She Vs. Her

Perhaps it’s common knowledge by now in order to succeed in this year’s presidential election, the candidates must win over women. Because they comprise the biggest voting bloc, it’s important to address issues that are important to them, such as health- and childcare, equal pay and birth control. These are things that touch all women’s lives, whether they work outside the home, in it, or more often than not in this economic reality, both.  I don’t know of any mother, at least when their children were young, who wouldn’t want to stay home with their issue if it were financially feasible. In fact, I knew quite a few fathers who wished they could do the same. But in the majority of cases it’s just not possible, especially since real pay hasn’t kept up with inflation in the last twenty years. Add to that the cost of health insurance and day care–my own sister paid $400 a week for summer day camp for her two kids, just so she could keep her job the rest of the year–and the idea of staying home with the kiddies was right up there with a Grand Tour of the Continent.

So what’s the smart candidate to do? For my money–or vote, which in this election cycle comes out to be the same–I think I would pander, for lack of a better word, to those from whom I’d wish to garner support. I’d mandate that contraception would now have to be paid 100% by insurance companies, that a recent college graduate could still qualify for the family healthcare until they secure their own job, that that healthcare was actually affordable, that the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act becomes a fiscal reality (click here to see how your state rates), that the next generation would do better than the one before them, that seniors could retire with dignity. These things would be easy to do, in fact, all that would have to be done is fund the status quo. Do that, and the women’s vote could be tied up in a neat little bow. Right?

Well, there are other tried and true ways. Like using out-of-context an off-the-cuff remark by a minor pundit as representative of an entire campaign, then have your wife affect umbrage at it having been said. Call it a “War on Moms,” when in fact the saying of it was “an early birthday gift.” Because now you’d get to use it to Divide and Conquer, pit the hard-working stay-at-home moms against the “career women,” the ones too selfish and venal to stay home, leaving their children in the care of nannies and au pairs and even the cleaning woman when Cook has the day off. I mean, really. The least they could do is send the car around after Tennis Coach. It’s not as if the Junior League lunches every day, after all.

Yes, my dahlings, there’s a definite War on Moms. Don’t believe me? Slip into your Pradas and grab your Louie Vuitton; I’ll swing by in one of my Cadillacs and prove it to you.

Trudy

Big Announcement coming soon!

Now, normally, I’m not one for being cagey. If I have something to say, I usually just come out and say it. But this time, I have an announcement that’s so huge, so enormous, so life-altering that to just blab it would bring such a tsunami of—

Oh, I’m exaggerating, of course. It’s nothing that big. Well, perhaps a little. Thing is, it’s still in flux, so I’m really not at liberty to say, but when I do, I think you’ll be surprised. But in a good way, I hope. Just want to say right now that I’ll still remember all the little people who made this possible. You know– my friends. Or acolytes. Those teensy-tiny worker ants that scampered to and fro at my pleasure to make this happen. Gotcha again, didn’t I?

Oh come on. I have self-deprecation down to a science, so let me have a little fun with this, okay? Yes, it’s a great big bloated announcement I’ve yet to make, but it is a little too soon. So let me wallow a bit more in my smugness, okay? And when I finally do come out with it, you, my dahlings, will be the first to know!

Smooch!

Trudy

I’m a Mess

Mitt Romney could no more help sport that salacious money-grubbing smile in that (in)famous Bain Capital photo than Barack Obama could affect toking doobage in another, if I am to believe an article by Sasha Issenberg in this week’s New York magazine. In “Born This Way,” Issenberg asserts “that researchers haven’t just tied basic character traits to liberalism and conservatism, they’ve begun to finger specific genes they say hard-wire those ideologies. If that work is to be believed, it would mean that an individual’s path to a political identity starts not with a series of choices but with long-ago genetic mutations, and that our collective experience of politics may be less a battle of ideas than a Darwinian contest in which we are all unwitting participants. After a team of geneticists claimed in a 2005 American Political Science Review article that they had evidence of DNA’s influence on politics, Duke political scientist Evan Charney rebutted that their findings ‘would require nothing less than a revision of our understanding of all of human history, much—if not most—of political science, sociology, anthropology, and psychology, as well as, perhaps, our understanding of what it means to be human.’”

Apparently there are specific character traits in toddlers that point towards what their particular ideology will grow into, as observed in a 1960s UC-Berkley study, using Bay Area nursery schools. Liberals, it seems, had been self-reliant and resilient, easy to make friends and willing to act out of the ordinary. Conservatives were often distrustful, wary of the unknown, easily offended and full of guilt. Twenty years later the researchers revisited the same focus group, and found the same attributes applied to both groups.

Further studies determined that conservatives are more orderly, conventional and better organized, whereas liberals are more open-minded in pursuit of creativity, novelty and diversity. One example is a study of 76 UC-Berkeley students’ dorm room, along with a series of five nearby offices. They coded nearly every item in the rooms after quizzing the spaces’ inhabitants about their attitudes. Conservatives’ bedrooms had more laundry baskets, postage stamps, and sports memorabilia. Liberals had movie tickets and larger collections of CDs and books. Conservatives had calendars, flags, and ironing boards. Liberals had international maps, art supplies, and stationery. Conservative offices were less “stylish” and “comfortable”; liberal workplaces were more colorful and disorganized. When the researchers videotaped three-minute interviews with the students, then reviewed the tapes, the liberals were chattier, the conservatives withdrawn and cautious.

The gist of this is that apparently, conservatives are neat freaks and liberals are slobs. Where conservatives are turned on my their own disgust–as they react more viscerally to hating Obama than to liking Romney–liberals just like being turned on period, the same part of their brain lighting up as the one which reacts to sex, chocolate or cocaine. Conservatives were usually more sober and responsible, where liberals were more often reckless and prone to a gamble. And most telling, where conservatives were fiercely loyal to only a few friends, liberals were more willing to be open and accepting to a lot of people. So what does all of this amount to?

Well, to use an example that’s often in contention between the conservative and liberal bases, namely that one can no more help being gay than they could help being born Asian or left-handed or brown-haired, that homosexuality is no more a lifestyle choice than if one is short or tall, and no amount of personal belief could justify its discrimination. So knowing that, and applying the same criteria, then could it be possible that no amount of logic or liberal diatribes could possibly sway political opinion contrary to its genetic hardwiring? And how does this bode for the future of the progressivism, if liberals’ childbearing consists of one-and-done or heir-and-a-spare, and conservatives are consistently being fruitful and multiplying?  Hmm…I’m just not sure. But then again, to test another theory, the strongest will always survive.

Trudy

 

Equal Opportunity Weirdness

Call me strange, but however whimsical, I’ve always considered the sight of animals wearing clothes a little disturbing. I mean I’m all for the occasional talking gecko or anthropomorphized donkey, but look at these bunnies here. I mean, how did Daddy Bunny tie that tie anyway? And look at the length of his arms compared to his issue, especially the one riding shotgun on the Egg Wagon (a clever little conveyance, actually a basket-barrow). Doesn’t he kinda look a little like a grasshopper? And what does that say about the theory behind Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man? That in this wardrobed-animal-dominated world those rules of proportion don’t apply? No surprise there, as so dissed is the code of chivalry, as check out who’s hoofing it and who’s got the king seat. Must be pretty tough on those girls tippy-toeing around, as it’s quite obvious they didn’t inherit the foot-gene from Dad. Then again, now that I take a second look at Sonny, it becomes clearer why he’s being toted around. Where did his feet go anyway? Erased by Pixar?  Very odd.

But that’s what happens with all holidays it seems, and Easter is no different. Check out this Passover greeting I came across, a regular Judaica history lesson all rolled up in the guise of a holiday hello. I mean I get the Egyptians and the pyramids (Spinxie’s a nice touch), even the “H” and the “P” fashioned out of matzohs. But the fridge? What’s up with that? And the two-dimensional recycling bucket on the door? Odder still since matzoh doesn’t need to be refrigerated. Bizarre.

Oh well. Happy Easter and Happy Passover to all whom it applies.

Trudy

A Fabulous New Website!!

Once in a lifetime comes a talent so phenomenal, so ground-breaking, so utterly astounding that you can’t help but shout it from the highest mountaintop. Your Trudy is lucky enough to have encountered this vivacious and truly original writer in the flesh, to have experienced her golden words, to have basked in her fabulousness. With so much flotsam and jetsam considered “fiction” these days (present company excluded, natch), it’s a breath of fresh air to come across someone as talented and entertaining as this incredible new find. Of whom do I write? Well, you’ll just have to experience her yourself by clicking right here. You won’t be sorry!

Smooch!

Trudy

Spring Forward

So I’ve been off the grid for a couple weeks, and between then and now spring sprung aberrantly early here in New Jersey. Flowers shot up, trees budded, flip flops appeared – then all of a sudden last night everything went back to normal, the temp dropping to twenty-nine degrees. Thing is, somebody forgot to tell these hyacinths it was all an early April Fool, as the blooms that were so full and bursting yesterday are today drooping and freeze-burnt. If I were them, I would’ve stayed put another two weeks, but no…one pops out of the ground and the rest follow like lemmings, all pimped out and before long, looped on photosynthesis. Now look at them: toasted. A cautionary tale, all.

Ah well. At least they put themselves out there. ‘Tis a brave thing to do, whatever the consequences. Weekend before last, in a way, I did the same thing. I met with a few editors, selling myself as gamely as possible, and although I’m feeling confident, you can never be sure. Yet that’s not what that matters. What matters is you’re taking that leap, closing your eyes and blindly jumping, if that’s what it takes to get you off the diving board. That can be terrifying, especially if you’ve never been tested. I have many times over, and where I’ve scored in the past, there are ten times as many more misses, which frankly, are to be expected. Writing, after all is subjective, and one rejection isn’t indicative of all opinions. Though when they do become the consensus, it might be time to review what’s being said and regroup, go back to basics and continue to rack up those ten thousand hours. With practice comes perfection, and as lame as that sounds, you wouldn’t want a plumber to fix your sink if he’s never done it before. All right, that’s lame, too, but you get what I’m saying, right? Here’s hoping…

I have a new book up my sleeve, two actually. One’s already started and the other is still percolating. Which is what should be the norm for all writers because you know what I always say–writers write, and if you ‘re not, then you aren’t. Spring’s all about a fresh start, so what better time to take that laptop or iPad or legal pad for a sit in the sun. And while you’re at it, you just might cop some Vitamin D. Not for nothing, but I just had my annual blood screen, and for the second year in a row my Vita D level is below normal. Can it be possible I’m carrying this thing just a little too far?

Nah…

Trudy

Spring (before I) Break

I’m sorry but it’s just plain bizarre as here I am, in New Jersey, North America, still technically in winter, and there are freakin’ daffodils in my yard. I haven’t even cleaned up the fall effluvia (hence the dried leaves which is the best kind of protective winter mulch, don’t you know. The rocks are merely decorative; isn’t gray a lovely color?) and now there are robins hopping and buds popping and flowers well…(can’t think of any more -opping words) blooming next to the fence. I remember about eight years back when we went to California at the end of March, and there was a snowstorm the first week of April while we were away. While that was unusual, I’d wager this is a whole lot more bizarre, especially when you couple it with the 76 degree temperature outside. Why I spent my lunch sitting on my front porch. Not that there’s anything to this climatey-changey thing, but I digress…

Next week is Spring Break at my college, so I’m going to indulge in it myself. Not like I’m going to Ft. Lauderdale or Cancun, mind you, but there is this Liberty States Fiction Writers “Create Something Magical” Conference I’m gracing this weekend, and not like I don’t have about a bazillion mid-term essays to grade before I go. Anyway, it’s too nice to be sitting at this desk, when I could be outside gathering flowers or Lyme disease-carrying deer ticks (that are no doubt breeding like bunnies in my yard) who’d suction to my legs as fast as you can say Jack Robinson. In any event, I’m off until 27 March, during which actual Spring would have already sprung, and not its freakish errant cousin.

Trudy

Now what?

Last week I finished up my latest book, edited, re-edited, proofed, formatted and sent it off to the agent. I thought I did a good job of it, and I’m thoroughly satisfied with the end result, but as with all of my writing projects, once I’m finished, I find myself at a bit of a loss. You’d think I’d be elated, as I lived, ate and slept with this book for about four months now, so I should be thrilled to finally find it off my desk. And in many ways I am, as once it’s away from me, it’s one step closer to publication. So what’s the problem?

Maybe it was just bound to happen. When I’m writing, so much of my everyday is centered around the work. I find myself condensing other jobs or stealing time away from them to give myself more time to write, to get up earlier or stay up later, just to finish that last scene or start a new chapter. I’m thinking about it when I’m driving or making dinner, and my house and even some of my relationships suffer, because I can be known to be moody or closed off when I’m particularly caught up. And as with any situation where your attention is singularly focused, its eventual culmination can lead to any number of reactions: relief, joy, a sense of accomplishment, or even a bit of grief. For me it’s always been a bit of the now what? As with now that this is over, what do I do with myself? Do I get right back on that horse? Or do I bask in the glory of my achievement, at least for a little while, and if I do, for how long?

Beats me. For some people, who take years to write a book, the after-time could be significant. Jonathan Franzen has written four novels in nearly twenty-five years, where at one point, I wrote five in a tenth of the time. (Note: Am I stretching for a comparison? Hardly. We all have our niche.) Genre novelists, which I have been (so far), usually write at a much faster pace, where literary fiction, with its sometime extensive research and weightier subjects, take considerably more time to assemble. But does that make me less of a writer? I try not to think so, but then…

Sigh…do we ever stop comparing ourselves to those more successful? Or am I any less talented because of what I write? Or are my ideas less significant, the emotions I do or don’t evoke less meaningful? Will anyone remember what I write in the years to come, or for that matter, am I just bleating into an empty void? Then what’s the point.

Oh for cryin’ out loud. See what I mean? This is what happens when I have too much time on my hands. Time to get back to work!

Trudy