So, My Daughter Says That I Am A...

...Feminist.

Huh???

Well...perhaps I am.  A little bit.  Maybe.

I was driving around town with Bridget (my 22-year-old girlie) one day.  We were doing things like going to The Dollar Store and Starbucks.  It was great fun, as she is very entertaining.  And we started to talk about actresses.  I said that I think it is cool how actresses these days are so very diverse, as compared to when I was a kid.  When I was growing up, actresses -- typically -- seemed to be required to be caucasian, with large breasts, small waists, and tiny noses.  They also tended to lack well-developed muscles, as that was generally considered to be unfeminine.  Now you see actresses of different races and mixed race, with larger noses, figures that aren't 36-24-36, and some pretty epic arm muscles.  And these actresses are portraying beautiful and sexually alluring characters.  I mentioned how on "SouthLAnd" -- yes, there I go again with "SouthLAnd" -- one of the characters who had bit of a "romance" with the character of Officer Ben Sherman (if you can call any of the things that Officer Ben does with women "romance," in the traditional sense of the word) was an absolutely beautiful girl, but not your "typical" Hollywood type.  Racially, she appeared to be some lovely combination of black and white, or perhaps black and Latina.  She was rather petite, but strongly built.  And she had a great figure -- although with a bust to hip ratio not traditionally seen amongst women who play sexy females in movies and TV.  This actress's character -- besides being one of Officer Ben's "love" interests -- was also a cop.  And the woman was AMAZING in the role.  So, not to belabor my point anymore, I expressed to Bridget my delight that Hollywood is beginning to appreciate and cast a more diverse group of women to play characters that are both smart and attractive.  Based on this opinion of mine -- combined with other things I have been saying lately -- Bridget told me, "Mommy, when I was growing up, I never realized what a feminist you are."

I am sorry if I did not quote you in a totally exact fashion, Bridget.  I have done my best to be accurate.

Anyway, this made me laugh.  I asked her, "Do you really think I'm a feminist?"  To which she replied in the affirmative.

I had never been called a "feminist" before -- in my entire life.  In fact, most women think of me as the opposite.  I mean, I eschewed having a career to be a wife and mom -- in the 80's, mind you.  And the majority of women I knew were quite incredulous that I would do that.  Most of my friends who worked sincerely wondered how I wasn't bored being at home with the kids.  I was pretty much seen as the "anti-feminist" amongst my peers.

So, I began to wonder -- both aloud and silently -- about my "feminist" self.  And I came to a couple of conclusions.

My first conclusion is that I am just sort of a rebel.  If the people I am around are one way, I tend to go the other way.  And when I was young, most women were into the feminist sexual revolution in one way or another.  So, I just had to push back.  And, in more recent years, I have been around women who tend to be, for lack of a better term, "militant traditionalists." So, I have had to stake out an opposing position, just for fun.  Yeah.  I am sort of a pain in the ass. 

But (and this is my second conclusion), if my rebel nature has a more reasoned aspect to it, maybe it is this.  I like to look at things fairly.  I like to be treated fairly and see others treated thusly.  And I hope that all women can be appreciated for their unique qualities -- physical, mental, and spiritual.  I have seen the feminist movement and the "militant traditionalist" movement both try to define the female nature too narrowly.  One of these viewpoints would almost have us throw out any concept of femininity and the value of motherhood, while the other proclaims that women who have careers and don't stay with their children 24/7 are denying their femininity and shirking their true duty.  I don't find the truth in either of these extremes.  And I don't want my daughters being put "into a box" as far as their life choices go.  I want them to be able to dream their dreams, have their goals, and make their plans -- without a false view of womanhood interfering.

I will now sum this post up with a little anecdote.  When I was growing up, my favorite TV shows were "Dragnet", "Adam 12", and "Emergency".  I so much wanted to be a cop or a paramedic, and I mentioned this to my father one day when I was probably about 9 or 10 years old.  He replied, "I don't think they allow women to do those things."  Now, lest you get the wrong idea, my father did not come across as being opposed to women doing those jobs.  He was just stating the facts, as he knew them.  But, I was appalled and horrified.  I did not want to be a nurse or a stewardess or a secretary or a teacher (although a teacher is what I did become).  I wanted to be a cop or a paramedic.  And the thought that being a female -- and only the fact of being a female -- would keep me from one of those careers was devastating.  Now, I do believe that a woman needs to be able to fulfill the requirements of a job -- including the physical requirements -- in order to be allowed to do it.  And that, in the end, is why I didn't choose to become a cop or a paramedic.  I just didn't feel that I was up to snuff in the physical strength department.  But, this experience of being told that I couldn't do a certain type of work solely because of my gender probably caused me to develop whatever feminist leanings I do possess.

So, here's to all the ladies!  I hope you will all be appreciated for your beauty and be allowed to dream your dreams, whether those dreams are of hearth and home or breaking down a door with Michael Cudlitz.  #SouthLAnd  ;-)

My Hollywood Miracle

"Where shall we go on vacation?" I asked myself as the summer of 1994 approached.  My husband and I had an almost 2-year-old boy, a 4-year-old girl, and an almost 6-year-old girl at the time.  But, my adventurous spirit was undeterred, and I hatched a plan for the family to vacation in Santa Monica for a week.  A full seven days in one hotel room. You would have grounds to question my sanity.

We traveled separately.  My husband drove from the San Francisco Bay Area in our 1984 VW Jetta, with all the necessary equipment for life with small children, including a stroller and a porta-crib.  I flew down with the three kids.  I hate long drives, as does my middle child.  So, an airplane ride seemed as though it would be easier.  Ha-Ha.  Actually, the flight was uneventful, except for the part when daughter #2 announced, very loudly, to a very packed aircraft, "I AM GOING TO THROW UP."  I have never seen a flight attendant move so fast.  Thankfully, said daughter did not throw up.  A few sips of water were all that was necessary to quiet her upset tummy.  The really exciting part was the cab ride from LAX to the hotel on Santa Monica Blvd.  I had absolutely no idea how to get around LA, so I put my life and the lives of my children into the hands of a cab driver who barely spoke English.  He literally slammed on the brakes on the freeway when, again, my second child loudly announced her feelings of queasiness.  But, again, we were spared any tragic events and eventually arrived at our destination.  Hubby arrived a couple of hours later with the car and all our stuff.  So, I told myself, we are in for a fun-filled, rejuvenating week in LA.  So exciting!  Ha-Ha.

We did see many sights in the LA area and ate wonderful food.  LA may have crappy air and traffic galore, but it has the BEST food.  Healthy, fresh, flavorful -- even when you're at a place that serves quick informal meals, pizza, or take-out.  After all, there has to be some motivation for all those talented people to consent to live there.

The bottom line, though? This turned into the vacation from hell.  One toilet in the hotel room that clogged at least once a day.  A 4-year-old girl who refused to eat ANYTHING except small packages of cheese and crackers or peanut butter and crackers, until I fortuitously located an IHOP, where she proceeded to make up for lost time.  This 4-year-old girl also got really sick, which necessitated me spending at least an hour on the phone getting an o.k. from the Northern CA Kaiser beauracracy for my little girl to see a doctor in the Southern CA Kaiser beauracracy.  The journey to this approved doctor was at least a 2-hour round trip, in all the traffic.  It turned out that she had Fifth's Disease, which I came down with the following day.  My poor hubby, with all this stress, developed a very painful cold sore.  And, needless to say, with the one toilet constantly clogging up, everyone's pipes became a tad bit unhealthy.  TMI, I know.  There were also all the "normal" stresses of having two adults and three little people in one hotel room for a full seven days -- lack of space, lack of toys (which inspired the kiddos to turn the two double beds into trampolines), and lack of any privacy for the two adults.  And this plot had all been cooked up by me.  My Bad.

But, in the midst of it all came a little miracle.  My Hollywood Miracle.  As I have mentioned before in this blog, I went through a pretty painful faith crisis when my kids were small.  And I was in the middle of this difficult time when we were on vacation in Santa Monica.  I was hanging on by a very thin thread to my Catholicism.  When Sunday rolled around, though, I took a deep breath, and the five of us headed off to Mass -- at Saint Monca's Catholic Community in, of course, Santa Monica.  The Mass that day was held in the gym or parish hall (I can't quite remember which), because a recent earthquake had damaged the beautiful older church.  And I had an experience in which God touched my heart and reminded me that I didn't have to be perfect to be loved by Him.  There were many people there and, for the most part, they were very enthusiastic and welcoming.  And there was the most wonderful choir and band.  It was composed mostly of young adults, who actually sang on key (after all, this was the Land of Talented People).  The selections were primarily modern praise and worship music, which I have always found to be uplifting, comforting, and conducive to prayer.  Many people object to the use of this type of music at Mass.  I will not argue with their reasoning, but these songs were a balm to my weary soul.  And the instrumentalists were amazing.  I will never forget the drummer (I LOVE drums at church) and the bass player who looked like Encino Man.  So cool!  And the priest who said Mass.  Wow!  He said just what I needed to hear that day.  His sermon concerned the twelve apostles -- and he had twelve puppets, one for each of these men.  How I love this Land of Talented People!  And he spoke about each apostle, one by one.  He described each of their individual struggles and faults; his point being that Jesus chose them in spite of these struggles and faults.  And he pointed out that God loves and chooses each of us, too, in spite of our own shortcomings.  On that day, the Lord held onto my hand, even though I was tempted to let go of His.  I have never forgotten this Mass and how it was instrumental in saving my faith.

Saint Monica's still has this amazing musical group.  They play each week at the 5:30 Sunday evening Mass.  I think the same priest might still be there, as well.  I found a sermon online that was recently given at St. Monica's, and it sure sounded like this wonderful person.  His is a voice that I will never forget.  Someday, maybe I'll make my way back there and give a little thanks in front of the altar.

Ben And The Bunnies

SouthLAnd. Yep. Told you I was obsessed with this show.  So, I am going to talk about it some more today.  I will probably talk about it on a lot of days.  Sorry if this bores you, but I just can't help it.  The whole thing is just so much damn fun.

Officer Ben Sherman is one of the main characters on SouthLAnd.  He is played by Ben McKenzie.  Anything Ben McKenzie does is pretty much worth watching -- and not just because of his forearms, either. Anyway, Officer Sherman is a rookie, having typical rookie experiences.  There are things that shake him up, knock him down, rock his world.  Things that inflate his ego, too. So, with all this emotional drama taking place inside his soul, what better refuge could there be than the bunnies -- the badge bunnies.  Or, as my daughter called them, the badge "buddies" -- a term that I like better.  It just makes me grin.

What is a badge bunny, you may ask?  She is a hot, young (or maybe not-so-young, yet well-maintained) lady, who likes to give cops a good time.  Maybe she is hoping to get one for her very own, to have and to hold, for the rest of her life.  Or, maybe she is just being recreational about the whole thing.  One should not try to stereotype the bunnies.

Well, Officer Ben likes the bunnies and they like him.  All seems well and happy, especially when things are going his way on the job.  And even when things might not go his way, the bunnies put a smile on his face and a spring in his step.  As time goes on, though, and Ben is assaulted spiritually, mentally, and physically by what goes on in his very stressful job, we see a shift in his relationship with the bunnies.  He is still cavorting his way through his time off in the company of these beautiful gals, but he starts to look a little disturbed at times.  You just see it in his face. (And nobody, absolutely nobody, can nail an appropriate facial expression like Ben McKenzie.)  He starts to look a little tortured -- especially after he punches a teenaged girl in the nose while on a call, and a video of the whole thing ends up on the internet -- and he realizes that at least some of the bunnies are "turned on" by this incident, an incident of which he himself is not in the least bit proud.  We see a process going on that is a bit like something that might happen with alcohol.  The more Ben's soul and psyche are assaulted by the dark side of society, which he has to deal with each and every moment on the job, the more the badge bunnies become a self-medicating addiction, a coping mechanism. And this very good, idealistic young man sees himself behaving in ways of which he appears to be ashamed, and yet he almost can't help it.

What do I take away from all of this?  A couple of things.  Maybe Hollywood doesn't always promote "illicit" sexual behavior as much as I might have assumed.  Ben's "sewing of his wild oats" may be illustrated as just fun-loving behavior at times, but it is also shown as something that reflects the pain in his heart.  And this reminds me to be careful about judging people.  A person's situation, choices, and actions may just be, and probably are, more complicated than I might think.  And maybe a listening ear or a shoulder to lean on may be what someone actually needs from me.