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March 2008 archivesFriday, March 28, 2008
Still not perfect, Random House, but with less swearing
So I'm not the only one who is flipping out mad about Random House and its decision to not only continue with the preposterous use of a clothing size as a character descriptor in the Sweet Valley High series of young adult books being re-released by the behemoth book publisher, but also to lower that number. The perfect size, it seems, is actually a four, not a six, as it was twenty years ago. I know my previous post was riddled with more f-bombs than you can shake a stick at. My family is, no doubt, sighing deeply. My reaction was visceral, especially considering that it's been a tough winter, one that's found me struggling with my own body as it continues to adjust to thyroid medication. Five-to-seven pounds may not sound like a big deal to be gaining in three months, but when you work out as much as I do, and adhere to a pretty healthy, moderate diet, it's tough not to have all of your old body image issues surface when all of that effort produces, well, nothing because of the little blue pill you take every morning. But all that said, I'm still angry about the language in the books. And by the emails and Twitters I received, I'm not the only one out there. Some of you sent emails last night to Noreen Marchisi and Kathy Dunn, and obviously, now, you can too if the spirit moves you. I'm sure as much as anything that the SVH series isn't the only YA book out there that elects to use something such as a clothing size to describe its main characters. There is nothing inherently wrong with it, and there is nothing wrong with describing the body type of a main character in a book, fat or thin. What irks me is how that size, and therefore that body type, is quantified. In the canon of the series itself, I've never understood the importance of pointing out their clothing size, if only to forcibly hammer home the point that the Wakefield twins are conventionally attractive girls. But the idea of calling it "perfect?" Really? Do we have to keep using such irresponsible language? The fact that they've set that standard of perfection to an even lower size, one many girls simply can't fit into, is just cruel. And as far as I'm concerned, if it is one more contribution to the cacophony of messages that serve to distort and destroy a young girl's self-esteem, no matter how seemingly innocuous, it's one contribution too many. I'm sure there are other books that use similar language, but this is the one that I grew up reading, one that I consider an influence in how I viewed myself. And it's the one whose publicist and publicity manager issued a press release touting the offensive phrase itself. C'mon, Random House. Drop the the three little words and live with yourself a bit longer and more peacefully. Don't be such simple-minded assholes. Posted by Erin at 07:55 AM | | filed under: Odds and ends Thursday, March 27, 2008
To Random House
Especially the folks at Knopf Delacorte Dell? FUCK YOU. Seriously. FUCK YOU. And especially a HUGE FUCK YOU to both Noreen Marchisi and Kathy Dunn, two women who oughta know the fuck better. I don't know any woman who, no matter her size, hasn't been impacted by arbitrary standards of beauty, set by narrow-minded, fascist ignorants. So that the following is being lead by two women just adds insult to injury. There is not a woman of my generation alive who didn't read the Sweet Valley High series of books and NOT recall the stigma of NOT being a "perfect size six," which, you might recall, was the size of the Wakefield twins, the main characters of the series. My boyfriend just took an informal poll at his office and EVERY woman he spoke to remembers and can recount that little fact as there wasn't a SVH book that didn't include that little factoid. And now Random House is re-releasing the series, with some modern updates to "appeal to today's reader." Which apparently includes LOWERING what constitutes a "perfect" size from the aforementioned six to a SIZE FOUR. Look, I don't blame Sweet Valley High for a lifetime of body image issues, but subtle influences like reading "perfect size six" in book after book after book of a series I read in my formative years was just one more contributing factor. And to think that the people who publish these books would reissue the series with such damaging language angers me to no end. I don't agree with how it was used then, but culturally speaking, the idea of assigning perfection to a clothing size was certainly more pervasive in the 80s. We're supposed to have evolved and communicated the dangers of perpetuating such ideas! We're supposed to care more for our girls! Hell, we're supposed to care more about our society in general that we stop allowing a select few to do such things. I take responsibility for the fact that I'm an educated, knowledgeable person who has a choice whether or not to continue to be victimized by these sorts of people. I don't say this because a book publisher has decided to assign a value to a clothing size and now I'm feeling bad about being a size 10. But I'm a grown woman and I know better and I've fought long and hard to overcome "lessons" I learned as a young girl that taught me to hate my body and be critical of its shape at all times. But it's the young girls who are going to read these books and think they don't measure up because the tag on their skirt doesn't read "4." That's what I'm mad about. You should be too. Posted by Erin at 02:29 PM | | filed under: Random Stupidity Monday, March 24, 2008
In case you were wondering ...
... why you heard fireworks and jubilation sometime around noon yesterday, it was because my two-year-old nephew, Aidan, said "Aunt Erin" for the first time after Easter brunch. It's pretty much all I talked about for the remainder of the day. We had a great weekend. At one point Saturday morning, as we drank our third cup of coffee, Scott mentioned that he was actually relaxed, and that for once we didn't have anything to do, and it was the nicest feeling ever. We spent the entire afternoon on the couch, drinking coffee and talking. Planning. Later in the evening, after we'd dropped Glin off at my sister's and headed to Joliet, we talked more over dinner and ate surprisingly delicious steaks and giggled a lot about All Things J-Town. Easter was lovely, even if the choir at my parents' church was not, oy, and we got to spend some extra time with my grandma at her house before we were off to Scott's dad's for Easter dinner, and by the time we were checking out at the Jewel, as the day ended, when Scott leaned in to kiss my cheek as the last of our groceries were being bagged, I felt myself being reminded what it was like to be happy, and not anxious, worried, stressed or upset. Just happy. The message that probably gets lost in all of the recapping I've been doing about my divorce as of late is that there was a lot of happiness in there. Maybe within the relationship there wasn't the kind of happiness I ultimately saw for myself in a lasting marriage, but there was happiness and contentment overall and it's as important to acknowledge that as the sadder elements I kept hidden, otherwise I'd have to question my judgment entirely. Finally, there is happiness again. Contentment. A whole brand of it I'd hoped for and eventually seemed to have received. Posted by Erin at 07:39 AM | | filed under: Odds and ends Sunday, March 16, 2008
Ron Huberman is dreamy
Swoon. Seriously, this is not the first time he's done this - escorted some asshole off of the L for being wretched - and we've heard of other instances where he's saved people from ... I don't know what, but it's becoming the stuff of legend. The head of the transit system needs a cape. For real. Plus, you know, he's easy on the eyes. We love him in this house. Now if he could really whip the CTA into shape ... CTA chief pulls rank on unruly passenger, Chicago Sun-Times, March 16, 2008 Posted by Erin at 07:32 AM | | filed under: Chicago Saturday, March 15, 2008
Eight years
It seems strange to continue to commemorate something like the anniversary of my blog, but I'm one for celebrating Groundhog's Day (not really) so it's not really out of character. I'm sad that I deleted all of my entries, accidental though it was, especially since the furthest this site goes back in the Wayback Machine is when my dad actually bought me ejshea.com and I made the switch from Geocities to handcoding. So far, I can only pick up only one of those old Geocities. And that was for the entry where I was turning 25. I will be 32 next month. I read entries written by a 26-year-old me, talking about wisdom, and I cringe a little. Mostly because I didn't know from wisdom then. And then I type that and realize that that reflection will make me cringe when I'm 46. I'm not embarrassed of such things; I did learn things about my childhood once I was in my mid-20s that were real and true. It's just that I sound so old. Oy. Have I always sounded so seasoned? Reading what I can, I suppose I have. I feel like I got more of a sense of humor the older I got; I was upset so much in my early and mid-20s. For all that wisdom I was gleaning, clearly I wasn't smart enough to see that misery for the harbinger it was. Anyway, I need to secure those damn things. They're so important to have. After eight years, it's nice to have the memories. Thanks so much to all of you who keep reading me and writing to me all of the time and sharing your stories with me. It means so much that you're there, that you care, that something I'm doing here means something to you and you're kind enough to tell me so. Thank you thank you thank you. Posted by Erin at 11:27 PM | | filed under: Blog move Adulthood
One of my very favorite parts about being a grownup is sitting up late on a Friday night rediscovering music - nay, an entire, singular album - that defined a time in my life because when you're 15, with limited funds, you wore out a tape until you had enough money to move onto another one. In 1991, that album was R.E.M.'s "Out of Time" and it takes just 30 seconds of "Me In Honey" for me to distinctly recall the nights on Candace's mom's back porch and all of the wine coolers we snuck. And, if I'm more honest, my paper route after school. I listened to that album over and over again, mostly as I was flinging the Herald-News at people's doorstops, back when it was still an afternoon paper, back when they still had afternoon newspapers, back when I was still totally romantic about newspapers in general. About everything, really. I know we're all sad about what R.E.M. has become, but I'm awfully grateful that they were anything at all. Posted by Erin at 12:39 AM | | filed under: Music Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Best
I bought two Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs and lo' they were amazing. Seriously. I don't know if there is anything better. If you ever want to get on my good side, all you need to do is present me with one of these. Or two. Or a whole multi-pack package. Or two packages. Whatever you think is best. Posted by Erin at 07:35 PM | | filed under: Odds and ends Yes we can
Not deterred.
Posted by Erin at 04:19 PM | | filed under: Political, baby Monday, March 03, 2008
Thirty-three is the burger birthday
He's been saying, on occasion, that he's going to be "32," to which I gleefully remind him that, no, he's an entire year older than that, a move that I have to admit endears me to him to no end. I commented to my girlfriends over the weekend that the person I fell in love with and the person I am with now are two different people. He says the same about me, too. It's easy to love someone before you learn what a gigantic pain-in-the-ass he or she is. But the big picture view of me and Scott is - and I've said this before, I know - there is no one else on earth for whom I'd do the heavy lifting that comes with making a relationship work. He's just the best friend I've ever had and I knew it from the moment I met him that he'd change my life. Tonight I'm taking him out for burgers to show my appreciation for all that he does. I can't think of any better way to let him know I love him than with beef, bacon and cheese. And by posting this terribly dorky picture of the two of us from September, when we were sharing a platter of crabs during a trip to Virginia for a wedding. Bibs! Butter! Love! We have it all. Happy birthday, B! Posted by Erin at 11:15 AM | | filed under: Odds and ends Sunday, March 02, 2008
What's playing on Erin's iPod right now ...
Better than love Honey when you doubt my love for you Save me from myself Sometimes dreams they don't come true Turn my life around So when I'm walking down the road and feeling fine Save me from myself
Posted by Erin at 09:55 AM | | filed under: iPod Saturday, March 01, 2008
Scott says when I tell this story I sound like someone's grandmother
When I was a little, and it was time for me to graduate from my small, pink, banana-seated bike, JP took me - and my sister Kate - to the local Schwinn dealer. We were a Schwinn family. No other bike would do. In the mid-1980s, in Joliet, there was only one bike that would do for a 10-year-old girl, however, and that was this 10-speed, pink and gray bike with the curled handbars, and I'll bet that there are some very lucky ladies out there who owned that bike. If so, I hate you. Because guess what? I couldn't have that bike. One, because it wasn't a Schwinn, and Two, because it was pink. JP wasn't buying us pink Schwinn's. I could deal with that. It wasn't as though I was a horribly ungrateful child, and there were other colors I liked more. I was never much of a pink person anyway. So we get to the dealer and I head straight for a similar bike, one that was fire-engine red, with ten speeds and curled handlebars. This was when I learned something else I wasn't going to be getting: a bike equipped with ten speeds and/or curled handlebars. The bike that my father and I settled on was a single speed, royal blue cruiser with upturned handlebars. And by "settled" I mean, "The bike I took before I ended up walking out of there with no bike at all." (It kind of looked like this but a little more rounded, tubular and heavy. Seriously.) I got teased a lot by my next-door neighbor Chrissy for that bike. She made all sorts of comments about how absolutely uncool that bike was, but I rode it because, you know, what else was I going to do? Walk? I could handle the color, the single speed, but I was so patently dorky riding around with those upturned handlebars. I might as well had the word "dork" painted on my back. All of my subsequent bikes were the same, with upturned handlebars, and I hated them all with a passion, because don't think the teasing stopped in grade school. Oh no, when I road a bike to my after-school job, with the boy whose affections I'd longed to capture, I got teased unmercifully by not only him and the line cooks, but also the homeless guy who ran the dishwasher in the back. And by that time, JP had also fashioned a light to the front. A LIGHT. I don't know which part I caught more hell for by then - the light, the upturned handlebars, or the fact that I was in high school and still riding a bike to my job. I am convinced that everyone has one of these things with their parents from when they were kids, one of those unexplainable clashes in taste where the parents inevitably win because until you're out of the house, the only taste that matters - when the purchases are over $50, that is - are the parents' taste. My friend Sarah left for NYC this week to continue her professional dancing career with a fancypants dance troupe and she wasn't in need of her bike any longer. I bought it from her for $50. It's a sleek, purple road bike with curled handlebars, albeit only one speed. I hugged my friend, wished her well, loaded the bike into JoJo the Wonder Scion and immediately headed straight to Rapid Transit where I had them make one major modification, and one only: I had them swap out the curled handlebars for upturned ones. It's frickin' sweet, and I'm going to be so happy every morning and night when I'm riding that thing back and forth downtown for work. Posted by Erin at 04:46 PM | | filed under: Random Stupidity She must actually have some cat DNA in her
Glinny ate my sister's silver claddagh ring last night. And then puked it up this morning. It came out in two exact pieces, but her insides turned them gold. Afterwards she wagged her tail, ran outside with her cousin, Bella, and ate a hearty breakfast. She's trying to kill me slowly. I know it. |
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After putting it off for weeks, talking about them incessantly with my friends, I finally caved in.
Scott turns 33 today.