My Happy Life: The Disturbingly Sane

by Nicolette Westfall

In My Happy Life, Lydia Millet takes the view that the members of society that do not fit in are insane to various degrees and turns it on its head. The main character, an unnamed woman, narrates her story from a room in an abandoned mental health building. She traces her life from the beginning, as an orphan, through extremely physically abusive school years and onto life being held captive and tortured by a wealthy man.

While presenting her story, she shows such love and humour, despite the atrocities that are committed continually against her mind and body. She experiences too many horrors that would make a “normal” person crack. In the end, she starves to death.

In clever writing, Millet is able to present society as the disturbed, insane landscape that it is. At almost every turn, regular people and children take advantage of the character’s innocence and acceptance of others. Trusting and patient, she loves and forgives. Despite her inability to differentiate between good and bad people, and the injuries her person receives, I can’t argue that she is insane—it is the perpetrators out there that abuse her which are disturbed.

While at first glance, the comparison between her and Britney Spears appears far-fetched, a closer look reveals that it really is we, the mass consumers, who are rather deranged. We are the ones that read sites like perezhilton and tmz and buy People magazine for the latest gossip on the pop wreck. There would be no millions if we did not buy into her over-sexed image and the post-fallout.

There is debate over how much influence the pressures of celebrity life and the hordes of photographers have had on Spears’ mental health. Even if Spears is in on the photography frenzy, the pressure of catering to the paparazzi is increasing in Hollywood. Celebs like George Clooney argue safety must come first, not photos.

Regardless of which came first, pre-disposed mental issues or the spotlight of fame, it is absolutely morbid that celebrities, especially Spears, are flanked by hordes of photographers wherever she goes, with masses of mindless consumers shilling out money for trivial tidbits instead of putting that money towards mental health research—just as it is quite disturbing that Millet’s character faces abuser after abuser until she is finally left behind to face a cruel death alone. While the contexts and factors involved in each woman’s mental instability are very complex and differ accordingly, both women display the damaging consequences of the predator in human nature.

A Good Death

by Grace Andreacchi

Enough about the writer’s life, let’s think about the writer’s death for a change. It’s sure to come, after all, for of all things nothing is more certain than death. A big subject, and arguably the starting point for much if not all of the world’s literature. Without death we would have no Wuthering Heights, no Death Be Not Proud, we would have neither metaphysical sonnets, nor lamentations, nor elegies, nor grief and certainly no Sylvia Plath with her poor little head in the oven. Without death it’s questionable whether we’d have any literature at all, as it is perhaps the knowledge of oblivion that tempts us to leave a record, to say – this was my life, this was my time, this my vision, my world. Remember me when I am gone/Gone far away into the silent land…

Is there such a thing as a good, a particularly appropriate and satisfying death for a writer? Without trespassing upon delicate ground of individual conscience and belief, I would suggest there is. Who does not admire the dash of Lord Byron, casting his young life away heedlessly in a Grecian swamp? Who is not moved by the terrifying double suicide of Heinrich von Kleist and the mortally ill Henriette Vogel? Before he died Kleist sat down and wrote eloquent letters to just about everybody he knew, and they make exciting reading. So this to his cousin and close friend Marie von Kleist:
‘Your letter broke my heart, my dearest Marie, and I promise you, if it were in my power, I’d give up this idea I’ve got of dying. But I swear to you, it’s completely impossible for me to live any longer; my soul is so wounded that, I might even say, if I go and press my nose against the windowpane, the very daylight that glimmers there is enough to cause me pain.’ He shot Henriette and then himself on the shores of the Wannsee near Berlin. He was only thirty-four.

Well, count on a German for a good, romantic Liebestod, but the letters are a touch. Surely only a writer feels the desire, nay, the compunction, to sit down and knock off a few choice paragraphs before the big exit. What really was getting Kleist down was the absolute failure of his written work to make the slightest impression on the world. God forbid any of us should take the inevitable rejection letters that much to heart! Better, perhaps, to follow the example of Jean Rhys, hiding out in a cottage in soggy Devonshire, drunk and disorderly, and brandishing against the dying of the light only her best book ever.

Grace Andreacchi was born and raised in New York City but has lived on the far side of the great ocean for many years - sometimes in Paris, sometimes Berlin, and nowadays in London. Works include the novels Give my Heart Ease, which received the New American Writing Award, and Music for Glass Orchestra, and the play Vegetable Medley (New York and Boston). Stories and poetry appear in both on-line and print journals.Her work can be viewed at http://graceandreacchi.com.

Virginia Woolf and the Insanity of Criticism in Mrs. Dalloway

Initially, I intended to discuss the complexities of oppression and insanity, looking at both the Great War veteran, Septimus Warren Smith and Mrs. Clarissa Dalloway, comparing the pressures of war and violence to suffering the transition of going from Clarissa to Mrs. Richard Dalloway, arguing that it is those that work continually to conform that are insane. Taking a humanist approach would have eclipsed the underlying feminist theme that women are criticized into behaving and, even then, aren’t taken seriously.

Men are given some validity to fall back on. Although Smith commits suicide, he is given credit for his effort on the war front. Mrs. Dalloway receives no such praise. She is seen by even the man who obsessively loves her, Peter Walsh, as a woman who wastes her time holding frivolous parties.

As Mrs. R. Dalloway, she busies herself maintaining the upper crust lifestyle. When reflecting on others and how they perceive her, she is Clarissa, and she recognizes that Peter criticizes her. All he has to do is look at her and she can feel it. There is a bit of her identity underneath the wedding ring and bourgeois façade. She silently stands by her interest in throwing society parties—it’s what she likes to do, and it’s something that gives her purpose.

The same cannot be said for Smith’s wife, Lucrezia. She has trouble separating herself from her husband’s plight, arguing that although Smith can be content without her, she can’t say the same for herself. Her view is odd, especially when considering how difficult it is for her to deal with his shell shock (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). He is unbearable to live with, but she has conformed to the role of wife by suffering by his side, which drowns out her own identity.

Criticism comes from many angles in our lives; parents who want to see us financially off, lovers who worry about our life choices, friends who want what’s best for us—but we learn from Mrs. Dalloway that the best reaction to such pressures is to preserve the self. Mrs. Dalloway is still clearly Clarissa, because she holds the party despite Peter’s criticisms. Her old friend, Sally Seton, although considered a radical in her youth, does not hold up to her true nature; she folds and eventually chalks her contribution to society as a mother of five sons, yes, five sons, she had five sons.

For women, one of the best contemporary arguments to stand strong against pressures to conform to others and their standards comes from Paulo Coelho and his work, The Witch of Portobello. Although he is a male writer, he, like Virginia Woolf, provides space for the central female character to continue being true to herself. Although party planning is stressful, Clarissa validates herself. Coelho’s character Athena faces the reality of teaching others without any prior preparation and does it despite serious threats from the established religious institutions. In the end, things work out for both women because they do not listen to others.

As women, we need to listen to ourselves and ignore both external and internal negatives which hamper our own growth. Men also face doubts and pressures which steer them away from their own dreams, but women face the double obstacle of the societal fear of the feminine. Coelho acknowledges that women through the ages have developed an intuition that men do not usually posses—so listen to it, use it, and deal with life accordingly. To do so is to preserve self validation, whether it is through throwing upper crust parties or getting people to set aside their fears and live the way they want to.

Mara Zalite (1952 - )

by Zinta Aistars

Words splash at my feet,
the voice of my blood talks, whispers and
fills the chambers.
Glittering river.
Here, I am.
~ from the poem, “Language,” by M. Zalite

What we are denied, we often learn to treasure most. Of those basics that a human being needs to live life well, surely language—the ability to communicate freely—is one of the building blocks upon which nearly all else in civilized life is built. Language is our means of self-expression but also our vehicle of connection with the rest of humanity.

Mara Zalite (zah-lee-teh) is a child of the Soviet Union, born in 1952, in Krasnoyarsk, Russia, but returning to Latvia with her family at age four to grow up in the then Soviet-occupied Baltic nation. Among the many losses of freedom in Latvia at that time was the loss of free speech. Indeed, even just the use of the Latvian language was discouraged, if not made into a punishable offense, substituting instead the language of “Mother Russia.” And still, Latvian literature flourished, as various art forms often do in suppressed areas. Art has always proven to be a survival mechanism, if not a tool for revolution. Language, the word that is more powerful than even the sword, carries great energy and life force, and no one understood this better than those standing at the Soviet helm. Zalite, having lived in a time when language was denied as well as in a time when language in all its varied facets flourishes again, has a strong appreciation for her native tongue that emerges repeatedly in her various literary art forms. It is the voice of her blood, she writes, it is her identity. It is, one senses, the carrier of her personal battle cry.

Zalite writes in varied genres and forms: poetry, prose (essays), drama, lyrics, even rock opera. In whatever genre, Latvian folklore has a consistent presence in her work, not only tying her to the roots of Latvian language, but also to Latvian history—the identity of her people. Toward the final years of Soviet occupation in her country, she was known to weave protest into her work in a cry for Latvian independence—which indeed came to fruition in 1991, as the Soviet Union fell at last. Her play, “Pilna Maras istabina,” or “Full Mara’s Room,” staged in 1983, was her groundbreaking work that won her the attention from critics, readers and viewers, that would push her literary career forward. This and many other Zalite’s works have central female figures, adding a second and parallel voice for women’s independence in an independent country. The play addresses the masculine energy which has brutalized the earth and its nations, and renews a cry for the return of the feminine energy, the ancient Mother (earth and nature), mother of all mothers, to take her place again.

Zalite has also published many books of poetry, collections of essays, song lyrics and scripts for musicals. Her work has been translated into German, Russian, English, Estonian, Swedish, and other languages, yet as one who has the privilege and pleasure of reading her work in its original Latvian, to my ear and sensibilities, her work sings best on its own instrument.

One of Zalite’s better known essays, appearing in “Unfinished Thoughts,” is titled “The Cross and the Sword.” In it, she brings up some of those themes and concepts that those who have been long oppressed hold perhaps in higher esteem than those who have long known only freedom. Not only a deeper appreciation of one’s own native language, but the soil that nourishes it—one’s own free land. Delving into ancient Latvian history, dating back to the 13th century, when Latvia was known as Livonia (an area that today also covers parts of Estonia), Zalite traces the appearance of various symbols and their ties to the masculine and feminine in what we think of today as Latvian folklore. In the feminine group falls the concept of homeland. The masculine centers on power and aggression, expanding borders and too often expressing itself in battle and rape and a violence of power over another, but she recalls, too, the nurturing of the mother figure, and what greater mother than one’s land, or homeland. Zalite’s appreciation for her own rediscovered culture is poignant, but as modern times of a shrinking globe urge, she also considers Mother Earth, and that we must show gratitude and care for the mother that has birthed us all. In this mix of escalating mothers, from one’s own corner of the earth, to the earth itself, Zalite urges an appreciation for the diverse cultures of every homeland, for a greater array of self-expression is a wealth to be preserved and cherished. To be a global citizen is not to forget or abandon one’s homeland, but to bring it, rich and full with its unique tapestry of people, to the global arena. More perspectives, more solutions; more diversity, more treasure, benefiting all.

Zalite’s unique voice, its mix of the ancient and the contemporary; the oppressed and the free; the feminine in balance with the masculine; brings the Latvian literary tradition to the global doorstep in a way that perhaps few others can who have not traveled her unique path in life.

A graduate of the University of Latvia, the country’s most prestigious institute of higher education, with a degree in philology, Zalite has worked on various editorial boards and in the Writers’ Union of Latvia. She has been the managing editor of one of the country’s most esteemed literary periodicals, “Karogs,” or “Banner.” She is the president of the Latvian Authors’ Association.

An American Writer in Paris

by Grace Andreacchi

Things are different in Paris. The food is exquisite, the apartment buildings, even in the slums, are high, elegant and decorated like wedding cakes, the light is pale lavender all day long, and writers are, quite simply, gods. It makes no difference if you’re published or unpublished, famous or totally unknown, just to be a writer is to be a god. To one accustomed to the usual American response to the shy and unwilling revelation, ‘I’m a writer’, the French response is nothing short of astonishing. People take a step back, overcome with admiration. People say things like, ‘A writer, c’est formidable!’ (They really talk this way in France.) People do not tell you they’re planning to write a novel soon themselves, or their cousin’s written a novel and can you help get it published, or they know this really great story that happened to a friend of theirs and they could write a novel about it but really haven’t got the time, would you like to hear it and then maybe you can use it for your next book? No, you will never hear any of these things cross the rapid-fire lips of the French. People respect you. It’s unaccustomed, and heady stuff.

When I first moved into my apartment on the rue Montcalm in Montmarte I was stopped on the stairs by a curious-looking little man in a state of great agitation. ‘Madame,’ he began, pulling nervously at his hairnet. ‘You walk around the whole night long. You are rolling a ball about in the night, just above my head! Madame, it is impossible for me to sleep!’ I thought for a minute and realised the ‘ball’ he was hearing must be the wheels under my chair. I apologised profusely and explained about the chair, explained that I was a writer and kept strange hours, but would be most careful to walk on tiptoe and not to move the chair. But the little man was no longer interested in his sleep problems – I was a writer! That was something completely different! God forbid his petty complaints should interfere with the functioning of the muse! Could I tell him about my books?

I was turned down in both London and New York for a bank account – not enough reliable income. But in Paris when I asked for a bank account the branch manager asked me shyly for an autographed copy of my latest novel. When I was obliged to seek help from the gendarmerie over a lost passport, the Capitaine showed up in person at my door – I thought he’d come to arrest me on charges unknown, but he’d come with a bottle of Bordeaux grand cru, to chat about literature. ‘It’s always been my dream to talk to a writer,’ he confided. ‘I love watching them on the télé.’ Like I said, things are different. The only problem is, it can go to your head like champagne.

Grace Andreacchi was born and raised in New York City but has lived on the far side of the great ocean for many years - sometimes in Paris, sometimes Berlin, and nowadays in London. Works include the novels Give my Heart Ease, which received the New American Writing Award, and Music for Glass Orchestra, and the play Vegetable Medley (New York and Boston). Stories and poetry appear in both on-line and print journals.Her work can be viewed at http://graceandreacchi.com.

Help Equals Hope

Part II of our spotlight on Karen Harrington, author of Janeology

“There’s a collective denial even when mothers come right and say, “I really shouldn’t be with my kids,” says Nancy Scheper-Hughes, medical anthropologist.

“Prior to a homicide, lots of lay people know these men and women are having difficulty parenting,” says Jill Korbin, child abuse expert.

If these two quotes startle you, you’re not alone.
If they make you weep, you’re not alone.
And if they compel you to action, you join an army of others who are also startled and weeping. But there is hope. A good deal of it, in fact.

One of the most unexpected pathways on my journey with my novel Janeology has been to get involved – if only by gaining an awareness of the issues and deciding what I could do. Now, it seems, being a novelist may be sidelined in favor of being an advocate. I think that’s kind of wonderful. Everyone’s original bliss should somehow lead them to helping others.

So let me tell you about three programs I’m learning about that support not only mothers in distress, but families.

Crisis Nursery Centers

First, crisis nurseries are emerging throughout the U.S. While these nurseries aren’t designed to meet the needs of ‘one’ population, they are available to ANYONE who is at risk of abusing or neglecting their children. And also for anyone who is facing a crisis. The definition of crisis is made by the family, not the crisis center. And they are free of charge. These could aid the mom whose boyfriend just came in and stabbed her while her children watched. She’s in the hospital and has nobody to watch the kids. Or, maybe a woman’s husband just passed away and she has no childcare/help. To utilize these centers, families don’t necessarily need to be in a situation where they will harm their children, but can still get help if the family is facing a huge time of stress and help is needed. The thing about crisis nurseries is there are multiple models offering varying levels of care.

What’s important to note is this: crisis nurseries are not everywhere and they are not federally funding. They were, a little, at one time, but not anymore. They typically run purely off community donations, which is why there are so many models – and sadly, why they open and close down just as quickly. So again, awareness is key right now. You might be able to be involved with one in your community, even in some small way.

Here’s a link to a list of all known centers nationwide. It is not comprehensive as this site is being updated all the time.

The Mothers Act

Next, there is a bill before the U.S. Senate right now, to be voted on this April, that could provide some of the funding for more crisis nurseries – and support new mothers in need.

It’s called the Mom’s Opportunity To Access Help, Education, Research, and Support for Postpartum Depression (MOTHERS) Act
Introduced by Senators Robert Menendez (D-NJ) and Richard Durbin (D-IL)

The MOTHERS Act will “ensure that new moms and their families are educated about postpartum depression, screened for symptoms, and provided with essential services. In addition, it will increase research into the causes, diagnoses and treatments for postpartum depression.”

In fairness to the opposition of this act, several grassroots groups believe the Act is being pushed by drug companies that want to increase revenues via the increased distribution of anti-depressant drugs for new mothers. Having read the text of the Act available on-line, I have seen no mandate about drug prescriptions within it.

The MyStuff Bags Foundation

And last, I’d like to share something I’m personally involved with – The MyStuff Bags Foundation.

A few years ago, I wrote and published a children’s book called There’s a Dog in the Doorway for the MyStuff Bag Foundation. The mission of this foundation is to put a bag in the hands of each of the nearly 300,000 children who need one each year. (That’s more than 30 children per hour.) I heard about this program on the radio one day when I was at lunch. The organizers asked listeners to send 100 or more new items a child would need or want. So I thought, I can write a book. And I did. The story is about my own dog, Abby, who always sleeps in our doorway at night. It’s a very protective gesture on her part. So the children’s story features a dog that helps and protects a child. You can find out more about this project on my website www.karenharringtonbooks.com and at the MyStuff Foundation website: http://www.mystuffbags.org/

NAWW Telesummit: Create Your Very Own Passionate Writing Life

Our good friend Sheri McConnell, founder of the National Association of
Women Writers, is hosting her 7th Annual Event on April 23rd and 24th.
This year’s event is focused on helping you Create Your Very Own
Passionate Writing Life!

This event is completely free and even if you can’t attend, make sure
you sign up for the free audio files and our downloadable 2008
TeleSummit Workbook.

To register for this event, please visit
http://naww.org/blog/annual-2008-virtual-national-assn-of-women-writers-teleevent.

The NAWW 2008 Telesummit features:

(1) Sandy Grayson on Secrets to Getting Celebrity Endorsements–How To
Get Fabulous Celebrity Endorsements for Your Business, Your Book and
Your Products

(2) Sheila Bender on Hire Your Very Own Journal Keeper for Expanding
Your Creative Voice

(3) Larina Kase on Standing Ovation–How to Own the Platform

(4) Renée L. Duff, Esq. on Copyright And Your Creativity

(5) Linda Joy Myers on Creating Your Memoir

(6) Marcia Yudkin on Creativity on Call–Become a More Productive Writer

To register for this event, please visit
http://naww.org/blog/annual-2008-virtual-national-assn-of-women-writers-teleevent.
Once you register, you’ll also receive their free workbook that
features great handouts and information from the speakers.

Hope to ’see’ you at the event!

Aspazija (1868 – 1943)

by Zinta Aistars

Several Latvian women writers stand out as offering insight into the earliest seeds of feminism—Latvian style, if you will—or, simply, what it meant, and means, to be a woman with a voice. Few, if any, are better known than Aspazija.

It was only in the latter part of the 19th century that Latvian literature found its own riverbed, and as if a dam had opened, a literary culture was fast taking its developmental course, pouring forth with a rush of new literary voices. Prior to this time, although the Latvian language and culture are among the oldest in existence today, the tiny Baltic country was under the heel of one occupying power after another. During that span of centuries, Latvians were not allowed to pursue an education and were forced to live as peasants and serfs, often coming to identify themselves culturally with the current ruler. Nearing the end of the 19th century, that ruling power would have been the German influence, and it wasn’t until a revolution of national identity took place that Latvians finally began to take some pride in being who they were—Latvians.

Aspazija’s voice entered the flow of new Latvian literature during that time, still a girl in high school when she began to write with a more serious intent (her first efforts at poetry was a collection written at age 14 in the German language). Until then, she had been Elza Rozenberga, but now she took a pen name, adopted from the Hammerling novel, “Aspasia.” The character of Aspasia was a woman of strength and beauty, and young Aspazija set her as a role model, adopting her name as her own. Critical acclaim soon followed, along with an invitation to work in Latvian theater in the capital city of Riga. Aspazija’s talent was recognized in drama, journalism, and as a literary critic.

Her beauty, meanwhile, caught the eye of another, equally fast rising Latvian literary star: Rainis. Not without recognition for the young woman’s literary prowess. The two were married in 1897 (Aspazija’s second marriage, as her first lasted but a short while and seemed mostly fodder for plays she wrote about a woman’s right to live according to her personal sense of life, following her own heart), and Aspazija and Rainis (pen name for Janis Plieksans) became a literary force to be reckoned with on an individual basis as well as a team. Aspazija was widely seen, and not just by Rainis, as being his muse, and the young editor of a Riga newspaper gained fame as a poet and playwright as well as a political influence. In the minds of many Latvians, even today, it is difficult to separate the two. One inspired the other, one’s works were often translated into other languages by the other, and it seems reasonable to imagine, each was the other’s irreplaceable “second pair of editorial eyes.” It is doubtful either would have achieved the level of literary acclaim or even political influence they enjoyed in Latvian society without the support of the other.

Yet to enjoy a strong and mutually satisfying relationship does not detract from a feminist voice. The couple was exiled to Russia and later to Switzerland, but were allowed to return to Latvia when the country regained its independence following World War I. Back in her own land, Aspazija continued to write in a feminist voice, becoming active in the Latvian feminist movement. A strain of rebellion, even when sometimes good-natured and humorous, threaded through many of her works, and her plays, “Simple Rights” and “Unattained Goals,” protested a society ruled by men. Her poetry often tended toward more romantic themes.

Aspazija was a member of the Parliament of Latvia from 1920 to 1934 as a representative of the Latvian Social Democratic Workers’ Party. Her contribution in Latvia’s government was her continued strong voice for women’s rights.

A book was later published of collected correspondence between Aspazija and Rainis, titled “Life and Art: A Correspondence,” and in it Aspazija wrote:

“With my deep love for my entire nation, I offer the entirety of two people’s lives, regardless of any protests, or threats, into the hands of our nation, so that it may, as a loving mother her children, who have suffered greatly, sometimes losing their way, punish or caress us—such will be our spiritual legacy.”

Is All Fair

by Grace Andreacchi

I recently heard an interview with the writer Orhan Pamuk in which he was asked - had it changed his life much, winning the Nobel Prize? I’m a little bit in love with Pamuk these days (those big brown eyes, those labyrinthine torture gardens of the mind…), and listened eagerly for what he would say. Oh, dear Orhan, please don’t be a schmuck, please don’t tell us how great it is to be totally famous. ‘I thought it wouldn’t change my life at all’ he said, ‘but I was wrong, it did. My family started speaking to me again.’ If you’ve read his ravishing Istanbul: Memories and the City then you know the many reasons the Pamuk clan had to take umbrage. And yet this deeply honest, self-searching, wildly sensitive account of le petit Orhan and the people and places that helped make him is one of the best things I’ve ever read in the genre ‘portrait of the artist as a young monster’. Pamuk spares neither himself, nor his mother, nor his father, nor his big brother (who claims most of it’s made up anyway), he shows a little bit of reserve towards a former girlfriend, which I find rather gallant of him. Is it fair to treat people like this? And, if it isn’t fair, what on earth are we to write? How are we to write?

It’s a question of genuine moral import, and every writer must wrestle that angel on her own. I make it a rule not to say anything in print I wouldn’t say to a person’s face, at least if I had the gumption to face them. It’s of some comfort to know that when you do ‘put’ people into books, they often don’t recognise themselves, but of course others may, and draw their attention to it. Then there are those who insist on seeing themselves where they are not. And those who do recognise themselves may call you on it. I’d say as a general rule that ex-lovers are fairly safe territory, as long as they’re firmly ex. They’re unlikely to risk a painful rendezvous merely to complain that it didn’t happen like that and you’re telling it all wrong. But a neat vivisection of the writer’s Christmases Past is sure to bring the roof down around one’s ears. Of course, if, like me, you already enjoy a relationship with your family on the outermost edge of the deeply estranged and totally dysfunctional then by all means go for it. What have you got to lose? You might even win the Nobel Prize.

Grace Andreacchi was born and raised in New York City but has lived on the far side of the great ocean for many years - sometimes in Paris, sometimes Berlin, and nowadays in London. Works include the novels Give my Heart Ease, which received the New American Writing Award, and Music for Glass Orchestra, and the play Vegetable Medley (New York and Boston). Stories and poetry appear in both on-line and print journals.Her work can be viewed at http://graceandreacchi.com.

Honey, Your Man Doesn’t Care about Martha Stewart: Confessions of a Slacker Housewife

by Nicolette Westfall

I wasn’t attracted to the book initially, because it has a yellow and pink cover, with ironing board, pearls, and a woman’s high heel, but something must have drawn me to it, because I picked it up, bought it, and read it within hours. Essentially, Muffy Mead-Ferro’s argument is that women don’t really need to put on the Martha Stewart or the extreme anti-bacterial war stance that contemporary advertising assists in brainwashing them into.

Personally, I’m not the type to crochet fancy clothes or buy instruction books on how to make fancy dinner napkins—a card table in the kitchen and a couple torn chairs does us fine, thanks. My unashamed spare furnishings and lack of ornamentation, to The Gentleman’s credit, never bothered him. It really is as Muffy suggests—women choose to waste precious time on unnecessary domestic frivolities.

When a man has his buddies over, they tend to eat out of chip bags and use paper towel napkins, not the latest in fine linen clothes. Although Muffy and her women folk have the urge to just go out and buy chips and dip, they choose instead to slave away for hours upon days in their kitchens, experimenting on creating the perfect dinner menus for guests that they just don’t have time to socialize with.

Muffy’s husband is somewhat more supportive then many other men—he’s actually changed a diaper or two (just pretend the other 4,000 changes don’t exist). He also understands that she juggles both a career and raising the wee tots. He just doesn’t get it that she puts energy into things like dusting things people can’t see, like the tops of light fixtures.

One oddity I found was her coverage of their sex life. She admitted to being tired from the dual duty of mom-career woman and treating sex like it was just another chore on the list. Completely in tune with Muffy, her husband patiently waited it out—there is no mention of porn at all (unless I missed it), implying that he isn’t into it. She also brings up her brief experimentation with toys, and notes that she has no need for self-satisfaction, preferring only him.

When I was with The Gentleman, I continued to live on my own and was solely responsible for rent, household cleaning, my schooling, etc… and yet I still found that I had sexual energy. The only damper was the fact that The Gentleman tended to wander, and so, he was the root cause of much dissatisfaction. He also took part in the common male habit of downloading gigs upon gigs of pirated porn on one of his hard drives. Alas, Muffy’s relationship with her man is quite different, as he is clearly stronger and more patient than most men when it comes to denial of their physical needs.

Beyond her commentary on intimacy, Muffy’s attempt to humorously enlighten women really is an important memoir-manual. Whether we like it or not, we exist in a sexist society, one in which men do not women seriously—yes, Muffy’s husband does ask her where the bread was, expecting her to keep the groceries stocked—in my household, all family members (ok, there’s just two of us, but still…) are expected to take part in weekly grocery shopping and the prep of family meals.

While her hubby recognizes and validates her as a career woman (lucky for her, because many men, like The Gentleman, don’t), he has trouble validating her domestic work, especially the more frivolous things. These hobbies that take up so much of some women’s time don’t concern men at all. These time wasters as distractions from the real issues at hand; men are still in power and as a result, women are often treated as sex objects that get tossed to the curb once their expiry date hits. While men become more respected as they age, women are seen as obsolete with their first wrinkles. She uses the example of female anchormen, who don’t last long, while their male counterparts carry on for decades.

Her book certainly won’t convince the die-hard Martha Stewarts that all the hand made, colour coordinated ribbons and bows for the dinner party aren’t necessary, but it will show others out there that dust bunnies are ok and that yes, the children can wear the same pants more than once before they are tossed into the wash.

Now, if she can just pick up on the idea that her hubby needs to do his own laundry. Even The Gentleman did his own laundry when he was still living at home with mommy and daddy! The offspring here does his laundry as well—I didn’t dirty his clothes and he isn’t 3 anymore. Upon discussing this book with other women, I was absolutely shocked to find out that they too, do their partners’ and teen children’s laundry. Other members of the household won’t appreciate your hard work if they don’t experience it for themselves.

Oh, and one more thing, as written in Harriet Beecher Stowe’s The Minister’s Wooing, if you don’t tell your male partner about how much hard work went into your domestic presentation, he’ll never know. The man needs to know that it took you 4 hours to prepare and bake that layered strawberries and cream cheesecake, with strawberries you grew in your own organic backyard garden. He may think you’re a little crazy for spending two weeks searching out the appropriate new recipe, instead of using your mother’s time-honoured version, but at least he’ll know why you fell asleep before the foreplay started.

Next Page »