In a troubling continuation of what I call the Butterfly Kisses Effect, country crooners are trading in their pick-up trucks for minivans in ever greater numbers as they wax euphoric (and oh so sappy) about the joys of fatherhood.
The latest example comes from Darius Rucker, former lead singer and guitarist of Hootie and the Blowfish, who has jumped genres to give us “It Won’t Be Like This for Long.” This song chronicles the sleepless nights and difficult phases of childhood from a father’s perspective, reminding the listener that these moments, while challenging at the time, are fleeting. With the same raspy voice that had me singing along to “Hold My Hand” in the early 1990s, Rucker belts out without a trace of embarrassment:
Four years later ‘bout four thirty
She’s crawling in their bed
And when he drops her off at preschool
She’s clinging to his leg
The teacher peels her off of him
He says what can I do
She says now don’t you worry
This will only last a week or two
A. “Bed” and “leg” don’t rhyme.
B. When did country music start ripping lyrics from the advice column of Parenting Magazine?
Song writers, like all writers, tend to write about what they know, and I’m sure Rucker is genuinely caught up in the throes of new parenthood, but what soulless record producer is responsible for this sentimental tripe? Rucker may well regret this song when he’s less sleep-deprived, but in the meantime, I don’t want to hear it!
When I flip the dial to my country station, I want to hear some hard-drinking, cowboy-hat-n-boot-wearing, tractor-driving, blue-collar-championing, strong-loving male vocalists, like, well...some of the best women of country music. In country’s Battle of the Sexes (which exists only in my head), Bob Carlisle (“Butterfly Kisses”), Heartland, Jordan Pruitt (“Outside Looking In”) and Rascall Flatts together would be crushed by Miranda Lambert, whose not especially interested in exploring and exploiting her softer side. Thank god.
Alas, it seems all my rowdy [guy] friends have settled down. What’s next in country music, guy-liner?
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Friday, February 27, 2009
Direct Sales Parties: Pay-to-Play (with Appetizers!)
I’d lulled myself into thinking these things had fallen out of fashion, or that I’d finally lived in the same place sufficiently long to define a circle of friends and acquaintances who don’t engage in such things (or at least know me well enough to exclude me from them). It had been a couple years since I’d received an invitation to one, but yesterday, my lucky streak ended and so too my illusions.
The subject line of the e-vite was innocuous, even intriguing: “YOU ARE INVITED TO A GIRLS NIGHT OUT.” The sender is a woman I don’t know well, but our sons have played on the same hockey team for the past two years, so we’ve shared a lot of bleacher time and I’ve always found her friendly, interesting, and fun. So I clicked open the message with a bit of enthusiasm. Then it hit me: “Crud,” I muttered as the details unfolded, “A crummy product-promotion party.”
Turns out my fellow hockey mom didn’t just want to get us girls out, she wanted us to get out with a two-fold purpose: (1) to buy things (while enjoying appetizers!); and in so doing, (2) help her earn “rewards” in the form of free stuff or credits toward her own purchases. Number 2 went unstated in the invitation, but I’m wise to the benefits of hosting such affairs.
These types of events have been around since the 1960s, I believe, with Princess House and Tupperware paving the way for Mary Kay Cosmetics, Longaberger, Discovery Toys, Pampered Chef, and on and on. The sheer breadth of the home-based direct sales market may speak for itself in terms of the parties’ popularity, but am I alone in my strong aversion to these pseudo social soirees?
It’s not the 1960s, after all, when one might imagine a living room full of women entranced by the latest technology in food storage and grateful for the opportunity to escape the doldrums of domesticity. The first home parties made useful and sometimes unique items accessible to women in rural and suburban areas, and the conviviality was probably a welcome diversion for many without the social outlet of a job outside the home or even their own car to facilitate outings.
Today, accessing quality consumer goods is not a challenge most women face. And with all the choices afforded by the malls, big-box stores, mom-and-pop shops, QVC, and the Internet, we’ve become pretty savvy consumers. Trust me, if I’m looking for a good deal on a quality basket, I’ll go to Nantucket before attending a Longaberger party.
So why the proliferation of these blasted parties? It must be the social aspect.
Are women so desperate for a night out that they think they have to overpay for something they want, or worse buy something they neither need nor want, to get it? Are these parties the refuge of those too socially inept to enjoy some conversation (and hors d’oeuvres) without the construct of a sales pitch?
I understand that some women love to shop and some love to shop together, but in my experience, direct sales parties impose pressure to spend in a way that a girls’ shopping trip does not. The first time I went to a Mary Kay party, I was 16 years old and the MK representative told me that using Noxzema cleanser and MK makeup would be “like chemical warfare on my face.” I had visions of my face melting off like that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark, but I simply couldn’t afford the full line of skin care products. What’s a girl to do?
Clearly, walking out empty-handed is not an appealing option. Over the years, I became more adept at right-sizing the salesperson’s expectations. (E.g., “I don’t want to start wearing a lot of makeup. My husband may get suspicious!” Or “For our children, we really prefer the quality wooden toys made by the craftsmen of the Ozarks.") It’s not easy though. Not only is there the pressure of the professional pitch, but the knowledge that your hostess has extended her gracious (albeit self-serving) hospitality to you. What if your frugality means she gets fewer free, half-price, or discounted products for herself? Should you really have had that third glass of wine?
Invariably, I leave with a small bag of product, a medium-sized hole in my wallet, and a big hunch that I’ve just been jacked.
Maybe I’m just a party pooper. If this is your idea of a good time and you’re free March 5, contact me for details.
Will I be there? Regrettably, no. I’m sure I’m busy that night.
The subject line of the e-vite was innocuous, even intriguing: “YOU ARE INVITED TO A GIRLS NIGHT OUT.” The sender is a woman I don’t know well, but our sons have played on the same hockey team for the past two years, so we’ve shared a lot of bleacher time and I’ve always found her friendly, interesting, and fun. So I clicked open the message with a bit of enthusiasm. Then it hit me: “Crud,” I muttered as the details unfolded, “A crummy product-promotion party.”
Turns out my fellow hockey mom didn’t just want to get us girls out, she wanted us to get out with a two-fold purpose: (1) to buy things (while enjoying appetizers!); and in so doing, (2) help her earn “rewards” in the form of free stuff or credits toward her own purchases. Number 2 went unstated in the invitation, but I’m wise to the benefits of hosting such affairs.
These types of events have been around since the 1960s, I believe, with Princess House and Tupperware paving the way for Mary Kay Cosmetics, Longaberger, Discovery Toys, Pampered Chef, and on and on. The sheer breadth of the home-based direct sales market may speak for itself in terms of the parties’ popularity, but am I alone in my strong aversion to these pseudo social soirees?
It’s not the 1960s, after all, when one might imagine a living room full of women entranced by the latest technology in food storage and grateful for the opportunity to escape the doldrums of domesticity. The first home parties made useful and sometimes unique items accessible to women in rural and suburban areas, and the conviviality was probably a welcome diversion for many without the social outlet of a job outside the home or even their own car to facilitate outings.
Today, accessing quality consumer goods is not a challenge most women face. And with all the choices afforded by the malls, big-box stores, mom-and-pop shops, QVC, and the Internet, we’ve become pretty savvy consumers. Trust me, if I’m looking for a good deal on a quality basket, I’ll go to Nantucket before attending a Longaberger party.
So why the proliferation of these blasted parties? It must be the social aspect.
Are women so desperate for a night out that they think they have to overpay for something they want, or worse buy something they neither need nor want, to get it? Are these parties the refuge of those too socially inept to enjoy some conversation (and hors d’oeuvres) without the construct of a sales pitch?
I understand that some women love to shop and some love to shop together, but in my experience, direct sales parties impose pressure to spend in a way that a girls’ shopping trip does not. The first time I went to a Mary Kay party, I was 16 years old and the MK representative told me that using Noxzema cleanser and MK makeup would be “like chemical warfare on my face.” I had visions of my face melting off like that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark, but I simply couldn’t afford the full line of skin care products. What’s a girl to do?
Clearly, walking out empty-handed is not an appealing option. Over the years, I became more adept at right-sizing the salesperson’s expectations. (E.g., “I don’t want to start wearing a lot of makeup. My husband may get suspicious!” Or “For our children, we really prefer the quality wooden toys made by the craftsmen of the Ozarks.") It’s not easy though. Not only is there the pressure of the professional pitch, but the knowledge that your hostess has extended her gracious (albeit self-serving) hospitality to you. What if your frugality means she gets fewer free, half-price, or discounted products for herself? Should you really have had that third glass of wine?
Invariably, I leave with a small bag of product, a medium-sized hole in my wallet, and a big hunch that I’ve just been jacked.
Maybe I’m just a party pooper. If this is your idea of a good time and you’re free March 5, contact me for details.
Will I be there? Regrettably, no. I’m sure I’m busy that night.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
"Busy" is the new "fine"
Ask a dozen friends and acquaintances how they are today, and one one-word refrain will certainly top the list of replies: "Busy!" Among Amy's and my many pet peeves, this has been a big one since we started noting the trend several years ago, the movement away from the rote "fine" response, which has a benign and decidedly passive tone, to an adjective that connotes action and productivity. Plus, respondents generally lace "busy" with an undertone of weariness (if not exhaustion) and irritation, as if they were the victim and not the cause of this condition.
Don't get us wrong. Busy-ness happens, we know. We've got multiple kids involved in multiple activities, large and active extended families, jobs (paid and unpaid), friends, houses, laundry, groceries, cars, fitness regimens, book lists, dvd queues, etc. That's all good stuff, right? Except the laundry. So why the irritation?
Life is busy. Tell us something we don't know. That's why we asked.
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