How a Wii Saved My Marriage

I don’t believe I am the only woman in the world who has wondered what guys get out of playing video games. Almost my entire life, I have had very little respect for the pastime as well as for the people who participate. I have walked away from many a player, shaking my head in disbelief truly convinced these weirdos had major issues. I inevitably learned to love a man who—perhaps five times a year—would escape to play pretend football or basketball. On the other hand, I hardly learned to stomach the games, as the entire phenomenon was something I had no intention of embracing. For years I have ridiculed grown men for playing Doom and Halo and I have openly judged many a parent for allowing their children to play video games, blaming the technology for the global Attention Deficit Disorder epidemic. I have preached to anyone willing to listen to me, that video games are single-handedly responsible for turning society into overweight, lazy, and desensitized, couch potatoes stripped of any social skills whatsoever. Throughout my seven years of marriage I have oft referred to my husband as a “vidhead” and have whined until blue in the face when he would choose a game of Madden NFL rather than time with me. I have complained. I have belittled. Yep, most of my life I have pined for a video-game-free world. And then along came the Nintendo(R) Wii(TM).

 

Not since the days of Atari had I spent any significant amount of time playing video games. In the 1980s I thoroughly enjoyed Frogger with its joystick-controlled, enlarged pixel-shaped frogs and simple theme song complete with hopping and splatting sound effects. From my family’s 2-inch, cable-free TV box, I would play against my older brother who would beat me day after day, but I put up with it because it was fun. My parents loved that we were out of their way and not killing each other—in real life that is. We didn’t have Pac-Man, which was my favorite game, but I would play that one on a huge, arcade-style machine at Pizza Hut during birthday parties. I loved the chomping sounds, the lights, the shapes and the levels. For perhaps a year, to girls and boys everywhere, video games were everything. I loved all the discussions, the hype and the pop culture that went with it. But similar to Michael Jackson’s moonwalk, by the time I had mastered Atari—it just wasn’t cool anymore.

By middle school video games and their operating systems graduated to more advanced graphics and realistic subject matter. Meanwhile, I discovered boys. A gigantic, never ending video game in and of itself, the pursuit of boys came complete with soundtracks, point systems and levels of nemeses—all in an effort to make me lose or quit every game out of sheer frustration. My friends and I would chase boys while the boys would chase Super Mario or other lame, fictitious video characters they thought were cooler than girls. At about that age I had developed quite an aversion to video games simply because they took attention away from me. And that distaste for such—in my priceless opinion—a boyish hobby, significantly worsened as I neared adulthood.

Geeks Come in All Shapes and Sizes

Then a few months ago, for my husband’s birthday, out of complete desperation as well as temporary insanity, I had decided to surprise him with a Wii. He had been researching the thing for a while and I figured, “Hey, it must be something cool enough for him to mention it a million times a week. Perhaps I should take the buzzing as a hint.” One random Friday, I walked into Target, approached the electronics department vidhead and said, “I’d like to buy a Wii. Could you please tell me what one looks like?” The kid had the nerve to snicker at me when he answered, “You’ll have to come back Sunday morning when we get our next shipment. The doors open at 8.” I walked away, so cool and so above all the Wii knowledge, as I told him I would go somewhere else to buy one as I was in a hurry. He kindly informed me I would need to get in line Sunday morning, hours in advance, because the Wii was sold out EVERYWHERE. I actually said this, “Oh. The Wii must be pretty in-demand since it just came out. Nintendo must have done a great job marketing it.” Pathetic and lame, all at the same time! I could almost hear him making fun of me in his head as I walked away practically stumbling on the tail between my legs.

Two days later, while my husband soundly slept, my father and I made the ridiculous mission to Target at 6 a.m. In my mind there were two options: Either I was going to be the first and only person there and would be labeled a complete and total geek the rest of my life, or I would be the 100th person there with 99 geeky teenage boys pointing and laughing at me while I approached the Wii line from hell. Wrong. I was number 15 behind 14 respectable moms and dads free of pimples and black T-shirts. “Wait?” I asked one of the other Miis, “Is this the line for the Wii?” Then a kind Target employee handed me one of 80 tickets which guaranteed I would get a Wii without having to participate in an as-seen-on-TV stampede. “Let’s see the ticket!” I heard from a distance. I glanced up with the ticket in hand and “click” my dad took a picture. I threatened, “You dare not show that picture to a single person or I will never hear the end of it!”

Hours later the husband got his wish. Nope… my parents were still in town, but his precious little Wii was hooked up. He was impressed I had bonded with the people in the Wii line well enough to find out which accessories I needed, how many to purchase and that “numchuck” was actually “nunchuck.” Then it happened. Somehow while I was hiding out upstairs, probably writing an article on “How to Tactfully Discuss Generational Differences in Parenting with Your Parents,” I overheard my husband and my father yelling, cheering and laughing together. I tip-toed my way to the top of the stairs and witnessed the two men playing virtual golf. “Great!” I yelled down. “Now my dad’s turned into a vidhead!”

I hesitantly joined the family solely for the purpose of obtaining hideous videotape footage of grownups making complete fools of themselves whilst playing video games. Soon my husband demonstrated to our children how to pretend bowl. I stood with arms folded and rolled my eyes. My eldest reminded her daddy, “My brain will turn to mush if I play this thing!” Then she got a spare and jumped for joy. My concern had reached new heights when my dad had asked my mom to try bowling and she gave in without a fight. I sadly watched her as though she was my last hope for a video-game-free world. I wanted to jump in front of her in slow motion and block the TV in an attempt to save her and yell, “No! Don’t do it, mom! There’s no turning back!” Faster than I could say gutter ball, the little woman raised her remote at the end of a perfect lunge, and there it was… a STRIKE! My mom followed that up with the most amazing victory dance I had ever seen from a sixty something grandmother of 12! Purely to make a point and put an end to the painful immaturity, I hip-checked my husband and stole his remote, “Move over Munson, let the Kingpin show you how it’s done.” I aloofly dropped a curve ball and with one eye shut I somewhat watched the ball move toward the pins. I pretended not to care about the score as I walked away. But somehow out of nowhere I had gotten an indescribable yet familiar adrenaline rush. Then I remembered it. And boy, did it feel good.

Within the first few weeks of owning a Wii, I played with the same enthusiasm as the days of Frogger and Pack-Man. My husband and I created our own Miis—characters who compete against each other in Wii games—which made the games even more engaging. Our children began requesting family bowling nights. And weekend movie nights, which had typically involved very little interaction or conversation, were replaced with mommy and daddy Wii tennis matches and golf outings. On one occasion a Wii boxing match turned into a perfect therapy session, complete with a knockout. And I won. The next day when I told my husband I would need a few days off from the Wii to rest my overstrained muscles from the “therapeutic boxing” he giggled and asked, “Now who’s the vidhead?” In my best-ever “Rocky” impersonation I raised my arms high in agreement and hung my head low. Then I asked my husband if he could find it in his heart to forgive me for all the years he had to listen to the ridicule, name calling and whining when he would play Madden NFL. I explained that most of my life I never understood the appeal of video games or the people who played them. But for the first time in a long time, I had become a kid again when I played the Wii. My husband agreed that it was a side of me he had never before seen. “Better late than never,” I said. “I sure am glad we got a Wii.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Macramé and Scrapbooking: Art or Madness?

My mother was a macramé junky. My first memories of it take me back to sitting on the family room couch—a brown sectional, decorated with homemade turquoise dishtowel, throw pillows and an orange afghan—where I would watch my mother create knotted thingies with interestingly colored ropes and wooden beads. Hanging from hooks around the room were many similar, knotty objects, holding enormous hair-like plants. Underneath the coveted swag light—perhaps providing the best mood for tying knots—my mother would take an occasional break for a sip of Tab—her favorite saccharine-sweetened carbonated beverage. On sunny days the ritual would take place outside where my cleavage-hoop-bikini donned mom, coated in baby oil, would lie for hours on a sunbathing bed of aluminum foil and tie away! Day after day during my childhood, I either chased down cars in the street on my Big Wheel unsupervised, or watched that woman make her creations hoping I would one day understand the madness of her obsession.

Umpteen years later, my mom hesitantly replaced her macramé thingies with several extremely polished brass thingies. Meanwhile, I was far away from home and traded in my professional shoes for stay-at-home mommy and freelancer flip-flops. Motherhood had thrown me into a world of mom-specific social groups, with an introduction to a plethora of new, perfect-for-every-mom hobbies such as, stamping and the most popular hobby of choice: Scrapbooking. I quickly learned that in order to fit in at this new school, I needed to take a break from my writing, drawing, hiking, photography and family time, and try what others called, “A real hobby.” After being invited to dozens of acquaintance-hosted scrapbooking parties and repeatedly RSVPing, “No, thank you,” I had decided to set my intuition aside and accept an invitation.
 
I had prepared myself for my very first scrapbook-themed party by gathering the necessary number of special photographs and items I was told to bring for the purpose of creating a sample page of family memories. My irreplaceable treasures in hand, I fashionably arrived five minutes late. Assuming I would not have missed a thing, I took my time and dropped my daughter off at the designated child care room. Then I made my way to the scrapbooking room where I witnessed a horrific display of absolute chaos. I could barely tell, but there were tables set up everywhere. Masses of moms, resembling worker ants, were frantically cutting, folding and pasting their priceless memories onto gaudy cardstock complete with matching binders. I paused for a second, and wondered if I was in the middle of a nightmare where moms my age were partaking in an underground ritual which resembled the macramé madness of my childhood. When I realized my friend, the hostess of the party, was there and had actually asked me to pay an entrance fee, I waited for her to tell me I was being Punk’d. I could not have been that lucky! I paid my non-refundable fee and found an open chair where I sat and observed.

 

 

Scrapbooking Junkies: Beware of Salsa, Poor Posture and Wide Thighs

 

 

For hours, women compared stencils, ticket stubs and overly priced photo albums while working their hands as though they lived in a world where sitting was an exercise and carpel tunnel never existed. The routine appeared meaningless enough to some participants that they could have had their eyes closed. They took breaks from the activity to sip Diet Pepsi or chomp chips with salsa—which in and of itself, made me nervous knowing how much money and memories could have been stained by one drop of salsa. My breaking point had finally occurred when I overheard one woman proudly exclaim that her family’s vacations had been chosen based on which activities provided the best scrapbook fodder. Others laughed and nodded in agreement. With that I escaped to the childcare room, picked up my daughter and ran for the door with my priceless photos intact.
 
While the scrapbooking party haunted me for a few years, it had made me better equipped in social settings to steer clear from the subject of hobbies when I would first meet a woman. Within five minutes of an introduction I had learned to look out for token phrases from true scrapbooking addicts, such as, “Do you scrapbook?” or “Boy, I sure love scrapbooking!” Then I would slowly walk backward to appear busy or late for a doctor appointment, all in an effort to avoid the pressure or an invitation to be guilted into paging through another family’s memory book.

 

 

A Little, Yet Enough to Remember

 

 

On one rare occasion, when I was a guest speaker at a women’s group, I had decided to take a stand on the issue when I boldly and somewhat jokingly explained, “Oh, and by the way, I am not into scrapbooking and I never will be. I appreciate all of you who may enjoy scrapbooking and you are better moms because of it. Yes, my children may one day hate me because they will not have thousands of scrapbooks of themselves to look through and find storage space for, but I will be happy to foot the bill for their therapy should they need it.”

Not certain if my humor had translated into calloused sarcasm, I further explained to the moms that I had turned out fine despite the fact my mother had never made a single scrapbook detailing every waking monotonous minute of my life. And regardless of the peer pressure and examples of gorgeous baby books thrown at the moms’ faces, they would not need to prove their love for their children based on how expensively they preserved their children’s memories. I had shared with the moms what my mom had given me—one weathered, pleather-bound, jam-packed photo album—free of fluffy page themes and decorations—yet filled with cherished pictures taken during the first half of my life. The book had most likely been dirt cheap and thrown together over time, but it was something I had grown to treasure and respect each passing year. None of the photos had been staged, corrected or cropped, instead they randomly captured fond memories which reminded me of the best parts of my childhood—family, friends, pets, birthdays, holidays past, and of course, those macramé thingies hanging from the ceiling.  

Cloned Beauty — The Social Impact of Hollywood Everywhere

Not too long ago I had a conversation with an acquaintance regarding a teddy she needed to return to a lingerie store due to its breast malfunction. “They sag way below the hemline and there’s nothing built into it to hold those things up to where they’re supposed to be!” I giggled as she blamed the teddy. Then she followed it up with, “I’ve been thinking of having my breasts done.” Not knowing whether I should laugh and feed her insecurity or support it–no pun intended–I offered my very little–no pun intended–knowledge of the subject.

Thankfully we moved on to other stories within the topic of our ever changing, thirty something bodies as though using humor would help us through our painful self awareness. The woman and I shared embarrassing secrets of our physical insecurities and the impact they have had on our relationships with our husbands, not to mention our wallets. We discussed the endless efforts we have made to clone ourselves into the women we have thought our husbands and society would find attractive throughout the years. And how the effect of erasing our natural beauty over time has ironically become the resulting damage it has caused as we’ve aged–a.k.a., sun spots and wrinkles! Our chat ended with an aloof “See ya,” with a smile as though we were pretending not to be depressed by the brutal reality of our beauty confessions. While I walked away one overwhelming thought ran through my mind: From Hollywood, USA, to Smalltown, USA, women everywhere are beginning to look exactly the same because there are no limitations.

My friend and I, as with most of my acquaintances, represent an alarmingly growing number of celebrity wannabe look-alikes ranging as much in age as ethnic and economic backgrounds. Women everywhere spend as much free time as money striving for the look of the current “it” girls. Whether it’s Jessica Alba, Jessica Simpson or Beyonce–women are succumbing to the pressure of becoming their own version of the celebutante du jeure. As seen in offices, gyms and grocery stores across the country, women are completely done up as though everyday events were treated with the same glam significance as a red-carpet gala. The highlights, the dye jobs, the bleaching, the straightening, the tweezing, the waxing, the whitening, the tanning, the lifts, the injections, and let’s not forget the means through which we lose weight, all add up to changing everything about our true selves. With mass media coverage in your face everywhere buying into it is easy, it’s the saying “no” to it that’s hard. 

Mrs. Potato Head: Toy or Role Model? 

Unglamming the glam and distracting my daughters from the Paris clones without sounding judgmental as well as hypocritical nearly is impossible in a world where even toys marketed to toddlers resemble an artificially perfected teen demographic. I try explaining it as “Some girls were raised by bad mommies and daddies,” or, “Some girls don’t love themselves as much as they should.” Take, for example, an early twenty something in front of us at a local pharmacy while picking up a prescription on a very wintery day. Aside from having obvious, enhanced features including hair extensions, she was wearing skin hugging white Capri’s, flip flops and a tank top. Despite the day’s high temperature of 41 degrees, the girl’s artificial tan screamed 90 degrees! Her voice was gone while she explained to the pharmacist that she had worked late the night before at the golf course where she waitressed. I remember thinking, “Poor thing. All the energy spent on being summer-year-round perky has made her an attention-starved puppy everywhere she goes, begging for the attention of any man, normal or creepy, married or single.” Yet, I found it unbearable to have to explain to my awestruck children that someone they viewed as Cheetah Girls pretty was–in the real world–nasty and potentially dangerous.

Warning: Celebrities Are Not Real  

Shortly after the eye opening conversation with the frustrated, beauty conscious acquaintance–the one with the teddy malfunction–I felt compelled to share the topic with my husband. He referred to the woman as an example of Covey’s “Personality Ethic”–a typical Coveyism he throws at me now and again. He further explained how he cannot understand or sympathize with people who pay for beauty enhancements. “Some people are way more concerned about how society perceives them, than how they see themselves,” He grumbled. “They obviously have some issues.”

I let my husband vent awhile, high atop his soapbox, before I begged an obvious question, “If you find it appalling when certain women put too much time and money into their appearances, then why do certain men have such difficulties ungluing their eyes from these women with ‘issues’ when faced with them?” I continued, “After all, I cannot say I ever recall hearing a man exclaim, ‘Jessica Simpson looks so icky in those Daisy Dukes with that dark tan, the overly bleached hair and those puffy botulism-injected lips of hers!’” Before he had a chance to rebut I sympathized that men are human in a world where women are irresistible and that women are equally guilty for falling pray to the occasional male “celebuclone.” Only, I couldn’t admit to him that most men who resemble George Clooney or David Beckham work at spas and spend their nights T Voing “Dancing with the Stars.” Need I say more?

My husband and I ended up having a healthy discussion on the subject of beauty cloning and the downfall of society. I reminded him how miserable he would be if I spent thousands of dollars a year and all my energy maintaining myself. I explained that even I–a redhead–had once considered going blonde but changed my mind when I reconsidered the precedent I would be setting for myself in addition to the mixed message I would be sending our daughters. Before I fell asleep that night I joked, “One day I’ll be the new ‘it’ girl when peach hair (the unfortunate result when red hair slowly turns gray) is cool and the rest of the world is stuck with platinum!” A bit of a not-a-chance-in-hell stretch, but a girl can dream.

Sure I’ll be Your Friend. Cha-Ching!

I have been a stay-at-home mom for almost seven years and have become increasingly baffled by the unrelenting greed of sell-from-home moms and their pursuit of customers… I mean, friends, of course. Afterall, motherhood naturally has an ability to bring women together. Women and their hormones are similar to dancers in a well-choreographed ballet, all happily working together creating a huge and meaningful production, right? Or is it that I simply am an irresistible friend magnet whom women are dying to have as their BFF? Well, as I discover time and time again, the joke’s on me! Truth is I have many friends who are stay-at-home moms, but a tiny fraction of them aren’t selling something. So where do they draw the line?

An early account of this kind of friend is the story of a lovely mother of four whom, for the sake of anonymity, I will call Sierra. Sierra was a neighbor who very eagerly befriended me the day my husband and I, and our newborn moved into a new apartment complex. I had instantly learned every detail of Sierra’s life; her children’s allergies, how long she nursed each child, and which time of day worked best for play dates. I had agreed to partake in the said play dates through which I learned more fun and interesting facts about Sierra and her family. After a week of all that bonding, I received a postcard from my dear friend telling me I was invited to attend a party where she would teach a cooking lesson. “Great!” I remember exclaiming to my husband. “I’ll learn a new recipe.” After attending the party where I relearned how to make a dip I had been making for years, somehow I returned home with my baby in one arm and an extremely expensive mixing bowl in the other. “Our new bowl is unbreakable!” I had justified to my husband. He laughed and gently informed me I had been scammed into buying an overpriced product we did not have a need for, simply because Sierra was a friend. I didn’t see it at the time, but he was right.

I cannot even begin to recount how many moms I have met since Sierra who have sucked me into their picture-perfect worlds by using their darling little attention craving children as bait. I find myself feeling sad for the TV and video-game-addicted children of these junk selling moms because they are not getting much quality time with the parent who claims to be raising them. These little terrors are forced into playing anywhere, with any child whose mom is willing to pay mommy big bucks. Whether these women are selling cheap jewelry, very homemade looking greeting card kits, or beauty products complete with age-defying promises, most of their energy is going into their businesses and not their kids.  

With the numerous rewards such as company cars, vacations and huge product discounts, it’s no wonder millions of women seem to become enchanted by starting home-based businesses. According to the financial report of one popular sell-from-home beauty company, in 2005 almost 2 million consultants helped contribute to more than $2 billion in sales worldwide. Another competitor claims at its Web site that in one year its 50 million consultants raked in more than $100 billion. Amazingly these numbers represent a fraction of home-based businesses selling anything from scrap booking paraphernalia, to candles, and even pet food. As a freelance writer I have become increasingly respectful of supplemental income, but I still find it unsettling to know that somewhere lurking around the neighborhood playground is a sales mom waiting to sell me the latest gimmick!  

Friend Plus Friend Equals Dollar Sign 

All the pressure of the invitations, the spam, the catalogs and yet the need to have a night out with the girls, has made me a little cautious. Sometimes I agree to attend a party merely hoping to meet someone who doesn’t sell something. But then I find the people who frequently attend the “junk parties,” as I call them, usually sell something as well, but attend incognito, plotting to network for their own parties. The pushers hang out with other pushers because they help each other gain new clients or users–a mirage of walking dollar signs. 

What I struggle with the most is coming up with excuses when I know I’ll be face-to-face with my so-called friends’ solicitations. I purely want some pressure-free quality time with moms while our children play together, but during play dates I am asked the same questions time and time again. “Would you be interested in coming to one of my parties?” Or, “Would you ever be interested in hosting a party?” And the, “Have you ever thought about selling…?” The best is when you’re asked to babysit for her precious, little ankle-biters while she runs to host a party at another friend’s house. Fill in the blank, I’ve heard it all! 

Now that I am a bit older and wiser I have gained enough gumption to put the kibosh on financially supporting my friends’ businesses. I am able to laugh at the desperation of some sales moms. Unfortunately, my kids are the ones who suffer. “Mommy, why don’t we ever have play dates with Sally and Sammy anymore?” How does one explain to a 6-year-old, “Well Suzie, Sally’s mommy is addicted to shopping and in order to support her habit she needs to start making more money by selling junk to her friends?” That’s way too heavy for any child to comprehend. One day I will be able to explain to my daughters that “stay-at-home-mom” for some women really means “sell-from-home-mom,” as long as there are customers. And frankly, I’m not buying it.

Hello world!

While taking time off from freelance writing I will be sharing my personal accounts about the world, with the world. My little take on life will surprise those who think they know me and amuse those who really know me. My personal goal with this blog is to honestly write about the real stuff, the little stuff and the simple stuff–the flipside of all the advertising, marketing and public relations fluff. A writer gets paid to concoct whatever it takes to help a company make money. A blogger gets pleasure out of the possibility one reader may change his way of looking at life.