tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829775481956047548Wed, 06 Nov 2024 03:00:13 +0000parentingmore serious than sillysilly and seriousmore silly than seriousInsecurely YoursblogginghealthlawpregnancywritingUpper West Sidecyber-celebssundaysHappy Headacheholidaysphilosophytechnologythe economyToddler-ismsquotesyalecocktailsdaltoneducationjury dutyBlackBerrycatsenvironmenteventstravelwho knows?StarbucksWednesdayscelebscolumbiacontinued learningdreamingfor beginnersIvy League LatteReligionSaturday Spreadsblonde momentsgrammar policeinjusticemature mothering momentsnaturerestaurantsself-improvementsubwaytheoriesIvy League Insecurities... because no league prepares you for life.noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Donnelley Rowley)Blogger126125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829775481956047548.post-6165368604654546929Thu, 16 Jul 2009 11:25:00 +00002009-07-16T08:24:19.620-04:00I've Moved!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href=" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 204px;" src="; alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358680615950617282" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:130%;">I am thrilled to announce that the new and improved <a href=" League Insecurities</a> has launched! I will now be located at <a href="; so bookmark me. Come on over and make yourself at home. And never fret. Everything you've read and seen here will be there too. The good news is that my new digs are far sleeker than this cozy joint. The bad news is that you will need to <a href=";. But in the grand scheme of things, that's not that bad, is it?</span></span>2009/07/ive-moved.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Aidan Donnelley Rowley)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829775481956047548.post-8820150459882428281Wed, 15 Jul 2009 11:35:00 +00002009-07-15T08:37:49.148-04:00parentingUpper West SidePlayground Plaid<span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href=" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="; alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352776764613137442" border="0" /></a></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Who knew I was such a rebel? Such a free-thinker? </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">At the playground a few weeks ago, Baby and I hung out while Husband chased Toddler from the slide to the swing to the sprinkler. Now Baby is at the marvelous stage where she can't walk, but she wants to walk. But she certainly does not want to be held.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Sitting on a sticky park bench wrestling with a feisty (and freakishly strong) eight-month-old is a shred embarrassing and not an activity one can sustain for more than a few intense moments, so I looked around. And spotted our waterproof picnic blanket in the base of our stroller. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">I pulled it out, unfurled that trademark plaid, and placed it down on the padded playground floor. And then I placed Baby in the center of it and surrounded her with toys and non-toys on which I was (reasonably) confident she wouldn't choke.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Then came the stares. Parents looked at me like I was crazy. Like I was giving my infant a cigarette. A few times, I caught their eyes and shrugged. A few nice parents came up and whispered: "genius."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">And I felt like a rebel, bucking tradition, breaking those tacit playground rules. Who knows - maybe I've started a trend and by the end of summer Upper West Side playgrounds will be patchworks of plaid?<br /><br /><span>On a more philosophical note (and you know I love me my philosophical notes), this experience made me realize that conformity is very often 100% unconscious. We go about our days, we do what we do, but we often don't think about why we do what we do. Nor do we very often find ourselves pondering why we don't do the things we don't do. This is hardly a earth-shattering thought, but could it be that many of our habits, our routine activities, are not products of pure choice or free will, but are rooted in adherence to tacit societal and behavioral norms? Do we not do things like have makeshift toy picnics at the playground because of the power of convention, or simply because we are not very imaginative creatures most of the time?<br /><br />Maybe, just maybe, this has nothing to do with conformity or convention or imagination. Perhaps, this is just a matter of old school etiquette. A playground is a designated space for kids, yes. But for kids to run freely. There are permanent obstacles of course - the swings, the slides, the water fountains. But perhaps we are not meant to create more obstacles by taking up a sizable footprint with a picnic blanket? If we get all Kantian here and think of what would happen if everyone threw caution to the wind and threw down a blanket, there would be no room to run...<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Anyone have any thoughts on my admittedly bizarre inquiry into convention and creativity?</span><br /></span></span></div></div>2009/07/playground-plaid.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Aidan Donnelley Rowley)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829775481956047548.post-5252454082940574151Tue, 14 Jul 2009 14:23:00 +00002009-07-14T11:47:34.487-04:00bloggingcyber-celebsmore serious than sillyNow We're Talking<span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href=" style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 360px; height: 239px;" src="; alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358333633636875906" border="0" /></a>Last Friday, I wrote a <a href="2009/07/domestically-disturbed.html" mce_href="; target="_blank">post</a> about Judith Warner's latest <a href="; mce_href="; target="_blank">Domestic Disturbances piece</a> wherein Warner provocatively posits that there is a dangerous resentment toward affluent and educated women brewing in our contemporary society. Though her words sparked a storm of criticism among many readers, those same words struck something in me. I was moved to do something I am actually very bad at doing -- to write a thank you note. To be honest, the note wrote itself. I just sat there, rattled, impassioned, pounding the keyboard. And when I posted said note on the NYT and then later on here on ILI, I felt a familiar breed of nausea. Immediately, I worried that I had gone too far, said something it was not my place to say. That perhaps I should have just ingested Warner's words, mulled them over, and then moved on.</span> <p><span style="font-size:100%;">The temporary existential unease, the fleeting fire of regret, was well worth it. Within hours of posting my thoughts on the matter, I had a few comments from fellow bloggers who applauded me for saying something, for starting - or rather continuing - an important and necessary conversation. And then yesterday, these compatriots continued the discussion, each on her own blog.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:100%;">Lindsey of <a href="; mce_href="; target="_blank">A Design So Vast</a> bemoans our inclination to judge others based on appearance, on external qualities. She writes, "It is impossible to know, from how someone looks on the surface, what is going on inside his or her heart. I have learned enough in my life to know that with absolute certainty." And she is on to something, isn't she? Because this is what affluence and education are - superficial, surface markers of an individual that often reflect poorly what is going on internally. Thankfully, Lindsey is another curious soul who refuses to remain quiet because of her arguably fortunate life. She states, "I will not be muzzled; I believe there is too much to be gained by telling our stories, <span style="font-style: italic;" mce_style="font-style: italic;">whoever</span> we are and whatever formal education we have."</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:100%;">Lindsey's classmate Mama of <a href="; mce_href="; target="_blank">The Elmo Wallpaper</a> highlights an interesting and overlooked feature of the Montana mom saga, namely that this woman was so <b>overwhelmed </b>that her judgment was possibly compromised. Being overwhelmed, stretched thin, drained are phenomena to which all of us mothers can surely relate, regardless of pedigree or paycheck. Mama makes a number of stellar points, her arguments rooted in her own experience as "one damn lucky woman" and concludes, "An education or a privileged background doesn't guarantee us anything, and everyone has a story to tell."</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:100%;">I want to thank these two women, these Cheerio Compatriots, whom I've never met in real life. Yes, because they linked to me. But more because they are keeping this conversation, this fundamentally important, albeit incendiary, conversation, going. Because they are telling their stories. Yesterday was a good day; I read their words, their ideas, and through the screen their conviction was pure and palpable. I felt a surge of old school academic adrenaline and nodded and said to myself, <i>Now we're talking. </i></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:100%;">Let's not stop now.</span></p>2009/07/now-were-talking.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Aidan Donnelley Rowley)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829775481956047548.post-8960076120638990597Mon, 13 Jul 2009 17:15:00 +00002009-07-13T13:55:51.409-04:00more silly than seriousTan Theft<span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href=" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="; alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357994701635688658" border="0" /></a>No, this is not me. But I am equally gorgeous and my face is perfectly symmetrical like hers. My eyelashes are just as long. And I can make this come-hither face too. For long stretches of time without laughing.<br /><br />All joking aside, there is a lesson to teach you and this picture makes a perfect prop. Yesterday, I was as pale as the left side of her stunning face (right side of the picture - I'm confused too). And today? Yup, you guessed it. As tan as the right size of her stunning face (left side of the pic). Well, not quite as tan. But close. I joke not.<br /><br />How is this possible? It's magic. No, actually it's called a spray tan. And you would think that after about a dozen botched spray tan adventures over the last decade, I would learn and embrace my whiteness. After all, Mom says that pale is <span style="font-style: italic;">beautiful, </span>that fair skin is creamy, delicious perfection. Everyone points to Nicole Kidman as a compelling example of the beauty of alabaster. And, no, she is not a hideous creature. But I am not fooled. She is about seven feet tall and when she was eight months pregnant, she looked like she had eaten a moderately sized turkey burger (with the bun on the side). The point: I didn't learn my lesson. No. To the contrary, I repeated those childhood words in my head: <span style="font-style: italic;">If at first you don't succeed, try and try again.<br /><br /></span>So I tried again. Yesterday was a gloomy day for me and I figured what better way to cheer up than strip naked and stand in a spaceship-like machine and let it spit orange chemicals all over my body? So I moseyed down Columbus Avenue to Beach Bum Tanning and told the nice (and <span style="font-style: italic;">very</span> tan) man behind the desk that I'd like a spray tan. He nodded and asked me for my name. And I'm not sure why he needed to know my name to grant me access to the spray tan room, but I gave it to him. And then he asked for something else. My right index finger. <span style="font-style: italic;">My right index finger? <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span><br />Yes, he wanted me to place my right index finger on this groovy little finger pad thing. Four times! Now I had to ask.<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Why?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Very Tan Man:</span> So people don't steal your tans.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me: </span>But I don't want to buy a package of tans. Just one tan, please.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Very Tan Man:</span> Put your finger on the pad, Miss.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me</span> (in my head as I am dutifully placing my fingertip on that pad four times like the good girl I am): Who steals tans?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Very Tan Man</span> (presumably noting my now incredulous pale face): It happens. I tell you. People steal tans. It happened with this married couple.<br /></span></span><br />At this point, I just nodded and asked him to point me to the faux-sun-spaceship wondering what kind of wife would stoop as low as stealing her husband's tans? And after practicing about six times how to stand for optimal spraying, I stripped down, pressed that ominous black button, closed my eyes, and crossed my fingers. And as I walked home, skin still pale and sticky with the promise of summer glow, I smiled smugly. Because I had a secret. I was mere hours from hotness. And sure enough, as the hours passed, I grew darker and darker.<br /><br />And I woke up this morning and guess what? My skin is no longer transparent! There is some color. No, it's not as bronze as the beauty's (half) face above, but it's tannish. And other than my hands (which look like I've been sifting through powdered bricks), the tan is reasonably even. Is it perfect? No. But we all know perfection is boring. I know. I know. Tell that to little missy above and Nicole Kidman.<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />Any humorous tanning stories out there? Anyone else walking around with a positively glowing pair of hands?<br /></span></span></span>2009/07/tan-theft.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Aidan Donnelley Rowley)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829775481956047548.post-1678702843214377073Sun, 12 Jul 2009 17:34:00 +00002009-07-12T13:48:21.365-04:00more serious than sillyOne Year<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href=" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 382px; height: 303px;" src="; alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357629649306992450" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Dad</span><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;">March 22, 1942 - July 12, 2008</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"But I always remember the fish I lose more than the ones I land."<br /></span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Strachan Donnelley, Big Little Snake: Metaphor Mongers and Mountain Rainbows</span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></span></span></span></div>2009/07/one-year.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Aidan Donnelley Rowley)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829775481956047548.post-5404556759315774177Sat, 11 Jul 2009 21:24:00 +00002009-07-11T17:43:26.595-04:00healthsilly and seriousQuitting Is Delicious<span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href=" style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 340px; height: 353px;" src="; alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357320318081234354" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;">Earlier this week, I wrote a heartfelt <a href="2009/07/is-quitting-always-bad.html">post on quitting</a>, on how we should not rush to judgment of those people who quit ostensibly good things. Like, say, diets.<br /><br />Well, we all knew it wouldn't last. At least I did. I guess it's possible that some of you out there had a pinch more faith in me.<br /><br />That's right. After a short stint as an annoyingly abstemious <a href="2009/07/bread-boycott.html">post-"vacation" dieter</a>, I'm eating bread again. With a vengeance.<br /><br />It all went down the tubes yesterday beginning with one of my favorite Starbucks Spinach Feta wraps. I was hard at work, burning like a zillion calories on my Laptop and figured: <span style="font-style: italic;">it's a whole wheat wrap. That is very healthy. Probably has fifty-something grams of fiber. Shouldn't even count as bread... </span>And then BAM. Diet is over.<br /><br />Since that moment, I've consumed the following yummy carborific goodies:<br /><br />1. Spring rolls<br />2. Vats of white rice<br />3. A Skinny Cow (ha!) mint ice cream sandwich<br />4. A grilled cheese sandwich<br />5. Toddler's leftover fries<br />6. A <a href="; chocolate chip cookie. (Heaven)<br /><br />And now I am writing this post and thinking ahead to dinner. What will it be? Not sure yet. But I do know that it won't be home-cooked or bread-free. Quitting can be delicious, my friends! Don't judge me. Join me!<br /></span>2009/07/quitting-is-delicious.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Aidan Donnelley Rowley)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829775481956047548.post-3260682080013079914Fri, 10 Jul 2009 22:06:00 +00002009-07-10T18:31:01.901-04:00Happy HeadacheTea and Sconces<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href=" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="; border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356956390649891474" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A couple of my friends (rightly) scolded me today for letting a few weeks go by without updating you all on the Happy Headache (the untimely-given-the-recession-gut-renovation of our new place). Truth be told I've been too busy "vacationing" and defending my elitist ways and editing my novel and collaborating on my new and improved website (stay tuned!) to think much about our future home let alone update anyone on its evolution. But I'm back.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Currently, we are scrambling to finalize the lighting plan. We all know that lighting in a home is big deal. Good lighting can mean the difference between a happy, airy sanctuary and a dark dungeon. Fine. So we should focus. But our designer has designated dozens of </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">sconces. </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Now sconces are cool. I like them. But Husband and I talked about it and neither of us grew up in a house with a single sconce. So are these lovely wall lights truly necessary or a modern indulgence?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This brings me to another more philosophical inquiry. Hypothetically speaking, should one design her home for the (uber-casual) life she currently leads or the (more formal, adult) life she envisions leading some day? A life of coffee and bagels and toys and diapers or a life of tea and sconces and etageres and dinner parties? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I have flashbacks to those good old pre-wedding days when Husband and I were on that cliched registry mission. We wandered aimlessly through china pattern after china pattern, collectively weathering a identity crisis. Should we go the practical route of our then-present-day and pick something befitting a young, moderately hip, childless twosome? Or pick a more pretty and polished and refined china that would be appropriate for our decidedly more formal future? We went with the latter and selected a gorgeous and sophisticated black-and-white set by a designer I can't remember. Shows how much we use our china.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When making design decisions, do you design for your present or future self? Your real or ideal life?</span></i></div>2009/07/tea-and-sconces.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Aidan Donnelley Rowley)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829775481956047548.post-4561219821102899080Fri, 10 Jul 2009 13:39:00 +00002009-07-10T13:31:34.597-04:00cyber-celebseducationInsecurely YourslawparentingDomestically Disturbed<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href=" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 391px; height: 307px;" src="; border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356828501107203538" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" mso-bidi-;font-family:Georgia;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">This morning, I sat on the hardwood floor between Toddler and Baby, brokering peace negotiations between the pajama-clad girls who are many long months away from receiving their Masters in Sharing. Mission accomplished. Within a few moments, Toddler was playing with her Mama Tape Measure and Baby was playing with her Baby Tape Measure. And I had a few fleeting, but delicious moments to go online before Baby pulled up on my back and yanked out a massive fistful of my hair. Maybe she wanted me to get off my computer. Or, maybe she's envious because she's bald.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" mso-bidi-;font-family:Georgia;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Anyway, before snapping my laptop shut and giving my girls the absolute, unmarred attention they deserve, I was able to read this </span><a href=";><span style="text-decoration:none;text-underline:nonecolor:#4D2286;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">article</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. It's the latest entry in </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Judith Warner's NYT blog <a href=" Disturbances</a></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. And I was sufficiently disturbed (in the best possible way) to forgo that much-needed shower and read it over a few times, read all of the comments it elicited, and then write my own comment. In that little comment box, I wrote one of my Insecurely Yours letters. I thanked Judith for her brave words, for speaking up, for defending those of us here on ILI and beyond who are educated and interested and insecure. If you are curious, you can read my letter below. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" mso-bidi-;font-family:Georgia;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Now, off to analyze my infant-induced hair loss and take that much-needed shower. In case you are interested, while I am showering, I will be giving myself a very articulate pep-talk to prepare myself for the attacks I fear are headed my way. And if there is time left over, I will contemplate the symbolism of those tape measure "toys" with which my girls love to play. Cheerio.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style=" mso-bidi-;font-family:Georgia;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Dear Judith,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style=" mso-bidi-;font-family:Georgia;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Thank you. For daring to lift that proverbial lid on our society’s simmering stew of resentment of women with “major educations,” of women who are intellectually-curious and interested, of women who are unwilling to stay mum behind a lipstick smile just because their lives are charmed in some way.</span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style=" mso-bidi-;font-family:Georgia;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In writing this post and triggering the comments that precede mine - many of which are unnecessarily snarky and collectively serve as a prime example of the very resentment you explore — you cast a light on profound and provocative topics of education and wealth and social perceptions. Many of your readers are missing the point here - and maybe willfully so. Patently, your article is not about the law of child endangerment, or what it means to be a responsible mother. Nor is your article truly about this one woman, a professor in Montana.</span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style=" mso-bidi-;font-family:Georgia;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Rather, your article (bravely) points to an arguably wider phenomenon, namely our culture’s apparent desire to put a muzzle on women who are affluent and educated. There does seem to be a belief that because these women enjoy noteworthy privileges of elite educations and financial freedom, they should keep quiet. Often, it seems that acceptable stories - of struggle, of adversity, of that enigmatic “real world” that we all live in — can only be voiced by members of the more “normal” species of women. I recently started a blog called Ivy League Insecurities in an effort to give these women a voice, to combat the societal message to stay mum and enjoy my “good” life and I have been criticized and - shocker - told to keep quiet, that my story is not a story worth hearing, that my insecurities are inauthentic because of my objectively “privileged” life.</span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style=" mso-bidi-;font-family:Georgia;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">So as one of the well-educated women you write about who is simply unwilling to stay mute, I applaud you for writing this and for welcoming and weathering the very predictable and revealing maelstrom it has triggered.</span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style=" mso-bidi-;font-family:Georgia;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Insecurely yours,</span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style=" mso-bidi-;font-family:Georgia;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Aidan Donnelley Rowley</span></span></i></p> <!--EndFragment-->2009/07/domestically-disturbed.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Aidan Donnelley Rowley)7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829775481956047548.post-4748374185700433135Thu, 09 Jul 2009 17:54:00 +00002009-07-09T13:58:42.906-04:00more serious than sillyIs Quitting Always Bad?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href=" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 277px; height: 400px;" src="; border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356506681999074354" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Unless you've been living under a big, fat, sound-proofed rock, you know that Sarah Palin recently announced her decision to step down as Governor of Alaska. And, unsurprisingly, this move has triggered a maelstrom of criticism and controversy.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Frankly, there are infinite variables to explore here -ethics, finances, sexism, scandal, media bias, family/work balance, political agenda - but I would like to focus on something basic and timeless, something that transcends this contemporary Sarah saga: the stigma of the quitter.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">From a young age, we are spoonfed encouragements to persevere. We are whispered the wisdom that quitting is intrinsically bad, a telltale sign of weakness. Obviously, these messages only apply to quitting arguably </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">good </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">things, things that are ideally meant to enhance our existence (jobs, teams, marriages). Obviously, quitting </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">bad </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">things (smoking, drugs, criminal activity) does not carry with it a social stigma, but the opposite.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But I wonder if we need to reevaluate our cultural belief that quitting good things is always bad? I quit my plum job at a law firm and though met with judgment and even disdain, I have never been happier. Friends and family members have called off wedding engagements to very likable and loving people and have never been happier. I had many friends at Yale who, after torturing themselves, decided to quit their sports teams and never looked back.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">As a society, we seem to tolerate quitting better if there are sound reasons offered. It's okay to leave one job if you have another, better job lined up. It's okay to leave your fiance if he beats or cheats. It's okay to stop playing soccer if you are injured. But what if there are no articulable reasons? Sometimes the best decisions don't have reasons attached. Sometimes instinct is the best measure.<br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I'm not saying that quitting should be done with haste. Or that there isn't often virtue in perseverance in the face of obstacles. But I do think we should all be more open-minded about the decisions others make. And I know it is a pipe dream, but I think we need to move beyond thinking in problematic binary oppositions (good/bad, right/wrong, smart/dumb).</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In terms of Sarah Palin, I am guilty like many of you. I heard that she was quitting and I jumped fast. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A scandal is afoot! A lawsuit is brewing! She couldn't hack it! </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">No, I'm not a mega Palin fan. (Severe and diplomatic understatement.) But I'm going to try to practice what I preach. I'm going to zip it and reserve judgment on this latest development until we all have a little more information. I need to study up on my </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Palin-tology</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. And this is something I vow to do because I think that whether we like it or not, we haven't seen the last of this Alaskan. And whether or not we like her politics or her wardrobe or her grammar or her maverick-y ways, we owe it to ourselves to study this creature.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Thoughts on quitting? Do you always think there will be a stigma attached to quitting?</span></i></div></div>2009/07/is-quitting-always-bad.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Aidan Donnelley Rowley)2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829775481956047548.post-3214081028618862991Thu, 09 Jul 2009 12:26:00 +00002009-07-09T08:30:46.732-04:00more serious than sillyphilosophyKeep Asking. Always.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href=" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="; border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356436685205821970" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Philosophers are adults who persist in asking childish questions." </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">- Isaiah Berlin</span></div>2009/07/keep-asking-always.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Aidan Donnelley Rowley)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829775481956047548.post-8914461927129251736Wed, 08 Jul 2009 19:52:00 +00002009-07-08T16:16:12.996-04:00healthlawparentingBUI (Breastfeeding Under the Influence)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href=" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 269px; height: 400px;" src="; border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356103750459462450" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Couldn't ignore this one. Police recently responded to a domestic disturbance call in North Dakota and encountered an intoxicated woman who was breastfeeding her newborn. They arrested her. And she subsequently pleaded guilty to child neglect and faces up to five years in jail. For more of the sordid details on this boozing and boobing saga, click </span><a href=" class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">here</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">No, I do not know enough about this situation to cast informed and well-calibrated judgment on the actions of the police here -- and no one has compelling scientific evidence about the effects of alcohol in breastmilk on infants</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">-</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">-</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">but </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">as a lawyer and as a mother and as an American, the story troubles me. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">As a lawyer of latter day, I'm worried about the very real problem of line-drawing. <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:small;">Are we going to start rounding up pregnant women who are sipping wine or nibbling feta or </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:small;">not eating anything </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:small;">while pregnant because data indicates that these things might not be good for the fetus? Are we going to arrest a woman who has ingested vast amounts of caffeine and is nursing? Where do we draw these legal lines? </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">As a mother, I am concerned about this story because, well, (gasp), I consumed moderate amounts of wine while nursing both of my daughters. Yes, I was responsible. No, I didn't nurse while intoxicated. But I would be lying if I said I abstained from Pinot during those postnatal months. I would also be lying if I said the Pinot wasn't often a sublime treat at the end of a long and tiring day. And I am no scientist, but both of my girls appear to be thriving. (Brag Moment: Toddler's teacher called her a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">superstar </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">today!)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">As an American, I worry about privacy. I am not sure anyone truly knows how to define privacy or that enigmatic right to privacy. But it's easier to intuit when privacy has been violated. It seems to me that this woman's right to privacy has been compromised in some way I cannot quite articulate. Admittedly, this is an argument I am less sure about. And this is when facts of the case matter. If this woman was conspicuously drunk, unable to care for her tiny baby, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">and </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">someone in that home or nearby called the police because conditions were unsafe or out of hand, maybe her right to privacy has been surrendered? Who knows. My legal knowledge is rusty. This is where my lawyer friends can maybe help me out?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">What are your thoughts on this arrest? Does it trouble you like it does me? Are you better able to articulate what is wrong with this picture? Or maybe there is nothing wrong with this picture and I am simply defending my own questionable behavior?</span></i></div>2009/07/bui-breastfeeding-under-influence.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Aidan Donnelley Rowley)3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6829775481956047548.post-7645635030742479601Wed, 08 Jul 2009 13:31:00 +00002009-07-08T10:07:31.400-04:00healthsilly and seriousThe Bread Boycott<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href=" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="; border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356089251222032898" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You've been there before. I know it. You go on vacation. And you eat. Everything. Portion control? Out the window. Dressing on the side? Who's eating salad? Not much of a dessert person? That doesn't stop you. Calories become your friends. The more, the better. And each and every night when you go to sleep feeling happy and bloated, you feel so popular! </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And then each morning, as you slip into those shorts or jeans, and the task seems a tiny bit more difficult, you tell yourself you are imagining things. And then you go find a few thousand breakfast calories to inhale. And then on the car-ride home, the long, screeching-filled trek, when you are scarfing Chicken McNuggets - a food you deemed disgusting mere days before - and washing it down with the dregs of your daughter's milkshake, you think nothing of it. It's so very hard to be healthy on travel days. Right, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">right?</span></i><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Home again. You reunite with that subversive scale that waits patiently for you to step on and face reality. But you do everything in your power to avoid the step. You shower. You brush. You examine the tan that doesn't exist. And then you tell yourself that it can't be that bad. That having a grip on reality, however fat that reality has become, is better than delusion. And then closing your eyes, you step on. You lean forward a bit because that usually shaves a half pound or so. You open your eyes.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Two pounds. Not bad. Not good, either. But then you think of all the yummy wine and cookies and famous Buffalo hot dogs you consumed. You think of the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">fun </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">you had welcoming those two pounds and you think: </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: