it.

I should really use a title with a bit more flair.  Shouldn't a writer have a title that showcases a command of language and a bit of style.  After reading a few articles like this one about the pros and cons of using creative job titles, I'm convinced I should consider some for myself.  How about Keyboard Engineer or Deborah Be the Scrivener or Pun-tificator or TBD (Titles Be Deceiving)?

I don’t have the nerve to use any of those.  I worry that someone, anyone, may read me as silly or dorky or juvenile or worse yet as someone who tried to be funny and failed.  So, I should just stick to Blogger.   Or Freelance Writer & Blogger.  Or… shit.

Now I’ve spent far too much time thinking about a title, and I’m feeling the same kind of dizzying frustration that overwhelms me when I shop for clothes.   I’m not even going to tell you how I feel about preparing my elevator pitch!

The Stratocast #2 -- The Greatest Elevator Pitch Ever - watch more funny videos     

What's the title on your business card, and if I like it, can I use it, too?

Camp wins and woes

The boys are thoroughly enjoying their days at Most Expensive In All The Land Camp.  At the end of each day, they get off the bus that delivers them from the immaculate campus of childhood fantasy to the front door of their distressed house of family reality.  Before they can take off their bright red camp issued backpacks, they talk at me concurrently about their day and the amazing things they did and the many accomplishments they achieved and the snacks in other campers’ lunches they wish they had.

Asher:  Please can we go there next year, too, Mom?

Levi:  Yeah!  It’s the best camp I ever went to in my WHOLE LIFE!

Asher:  So can we?

In my mind I’m thinking, “If I want to maintain any semblance of my relationship with Gabriella, I can’t fork over that kind of cash again next year.  She will punish me and not in a good way.”  Instead I say with all the enthusiasm and sincerity I can muster, “I bet I can find another camp that’s just as fun if not better next year.”

Asher & Levi:  Noooooo!!! 

At that moment, I knew that the best decision and worst decision I ever made was to send these boys to MEIATLC.  They are, in fact, having the best time ever in their whole lives.  What if we can’t swing it next year?  What if no other camp will ever satisfy after this one? When it comes to camp, is it better to have loved and lost? 

For the money we’re spending to send them there, we could have…no, don’t do it, Deborah.  Don’t think of all the things you could have done.  Don’t imagine the home improvement projects that you’ve been aching to do … well not physically do but pay someone to do.  Don’t think about the certified, pre-owned second car you could have bought so that you could actually drive into New York for a date night in something other than your suburban mom mini-van.  Don’t think of all the exotic holidays the family could have taken or the investments you could have made into college funds or retirement. 

Ok, for what we're paying for camp, we could probably buy one wheel of this car.

Don’t think about what kind of mother you are sending your kids to camp when you could be spending time with them – enriching their lives with day trips to MoMA or botanic gardens or The National Canal Museum.  Don’t think about all the time you have and still you manage not to fold and put away the laundry or find part-time employment to off-set that hefty bill at MEIATLC.

No, think instead about the joyous summer you’ve provided your children and how much they’ll benefit from the plethora of activities you could have never offered or the fun they’re having with counselors who are paid to be nice to them all day long and new friends whom they’ll never see again because those children attend exclusive private schools and holiday in the Swiss Alps during the entire month of August. 

Think about the fact that you would not really have put aside that money for all those worthy aforementioned things but instead you would have spent it all on what you cannot be sure but it would have dissipated from your bank account just as quickly as it was deposited.  Think about the fact that you would have pissed that money away, and instead, you selflessly earmarked that cash for your children so that they could look back and remember that one summer, once, when they were wee lads, when they actually loved that special camp and they thought that their mom loved them enough to send them there.

And while you're at it, stop thinking so much.  You're kids are at camp.  Go do something!

This post was written by Asher’s mom whose tree is indeed close to her fallen apple as she dreads the future instead of delighting in the present.