Bounded in a Nutshell

The poet, Bob Arnold, is our neighbor.  In the front of his property, he has a giant chalkboard on which he scrawls quotes, poems, passages, prayers.  My five year old daughter and I often take walks to see Bob's weekly offering.  This week, the chalkboard communicated Hamlet's state of mind in Act II: "I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space." I find passages quite thought provoking, especially ones that are on billboards, in fortune cookies, or reach you by chance. Often, they speak to you, call attention to some part of you that you've been busy burying.  Reading this particular Shakespeare passage while standing on our snow-covered dirt road in Southern Vermont during a cold snap, I felt it speak to the state of things to come: the imminent bout of cabin fever, getting completely "bound" in my own "nutshell" of a mind, and utterly going mad with longing for spring.  The river next to the road was still flowing; the water moved quickly through a central passage through thick ice. Call it SAD (Seasonal Affect Disorder), call it winter blues, call it the season of cheese, red wine, meat, and fat. If you live rurally in New England, this is a time of survival--staying warm, staying dry, staying out of ditches on the side of the road.  There is a return to the basics and while this seasonal transition can be very centering and, if you are into the Yankee thing, it can be fortifying, it is also a time for turning inward.  And turning inward can be dicey.  Even after my years of studying Shakespeare, I had finally realized, while shivering in my frosty neighborhood reading my neighbor's outdoor chalkboard (did I mention that this was our "activity" for the day?), why Hamlet was set in Denmark.  He just would not have experienced such mental strife if he was the Prince of, say, Costa Rica, which by the way, is where I am currently living an alternate, fantasy reality in which I give guided walking tours through the rainforest during the day, drink beer and dance with the people in the bars at night, and surf on my days off. I am fit and tan and eat fruit, beans and rice, and chicken.  I have no spouse nor children and very little responsibility. 

During my deep thought,  my daughter whined, "Read it, Mama!"  I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space.  "What does that mean?", she asked. Instead of revealing my own ruminations I went straight for plot, without censoring the violence.  

"Well, Hamlet is a sad prince because his uncle murdered his father, the king, so that he could become king."  Without missing a beat, her small face turned to me, eyes bright with thought.

"You mean like how Scar killed Mufasa in The Lion King?"

"Yes, actually.  Exactly like that"  I replied.  I remained composed but inside I was reeling.  The voice in my head was bellowing in its best Bill Cosby voice: My girl!  That is my child! My daughter. My girl! That is my child there, the one with the enormous brain and the beautiful smile.  My child.  Really there is no prouder moment for a literary mama than when her offspring identifies a literary archetype, a pattern in a story, and provides a demonstrative example.  It surprised me that my daughter was able to nail the archetypal evil brother but cannot manage to make it to the bathroom on time.  

Is it that much easier to recognize other's patterns than to recognize one's own?  Every time we leave our house, I prompt my daughter to use the potty.  "No Mama! I don't have to go!" I have cleaned up countless puddles, wet undies, damp socks. These are the moments when parents say to themselves "Go to the effing bathroom, kid!  I'm tired of cleaning piss up off the floor!"  It is easier to identify everyone else's bad habits and even easier to avoid our own.  But there is something about being snow bound in a New England winter that highlights one's bad habits. This makes New Year's resolutions all the more relevant and all the more irritating. 

So, what are my bad patterns? Well, I will sort that out for myself. But I will share my New Year's resolution.  I will try not to  rush.  Rushing makes me miserable and makes my family edgy. This will be quite a challenge because in addition to the regular preparation for the grind with two small children (lunches, school paperwork, diapers, extra clothes, snacks, etc.) winter adds a literal "layer"--snowsuits, boots, hats, mittens, extra socks, indoor shoes, sleds, ice skates, extra snacks, packing the woodstove, warming up the car, brushing off the windshield, shoveling the steps, chopping that friggin ice dam off the roof, and did the pee tank in the composting toilet freeze again!?!?!  That is the daily litany of chores---the to do list that constantly runs through my head.  I usually look at the clock and wonder if 8AM is too early for a drink.  By February, it won't be. If it is warmed whisky with lemon and honey, I might even call it medicine.  

Here's to turning inward, uncovering our patterns, and preparing to bloom in 2010. I always return to my beautiful springtime self.  I'm sure I have the winter to thank. Winter (like Vermont and like Denmark) is just a prison we choose to live inside. 

Nancy Botwin and Me

If you haven't watched the third season of Weeds, this posting may be beyond you.  I'll try to provide enough exposition of the show to be inclusive.  To start, Weeds is a dumb show.  So is Sex in the City. We're not talking high-quality, cable-drama like Six Feet Under or The Sopranos.  Still, I relish watching Weeds and Sex in the City; I'm always up for an episode, even a repeat.  They are funny and entertaining but their tremendous influence on the feminist and feminine landscape should not be obscured by their levity. First, I think we owe Carrie Bradshaw some gratitude for her effect on the blogosphere.  The writing of her column, which is the backbone of each episode, is essentially a blog; the audience sees it on her computer screen as we hear her interior monologue.  

The show's power is in it's presentation of many female archetypes.  We identify with the cynical, insecure, and ambitious Miranda, the professional, sometimes lewd,  and sexually adventurous Samantha, and the classic, naive, storybook Charlotte.  Each woman is beautiful (these gals take care of themselves), has an ultra-successful career, a fabulous wardrobe and a scintillating social life.  If you grew up in my generation there is a good chance you had the t-shirt that said "Girls Can Do Anything Boys Can Do Better." So, I identify with the City gals, admire them even.  But honestly, I never wanted to BE any of them.  Let's face it; until the final season, those ladies were unlucky at love.  The show's premise was to "live like men do" and "have sex like men do."  But in the end, Carrie and her friends found the sacrifices they made for their careers left them a bit lonely and unfulfilled.   And for all of the good sex they had, they had closets-full of bad sex.  I'll admit I was a bit jealous of their shoes and their ability to hang out together so often, but really, I'd rather be Nancy Botwin.  That bitch I envy.

Here's why.  In the third season Nancy has hot sex with a dashing Mexican druglord after he shows her his pet lion eat a goat.  I watched this scene and thought, "Where is my Mexican druglord?" I happen to have a thing for gangsters.  I'll blame it on watching Scarface and Goodfellas too many times during my formative years.  I think I thought I was supposed to like those guys---dangerous, rich, passionate.  Didn't men like them?  Don't men secretly want to be Robert Deniro? 50 Cent? John Dillinger (played by Johnny Depp)?  OK, Steve McQueen and John Wayne, at least.  You can still be a good guy as long as you're a badass.  

Nancy cites "calm" as her one fear.  She is the ultimate seductress, always flirtatiously and childishly slurping her iced lattes.  She's not stupid, but you'd think she might be; she did choose to become a weed dealer instead of a lawyer or a waitress.  She claims that this choice was forced because she needed to maintain her affluent lifestyle.  So maybe she's actually quite smart.  With her boho-chic wardrobe and her doe eyes, she is a master at working the virgin/whore thing  to get what she wants from all of the men on the show.  In many ways, Nancy Botwin is the ultimate anti-feminist while at the same time being a bit of a role model for my inner child.  I did elementary school biographies on Clara Barton, Florence Nightingale,  Annie Oakely, Belle Starr, Bonnie Parker, Sandra Day-O'Connor, and Gloria Steinem. Guess which ladies captured this young girl's imagination?  Sure, Sandra Day O'Connor's achievements were historic and Florence Nightingale's were compassionate and all, but Annie Oakley was in Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show and Gloria Steinem had been a Playboy bunny.  I, mean, really, how cool is that? 

It is not just Nancy's adventurous spirit that attracts me, it's her lifestyle; and it is her lifestyle that has the most sway on how we perceive women, for good or for ill.   Check it out:

1.  She's a MILF:  Before I had children, I thought this term was utterly offensive.  Now I think it is a compliment.  Nancy is a single mom; this gives her some street credit.  And she is a hot mom.  Snoop-Dogg ripped a rap and, in it, named a killer strain of mota after her.  Is there any higher honor?

2.  She's a widow: Nancy does not carry the burden of having a failed marriage.  Her husband died so she gains our sympathy.  She never finished her degree so what else was she supposed to do but sell drugs?  We excuse her poor choices because how could she possibly have known better?  She dropped out of college to become a housewife!

3.  She has a "manny": Her brother- in-law is on hand to be a father figure to her two sons and to help out in a crisis.  It matters not that he is a kind-hearted deadbeat.  He's family so he's sticking around, but she is not married to this loser/stoner and does not have to have sex with him.  

4.  She has cash.

5.  She has excitement.  Like, real adventure.  My excitement occurs when all of the missing socks magically find their mates.  This happens when I am caught up on ALL the laundry.  This magic happens four times a year.

6.  She has hot sex with gangsters.

Ah...there it is.  I've looped it full circle.  I'm not sure if Nancy Botwin did as much damage to feminism as Sarah Palin did---they both use sexuality to get what they want.  Perhaps we can't bring another sister down for using her "wiles."  Use 'em if you got 'em, I say.  And if you don't, well you can become the next Sandra Day O'Connor.  Another layer to this analysis of post-modern womanhood is that 60 is the new 30---didn't you know?  We live longer, we're healthier, we procreate later but get thinner faster. By my estimation, 40 year-old women are the most powerful demographic---we're smart, sexy, ambitious, and accomplished.  But, because we're really only 20, we're still a little irresponsible and reckless.  But I think it is OK to nurture our inner outlaws.  Just nurture responsibly.