Author: Amy Spiegel

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Shirtless Men and High-heeled Women

By Amy Spiegel

 

I’m no feminist by any stretch of the imagination—mostly because I consider it a diminishment of what I stand for as a woman. But having said as much, I would like to know what makes men think they have the right to go around half clothed. Every time I see some guy walking around bare-chested I feel as if they are saying “Yes, women look upon my manly lack of breast. Gaze upon the evidence that I will never have to endure child birth or breastfeeding-induced chaffing.” (I don’t come at this issue from a modesty standpoint, though being raised by two former Pentecostals hasn’t given me the broadest of views on the subjects.) It isn’t as though the chest you are staring at is that of the latest Calvin Klein model (we should be so lucky). More often than not it’s Fred, your fifty-something neighbor mowing his yard, who would make a great spokesman for the need to ban all trans-fats.

 

When I see such a display of male prerogative, I’m tempted to utter the childish phrase “It’s just not fair!” It puts me in mind to go out in high heels (or to go out and purchase a pair of high heels) and prance around the neighborhood shouting “Yes, men look upon my feminine fragility. Gaze upon the evidence that I will never be drafted into the military or be asked to unclog the garbage disposal.” Let’s face it, we may be of the same species but there is a considerable distance between Venus and Mars. So why fight it? What is it in me that rises up in defiance when my sons drop their drawers and go the bathroom outside while my daughter and I huddle in the port-a-potty trying to convince ourselves that the blue water really does kill all the germs?

 

There must come a point when we learn to appreciate each of our contributions to society as a whole and to the well being of one another as husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers. I think this moment came for Jim and me several years ago when he was sitting on the couch reading and I was putting away laundry. I was mindlessly doing my “woman’s work” when it suddenly dawned on me that I would be doing this menial task for him for the rest of my life. Never again would someone wash my clothes, fold my socks, etc. I walked into the living room, a little perturbed. In a rather self-righteous tone I said “It must be nice to open your drawer and, like magic, there are clean clothes to wear.” Without skipping a beat, he looked up and said “And it must be nice to go to the bank, insert your ATM card and, like magic, there is money.” He went back to reading. I went back to putting away clothes but I think that moment is the one of the defining moments of our life together for I truly believe we both walked away thinking “sucker.” 

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Kitty Heaven and the Challenge of Faith

By Amy Spiegel

Recently the kids and I found a stray kitten along the side of the road. When I say kitten, I mean tiny fur-ball-with-tail, fit-in-the-palm-of-your-hand size kitten. While this description may conjure up adorable calendar-worthy pictures in your head, this kitten was—how shall I put it—repulsive. Let’s just say she had eye “issues.” Still, eye infection or no, we couldn’t leave her, so we took her home with us. Since Jim is an animal lover, much more in practice than I am in theory, she settled in to await adoption. (The first order of business was clearing up the eye goo which increased her curb-appeal ten-fold.) We were soon the family to be avoided as the rumor circulated that we were desperately trying to give away a kitten.

 

Unfortunately, Bootster (admittedly a less than stellar name lovingly bestowed by Sam) didn’t last long enough to know that she was unwanted. One morning a few days after she arrived, Bailey woke us to say that Bootster was dying. Jim and I hurried downstairs to discover the kitten in obvious pain and quickly fading. Jim and Bailey took her to the vet where she was “put to sleep” (a phrase surely created to terrify children into never closing their eyes again). Each of the kids reacted in their own way—Bailey crying, Sam acting as if nothing were the matter, Maggie immediately going to draw a picture for Bootster, and Andrew standing poking at the body and saying “booboo?”

 

But later in the day things got really interesting. We were holding graveside services for our little furry friend when I suddenly realized that Maggie and Andrew (four and two respectively) had no idea what we were doing. As far as they knew, we were getting ready to bury Bootster alive. I had sudden visions of them trying this out on one another and gently tried to guide them away before Jim threw on the first pile of dirt. Alas, I was too late and Andrew threw his hands up in outrage as he watched Daddy “being mean” to kitty. I tried to explain but as the words were coming from my mouth I realized the absurdity of what I was trying to convince him of. Had it been one of my own would I have so glibly said “Child X (I can’t even bring myself to insert one of their names) is in a better place? He/she is with Jesus and waiting for us in heaven.” Heck no! I would have been right there along side Andrew, throwing my hands up in protest to heaven and begging for him/her to be spared.

 

As Maggie began to chime in, probing about the process by which we enter paradise, I realized how hypocritical we are with our kids when we try to whitewash death. Or maybe I am not so much a hypocrite but rather one who is greatly lacking in faith. It’s easy to believe that kitty is better off. After all she was a bit smelly and, frankly, a pain in the rear to take care of. But would I be willing to put my money where my mouth is when it comes to those I love, who are a bit smelly as well and often a pain in the rear but who are also the center of my small world? I pondered these things while I watched the kids play at Taylor Lake that afternoon, marveling at how quickly they seemed to recover. I sit here now, calling up each of their dear faces, half paralyzed in fear at the thought of them being taken from me. My conclusion? God knows how small I am and how very limited is my thinking. He doesn’t ask me to understand His ways, only to take His hand as I walk away from the graveside of my expectations, hopes, and dreams and trust that Daddy isn’t really being mean after all.

 

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Oreos, Cool Whip, and the Modern Romance Movie

By Amy Spiegel

Lately I feel like I might know how the cavemen felt, watching all the dinosaurs die off. Something that has always been around begins to fade into memory with only bones and fossils to remind us that it ever existed. I am speaking, of course, of the dying genre of romantic comedy. Most films purported to be of this sort are conspicuously lacking in either romance or comedy. Casual sex? Yes, by the truck loads. Humor involving casual sex? Indeed. But when it comes to the I-can’t-believe-he-just-did-that-for-her romance or the oh-crap-I-just-wet-my-pants-because-I’m-laughing-so-hard humor, well, not so much.

My first clue that the species might be endangered was Down with Love. Watching this movie felt a bit like seeing your grandmother in her underwear or hearing your pious Uncle Fred tell a dirty joke, and not a very funny one at that. Still I held out hope that this was an aberration, but after being burned again and again, I had begun to seriously doubt that the strongest were surviving. (All you have to do is sit through Knocked Up and Forgetting Sarah Marshall to see that Darwin obviously did not know film.)

There are those who would say that the death of the romantic comedy is hardly a loss, but I beg to differ. When my life is a bit dreary or just downright depressing, a little Jane Austen BBC-style can go a long way in lifting my spirits. There are those who would call this escapism and I will fully admit this is a danger to be avoided. But a well crafted romance can inspire, encourage, and even reprimand us for taking for granted one of God’s greatest gifts to mankind—romantic love. Our views of love are reflected, shaped, and then reflected back again by the powerful force of a good love story.

A few weekends ago, I watched two films back to back—Once and Broken English. One of these left me in awe of its simplicity and beauty. The other was like the third Oreo—it feels so good going down but the more the think about it, the more you regret having swallowed it. I think these two films make a great study in contrasts. Old school love is supposed to inspire us and make us better people, whereas the new school says if you sleep with enough people eventually you might luck out and find someone you can spend at least the next three months with. (Is my bias showing?)

On the surface, Once might seem far from the classic love story. It’s a bit darker, a bit sadder and the two main characters never actually “fall in love,” which in modern love story language translates “they never sleep together.” What they do is bring out the best in one another, challenge one another, and leave each others’ lives a little better off. They never show any physical affection for one another (they never even articulate their feelings) because to do so wouldn’t be in the best interest of either one of them, and they know this. They are tempted, but they refrain and in the end leave their friendship untarnished by regret. One of the biggest flaws in modern romance movies is that they tend to be peopled by characters whom you either don’t understand or really don’t care for. I can’t count the number of films I have seen where I am supposed to be rooting for the main characters, who are misunderstood, insecure, immature, etc. I wouldn’t let these people walk my dog, let alone date my daughter (granted, she is only four, but you get the idea).

This isn’t entirely true of the second film, Broken English but it isn’t far off either. This movie definitely fits more in the modern love story mold. Desperately (and I mean desperately) lonely girl, seeks love and companionship, and looks for love in all the wrong places. Parker Posey’s performance as Nora is amazing. You genuinely like her, want to see her happy, and definitely wish that she were your friend (and your size) so that you could raid her wardrobe. (Side note: wardrobe. It used to be that the heroines were beautiful despite their poverty, sometimes even despite their outward appearance, e.g. Jane Eyre. Then we had great clothes and good character, e.g. anything Doris Day. Now it seems like we are supposed to like the main character solely based on her clothing choices. But I digress.) The major flaw of Broken English is that you are simply supposed to take the filmmakers’ word for it that Nora has grown and become content with her singleness (during a brief holiday in Paris while searching for her lost lover). Not only that but you are supposed to take on faith the fact that this man is good for her simply because he has a foreign accent, dances badly, and is sad to leave her. Some foundation for true love. When Nora agrees to stay and “see what happens” with Julian you feel a hollow sense of victory. It’s like Cool Whip; they may try to convince you it’s just like whipping cream, and for making Jell-O salad it will do. But deep down inside, you know it’s just a cheap imitation of the real thing.

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Chip Dip, Tatoos, and the Generation Gap

By Amy Spiegel

In our small Indiana town, we have one grocery store. One of my goals upon arriving here was to win over the clerks of this store. In the six years we have lived here, we have gotten to know our neighbors, the librarian, even the post office employees and yet I have barely been able to induce an occasional smile from the vanguards of produce with whom I interact several times a week. Only a handful of employees work there and they seem to be divided into two distinct camps. If you frequent our grocery establishment during evening or weekends, there are one or two younger cashiers and a bus boy waiting to ring you up. While not what I would call “socially inclined,” they seem like veritable Chatty Cathies compared with the stone-faced entourage of the early morning and afternoon hours. I am sure that I have not helped my cause by often bringing all four kids, dirty- faced and loud, sometimes in our beleaguered wagon, sometimes on foot. (Once I brought in not only our own children but a miscellaneous collection of neighborhood kids as well. This resulted in our being “escorted” throughout the store by a suspicious cashier.)

A few days ago, everything changed. I had a hankering for potato chips and French onion dip and stopped in on my way home to grab the dip. As I approached the cash register I noticed one of the young cashiers showing off a large and obviously newly acquired tattoo on the back of her neck. As I rolled my eyes at the follies of youth, I noticed one of the frozen chosen casting a similar glance. We caught one another’s eye and smiled. Just like that, I was in! She rang up the chip dip, all warmth and friendliness and we exchanged some sentiment regarding the impulsive nature of the young. I realized as I was leaving the store I had firmly planted my flag in the older generation’s camp.

Living in a college setting, I have transitioned from hip younger wife with a pierced belly button and discreet tattoo herself (if you tell my daughter about either of these, I will flatly deny it) to big sister figure to “young” aunt. I know the day is coming when some foolhardy girl will dare to say I have been “like a mother” to her. It creates a strange sensation as time marches on (usually on your face and midsection) and yet a large percentage of the population seems to remain the same age. I would be lying if I said that there weren’t times when I wanted to strangle these flesh faced young beauties with my support pantyhose (okay maybe not strangle them but at least use the support hose as a handy blindfold for my husband on occasion). I rarely find myself truly envying their youth (though I would take their pre-stretch marked abs any day of the week). Turning 30 and putting the turbulence of my twenties behind me was one of the happiest milestones of my life. What I resent is the assumption that I resent them or, heaven help us, wish I could go back and relive those days. Why is it so hard for each generation to appreciate the other’s perspective?

Perhaps even one day I will stand scowling at a harried mother of four with a wagon full of dirty-faced kids. I hope not. But walking out of the store, I held my head high and felt like proclaiming to the world “Yes, I have just purchased chip dip which has approximately 5 grams of fat per serving. And yes, this dip will immediately settle in the nether regions of my thighs and take at least 4500 crunches to remove (like that’s going to happen). I may be 30ish, and I may weigh more than I care to admit at the Bureau of Motor Vehicles, but I know better than to let some body-pierced goon come near my neck with a giant needle and ink that does not wash off with soap and water!”

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Snap Shots

By Amy Spiegel

Brief comments on film by Amy (unless otherwise noted).
Some old, some new.  Domestic films and foreign too.

Thumbs Up:

Reds:  Such a great movie that it left me wondering “What did they put in Warren Beatty’s Kool-Aid to entice him to make “classics” like Dick Tracy and Bugsy?  I don’t agree with the politics per se but some of the political discussions are priceless.

Expelled:  I liked that this movie didn’t take itself too seriously and found both the interviewees and the science fascinating. I never thought I would feel like standing up and applauding a bunch of biologists.  Take that, Richard Dawkins.

Prince Caspian:  We had a countdown for this movie to be released in our house and were by no means disappointed. Sure, Susan wears a little too much eye liner and I thought the boys would crawl under their seats when she got a little smooch at the end, but for the most part it was true to the spirit of the book and provided great discussion for days to come.

Thumbs Down:

Knocked Up:  You aren’t going to believe me, but I actually suggested this one to my mom and dad based on someone else’s recommendation.  Oops. At times funny but ultimately sad in its message of half-hearted commitments and shallow view of love.  If I ever remember who told me it had a “positive family message,” they’ll be hearing from my lawyer.

Juno:  I can see why this was so well received by the masses.  It has a distinct atmosphere a la Wes Anderson but about half way through it felt more like an Easter egg, pretty on the outside but hollow inside.  Full of witty repartee, ultimately I felt manipulated and unconvinced.  Great soundtrack though.

The Last Samurai:  Besides the fact that Tom Cruise unfortunately appears throughout the whole film, often speaking Japanese, it was great.  Jim and I actually held a contest to see who could predict the most scenes and even then, the filmmakers exceeded our expectations.  Bad, bad, bad.

Head Scratchers:

There Will Be Blood and No Country for Old Men: Though I wanted to dismiss both of these as unsatisfying and just plain frustrating, I couldn’t get them off my mind which tells me there is probably more there than I can digest in one sitting.  Kind of like one of those combo meals from Denny’s.  I mean, seriously, does anyone need a slice of grilled honey ham, two bacon strips, two sausage links and two eggs, plus hash browns or grits and choice of bread?  Unlike Denny’s, however, Jim and I both plan to go back and revisit these two.

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Reflections on the Price of Gas

By Amy Spiegel

I would have never thought that the experience of pumping gas would be an occasion for deep personal reflection.  But as the weeks of high gas prices have dragged on, the Spiegel grocery cart has been “freed” of more and more luxury items.  (My friends Ben and Jerry feel quite abandoned and the kids have noticed that their cereal now comes in “dog food bags” rather than the more traditional and chic toy filled box.)  I have been surprised to see how something so seemingly mundane can reveal a great deal about myself and the way I see the world.  As a political science grad and concerned citizen, I have pondered the various theories for relief.  I don’t want to reveal my ignorance by putting forth any concrete solutions to this eco-political quandary.  At times, it has made me feel so small and helpless I have been tempted to humbly kneel down before the almighty gas station and admit defeat.  On other occasions, I feel disposed to raise my fist in defiance, pack up the van and move to the country, build a windmill and thumb my nose at society in general.  (These moods could be brought on by watching too much of “The Wilderness Family” with my kids.)

What I have noticed most, though, is my own sense of entitlement and my frustration at having limits placed on my freedoms.  Jim and I certainly have never been wealthy and have gone through seasons of lean and leaner, but recently, with each new trip to the pump, I find that portion of our budget dedicated to gas growing resentfully larger.  As a matter of logic, that portion of our budget dedicated to other things grows smaller.  (Again my friends Ben and Jerry come to mind-after all, they have bills to pay as well).  We aren’t what you would call big spenders but as trips out to dinner and babysitting fall to the wayside, I have been shocked by the depth of my bitterness.

When I finally stopped to analyze the true source of my grumbling, I realized I was squirming under this new limitation of movement, desperate to go wherever the heck I pleased.  In this country we are simply not accustomed to limiting our mobility.  Miles of interstate, relatively well-maintained, beckon us to new and exciting destinations.  There are times when I am so weary of this house that a trip to the pet store seems like a vacation.  There is an upside to being forced to retrench (a word I have always wanted to use, thank you Jane Austen and Persuasion).  It has given me an opportunity to test my ingenuity.  Need new sleeveless shirts for watching the kids in the yard?  Just cut off the sleeves of your stretched out old ones.  Nothing to eat for dinner?  Make breakfast-pancakes taste good any time of day.  But if prices continue to rise and you happen upon an abandoned house where the Spiegels used to live, just head for the open country and look for the windmill.