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In defense of clothed people

I was perusing BlogHer the other day and came upon Rita Arens's post about parental approaches to being naked around their kids. I'm always surprised at how Rita finds topics that even childless people appreciate. I started a comment and realized it was evolving into a post. I didn't know I had such feelings about this topic!

There was a spectrum of response by the commenters, from "I don't feel comfortable being naked, period, let alone in front of the kids", to "clothing optional" households. The following is my comment, adapted into a novella.

My husband and I had very different backgrounds growing up, and we both know the chasm in opinion could have an effect on our offspring. He likes to call my perspective "Midwestern." I don't remember exactly how old I was before it wasn't convenient anymore for Mom to just plop me in the bathtub with her (when you think about it, it's actually much easier to get kids clean that way) or when I was no longer allowed to go into the bathroom when Dad was in the shower, but at some point the walls came down.

The last time I saw my siblings (other than my twin sister) naked was, oh, maybe when I was seven nine. I noticed my older sister getting these mini-boobs and felt maybe I wasn't supposed to witness her trajectory into double D's. My "baby" 32-year-old brother, now over 6 feet tall and 250 pounds, is still in my mind this hairless little thing that we girls used to fight each other for the privilege of helping him bathe (we used to swaddle him in a towel so he couldn't move and then dress him; like the ultimate doll). I couldn't handle seeing him differently.

At some point my Dad got all weird about things. Everyone female and over 12 had to wear a bra. No free-bouncing or nipping out. He didn't say that, exactly. He would just look at you with disdain and say, "Hey, how about putting on some proper clothes." I thought it was a Roman Catholic thing. My mom began changing in her bedroom, instead of in whatever room we were in so that she could watch over us. Her weirdness was around movies. She rented the deceptively family un-friendly film, "Excalibur" and nearly fainted during the scene when Igrayne was being ravaged by Uther Pendragon.

We knew the drill when we saw naked people onscreen and covered our eyes when she screamed "no looking!" My sister, Julie, accidentally uncovered her eyes, thinking the scene was over and got smacked in the back of the head. This, by the way, was a temporary phase of rigidity. When I was a teenager she found a porno in my room once (long story, I really was holding it for someone) and said she'd seen it before. We watched a few when I was a young adult, more to laugh at the dialogue and plot lines than anything else. I think that was her way of later asserting her own more liberal views around nudity, which were silenced by my father's more totalitarian approach. Her way of saying, "People do these things, and they live afterwards."

My husband, on the other hand, was born and raised near the beach. In pictures I've seen of him as a toddler he's always naked, like the Coppertone kid but with no tan lines. Free, like a little Tarzan. And in his opinion, as he was meant to be.

Whenever we visit his parents in Southern California, we have a sunset ritual of sitting in the jacuzzi and talking. H-band tells me that his family used to sit naked, until one day, when he was an adolescent,his mother entered the jacuzzi in a swimsuit and declared that from that point on everyone would do the same.

H-band tells the story as if it was an unnecessary gesture, but I think it was. It made sense to me to bring up kids to feel comfortable with their bodies, but at some point they need to conform with societal norms. I felt grateful for my future mother-in-law's pronoucement. She paved the way for me and my sister in law to feel comfortable under her roof. 

"Are you ashamed of your body?" H-band says to me, when I do such things as wear bras under clothes that might fit better without them. I appreciate his appreciation for the body au naturel, but I'm also annoyed by this question. Why does having a different comfort level with nudity have to equate to being ashamed? I'm tired and don't even want to defend myself. This is a dynamic I find with a number of my more, say, "liberal" friends. Not wanting to join everyone sans underwear while hot-tubbing or swimming makes me somehow "unable to let-go." I explain that I have more moles than a leopard has spots and cannot sit around naked for health reasons, but really I just don't want to be naked. I prefer how I look with clothes. So sue me.

I'm so heartened to read these comments from perfectly normal women who don't want to cook dinner naked (I exaggerate here, my husband wouldn't want me to be exposed to splattering oil), or be naked by default. I do wonder, if I had been born in Southern California, or not been exposed to a Roman Catholic values system, or been raised by wolves, would I have a different take on things? I'm sure I would. 

Still, I like wearing clothes.

On Getting Organized

I took a two week vacation at the end of the year. Unprecedented. I brought the laptop with me to San Diego and Chicago, but only to read the newspaper online and check out Twitter followers--I swear.

We went to Borders in Encinitas (or near there) and browsed books. Now, I don't normally engage in print, but I wanted to change it up during my vacay and revisit those things that used to get my creative juices flowing--fiction titles.

I circled the fiction section and nothing screamed buy me. I started to wander toward the front of the store.

"Where are you going?" H-band said, sensing I was heading for the nonfiction. "No self-help!"

"But I like self-help."

"No working!"

Self-help isn't working, not for me. It's like candy--a treat. I found the time management aisle and breathed in deeply. Even the odorless, purposeful fumes gave me a high. What was the title of that one book? Getting Things Done. Yes, that's it. I found it!

Husband found me sitting cross-legged in the aisle.

"This is fun for me," I told him.

Every day I read a few pages, refusing to eat--I mean, read--the whole thing in one sitting. I'd glean a few new learnings and implement them on the spot. I created a "DO NOW" folder in my Outlook one day, bought a file labeler the next. Dismantled the home office and made proclamations while H-band was home sick watching an entire season of Anthony Bourdain's "No Reservations".

"I'm clearing the second shelf!" I said, referring to our three-tiered office organizer. "Your stuff is going on the third." The empty space on the second shelf made me giddy with possibility.

The next day, while H-band was with Tony in Russia, I yelled from the bathroom, "How much hydrocortisone do you need? It's getting tossed, Babe."

And with these unwanted tubes went the shower gels, yellowing Band-Aids, pills without accompanying packaging to identify them, make-up I somehow inherited that weren't in my colors.

I get this way, ambitious about organizing my time and my stuff. Yet I felt nervous. I'd done this before. Before life set in. But during any time off I forget the deluge of stuff that gets in my way, in front of my intentions. I wonder, will I stick to this? Will I put things where they belong, or will I let it rush over me and allow it to pool in the corner? Will I wake up saying to myself what will get done and then do it, or will I forget what that thing is by noon?

Will I forget how to tap this place where I have options, time, and creativity?

I'm working on it.
 

Why I Defend the Housewives of Orange County

Maybe it's because he hails from San Diego, not exactly a stone's throw from the Coto de Caza, the private commuity where most of the Housewives live, but close enough to have seen them growing up--their French-manicured fingernails, their buoyant boobs, their dismissal of what his family held sacred--that makes him hate them so. I grew up in an environment so far removed from their lifestyle I can just watch, and watch, that show and feel lucky. Lucky that I could never get a tan dark enough to adequately show off all that bling. I could never manage all the upkeep.

The Housewives have created problems in my home. I insist on watching them Tuesdays at 10p--when all-new episodes run, when H-band wants to go to bed. He says he'd like to do other things at that time--sleep, have together time. But I want to watch Housewives.

"I can't believe you'll let them get in the way of our intimacy," he says, with a look of hurt that would make some think that I'm a cruel wife. But they don't understand that Wednesday night, when Top Chef is on, all bets are off. Somehow this show transcends our commitment to more sleep, more sex. I've learned to use TC as a weapon, when H-band complains that I watch frivolous shows. I remind him that I watch Top Chef with him--see we DO have our special moments, and that I'm not lowbrow. I just appreciate it all.

I try to position Housewives as an anthropological study of sorts, of a people foreign to us.

"You watch Discovery Channel," I remind him. "How is this really different?"

In fact, I've made some interesting anthropological observations about these indigenous people:

1. Age is not wisdom in Coto de Caza. I don't mean to suggest that intelligence and age have an inverted relationship in this part of the country, not at all. But no one seems to get smarter with age, just tanner.

2. Education is not a harbinger of success, despite what it is for the rest of the world. An education does not seem to increase anyone's chances of making money, but rather marriage and willingness to work-out (increasing the chances of staying married). There are some notable exceptions on this show, women who had to make their own way, and they are to be pitied for it.

3. It's irresponsible to not take all measures possible to look younger.

4. The hierarchy of needs is such: car make, hair-root maintenance, bra size, food, shelter, children's welfare.

5. No one graduates from high school, or more accurately, evolves from the high-school mentality. Because how lame is it to have not actually graduated from high school, sha!

6. College is for people with no connections. Community college is OK, but only if you need a reason to stay in your parents' house.

7. Being drunk is OK if you are dressed up. Then you are just having a good time.

8. If you must work, consider real estate, retail, or being an extra on a music video set.

9. If your kid insists on seeing more of the world, send her to Berkeley. She'll get over it quick.

10. Kids shouldn't get everything on a silver platter. Start them at a 3 series and make them earn a 5.

Seriously, what does H-band think will happen to me? That I'll get inch-long nail wraps and start wearing sequined tops? That I'll get a boob job? C'mon, honey. You have nothing to worry about.

Digital Marketing Anti-Predictions: What I Hope Goes Away in 2009

My Prediction Piece, on JackMyers.com. I should not have defaulted to the edit team for the graphic. Oy!

Contemplating the Bottom

I was out hiking with friends yesterday, enjoying what was damn near perfect weather in Marin. As we walked we caught up.

One friend is embarking on an AIDS ride in the spring and has started training for the ride from San Francisco to Los Angeles.

One friend just converted the garage from an office back to a garage, and a sleeping nook to a washer-dryer room.

One is selling a motorcycle.

One had a TV program cancelled but thanks God that it wasn't a full-time job and now has a reel to show for it.

One struggled to get funding for a startup and is now committed to bootstrapping.

One had to acknowledge that real estate sales were not going to pick up and took a second job managing a catering business at a hotel.

One experienced layoffs at a job, and then paycheck reductions for an area of the company and wonders, what will be next?

So how about you, Jory? How are things with you?

"Fine," I said. "I guess." I wondered if I was deluding myself.

Should people be allowed to sing along during a dance workout class?

No.

And they shouldn't grunt during yoga. I don't care if it's a release, if the week's spiritual toxins are being purged. I want you to keep them to yourselves and let them burn your insides if need be. Like the rest of us do. 

Am I aware that, one day, I'll be the kook in the back of the room singing along and grunting?

Yes.

In Relationship Therapy with my Blog

I just read a post on Mike Manuel's Media Gorilla Blog called "Why Blogging Has Become Harder". I don't usually read posts that are not business-related anymore, but I was drawn to it, especially this passage:

The truth is, last year was an amazingly good, but challenging year for me at Voce. We won several big accounts. We grew our team. We formalized partnerships (and forged new ones). We innovated. And where we could, we shared what was working. And amidst all of this, I must admit, I felt an increasing need (really, a responsibility) to focus whatever extra attention, energy and know-how I had on my projects, my clients and my teams.

As a result, I went dark online.

But here’s the other truth: My insularity was also influenced by my frustration with the signal to noise ratio, especially around social media consulting. When everybody’s talking and acting like they’re the experts, the last thing I wanted to do — really, the last thing I could do — was to try and show my expertise by shouting the loudest or talking the longest. That doesn’t help anyone, plus, you know, I don’t want to be that guy...

I commented on Mike's post, realizing that I had more to say than just what I had posted:

Mike, I had a similar Come-to-Jesus moment looking back at my blog during my first real vacay in years and realizing how little I’ve contributed to my digital legacy, and yet it was a time when I’ve done more speaking and educating on social media and marketing. It depressed me that my blog bling was outdated (I couldn’t even quite remember how to change it!) and that my meatiest recent piece was on wearing tight jeans. I used to geek out on social media, even get sweaty writing about it! But alas, the more work we have In Real Life, the less time I’ve had to participate online. I’m going to endeavor to get re-involved–how else do people put their money where their mouths are? But in different fashion than in 2005. I actually have a JOB other than reading blogs and writing four hours a day. It should be interesting.

This has been my struggle for the past few years. Even at the BlogHer Conference, when I'm surrounded by women who spend enormous amounts of time on their blogs, and women who are just opening to this life-altering pursuit, I feel alienated. I can only hear their stories and nod, knowing that at one time I could relate. Today, I just help pay for the booze. I know there's more to it, but when I'm just sitting on my ass, or am doing what my blog tagline indicates--"sitting still"--I become Annie Dillard, wistful for the writing life.

Mike's right, there is much more flotsam out there on the Web, and it's difficult being able to follow it so closely that you can say something that hasn't already been said in a comment on TechCrunch, let alone in a fully-fleshed blog post. Some of us have removed the obstacles of other commitments by designating our best thoughts to Twitter, just getting them out there, unroasted, before we overthink them or they fade away. Back when I had a non-start-up job, I used to jot down ideas, then work on them at night, going to bed minutes after clicking "Publish." Now, I struggle at night to catch up on email.

But you know, a lot of this is beginning of the year resolution making, a lot of talk. If I were in therapy right now, my shrink would insist that I stop talking about my blog like it's not in the room with me. I have to address it directly. Here goes:

Blog, it's true, I know it. I haven't been seeing you as much. And because of that I'm ashamed and stay away. It gets harder to come see you because every time I come back I see signs of my neglect. TypePad has added so many new features I don't recognize your dashboard anymore. I struggle to add and remove Typelists. I push publish again and again, and still no change. I know that I'll need to go deeper, into your source code, to truly make changes, but I struggle with the commitment. The commitment I once had, when for hours I would explore every last feature you had, upload images, even have H-band create new headers for categories, when you were my everything, I've saved for other pursuits, like ensuring payroll.  

It seems, I became so excited about you that I took it to a macro level. I needed to help others enjoy what I enjoyed when I began to write every day. It started with a conference, then grew to something that exceeded any part-time effort. I still kept posting to you, but by then I had a business to run, and you could no longer be the receptacle of personal takes on my business pursuits, because now there were others besides H-band whose privacy I needed to protect. People like employees and investors.

Yes, there have been others, but you knew about the print gigs--I even wrote about them here--and the affair with Fast Company. I promise you, JackMyers.com is strictly professional, and of course I have to blog on your sister, BlogHer.com, from time to time. You have to be realistic. Sometimes she even links back to you.

While I cannot promise that I will be back to visit everyday, I will think of you more. I'm not sure what our relationship will look like. When you were raised to help me sort out what I was passionate about, and you did just that. Perhaps now you can help me stay on what I'm passionate about. I can ask you the questions I can't elsewhere. Just know that, while most of your traffic consists of Google Searches on the word "sex", and people who are wondering what I've been up to since high school, I still value you. You've documented me at my best and my worst, been the place I've gone to in good times and frankly horrible ones. I'll be back.

Be patient with me. I'm still working through this phase, where I commute and travel a lot and, you know, work. There's a lot of exciting stuff to share with you about the people and companies I get to meet, but I haven't yet figured out how to share this stuff with you. I promise to work on that. I'll remember to call, or at least post, more regularly. I also promise to visit Mom more often.