CurrentMom

Modern Family

Truth Thursday

Being a product of the 1970s, I can sing the theme songs to any number of mind-numbing, puerile television shows, as can most Americans who are around my age.  

Gilligan’s Island. Green Acres. Petticoat Junction. Family Affair. F Troop. H.R. Pufnstuf. The Addams Family. Even The Patty Duke Show. (and I worry about how much TV my kids watch?!)

And then there was the mother of them all ... The Brady Bunch. 

When I was 10, I lived for the Brady Bunch. I wanted to be the Brady Bunch. I had a profound crush on Peter, knowing that most other girls were in love with Greg, so perhaps I had a chance. I sighed with Marcia, cried with Jan, and wished I had corkscrew curls like Cindy. I never quite understood the little flips in Carol’s hair, or why, as a stay-at-home mom, she needed a full-time housekeeper (although I have a better idea today what it must have been like to care for six children. And Tiger. Maybe there was valium in that medicine cabinet after all.) 

I dreamed about having a groovy California staircase with no risers and a dad who would wear bell bottoms. And having two parents who would sit down with me whenever I had even the slightest problem in school. 

Oh, the Brady Bunch. The way a family was supposed to be. 

In my house, not so much. 

The Three Musketeers and the Four Hour Erection

Fatherhood Friday

My oldest son turned eight last month. Lately, we've bonded over sports. While I consider myself a sports fan, I'm hardly a fanatic and really would be as comfortable bonding with him over books, music, science or just about anything else as much as sports.

The fall is a fun time to enjoy sports together, both playing and watching. A budding baseball groupie, he's very excited about the World Series even though his two favorite teams were eliminated. We also live in a town where football is king, and our professional football team is the best in the nation right now.

Despite the fun and quality time we have watching sports together I've been very uncomfortable, to the point where I'm not sure if I want him to watch. The problem is the commercials.

I understand that football and baseball are a business and they need to sell advertising that appeals to their core audiences. The message seems to me that the audience is men younger than 21 or older than 65. It seems every other commercial is for a violent movie coming to theaters soon or for viagra/cialis.

I know my son will soon be exposed to violence and sexuality in popular culture all too soon, but I still want to keep him young and innocent for as long as possible. I'm not sure which bothers me more - the violence or the sexuality.

Whenever a violent commercial comes on (lately its been for the "Three Musketeers" over and over and over again) I'll turn the channel or cover his eyes. He gets that he shouldn't watch it, and while I've sensed some curiousity from him lately I think for hte most part he would cover his own eyes if he knew there was violent content on the television. (He really doesn't like violence of any kind.)

On the other hand the Viagra commercials are less in your face but even more of a challenge to explain. Fortunately he generally tunes it out and I don't think he's caught the content of it. But he's a smart kid with real good listening skills. I fully expect him to ask me very soon "what is a four hour erection?"

So, I hate to say this, but fortunately the World Series is just about over. We enjoyed a a great season and a very fun playoffs. My eight year old really isn't that into football, so I think I've got at least until next spring to wrestle with this one.

(photo credit: http://media.carbonated.tv/39689_story__507.jpg)

Enjoying a Modern Internet-Enabled Television

Image by Lyn Millett via Flickr

Technology Tuesday

Spouse and I have finally entered the era of modern televisions.  As part of an overhaul of the basement in our townhouse, we replaced our 15+-year-old cathode ray tube television with a large flat panel plasma tv.  Or, as my 3-year-old calls it, a "big! giant! teevee!" 

We've had it for just a couple of weeks, but it's already changed our content consumption habits.  Now, there are a few factors contributing to that: first of all, the basement is now a much nicer and more comfortable place to be; second, we are both really wrung out from work and work travel, so once we persuade the sleep-resisting 3-yo to sleep and get the dishes washed and maybe some laundry done, neither of us has much energy for anything; and third, the political and climate news is just such a nightmare these days that being distracted by mindless entertainment is vastly preferable to keeping up with the news.

I'm also increasingly impressed and entertained with how easy it has become to access vast swaths of content through televisions these days. We've had a Roku for awhile (even on our old, fuzzy, small tv) that I've used primarily to access Netflix streaming. Roku also offers many other 'channels' though - and I recently started using it to access Pandora radio while hanging out in the basement.  We also installed a digital antenna, which manages to pull in a few local channels over the air, even in the basement. And, as another part of our upgrade, I also installed an AppleTV device, which has some functionality that intersects with what Roku offers (e.g., Netflix streaming, and with a better interface), but also a lovely interface to my own content.

Spouse and I maintain a media library on my iMac that includes all of our music, podcasts we subscribe, the bulk of our photos, and a few videos.  AppleTV on our big screen downstairs provides an elegant interface to all of that content.  And I've already listened to music  I hadn't bothered to access in ages through the playlists it created automatically for us.  Very slick! And, I'm now inspired to get back to my massive photo organization project and create some clever smart photo albums to browse on the big! giant! teevee! downstairs.  It's great fun.  And we haven't turned cable on or installed any modern video game consoles yet, either.  As I posted on my blog the other day, this modern era of limitless content is really something else.

Tranformation

Truth Thursday

I once turned into Batgirl, and no one noticed. My mother-in-law had sent me a check for my birthday, and I decided to trot into Loehmann’s to see what might tickle my fancy. I had low expectations, because I have found, in recent years, that Loehmann’s clothes generally run in smaller sizes. The pants, which are low cut, and the tops, which are cut high, don’t often meet in the middle, and my middle is not cut out for exposure. 

Loehmann’s in Chevy Chase is nothing like the Brooklyn Loehmann’s of my youth. I hated that store.  My mother would schlep me there on the B41 bus up Flatbush Avenue for an afternoon of hideously boring rack roaming. When you walked in the first thing you see were the octogenarian husbands all sitting in a row of hard-backed chairs in the front window. I was not yet swept up in the magic of clothing, or the thrill of a good buy, or the transformation that occurs when you discover and try on the perfect outfit. 

I was equally horrified by the communal dressing room. All those jiggly, ugly bodies, smooshing themselves into skirts that were too tights, blouses with too much cleavage. It was a global smorgasboard. Russian ladies from Brighton Beach bursting out of slinky prom-like outfits. Italian girls from Bensonhurst oiling themselves to fit into disco pants. Carribean women from my neighborhood, Prospect Lefferts Gardens, with huge afros, trying on wildly colored, dashiki-like dresses. Jewish girls from Flatbush looking to pass and hide behind Fair Isle sweaters. And then there was my mother, whose penchant for purple made her trying-on excursions a mortifying exercise in eclecticism. Even though my own 12-year-old body was nothing like those around me, I was too insecure and uncomfortable in my own skin to even contemplate getting undressed in front of other people and besides, there were no Faded Glory jeans in those days at Loehmann’s, and therefore nothing that called to me.

The End of an Oprah Era

Truth Thursday

Ok, I'll admit it. I'm weeping. I worked at home yesterday, mainly because I had a meeting up in the suburbs and it's always easier to work at home when I do. But when I realized that it was the day of the final Oprah show, well, I couldn't think of anything I'd rather do at 4:00 pm.

Oprah has aired over 5,000 shows. I have probably watched a total of four in their totality, and pieces of probably another 20 or 25. So I am clearly not a fanatic Oprah watcher. But those shows that I have watched have usually stayed with me. Whether it was learning how to divorce my hairdresser or brides who spend the first year of their married lives watching their wedding videos every day and weeping because it's all over (these were the dark and early Oprah years), or listening to the brilliance of Barack Obama or Bill Clinton, or to Oprah's finding and uniting with her half sister after not knowing she existed until this year, or simply the joy of watching the full cast from "The Sound of Music" reunite, I have enjoyed and learned from and cried along with Oprah.

My daughter, when she heard that I was planning to watch the final show, noted "You always sob when you watch that show."

And she's right. Oprah is truly a marvel. All that fame, all that sensitivity. All that being the best you you can be. And yet, despite the enormous potential for mawkishness, she pulls it off, and usually in such an emotionally pitch perfect way that yes, I am crying by the end.