Glutton-Free Girl

Motherhood Is (should be) a Gift

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. Story by one scary Chinese-American woman who badgers and belittles her children into achieving adult-like excellence.

It doesn’t work that way!

This bitch tossed back the birthday cards her little daughters made for her, saying they weren’t good enough. Make your kids feel horrible, and then maybe they will WANT to rise to your expectations.

OK, can anyone tell me why this version of parenting is being defended at all? Why this book made it into print in the first place? If her girls get perfect grades, recognition by the best schools, recording deals, a little freelance gig at Hallmark for their inimitable style with cards… they will be socially stunted, angry, peculiar.

When I was 14 I gave my mom a really nice rolling pin for Christmas. She had never rejected anything from me before, so I thought I was doing the right thing.

No. “I don’t want something I need,” she growled. “This is not a good gift!”

Right there, in front of the decorated tree and the horrified family.

You can see I never forgot.

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January 19, 2011

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Horroreos!

I know homemade oreos are something of a fad now. Thomas Keller Oreos at Bouchon (made by Kevin Burg, top photo) are beautiful. Extra points for the scalloped cookie cutter. Nice pic, too.

Then there are these gluten-free “oreos” made by [name withheld], a famous blogger. The photo is not bad, really, but it’s not appealing. What’s nauseating is the evidence of somebody’s finger smooshing the creme filling, presumably to make it neater. Gross!

I’m just saying that if you are promoting food you make on your blog, you need to use much nicer images. Yes, sorry that you don’t have food stylists, but this is ugly.

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December 8, 2010

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Mom, You Frighten Me

I returned from a brief visit to see my parents, oh, about 10 days ago, and I’m still twitching.

They are very hard to spend time with because they nag, cajole, “tease,” argue. When I’m feeling generous, I give them no more than three days of my time. When I’m feeling fragged, I limit it to two short days.

This time we decided not to spend the night at all, and because of the driving distance, only put in about three and a half hours of face time. Some friendly, some not.

Why NOT friendly? I am on my best behavior. I dodge the zings and barbs, because to answer back would just erupt into battle. So I sit there taking their rudeness, their meanness, biting my tongue.

It seemed to me that they were actually trying extra hard to be nice, most of the time. They skipped nearly every opportunity to yark at me over my appearance, over the puppy, over our decision to keep the visit really, really short.

But dear old mom slipped. She could not rein it in, once or twice, and it was deplorable. And stupid. How anybody cannot have a little self-control for a few hours is shocking.

She’s probably heading toward Alzheimer’s.

I may be too thin-skinned. She harassed me because I was eating too slow, and because my feet are not as narrow as hers. Madness. But repeat, repetitive madness. I can’t stand it.

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October 25, 2010

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Oh, God, I Am Just So Poetically Poetic (Poetical?)

Sleeping kid, a lovely sunlit time, creamy hummus, multigrain crackers, an afternoon ahead of me. Hello, day.

I mean, seriously, is that haiku or what?!

Hello, yo!

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October 18, 2010

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Glutton and I

It’s not because I majored in linguistics. And it’s not because I’ve worked as an editor (at many levels, both in book publishing and newspapers).

It’s because I know my fucking grammar, as a native speaker of this language.

You do not automatically say “I” when you are referring to somebody else and yourself. “I” is not fancier. Sometimes it is wrong. Sometimes “me” is correct. “Somebody and I” is not a nicer way to say “somebody and me.”

There is a way to check if you should be saying “I” or “me.” Take out the other person from your sentence and then try it out loud.

In test mode, “Danny made a big, fat, buttery cake for Lu and I” would be rendered as “Danny made a big, fat, buttery cake for I.” Beep! That doesn’t work. The word should have been “me,” whether or not Lu got any.

“Danny made a big, fat, buttery cake for me.”

As long as it is understood that the “me” here is not me.

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October 17, 2010

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Lexical Liberation

You know why I’m here? I mean, all blogs began five or six years ago, right? I’ve got an oldie, and it’s in good, current condition. So why did I start a blog in 2010?

The reason I’m here is I’m so sick of being NICE on my original blog. I belong to a group of theme bloggers (okay, food) and we are so fucking nice to each other. Can’t even disrespect a gross, hideous recipe or the painful photograph that accompanies it. Because we are nice.

And I’ll tell you, nice is nice. I don’t get hurt feelings, often. No, not ever. Just a happy warm bath in nice. The experience is not necessarily mediocre, because, jeez, some of these food bloggers are really good cooks. And if they think I’m whipping up fuzzy squirrel dick and calling it a canape, they are… nice. (I guess that’s a mediocre experience. Trust me, I’ve yet to whip up fuzzy squirrel dick.)

I don’t have a theme here. Don’t know if it will evolve, but I’m really loving the writing experience.

And not just because I said “squirrel dick.” Sheesh. Dicks.

Stick around.

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September 12, 2010

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I Know an Old Woman Who Swallowed a Dog

My husband has tried very hard to shelter me from the monster dog I adopted last October, right after Mr. Fluffy died.

We both figured out, pretty quick, that’s she’s a bastard from hell. In a very nice way. She means well, but she’s a huge chore. Mostly because she’s one of those energetic dogs that needs exercise twice a day.

I am almost at the end of my rope with this dog, and my husband has detected it. But we lie to each other. “What a great puppy! She’s getting so much better!”

I like her a lot; let’s get that clear. She’s obedient and pretty and smells good. Smart; knows her toys by name. I just wasn’t ready for this much work.

And, the reason I’m slamming on her is that tomorrow is the one-year anniversary of the day Mr. Fluffy died. He didn’t even like me that much, but I liked him.

Husband is taking a nap on the bed; dog is nowhere in sight. So I tiptoed in there, and she’s sleeping, comatose, between his legs. She didn’t even hear me. What a good girl.

You can probably see that this is a tough time for me.

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September 11, 2010

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Twitterphobia

I hate Twitter. I read my tweeps every day. I even post a tweet myself, once in a while. But it never gets replies.

You’d think I’m sore because nobody cares about me.

No, I’m pissed because Twitter is junior high school. I was cut off by a pal for some unknown egregiosity. She doesn’t even follow me anymore. (Wah!)

The more I read my friends’ tweets, the less I like them. Except for the ones I like even better, and that’s cool… but the cool pool I play in has unfollowed me, for the most part. (Wah!)

I’ve become afraid to tweet. If they don’t see me, they can’t ignore me.

Jeez. Need a shrink.

No, wait! I hate Twitter. I’m fine.

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September 3, 2010

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