The Binge Is Back

Last winter, we were buried under about ten feet of powder. My teenage daughter had snowdays week after week, and it was pretty much impossible to go anywhere. Work slowed down as New England waited to thaw out. Even though my office is right upstairs, most of my clients were having a very hard time getting to theirs, and there wasn't much going on. 

So, while my husband was busy shoveling, my daughter and I did what any self-respecting digital cable subscribers would do. We binged on Netflix.

For months, my daughter had been trying to turn me on to How I Met Your Mother. Being housebound gave us the perfect chance to watch it together. 9 seasons, 208 episodes, 20 minutes each (without commercial interruption).

You do the math. (Yikes.)

This wasn't my first binge. I've been known to devour all 6 hours of the BBC Pride & Prejudice in a single, heavenly, afternoon. And, sometimes, I have to binge in order to review a new show for my regular column in Women's Voices for Change, like Grace and Frankie, House of Cards, and my favorite Orange is the New Black. At one point, I even wrote a primer on binging for other would-be couch potatoes.

But, binging still feels like a very guilty pleasure to me. Not so for my daughter (who can't remember a time before on-demand TV, much less DVDs or VHS tapes); it's par for the course. Why stop your life for a particular time on a particular night to watch a particular episode, when you can watch any and every episode, anytime, any place and on any device.

I mean, really, adhering to a network line-up is so last century.

While I may be a dilettante, my daughter is a committed binger. Thanks to Netflix (which she can see on our TV, on her laptop, on our iPad, and on her phone), she has relished season after season of series after series. 

How she continues to get good grades is beyond me.

Nevertheless, here are some of her best binges:

Gossip Girl
Suffice it to say, this is not the New York I grew up in! It's a show about the 2% and their teen children  — who have better-looking homes, hair, outfits, and boyfriends than the rest of us. 
 
The Office
Not quite sure what the allure was here. My daughter has never worked in an office and has rarely even been in one. (Plus, that handheld camera thing always makes me a little queasy.) But she stayed with it.

One Tree Hill
Between the love affairs, terminal illnesses, basketball rivalries, and hostage situations (seasons 3 and 6), who would ever want to live in this place? All they need is a guest appearance by Susan Lucci. Can you say s-o-a-p o-p-e-r-a?

Pretty Little Liars 
Another town you would be well-advised to steer clear of. A group of high school girls have more on their plates than homework and SATs. Like murder, blackmail, secrets, queen bees, and the mysterious "A." 

Grey's Anatomy
An ensemble cast portrays young doctors at a busy hospital. It has great actors and good writing, and it somehow feels more "real" than any of the above. I walked by the TV the other afternoon and a patient's artery exploded all over his attending medical student. Niiiiiiice.

My daughter's still working her way through Grey's. But, I may ask her to hit pause and watch something with me instead. Pretty much any season of Downton Abbey (5 years, 43 episodes, on Amazon Prime) will do.

After all, we have another snowstorm on its way this weekend.

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Pass the Popcorn: Cinderella

Long before shoedazzle.com or zappos.com or justfab.com ... 

Long before Carrie Bradshaw or even Imelda Marcos ... 

Once upon a time, there was a girl whose shoes changed her life ...

Her name was Cinderella. 

This afternoon, three generations of my family's womenfolk went to see the new live-action Disney Cinderella. For my eight-year-old niece, it was a pretty straightforward sell: beautiful heroine, dashing prince, fairy godmother, talking mice, a ball. It wasn't such a stretch for my teenage daughter either. Then again, I can't say there was much — all right, any — hesitation on the part of the older attendees. 

Who can resist a happily ever after? Not us, apparently.

Cinderella really has something for everyone. The movie starred not one, but two Downton Abbey cast members. It wasn't much of a stretch to imagine Lady Rose MacClare, a.k.a. lovely young actress Lily James, as Ella. But, what fun to find Daisy Mason, former kitchen maid now assistant cook, endearingly portrayed by Sophie McShera, as one of the hideous stepsisters, Drusilla.

Helena Bonham Carter, who's had a bit of a run playing hags lately, between Les Mis, Sweeney Todd and Great Expectations, was given a chance to look pretty in a great, cotton candy gown and wig. Her fairy godmother was funny and frothy, and I was glad for her.

Meanwhile, Cate Blanchett gave the wicked stepmother an icy edge. With red hair and even redder lipstick, she's perpetually dressed in acid greens, in case we need a reminder of how sour her soul is.

And as for Richard Madden as Prince Charming. Well ... he was certainly that. Charming.

The problem with any Cinderella, of course, remains the same. How do we, as 21st Century feminists, reconcile ourselves to the story? Beautiful victim, rescued by a handsome prince. And a shoe.

With this new version, director Kenneth Branagh helps, by giving us a heroine with a little more depth than some. "Have courage and be kind," her dying mother urges her, "Where there is kindness, there is goodness and where there is goodness, there is magic." This new Cinderella takes these words to heart, but she doesn't take her situation lying down. She has moral strength, as well as courage, kindness and goodness. And, we've already covered the magic.

'Wish I had a fairy godmother.

Cinderella insists that her prince understands that she's a commoner, not a princess. He insists that he's merely "an apprentice," still learning his father's trade. They see each other — and love each other — for who they really are. (And, btw, Cinderella speaks French too; so, we know she's wicked smart.)

And, whether or not you buy a more feminist take on the fairy tale, it doesn't hurt that the entire movie is a glorious feast for the eyes. From Cinderella's eclectic, bohemian home to the stunning palace halls. The costumes are sumptuous, the dancing is divine. The friendly mice (a nod to Walt Disney's 1950 animated classic) transition magically into horses with a humorous stutter step. For a brief moment, each of the magnificent white steeds has a set of floppy round mouse ears. I wasn't surprised to learn later that it was my own teen equestrienne's favorite part.

There was a large party of small people sitting behind us. Through their non-stop, not-quite-soft-enough whispers, it was pretty clear that they enjoyed every minute.

We kept our thoughts to ourselves.

But, we did too.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.  

Snow Day

Snow days. They're a fact of life here in New England. Each year, when we receive the official calendar for our school district, it includes multiple "Last Day" dates. "Last Day with no snow days," "Last Day with 1 snow day," "Last day with 2 ..." All the way to five potential snow days. At that point, we would be well into July and they stop counting.

Long gone are the days when you watched the local news and followed the crawl along the bottom of your screen to see if your school was closed. Instead, we have automated telephony broadcasts. With our contact numbers in the system, we get prerecorded calls alerting us to any schedule changes.

This week, with "snowmageddon" on the way, we received not one or two or even three calls, but exponentially more. It was entertaining actually. First the house phone would ring, then my office phone, then my husband's cell, then mine. And this happened multiple times. With the storm pending, they cancelled after-school activities Monday. Then school itself Tuesday. Then school, again, Wednesday. Meanwhile, the town called, using the same effective if rather redundant system to tell us that there was a parking ban and a driving ban, that we needed to keep the roads clear so plows could plow and emergency vehicles could get through.

Well, duh.

Sure enough, the snow came down overnight and we woke to a winter wonderland. Although we had slightly fewer inches than predicted (a mere 22 at last count), the winds had been tremendous, creating massive drifts around our house, up on our porch and completely covering our cars.

Since I work from a home office and — miracle of miracles — there was no power of WiFi outage, it was pretty much business as usual for me. 

For my teen daughter? Well, she did what teens do best. She slept in.

Once she was up and about, the day progressed fairly quietly. The storm continued. I had some ad copy due and some conference calls ("How much did you get?"). My husband shoveled, carving narrow paths through piles of snow so we could reach the street. My daughter watched back-to-back Gossip Girls while staying in constant contact with her BFFs via her iPhone. We all had leftover Chinese. 

Mid-afternoon, feeling more than a little cabin feverish, we ventured forth, my daughter taking a sled and a couple of friends to the hill behind a nearby elementary school, my husband and I walking down to the harbor. Thirty-foot waves broke over one of the harborside restaurants, which nevertheless stayed open serving "chowdah," "lobstah," rum and beer to stalwart locals.

Nice to know that the town has its priorities straight.

Back home, with a fire roaring, we eventually settled in and watched Downton Abbey. It occurred to me, as we sat under an enormous fleece blanket, that this is what New England families have been doing for centuries. Weathering storms together. 

Except, of course, for the wide screen TV and the on-demand entertainment, the WiFi, the mobile phones and iPad, the microwave popcorn and the Keurig coffee machine.

Otherwise, it's exactly the same.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.  

WWDD (What Would Downton Do?)

Madonna said it in 1984. "We are living in a material world." That's all well and good, but Midge forgot to mention that we are also living in a rushed, rude and often ugly one. I'm not talking about the big problems. I'm talking about the genteel touches — or really, the lack thereof. To quote another famous M (one Ms. Stewart) "Manners matter." If Martha didn't actually say it, she's certainly thought about it. A lot.

Where are all the day-to-day niceties we left behind? I, for one, do my best to maintain them.

For example, this week I have reinstated the formal breakfast tray. Our family doesn't eat breakfast together unless we're on vacation. (Wouldn't that be nice? The eating breakfast together part, not the vacation part. Oh all right, the vacation part too.) My teenage daughter is the first to leave in the morning, while I eat after my walk. I'm not sure when my husband eats. At any rate, while she's putting the finishing touches on her ensemble upstairs, I typically cut her some fruit and prepare some starchy thing (with chocolate in it more often than not: croissant, muffin, waffles, you get the picture). A hot pink "Teen Advantage Vitamin" and a glass of water and ... voila! ... zee breakfast, shee ees served.

This week, I took a moment and went out to our little garden. I snipped some begonias, popped them in a crystal bud vase (wedding present), pulled out a tray, arranged the aforementioned gourmet repast and ... volia! ... breakfast was served with ever so much more class.

My daughter eyed me with a mixture of puzzlement and suspicion.

"It's nice," I told her. "It's like Downton Abbey."

Her expression remained the same but she cocked her head a bit which added to the effect.

"You know," I continued. "Like that time when Lady Mary was getting ready for school and Carson brought her a tray with a chocolate chip cookie dough Pop Tart and some fresh flowers, so she wouldn't have to get off her iPhone and go to the table?"

I was once again reminded that my daughter does not appreciate my considerable wit. Nevertheless, she has had flowers with her breakfast every day since.

This longing for a more refined life is also the reason I insist on beds that are made. This infuriates my daughter to no end. She finds it illogical, as well as "so-o-o annoying!" To me, it's a civilized ritual that marks an evening over, a new day begun. It instills the room with a sense of order and serenity. It has nothing whatsoever to do with my compulsive neatness.

Okay, so it does. Sue me.

"You can do whatever you want when you live on your own," I recite like a broken cliché machine, "In this house, we make the beds." 

I did give her a pass for most of the summer. But, back to school means back to bed-making. This, despite having learned from our schooner captain that making a still-warm bed is like sending a backstage all-access pass, V.I.P. open house invitation to dust mites. Eeeeeeew. 

I know I can't really roll back the calendar to a more elegant age. And I do live in the present as evidenced by my posts about Miley Cyrus and twerking (which achieved the highest hit rates I've ever had — how sad is that?). But, whether it's flowers on the breakfast tray or smooth sheets and throw pillows, I believe we can make an effort.

What else are we to do in today's graceless world?

Keep calm and ring Carson for tea.

Very Creepy

Years ago, before we were parents, before we spent all of our free time at equestrian events or shopping at Forever 21 or helping with homework, my husband and I used to go on day trips together. We would drive up the coast to Maine. We would drive down the coast to Newport. We would drive out to Western Massachusetts. 

There was a funny informal game we used to play in the car. I call it, "What made you think of that?" Basically, if one of us came up with something that seemed to be out of the blue, the other could demand to know the train of thought that led us there.

For example, on a drive to New York:

Me: "Did you know that you have to remove male hamsters from their babies because they'll eat them?"

Him: "What made you think of that?"

Me: "Well, we just passed Co-op City, which is where my third grade teacher Mrs. Wells lived. That made me think of her class, which made me think of my desk which was the last one in the first row and right by the window, which made me think of the window ledge, which made me think of my first grade classroom in which all of our pets were on the window ledge, which made me think of the hamsters that we had, which made me think of the journals we kept and the pictures we drew when the female hamster had babies, which made me think of the morning we came in and the father hamster had eaten all the baby hamsters."

Him: "That must have been pretty traumatic for you guys as first graders."

Me: "Not as much as you'd think. We all drew pictures, but we ran out of red crayons."

Him: "Well then."

This is a true story. But, not (thankfully) the main point of my post.

A few days ago, I experienced another set of non-sequitorious events that led to an unexpected discovery. To recap quickly for you:

I am a big fan of Downton Abbey. I was intrigued by the preview that was released for season three of said mini-series, and particularly taken by the women's choral group that sings in the background. A little research led me to the Belgian choir Scala & Kolacny Brothers. I bought one of their CDs (yes, to my teenage daughter's chagrin, I do still purchase discs). There was a haunting rendition of Radiohead's song "Creep" on the CD. I was killing some time, waiting for my daughter at the stable, so I Googled it and found this video.

Yikes! 

I always knew Barbies were evil and now there is videographic proof. In this short film, a supposed "plain jane" (in truth, a lovely Madame Alexander doll) is enthralled by a group of shapely blondes. She is desperate to be accepted, so she mutilates herself — literally removes her head and puts it on a discarded but statuesque doll body. At first, it seems to have worked. The clique of "so f*cking special" girls appears to welcome her. But, no! In an act of Greek tragedy proportion, they tear her limb from limb and throw her from a cliff (or at least from a kitchen table). As the song ends, our pathetic heroine closes her doll eyes for the last time.

I repeat ... Yikes!

The not so subtle message here is that you should never change yourself to fit in with others. That beauty is only skin deep. (And, that blondes may have more fun but you should probably stay clear of them if you want to remain in one piece.)

I think it's really unfortunate that between Barbie dolls and Victoria' Secret, our society offers a fairly impossible standard of beauty for our girls to aspire to. Estimates vary, but if Barbie were a real woman, she would be 6-7 feet tall, weigh about 100 pounds and have measurements along the lines of 36-18-38. (That waist, BTW, would make her 35% slimmer than a typical anorexic.) In Mattel's defense, they did once launch a more realistically proportioned doll. It didn't sell.

Based on the figures above, no mere mortal woman could ever achieve a truly Barbie body. And, what about girls who are naturally petite or muscular or stocky or flat-chested? Are they judged by standards that relate to their own anatomy? Or are they judged by how far removed they are from this ridiculous plastic ideal?

That's why I'm going to show this video to my teen daughter and encourage her to share it. As far as I know, none of her friends have actually attempted a head transplant yet. But, we've already heard about crash diets that sound frighteningly like eating disorders, and girls who are saving money for nose jobs and — yes — boob jobs.

The song is called "Creep" and the title comes from the narrator's self-assessment. But, the video's story and unhappy ending are grounded in a very real observation about self-destructive self-image and its dire consequences.

To this mom, that's really the creepy part.