The weirdest newspaper vs. technology argument I’ve ever read, courtesy of some guy who is an  Old and writes for some rag*.

A BlackBerry is of limited utility. You cannot have a hearty family breakfast with everyone gathered around the BlackBerry. But with a good newspaper, the president could read the hard-news section, the first lady could adhere to gender orthodoxy and read the softer sections, and the kids could chuckle at the comics. Just as in the old movies, papa could explain things, like what’s the purpose of NATO anymore. (I’m dying to know this myself.) Not all newspapers have comic sections, but even those that don’t usually have sports pages and business columns.

I’ll summarize for ya: print is dying and Barack Obama is killing it with his BlackBerry because he lives in a bubble.  Totally! Except, he does read print newspapers and my guess is print is dying because out of touch reporters write dumbed down articles that no one cares about. (And that whole Internet advertising is cheapter thingy, that everyone tried to ignore for years.)

I used to work for a newspaper — I love them. If more of them payed better attention to staying relevant to readers/producing good product, and less attention to the lame-ass “24 Hour New Cycle” I think they’d have a fighting chance.

Then again, I’m just a woman, who prefers “hard” news and is apparently ruining America by forgetting to adhear to gender roles or something.

I guess, my feminist hero Michelle O. and I have something else in common besides our nice rear ends.

(Which BTW Salon?  Such a lame article. Of course it’s crass and distasteful to talk about Obama’s ass! For real, what on Earth were you thinking? I didn’t like it when people did this to crazy Palin — the whole sexy bikini thing — and I don’t like it when you do it to my pretend mom Obama either.)

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*Jokes! WaPo was my “dream” paper. Just like Berkeley was my “dream” school. Life was really super-easy at 16.

A year ago I wrote a story about plastic surgery and whether or not I should get it.  It’s probably one of the best things I’ve written, but dang, my ego took a blow writing that thing.

It’s a tough thing to examine your body honestly, and an even tougher thing to ask another person to evaluate it objectively. As I say in the story, I’ve always kept a full and accurate list of my flaws — I know where I stand on the attractiveness scale (cute librarian/theater actress) and still, it’s brutal to hear it recited back to me.

My poor little ego was able to recover from the situation only because  I was dating a really nice/complimentary guy and a bunch of other equally complimentary fans Mystalked me and wrote me flattering e-mails after the story was published. Also, I kind of came to terms with my flab a while ago — if I really cared, I’d probably do a sit-up right?

Anyway, point is, today I got a holiday card in the mail from one of “my” plastic surgeons. This is the guy who wanted to give me a chin implant if I remember right. It was a weird flashback, and even weirder to have someone who chipped away at my sense of self — however momentarily (and yeah, I was paying him to do it) — wish me “peace and joy in the coming year.”

Maybe I should have called this "peace, joy and laser hair removal..."

Silly, I know, but I do feel compelled to post a picture so you can see I’m not a total monster. Especially if you clicked the link to my story, which makes me sound like I have a “great personality.”

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about defining moments. Both within the small context of my life and the larger context of my country. The thought I keep coming back to is that they are always moments, not Moments — and they’re never what you think they might be.

When I was younger, I had this idea that one day I would wake up one day and discover meaning. That something would happen and define me.

I always assumed this would be a huge tragedy during which I would rise to the occasion (whatever that occasion might be), or, some other sort of demonstration of greatness. Ego? Yeah. Mine was out of control.

As I watched the final episodes of Paris Hilton BFF (my new favorite television show) it occured to me that I’m not the only one who believes that she is too special to be normal. In fact, I think this is something that every reasonably attractive, moderately intelligent/funny person in my generation believes.

It was amazing to me how clear it was that each of the girls on this show had spent their entire lives practicing talking to a camera in a confessional booth. I have to admit, I actually used to practice this in the mirror myself. I also used to devote a lot of time to giving a good angle to the imaginary cameras following me around.  I still have ongoing conversations in my head where I am saying devastatingly brilliant things to Oprah, or Rosie, or whoever will give me a captive audience.

I blame three things: late 90s “cinema” that exaggerated and romanticized every dull teenage experience (thinking specifically of the movie “Can’t Hardly Wait”  here), the Real World and Coldplay.

We expect our lives to be full of Grand Gestures, Great Loves and Defining Moments.

And I’ve learned that by internalizing these subtle messages, I’ve often really missed the point.

This year, when my mother was nearly killed, I learned a thing or two about Defining Moments: you never remember them. They turn into a collection of hazy, terrified memories and the things that truly define us are mere moments, no capitalization required.

Life’s just not ciniematic. One second you’re laying in bed Googling “gall stones” and ignoring a phone call from your little sister. Twenty minutes later you get around to checking her message and your life changes — and you know it does — but you’re not going to remember any of it.

What you will remember are very small things, the way the sun feels on your shoulders as you walk toward a twisted chunk of metal to collect your mom’s personal belongings or the way it felt to lay next to your grandma on an air mattress in a borrowed apartment. You might remember how terrible and boring it was to sit next to your mom waiting for her to stop being in a coma. You will definitely remember what her voice sounded like when she woke up.

Obviously, these are all things that happened to me this year. But I don’t think they say much about this year, or me for that matter.

When I look back on 2008, it would be easy to define it as “the year I moved to Portland” or the “year of Mom’s crash.”

But I just feel those taglines are so empty.

So much more meaningful: 2008 was the year I started wearing a neutral shade of lipstick to work and bought my first under eye cream. The year I started calling my mother every day to say “hi.” The year I stopped taking everything for granted, or assuming that greatness was just going to happen.

My office is closed for rennovations for the entire month of December which means we are all working from home for a month.

Which means I ate ice cream for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And conducted two hours of meetings in my pajamas.

The most awesome thing about working from home: watching “Paris Hilton’s My New BFF” while simultaneously working for social justice.

The worst thing about working from home: watching “Paris Hilton’s My New BFF” while simultaneously working for social justice.

Paradox!

Have you seen this show though? Oh my god. I love it. I love it more than Top Model. It makes me want to go back to school and major in women’s studies and write a dissertation on the genius that is Paris Hilton.

Ellen agrees:

I’m not joking.

In a fit of self indulgence, post-Thanksgiving boredom and the fact that I feel too chubby and cold to go out I started re-reading an old journal.

Circa a time when I thought waking up at 11 qualified as “early.” Circa a time when I thought knowing the “dj” mattered and that vodka and Red Bull made for a tasty cocktail.

This was only about a year and a half ago ya’ll. In the interim, I may have developed some better habits, but I’m on the brink of becoming boring. The fact that I’m blogging while wearing my boyfriend’s Cardinals hoodie on a Saturday night proves this.

I found a list that my friend Alexis (who inspired this) and I made in May 2007. It’s our “No Scrubs” list which I think sprung from a terrible date I went on where the guy took me to see “Hannibal” and smelled my hair. Not a nice, cute hair smell either. It was like he was trying to inhale me. This is a very weird thing to do on a first date.

Anyway, it says a lot about the sorry state of affairs for the modern single woman (at least in Phoenix) that some of our requirements were actually, “showers regularly,” and “doesn’t say things like ‘lay the pipe’.”

I’m not sure if it’s that our collective female standards have never been lower, or if once you reach a certain age in a certain scene, the stock just plummets.

Or maybe it’s just that I spent far too much of my single time making lists and going on dates with dudes who probably make hair dolls and lamenting past “loves.”

And now I spend my coupled nights in a hoodie, writing about lists I have made, pretending I’m too busy to help my boyfriend move his things into my basement and lamenting the “good old days” when I was miserable.

I think this need to romanticize and feel nostalgic about the very recent, very terrible, extremely boring past is a defining characteristic of post-emotionalism (a working theory I have about everything my generation loves and hates) but for right now, I’m going to cop out and decide I’m too post-post emotion to work it out tonight.

Between my mother and the election, I forgot to write. Actually, that’s not true at all. I didn’t forget. I was kind of afraid to.

Afraid because, number one, I could feel myself turning into kind of a wingnut over the election and I didn’t want to subject anyone (even the very few readers of this blog) to MORE wingnuttiness. Simultaneously, I could feel myself slowly losing it over my mom’s accident, and I didn’t want to subject anyone to the liveblog of my inevitable breakdown.

I guess even in the age of the overshare, there are times when privacy matters. Even in this Prozac (or in my case, Lexapro) nation, there times when depression isn’t even interesting to the person experiencing it.

I was afraid secondly because, I have to admit: I miss writing and this blog only reminds me of that.

It’s true that I love my new job — advocacy is fulfilling and ,surprisingly, community organizing was a natural fit. In many ways, I think it’s fair to say I feel called to the work I do now. And, I suppose the proof is in the results I’ve gotten so far. But it’s also true that there’s this cynical, anti-everything, wants-to-get-drunk-by-night-and-snoop-around-by-day, part of me that feels neglected.

It’s that wild, angry side. It’s that, “I don’t give a fuck” side that I can no longer really indulge, a fact which makes me, at times, achingly lonely.

Dear Elitist Sarcastic Celebs -

I get what you’re doing here but really?? This is SO not going to reach the Palin leaning swing voter. Alienating the independent base with pompous sarcasm is really not the messaging we need here.

Also, trying to appeal to the “youth vote” by insulting its intellegence (voter registration! Let’s spread it like Herpes! No really, that’s the message) makes for a terrible ad.

Yeah, I’m down with post-emotionalism and general snark. And yeah, I actually prefer that my politicians are smarter — more elite, if you will — than me.

But the average non voter isn’t and doesn’t and this is an election, not an episode of “The Office.”

Judge for yourself:

At 25, 23 and 18 respectively, my younger brother, younger sister and I have taken on a situation most people don’t deal with until much later in life. Our mom was almost killed in a car accident, was on life support and is now in a situation where she needs 24 hour a day support.

It’s been terrible and traumatic and our hearts break every day. But thank God my siblings are wonderful, supportive people and we’re weathering this together. When my brother wanted to go see the wrecked car and get my mom’s stuff out of it, the three of us did it together, the thought being no one person should have to bear the weight of that task alone.

When my mom, who couldn’t drink water until yesterday, needed her mouth swabbed or the gunk scraped off her teeth, we all did it. We all wanted to. She’s our mom and, in fact, it is an honor to scrape the gunk off her teeth.

Apparently this is not the norm. According to this ridiculous blog post on the New York Times’ ageing blog, most sisters wind up fulfilling traditional “female” roles when their mothers are ailing, while brothers skate by performing “male” roles and getting all the credit.

According to the author, Jane Gross:

“..this arduous interval is a dumb time for a feminist hissy fit. Far wiser to bow to the stereotypes and delegate every male-suitable task you can think of to your brother(s).”

Because bitching about it to the Internet instead of having, you know, a face to face conversation, is so much more productive?

First of all, I hardly think asking a sibling to help with a task, qualifies as throwing a “hissy fit.” Second, in our situation, I guess you could say I’ve taken on the “male” role: I arranged Mom’s finances, hired her lawyers, make insurance decisions and so on. I also comb her hair and swab her mouth when I can, which isn’t often since I live 1,300 miles away.

When my mom gets out of the hospital and can’t use the bathroom herself, both my brother and sister will be there and they will both want to. Maybe the problem is the idea of giving “credit” to anyone for doing what you should do — and want to do — for someone you love.

In my family, there hasn’t been a discussion about who should get credit for what. It’s more like, what needs to get done and who is available to do it now? The idea of assigning gender roles in a time of crisis is ridiculous.

There’s another blog, Dutiful Daughters (Sainted Sons,) that the NYT writer pulls her idea from. The blogs author, Marsha Foley is quoted:

“The experience is bad enough in its own right without all that resentment,” she said. “You really must give up expecting people to feel and behave as you do. Expectations are what create stress.

Ms. Foley added that “part of why women get so mad” at their brothers “is because they’re not suffering enough.”

I certianly agree that expecting anything from anyone during a time of stress is a bad idea. So why are the authors of these blogs encouraging women to expect their brothers not to help? Even worse, why are they advocating bottling up your frustration so that it can turn into seething resentment?

(Oh and BTW, “not suffering enough?” Gross! How do you decide if someone is suffering enough? By how much they cry? By how much they sacrifice? Wake up call for Gross and Foley: there’s no premium on suffering — you can’t quantify it.)

There’s no “right” way to cope with a family tragedy, but it seems to me that open, honest communication about reasonable expectations makes a lot more sense than saying, “Oh, I’ll wipe butts and change bed pans because I’m a woman, and Josh will find a lawyer because he’s a man.”

Absurd.

It’s pretty obvious that when I got paid to write, it wasn’t for a daily newspaper. I’m terrible at managing my time these days and writing has, sadly, taken a backseat.

In light of my mom’s accident and an incredible work schedule (go 60 hour work week!) it feels like everything else in my life has taken a backseat. Which is not a good or healthy thing.

So today I did something I swore to god and everybody I would never, ever do again. Not cigarettes, not Wild Turkey, not even drugs.

Therapy. I went to fucking therapy.

As I’ve written about before, I have strong opinions (and reservations) about depression, mental health and treatment options.

Since you’re not getting paid to listen to my thoughts, and because this isn’t Live Journal, I’ll spare you the deep, dark details, but I will say that I have to revise my previous stance: sometimes therapy is good.

Providing you can find a therapist who doesn’t insist you have daddy issues or Bipolar disorder when you don’t and won’t ask about the way you were potty trained.

“I guess being a small town mayor is kind of like being a community organizer, except you have actual responsibilities.” (Sarah Palin’s acceptance speech.)

Um yeah: “It’s not rocket science. It’s six million dollars and fifty-three employees. “ (October 1996, Mat-Su Valley Frontiersman)

And: “But as for that v.p. talk all the time, I’ll tell you, I still can’t answer that question until somebody answers for me what is it, exactly, that the v.p. does every day?” (July 31, 2008, CNBC’s “Kudlow & Company”)

As a community organizer and a person who thinks a lot about politics, health care, education and foreign policy (and who wants her elected officials to be smart and well informed, not “folksy” or fun to drink a beer with) I can’t take this lady seriously, I can’t help but laugh at her and I don’t know what I’m going to do if she actually swings this election in McCain’s favor.

(And BTW, as an organizer I am actually responsible for more than 53 volunteers, though I will admit our budget is way less than $6 million.)

Is it just me or has this campaign gotten much, much nastier since Palin came on board?

I could go on, but Saturday Night Live already said everything for me.

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