Strongly Worded

Tips and Tricks

Below please find some useful kitchen tips and tricks--mostly from the craigslist women's forum, with a few of my own thrown in.

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Lay plastic wrap directly on the surface of guacamole or pesto to seal to keep skin from forming or turning black. If you want to make guacamole and you do not have lemon juice, most salad dressing have it in them, and they add a nice zest to the guac.

Use floss to slice goat cheese cleanly.

Bake your meatballs on a metal rack on a cookie sheet instead of frying them stove stop. You'll save on oil and calories.

To give chocolate chip cookies an interesting zing, add a dash of cinnamon.

When making key lime pie, use a sugar cookie crust (rolled-out Pillsbury cookie tubes are okay) instead of a graham cracker crust.

Always chill cookie dough before baking, it will make the cookies stand tall and not go paper flat as soon as they hit the oven.

Use clear vanilla in sugar cookies, keeps them white.

Got a stubborn burnt pot or pan? Use some dishwashing soap --the kind that goes in a dishwasher--a couple of tablespoons, fill pot with water and leave it overnight (cover it if you have animals who might get into it as it is toxic). In the morning it will appear as if magic elves have scrubbed your pan--this is also a good way to get the odors (like old milk) out of a thermos OR to clean a bong.

Keep a dry-erase board in the kitchen. Then, when you run out of something, write it down. Voila! Instant shopping list.

A dash of fresh nutmeg tastes great in mashed potatoes.

Keep cilantro or parsley fresh by storing it in a glass of water in the fridge. When you have fresh herbs (parsley, dill, cilantro) left over from a recipe, chop 'em as well and freeze in a ziplock bag. They'll be ready and waiting the next time you need them. You can also keep fresh ginger root on hand by keeping it in the freezer.

Disinfect a kitchen sponge by zapping it in the microwave for a few minutes.

Use binder clips to keep bags of chips, cookies, etc. closed.

Mount clipped recipes on photo album pages. That way you can easily organize them in a binder, and they're protected from splatters.

Posted by Dori at 9:40 AM 1 comments

Rage Against the Medical Profession

So I am writing this from the confines of my Guy's apartment (the amazing new one--with the zen garden steps away and the track lighting illuminating these very keys upon which I type).

I arrived here at 6:30 for takeout and American Idol, with the knowledge that our evening plans may be disrupted, at any point, by a Hippocratic Call.

Within seconds of my arrival, his pager went off, and my Guy headed out to the hospital to tend to some broad with cancer. I realize this sounds ultra harsh, and I feel deep sympathy for the 60-year-old woman with the alcohol problem and the questionable situation in her esophagus ... although my sympathy at this point is pretty much overwhelmed by annoyance that my boyfriend is tending to her instead of tending to ME.

Yes, it sounded all hot on the phone when he discussed it all with the attending physician, but the hotness, like my sympathy, pretty much evaporated as he went out the door into the rain.

I myself have also had a long day, and, despite the fruit bar and banana I ate preemptively, knowing that there is never any food in my Guy's apartment, I am still ravenous, and would like to be eating something other than a Jell-O pudding cup, which right now is the only option available to me.

So, right after he left, I tried to make myself comfortable and watch The L Word, which my Guy recorded last week, with foresight of this exact situation. He's getting premium channels as part of some new cable promotion, and I am taking advantage of this.

The L Word substantially ameliorated my sense of abandonment, until I observed that there is no comfortable vantage point from which to watch the program, because the futon is positioned in the opposite direction, far from the TV, and the only other seating choices (as I may have mentioned in a previous post) are a really hard office chair and a plastic chair recovered
from the common room of his grad school dorm. Because I am one resourceful chick, I set up a little faux couch, sitting on the office chair and putting my feet up on the other one, trying to ignore the crick in my neck and the utter absence of comfort.

I watched the show, and hated it, because it was one of those long, drawn out episodes with too much time devoted to the appearances of "special guests" that I consider absolutely tangential to the plot. There were also far, far too many lingering shots of one character's (admittedly beautiful) face. The Jenny character is always mooning around and experiencing angst about her identity, and in this particular episode, her angst spills over into psychosis, and
results in some upsetting behavior through which I had to fast forward.

So the show has ended, and now American Idol is on, which my Guy felt strongly about us watching together (I have never seen this show), and therefore it is on now, and I am too scared to change the channel and watch a movie on HBO because I don't know how his VCR
works, and if I change the channel and watch something else, AI may not record, and then I would feel terrible.

So therefore I am sitting at his desk typing, wearing his fleece that I took without permission from his closet (which smells delightfully like him--as if he were actually here in his apartment--with me! Imagine!). I am experiencing this distinct strangeness of being in his apartment alone. I could troll for porn if I wanted ... do some general nosing around ...

But of course I won't do that because I respect his privacy blah blah blah (and, incidentally, I don't think there's anything troll-worthy here).

And yet, I feel totally captive. Should I call my friend in California? What if we get to talking and then he gets home? Should I take a shower? When I have not yet staked out a towel, and am not yet confident about the state of the floor in the bath? Why is this so much more weird than spending a few hours by myself in my own apartment?

More importantly: how long does it fucking take to radiate an esophagus?

Posted by Dori at 8:07 PM 0 comments

Volunteerism for Busy People

I keep getting these e-alerts of local volunteer opportunities from an agency who focuses entirely on "one-stop social change." I am debating whether to unsubscribe from their list, which I signed onto when I was consulting with nonprofits, but doing no direct service work.

At the time, I really liked those short-term volunteer projects, like sorting clothing donations, reading to kids in afterschool programs, and visiting with elders. I liked serving food at the New England Home for Homeless Veterans, which was a feel-good experience, and, also, located steps away from my downtown office.

One Saturday I signed up for a different project, a food pantry gig at a church in Cambridgeport, and my whole outlook on volunteerism changed. Whenever I volunteered, I felt set apart, because I was a social service professional, and whatever I was doing with them was merely supplementing my ongoing commitment to changing the world.

But the Cambridgeport experience did me in. I arrived at the site and noticed two groups of people waiting outside. It was disturbingly clear which cluster was of food pantry patrons, and which was of volunteers. The bright-eyed volunteers stood chatting idly about all the good upon which we were embarking, and what a fun morning was in store. I was put off by their outright admission that 1) they thought they were making any sort of difference (food pantries being the ultimate fish-giving institutions; "give a man a fish, he eats for a day; teach a man to fish, he eats for a lifetime; change the fishing industry, and then you've really accomplished something ... ") and 2) that they considered their version of social change recreational.

The Project Leader unlocked the door to the building and briefed the volunteers. She was a young white woman wearing jeans and a baseball cap. “So here’s the plan. First we sort the donations, and then we pair each of you with a patron and you help them “shop”.”

I had no desire to help anyone shop. I guessed the majority of mothers and elders who were lining up outside were pretty well versed in shopping skills.

“Why can’t they just pick out what they want? Why do they need help shopping?” I asked, feeling bitchy, like I was dampening the idealism in the group.

The project leader leaned over and explained in a conspiratorial voice that they had allowed this in the past, and it had led to fights over food and general disruption. Somehow I doubted this. The crowd was overwhelmingly elderly. Groups of silver haired women chatted quietly in the line they formed outside the church basement. It was hard to imagine any of them turning violent over any of the offerings--an extra can of Spam or a jumbo sized container of Vaseline.

Because I felt bad, and had no way to get out of it, I “helped” several elderly women select items from the tables of food, ensuring they took no more than the items they were allotted. They lugged their baskets up the stairs and trudged outside, explaining that they lived outside of the neighborhood and needed to catch the bus. Several volunteers had come to the site in SUVs and small pickup trucks. But no one offered to give any of the elderly ladies a ride home, or even to the bus stop.

That was my last stint with this volunteer group. I was irritated by members' lack of outrage, the simplicity of their commitment, the fact that they would help someone "shop" but not drive them to the bus stop, or do anything that would actually make their day easier. They chose to spend a Saturday in Cambridgeport and tell all their friends about “volunteering for the poor.” I realized then and realize now that I was doing the same thing, but I felt superior about myself because I worked in the nonprofit sector, and therefore, my volunteering came from a place of unique outrage and a complex commitment to the cause.

I'm still of two minds about this stuff. I think it's good for white yuppies to come face to face with poverty, and to see the faces of real people--lots and lots of real people--who can't get by without food pantries. I also think that food pantries serve a vital function for many families, even though they don't do anything to change the conditions that cause poverty.

But there's something about the idea of volunteerism driven by e-alerts--these packaged, sanitized "projects"-- that bothers me. I hate the unquestioning nature of the whole arrangement, how the two-hour format of "packing lunches" or "reading to kids" enables people go back to their shabby chic apartments and feel unburdened; they don't have to think too much about why or how these social problems persist, they can tuck into a late brunch and cross "social change" off their to-do lists.

Posted by Dori at 11:47 PM 0 comments

Yes, I'm Over 21. And I'm Paying $1.31.

So there's a pizza place across from my office, a local business in a small town. It's mobbed on every other Wednesday, when the high school kids get dismissed early. It's a family-owned restaurant selling pizza, gyros, and subs. The dad works during the day; his son covers the evening shift.

A slice of cheese pizza costs $1.25 ($1.31 with tax), and this, along with the restaurant's proximity to my work, makes it a frequent pitstop on the Dori Road of Life.

This may change, however. Over the last few weeks, the owner (the father, not the son), has been on this "comedy" kick. Every single time he rings me up, he types in "$10,000" or "$300" into the register and cackles while I "negotiate" the price down to $1.31. It was not even marginally funny the first time, much less the fifth and fifteenth. His other hilarity involves checking my ID: "I can't serve you unless you're legal!"

I am so tired of this that I count out my $1.31 in exact change before I walk in the door, and have my ID at the ready, to beat him to the punchline, so to speak. But even though he's trying to be all old-time-community-funny, it's old, already. Annoying, in fact.

So I've been slyly checking out the competition around the corner--maybe an extra minute's walk--and probably a significant price hike--but still: pizza in peace.

Posted by Dori at 5:15 PM 0 comments

Rage Against the Machine

So I'm in the market for a fridge. Before I moved into my charming apartment, the owner gestured towards the enormous, sputtering refrigerator and said, "this is staying in the place, but it's ancient and I'm not replacing it if it breaks." Even though the behemoth looked like a relic of the 1950s, I chirped, "it looks like it's been built to last!"I was in housing search mode, and had seen eleven other apartments, none of which were remotely as delightful as this one. (I have to qualify this. My criteria were: laundry in the building, modern kitchen, dishwasher, ample closet space, proximity to public transportation. This apartment had no laundry (I've since installed a washer/dryer at my own expense), an old-fashioned kitchen sans dishwasher, and one narrow closet. It is very close to the subway. And it is cute, something that somehow outweighs the other shortcomings.)

Anyway. So I didn't have strong feelings about the old fridge. I had much stronger feelings about the ugly dark color of the cabinets (which I immediately painted "old cider"), the wire shelving in the bedroom (which I obscured with fabric), and the lack of counter space (which I supplemented with a "buffet" cabinet).

Now that these things are squared away, I've come to despise my fridge. It guzzles elecricity. It whirs and moans all day long. It freezes my food, even when the food is swaddled in towels and the temperature is set as warm as it goes. And appliance itself just generally looks old and unsanitary, no matter how much I clean it.

So. When I've spent a considerable amount of time pricing new refrigerators, and they run around $400 plus delivery. A used refrigerator costs between $200-$300, but then I have to deal with delivery and getting rid of the old refrigerator. While I know this will ultimately save me money (in electricity and in wasted food),I'm reluctant to spring for a new one because because it will be a sunk cost. The next tenants aren't going to pay me for it, and I'm not going to take it with me when I move in with the man of my dreams. Whenever that happens.

So. What I need to do is talk to the owners about this, and see if they may possibly kick in some money, but I know they won't, and I hate talking to them, because they always find something to scold me about (keeping my plants off the floor, keeping the shower ventilated, keeping the recycling tidy, etc etc etc).

So. Such is the life of a wimpy tenant. Can I offer you a milk slushie?

Posted by Dori at 4:10 PM 2 comments

The Experience Is Uneven

I've come to believe that there is some cosmic force out there, governed by an uncanny sense of justice, that dwells outside relationships and bumps love around, so it is always a bit off kilter.

Allow me to explain. In my 14 years of dating, I have never once been in a relationship in which both parties had comparable amounts of free time.

Usually, I have less of it. My high school boyfriend used to show up at school in the evenings and bring me pizza while I was sewing costumes or working on the paper or whatever. He had no friends, and I did; and he did no activities, and I did many, so basically he was always available when I was. Similarly, my Spanish boyfriend (who I met during my year abroad in Spain) was a veterinary student, and basically had only to study during exam season, and occasionally go to class. And I was always busy traveling and teaching English and learning Spanish.

Then, years later, I fell in love with A.P. while we were both working at the fascist consulting place. I was so profoundly underemployed, and had very little to do all day (I would literally swivel in my chair for long periods). I'd entreat him to take long lunches and leave early, but he was all busy and essential, running his department after his boss had a heart attack on the conference room floor. It was tortuous, not just because I was so bored and he was so busy, but because he was so important and therefore I felt so deeply unimportant.

And then, my last boyfriend was unemployed during the entire six month span of our relationship, and his unemployment created a level of inertia that caused him to do nothing. No volunteer work--no networking--no studying--no cooking--no cleaning. Nothing. Meanwhile, I was in grad school and working two jobs and doing all the rest of my madness. It was a constant source of conflict, and I felt guilty and inadequate, and also a little contemptuous. On the weekends he'd want us to sleep in, or go on some getaway, or do some other thing that would have been lovely had I not been trying to finish an accelerated grad school program.

So now, this same cosmic force is dancing around me and my Guy, who has a very time-consuming job. He is in his first of four years of demanding training, which, unlike the training endured by the people on E.R. (which was one of my favorite shows before it got all crazy and George Clooney left), requires a lot of studying, paper-writing, and presentations. The people on E.R. mainly run around saving lives and averting trauma, and then they go home and have secret liasions with one another. My Guy, in contrast, saves lives and averts trauma during the day, and then, rather than having a liasion with me, he goes home and reads about metasthatic things and radioactive things and pancreatic things and a lot of other things I can't spell or pronounce.

This means that even though he works fairly normal hours, my Guy is essentially still a student, and therefore has tiny slivers of "girlfriend time" in which I may insert myself. The cosmic force is cackling, because, as I've expressed on multiple occasions, this is not the busiest time of my own life. In fact, I may have more free time now than I've ever had. My not-even-full-time job and my bi-weekly writing group are my only standing commitments, and I'm trembling under this persistent heavy question: what am I doing on this planet, exactly, if I have all this time on my hands? And I'm feeling this creepy sense of retroactive empathy for the people who loved me when I was busy.

To add to this difficult state of affairs, I just heard a story about a high-powered couple; both of them were extremely ambitious and career-oriented. They lived together and planned to move to a new city, where the guy had been offered a job. They took off to go and look at houses--and they spent several consecutive days together--for the first time in their two-year relationship. Then they broke up. While I'm sure the cosmic force was only one of many players in this sad story, I'm still chilled.

Posted by Dori at 9:53 PM 1 comments

Meeting Mom

OK, so after days of conversation about women and families, here's an update on an actual woman with a family--My Guy's mom.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have done the mom debut! My Guy's parents are in town this week, and I had dinner with his mother. Meeting a love interest's family is always fascinating-- regardless of whether the parents are lovely or not, and whether it "goes well." Even if a boyfriend's family is truly horrible, meeting his parents is an opportunity to learn how and why he is the way he is. The boyfriend's own behavior is telling, too; I didn't realize how spoiled one of my boyfriends was until I saw him with his family.
My Guy has given his mom mixed reviews. Like everyone's mom, she has done some damage to his psyche. But he was sure we would "get along famously", and he was absolutely right.
First of all, she is adorable, and tiny, probably under five feet tall. And he has her nose (It's always so cool to see features transposed over generations!). Secondly, she discussed at length the truly unacceptable state of my Guy's "decor." She actually used the term "living in squalor" which is exactly how I put it weeks ago. Together, we persuaded him that he really does need all new bedding, all new furniture, and to get rid of his mismatched, beat-up bookshelves. In fact, she insisted that my Guy buy a couch, because even if he likes watching TV while sitting in an office chair, such an arrangement is not cozy if I'm there. She's advocating on my behalf! Every time she said something along those lines, I'd say "I love this woman" in the rapturous tone used by the guy in that diamond commercial (the really compelling one in which the guy screams his love for his wife in the middle of the European plaza--and all the doves fly around-- and then he gives her a diamond anniversary ring for their "past, present, and future.") And she said the same thing, in the same tone, every time I said something that struck a chord with her.
The whole encounter was lovely because I felt we were all on the same team somehow, and that my Guy really felt his mom and girlfriend were bonding, and that the encounter wasn't just some obligatory dinner. When we were all leaving, he held my hand and kissed me goodbye in front of his mom, and afterwards he wrote me a sweet email, in which he confirmed that she found me "enchanting."

Posted by Dori at 11:28 AM 1 comments

Women and Work 200: For L.

"First of all, you are not addressing the choice you have to *not* have kids. It seems to me you are considering it as something that is inevitable. Maybe the cultural trend you should be questioning is the default notion that you *will* have kids and that you *should* have kids. Not to mention the emphasis on "high-powered careers" (for men, as well as women)."

I do want to have kids, and I do want to have a high-powered career. This issue affects women who want to work and have kids, so therefore I have focused on that scenario.

"In your current and past references to gender issues that you put squarely on the shoulders of irresponsible, carefree men, you seem to try to have it two ways. First of all, you lump *all men* into a category and then lament how this affects you. "

I do not at all intend to put issues squarely on the shoulders of men, and I'm sorry if that's the way I've come across. The issues belong squarely on the shoulders of society. In fact, some of the harshest critics of working mothers are stay-at-home-mothers, and vice versa. The women's movement has not reconciled these perspectives. Am I disparaging men? Not intentionally. I'm critical of a society that judges women harshly for whatever decisions they make about motherhood, without similarly scrutinizing men. I'm also critical of a society that forces families into black-and-white choices simply because fewer men get paternity leave (and even fewer feel they can take it), because men make more money, and because childcare is atrociously expensive.

"This is the first time you mention poor families, yet lament as if you are in the same boat as them. yet, as you said, *you would not marry someone* with the expectation that the mother would do all the childcare. In fact, you probably can't throw a stone in the general area where you live and not hit guys who also would participate heavily in the child-rearing process."

I agree completely that I'm lucky to live in an area where most of the guys will heavily participate in parenting. But my point is that, even in my progressive sphere, I do not know of one single family in which the dad stays home. Or even works part time. In all the cases that come to mind, the woman makes heavy professional and/or emotional sacrifices. This is her choice, and I respect that choice--her partner is not forcing her to stay home. But I do feel I need to qualify my experiences and those of the people "in my boat" by stating that many, many families do not have any choice at all.

"In general I am disappointed in your generalizations about men, despite your liberal, feminist bent. Would you tolerate such generalizations about women?"

I do not mean to make generalizations about men. I really, really love men, and I hope that comes across in my blog. But I put in all those statistics because, across the board, for whatever reason, women still bear way more of the burden of family life, and this fills me with rage.

"One point touched upon by the article is that the feminist movement didn't happen so that women could be the same as men. The point of equality is such that a choice is not being denied you simply because of your gender (or whatever)."

Exactly. I'd argue that women have much less choice about whether and when to take time off to raise a family, because our society does not support men's involvement or require it.

"The main idea I took from the article was that these women were *choosing* to not pursue a strenuous career at the expense of not having a family."

Right. It depresses me that our culture makes combining professional success and family life untenable for all of us. But women choose to give up strenuous careers in much greater numbers than men. Society's message is still the same; when a man decides to sacrifice for his career, it's maybe unfortunate. When a woman does it, it's selfish. And it will jeopardize her chances of landing a husband.

"There is a strong argument in this article, which I happen to agree with, that the working work is too demanding, especially in the types of professional jobs that Princeton graduates gravitate toward ... How much sacrifice of the rest of your life is necessary for your job?"

Absolutely. Our culture is work-obsessed, more than the vast majority of other countries. This is bad for families, not just for women. But my problem is that it's worse for women, because our society still penalizes them for their choices. If they work and have kids, they are judged for being bad mothers. If they stay home, they are judged for being bad feminists. If they don't have kids, they are judged for being unwomanly or selfish.

These attitudes are at the root of all the policy problems that make work/life balance so hard for everyone: lack of paid family leave, disparity in pay, demanding crazy work schedules, lack of affordable, quality childcare.

Until progressive liberal males start to worry about how curing cancer or programming computers will ultimately play out in their family lives, these issues will continue to float under the auspices of women's issues. As we know, it is the universal issues that get money and political attention (at least for the moment). And once work/family matters stop being women's problems and become everyone's problems, they will be acknowledged as the universal challenges they really are.

So welcome aboard, L. et. al.. We need you and all the sperm we can get.

Posted by Dori at 11:04 PM 2 comments

Women and Work 101: For L.

"My attitude about it is that I don't really feel that I need to worry about how I will take care of my children, since I am not even at a point where I am in a steady relationship. I figure I have at least a year or more to figure it out once that happens."

I also anticipate waiting years before I spawn. However, I (quite naturally, I think) do envision many aspects of my future, and, because I read all the magazines, have learned that my fertility peaked two years ago (at age 26). This means that I--and my female friends-- have "to worry about it" more than our male counterparts. We don't have as long to make these choices. And, having observed other women who struggle with career/family balance, I know how hard it is to "figure it out", mainly because the options suck so much.

The mothers I know who stay home agonize over their identities, and about how they spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on top-notch educations and are spending their days with people who can't talk and cry all the time. You should read this often-cited and completely depressing article (by Lisa Belkin of the New York Times) on why brilliant women are opting out of high-powered careers. Most women do not have this luxury. The women I know can choose to work (or not) and are not bound to do so because of financial constraints. When a mother works, average annual household income rises by $10,000 per child in a two-parent home, and by $11,000 in a single-parent home. For poor families, this money can make the difference between living in poverty or not. Regardless of how much money they make, most working moms experience guilt about abandoing their kids, and about outsourcing parenting to nannies and au pairs if they're lucky, and substandard daycare if they're not.

"It seems that a main tenet of having kids is that you are both responsible for them. If you, as a woman, are concerned about having total responsibility for raising a child, why would you have a child with someone who would refuse to share the responsibility and sacrifice required for that child?"

I am not concerned about having total reponsibility for a child, because you're right, there is no way in hell I would marry someone with that expectation. But I do worry about the guilt and judgment to which I will be subject no matter how much of the responsibility I do shoulder. And not all of this is up to me and my partner: only 15% of companies in this country offer paid paternity leave. AND, research shows that even when men take on a lot of the parenting responsibilities, moms still end up working "second shifts" and dealing with a higher proportion of chauffering, cleaning, medical appointments, etc.. This drama is played out all the time in the media, that portrays working mothers as selfish and stay-at-home mothers as unfulfilled (Desperate Housewives?). One charming study shows that 48 percent of Americans believe that preschoolers suffer if their mothers work, while another found that 42 percent of employed parents think that working mothers care more about succeeding at work than meeting their children's needs. This is all despite the research that shows that kids of working moms are no more likely to drop out, take drugs, break the law, or experiment with sex prematurely than children with non-employed mothers. (I have all the source material for these stats, in case you want it.)

"And now that this topic has come up, I would totally be up for staying home and taking care of the kids if my wife (hopefully I am not making too much of assumptions here) wanted to continue to work full-time."

You and how many other guys? There are about 2 million men in this country who stay home with preschoolers (and these are not exact statistics because they don't exist--unlike the incredible amount of data about working moms). I don't know any of of these 2 million men. And note also all the hilarious portrayals of men caring for kids ("Daddy Daycare" and that recent movie with the Navy Seal who takes over a family with kids--with hilarious results). The assumption is that staying home with kids merits comedies.

So I hope this clears things up a bit--you'll notice I care just a bit about this topic.

Posted by Dori at 9:35 AM 2 comments

The Childcare Question

So yesterday I hosted a meeting in my office to plan an "intergenerational" event. I was delighted to see Lisa, who has just begun to get involved in our work. She brought her three-year-old daughter along. Dia (the daughter) sat drawing restlessly while her mom contributed interesting ideas to the discussion. We all talked and took notes. Then, when the kid started squirming, her mom took her into her lap, hugged her rapturously, and pulled up her shirt to start breastfeeding. People: this child was drawing and breastfeeding within the same ten minutes. Everyone at the meeting did what people do when a woman is breastfeeding: look all casually at the woman's face, avoid looking at her breasts, and maintain an expression that conveys that everything is normal and natural. Which it is, of course. When we're talking about babies, not toddlers.

This was far and away the grossest thing I've seen in a long while, and when I spoke with my Guy about it later that night, we had an interesting guessing game in which he tried to discern what might have happened. Which of course led to a discussion about babies, and moms, and meetings, and one of my Favorite Enraging Topics: the childcare question.

I asked my Guy (somewhat confrontationally, I'll admit) one of the most brilliant questions ever, which comes from the book Women Don't Ask (which is about women's negotiation and our need to advocate more strongly for ourselves). The book recommends that women ask their partners, "how will you care for your baby while you're at work?" You'll note the question isn't "which one of us will stay home?" or "what kind of childcare will we have?" It's about you. Yes, you, the one with all the sperm.

As I expected, my Guy said he hadn't really thought about it, and that even while he says derisive things about his (female) boss and her au pair, and wonders often about how all those (female) physicians "do it all" (meaning, demanding training and childbirth and everything), he hasn't really thought much about how he would handle the care of his own child. "I guess you never know what something will be like until it happens, you know?" It was clear from what he did say that he would "make time" for a theoretical kid, and that all these high-powered couples at his work manage, so it's possible. He also espoused the model of his own childhood: the elementary-school mom stays home until the kids are in sixth grade, and then she goes back to work. Which I am absolutely not knocking (and in fact is exactly what happened in my own family).

The enraging part is that I, and I'd say every single one of my female friends, have discussed at length how the hell we will maintain our professional and family lives, and worried about it. And yet all those 29-year-old people with the sperm still "don't really think about it." Even in this day and age, it's still women with the burden of proof. Of course I get the biological issues that make it important for moms to stay home (at least initially--definitely not for a three-year-long breastfeeding stint). But it still makes me angry that even modern progressive men expect "to manage", that things will "work out", knowing, even if they don't say it, that whatever compromises they make will be lauded and praised, and that pretty much all the decisions the woman will makes will bring guilt and judgment upon her.

So put that in your bottle and suck it.

Posted by Dori at 7:30 AM 6 comments

Trading Spaces

So my Guy is moving. He is trolling the liquor stores in his ghetto neighborhood looking for boxes. He is culling his collection of Appalling Clothing. He is contemplating what to do with his air conditioner.

And--on this last point--do you know why?

Because he's moving into an apartment with central air. Which, along with the heat, is included in the reasonable rent. The apartment has a dishwasher and disposal and granite countertops. It has a brand new washer/dryer in it. It has track lighting. It is also located steps away from public transportation, and minutes from his work. A stone path leads to a zen garden in the backyard with a fucking fish pond in it. I kid you not.

I did not see the apartment until yesterday, and let me tell you, it broke my heart. It is every bit as lovely as my Guy's description, and it is entirely lost on him. He asked me to come over and plot out where his furniture should go, and I all I could think was that his furniture should all go to the dump, because it is completely unworthy of this space. My Guy owns two (2) chairs that were salvaged from the common room of his grad school dorm (meaning: said chairs were being replaced), and his desk kind of slants in one direction, and was left behind by an old roommate. His "bedside table" is one of those plastic crates on wheels meant for toting office supplies. It was also cast off by some acquaintance.

While we were plotting out the stunning new space, and I kept saying how he needs more and nicer furniture, and he kept saying that this apartment affords so much space in which to spread out the existing furniture, I realized we have entirely different conceptions of what home is for. To me, home is a refuge, a place for restoration and renewal, and also, importantly, a place in which to cook and entertain. Investing energy and money in beautiful things and beautiful furniture, in my mind, is an honest and worthy pursuit. At my job, I store most of my work-related possessions, and therefore, I don't incorporate posters of homeless people into my decor concept, and I don't showcase books about financial management on my end tables.

My Guy, on the other hand, doesn't cook and rarely eats. He subsists on skim vanilla lattes and apple cake sold in the lobby of his work, and on the Thai food from the dive across the street. He never entertains, and therefore, has for seating only a futon covered with papers about cancer, which is located inches away from his TV and computer, and those chairs from the dorm stacked in a corner. He has a large colorful anatomical poster of the human brain tacked over the bed. It's very romantic.

Since nobody ever comes to his apartment, it's essentially like an office with a bed and closets. I assumed that his aversion to visitors originates from his awful apartment, but in fact, his apartment is awful because he doesn't have visitors. I can accept all this as long as it's happening in a horrible apartment with inconsistent heat, a malfunctioning fridge, and a rodent problem. I cannot accept it when it's happening in a gorgeous mansion abode. My Guy is blithe about all this. He said, "maybe I need to watch a little Trading Spaces" (referring to one of the most brilliant shows ever), and I thought to myself: "you need to watch extreme makeover."

I just got off the phone with my Guy, and he said he just saw a nice wood (as opposed to laminate crap) desk at Staples and was contemplating a purchase, but ...

"I already have a desk."

"I know," I said, "But your desk is old and decrepit, and it's totally justifiable to replace it with a nicer one."

"One day you're going to do that with me." He was kidding. Mostly.

Whoa! My direct nature and insistent decor-orientation may have become just a little bit overwhelming. Perhaps I have crossed the line. "I just want your possessions to be worthy of you," I said, totally meaning it, and thinking: And I want them to be worthy of me, since I am crazy for you and want to spend as much time as I can in your mansion. And I want you/us to enjoy home. As a place to have joy and comfort and beauty. Not to mention central A/C.

Posted by Dori at 8:34 PM 3 comments

Bitching and Chickening

My Guy and I had a conversation a few days ago, after which he decided to stop reading my blog. I am really impressed by this, because if he had a blog and was expressing his thoughts, feelings, and opinions on the Internet--there is no way--no way--that I could give up reading it.

He decided to stop reading the blog because he surmised correctly that it is not such a healthy thing for me to write about our relationship and for him to read about it. And I agree there have been many times in which I did not write things for fear of being passive-aggressive. I also observed that while he has control over how he portrays himself in public, he cannot control how I portray him to friends and strangers over the Internet, and this is not so fair. For the most part, he had no problem with anything I've written thus far, but he was unhappy with the direct quote about medical people (when he mused that my friends "are not at all like medical people"). He felt this portrayed him in a snobby way, and then I felt compelled to clarify, blog-wise. We realized this is a pattern neither of us want.

I am really pleased by the way he handled all this--I offered to stop writing about him in the blog (as I did when I first told him about it), but he astutely said that the whole endeavor brings me joy and should continue uncensored. So. I guess that liberates me to bitch about a recent (minor) incident that inspired resentment on my part. And yet, somehow I didn't get the nerve up to radically honestly express this resentment over the weekend. And because I chickened out, I feel somehow that I can't be radically honest here.

How's that for two steps forward, one step back?

Posted by Dori at 3:24 AM 0 comments

Even More on Radical Honesty

As you may have already read, L. has devoted considerable thought to this whole concept. Please read my response below.

L.: "It seemed to me that "radical honesty" would really only be a recommended or necessary behavior for someone who was totally dominated or intimidated such that they would not ever be able to speak their mind, and would never get their own desires expressed. The radical honesty would be perhaps necessary, as thinking about how to put something tactfully might be too difficult (as a first step) and they would be able to express themselves in a radical, blunt manner or else not at all. I don't believe you, on the other hand, have any sort of problem expressing yourself (as the title of this blog might indicate). It seems that just regular honesty would be more than sufficient. Also, how would radical honesty work in the stereotypical "Do these pants make me look fat?" situation? (Probably not so well.) "


Me: Dear L.,
Glad you are taking this so seriously. I think my post rather rambled on about different forms of honesty--the actual "official radical honesty" philosophy means telling the truth in the moment, usually in a confrontational way, and usually as a response to resentment.

The "I hate that move" version of honesty, as you pointed out, is just "regular" honesty that can be expressed along a whole spectrum of tact. I guess the point is not the HOW you say it but THAT you say it. Even strongly worded people like myself have a really hard time speaking up sometimes, because it's often easier to just to go with the flow, so to speak. The "Unitarian" version of honesty is not to ever do that--the premise being that even small lies ultimately add up and damage a relationship. So I guess in that case the answer to the "do these pants make me look fat" question is: yes, or no, depending on the fit of the pants.

I also regret not pointing out that radical honesty can be amazing and positive, for example, saying "I love you" because that's just how you feel (and not just what the other person wants to hear). Or even more radical: saying it without even being sure the person will respond in kind.

Posted by Dori at 10:11 AM 2 comments

Two Clarifications

1) A few days ago, a Strongly Worded reader asked whether there was a middle ground between Radical Honesty and Radical Dishonesty, particularly in reference to some of the examples I gave. This is an excellent opportunity to clarify that Radical Honesty does not have to be expressed in terms even remotely as harsh as the ones I used. I am not recommending saying "I hate that move, are we done yet?" I meant that if someone were experiencing this line of thought, (s)he should express it in a kind and clear (not harsh and mean) manner.

2) I've gotten several responses to my somewhat cavalier reference to the social lives of "medical people" in my last post. In fact, many medical professionals prefer not to talk about death, dying, and chem panels all the time, and in fact find it refreshing to talk about other topics that include, but are not limited to, ice dancing and V.C. Andrews.

Posted by Dori at 7:53 AM 1 comments

The Boyfriend Debut

Last night, I co-hosted our third annual feminist-progressivist-vegetarian seder (with K. and a NG, former co-worker). The event was significant because it was the first time in my life in which I have ever fed ten people at the same time in my own apartment, and I did this in the absence of a full-sized stove, a dishwasher, or adequate counter space.

The event was billed as a "vegetarian seder" but when I floated a proposed menu of roasted pepper mazobrei and cauliflower kugel (from Gourmet magazine), the response prompted me to include a chicken dish for the less adventurous palates among us. Ever since the planning began, my Guy decided to prepare a special family matzoball recipe, and so two fifths of the batter had to be veggie (this presented a mathematical and logistical challenge). Later on, we learned that only three people at the seder were actually vegetarians, and that, among them, only one would have cared about the matzoballs having been cooked with chicken stock.

But I digress. The gathering was lovely, and the food was great, and NG did a fine job facilitating the seder itself. And yet all this--believe it or not--was secondary to the real showpiece of the evening (from my standpoint, at least): the Boyfriend debut.

Before I fill you in on this particular experience, allow me to provide you with some context. None of my friends were huge fans of my wrong-side-of-the-political-spectrum high school boyfriend. Nor did my badass, greasy-haired youth group liasion get any love from the few friends that actually met him. My Spanish boyfriend did go over well, but that was in large part because he was sweet and shy and a prize just by virtue of being a native of Spain.

Things got a little complicated (this is to say, worse) when adult life commenced. When I was working at the fascist nonprofit consulting place, NG (aforementioned seder co-hostess) and A.P. and I were all co-workers and friends. NG developed a huge unrequited crush on A.P., who then developed a huge and very requited crush on me. We assumed NG knew that we'd become a couple, and thus behaved in a couple-y manner at NG's Halloween party. I still remember the flash of hurt and shock on her face when she came by with the candy corn and saw me sitting in his lap. I still feel awful about this--I would never have behaved that way if I had known she didn't know.

A.P.'s second debut was even worse. My friend E. invited us to her birthday party, in which most of the guests were her friends from Harvard and Yale. Ivy League soirees are probably among A.P.'s most hated environments, and his misery was aggravated when a Harvard Ph.D. friend of mine approached us and asked A.P.: "what do you do for a living--besides worshipping Dori, I mean?" And because A.P. can't always just let things go, he sneered and said something like "I fondle young boys."I'm telling you, it was fun times.

My next important boyfriend was Darren, who had a fabulous group of friends with whom I had seen him interact on a number of occasions. I expected his debut to go spectacularly because he has a friendly, easy way with people and a wry sense of humor. Very unfortunately, he also has a wicked competitive streak. On the night of his debut, we were playing "Apples to Apples" which is a hilarious game based entirely on the premise that games don't need to have winners or losers, and that judging should by definition be arbitrary. And yet he got extremely, inappropriately competitive regardless.

The other time Darren met my friends was when we went to see Farenheit 9/11 and were strolling towards the theater at a pace Darren found entirely too slow. He led the charge in a manner that was very anti-social. And later complained that my friends didn't like him.

So as you can see I don't have a happy precedent here.

Since we started dating, all my friends have been dying to meet my Guy, especially since they are all loyal Strongly Worded readers, and have read all these laudatory things about him. Because I truly believe that my Guy is spectacular, I was not at all concerned about how it would go--because, as I told him--even if the interaction itself were weird (which is often the case when one is subjected to the scrutiny of eight total strangers)--he would ultimately enchant them.

Here's the part I didn't anticipate: my friends were debuting too! It didn't occur to me that my Guy would also be forming opinions about my friends, a group he, too, has been hearing and asking about and dying to meet. And here's the lesson learned--a debut requires some orchestration.

Last night, my Guy was seated next to some random woman NG invited, and directly across from NG's mute boyfriend (He really is mute.). Thankfully, my Guy was also right next to Melinda's scientist husband, so that was good, and they bonded a bit over RNA. But things got a little complex when one end of the table started cackling over V.C. Andrews and ice dancing, and the other end of the table starting talking about fascist nonprofit leadership. I can see how sitting on the border there could be a little tough.

Afterwards, while we were washing dishes, we debriefed the evening (thank God! he can debrief! This is a rare and wonderful trait among guys). He was very enthusiastic about everyone, but also pensive.

"They're not at all like medical people," he mused.

And suddenly I was insecure (Does he think we're shallow because we're talking (and laughing hysterically) about V.C. Andrews? Should we have had a reprise of last year, when we got into this huge political debate about Israeli politics?). Then I was defensive (My friends are multifaceted! They are brilliant! They are not medical people, goddamnit, and I wouldn't have it any other way! We have plenty of deep intellectual discussions!). There was no need to say anything like this of course. It's all just par for the course.

And I'm glad this debut is over. Well, almost over. Once he meets R. and my two best friends from grad school, and E., and my two long-distance friends, we'll be all done with this nonsense.

(Oh ... right ... I guess then I can meet his friends, and sit in the middle of a long table in which one end is talking about chem panels and the other is talking about CBC Lites. And I'll fit right in because those are the two terms I remember from ER.)

Posted by Dori at 5:28 PM 4 comments