Just like you, I bet, I watched the HBO Obama Inauguration event, wondering if the Inauguration communications team had just upended Hollywood and grabbed every star who rolled out. And just like you, I clouded up a bit with emotion, especially when I saw sweet old Pete Seeger hollering out the lyrics to that Woodie Guthrie fave, This Land Is your Land. If you listened very closely, you could hear that Pete Seeger snuck in some of the original lyrics, which aren't of the mom/country/apple-pie variety:
And then Obama gave his pre-inaugural speech, and like the rational, stern yet loving daddy he probably is, he explained that it's gonna be tough. Back to reality: no TV/Internet cruising until the homework is done, no scarfing up Gummy Bears until you gag down the brussel sprouts, no trips to the mall until your shoes have big gaping holes like his. And perhaps I was not alone that day in thinking, At last! I can use all that shit I learned in Home Ec! Because I can do it! Cost per serving? A snap. Nutritious yet cheapie meals? All day long, baby. Menus for a small planet? Got it. Stacked on top of that, I can darn socks, stitch buttons, hook rugs, make a hospital fold, and staunch the flow of blood. I can cook up a pot of starch, iron linens, and wash silk. I'm your Household Goddess: a wet-dream Betty Crocker.
Of course, all those hard-earned skills went by the wayside during the whole feminist thing. Back then, juggling a teaching job, grad school, and community theatre, I got intimately acquainted with every quickie horror-show Tuna/Beef Helper casserole mix on the market. I also became proficient in snarling, Just what I'd expect from a brain-washed tool of the patriarchy. And then, during the counter-culture years, when I made my own candles and sandals, I realized I was falling badly short of the hippie-chick ideal. There was a book by Alicia Bay Laurel, Living On the Earth, that spelled it out. She had instructions on how to bury a dead body, how to tan leather, how to dry fruits and veggies, how to have a baby and share the placenta, and I couldn't do any of it, any more than I could grow my hair down to my ass. And sometime before old Alicia cranked out her tome and sometime after the feminist thing, I learned classical French cooking.
I hope Obama understands my problem. I know old-timey, hard-timey skills will be required, but which ones? I have so many. And then there are those others where I was a total dud. I can do touch typing, cut a stencil or a rubylith, even give up hair products and roll-on mascara. Don't ask me to deliver a baby, though. What's going to be required here? And how de-automated are we gonna be?
Spell it out, brother.
- In the squares of the city, In the shadow of a steeple;
- By the relief office, I'd seen my people.
- As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking,
- Is this land made for you and me?
And then Obama gave his pre-inaugural speech, and like the rational, stern yet loving daddy he probably is, he explained that it's gonna be tough. Back to reality: no TV/Internet cruising until the homework is done, no scarfing up Gummy Bears until you gag down the brussel sprouts, no trips to the mall until your shoes have big gaping holes like his. And perhaps I was not alone that day in thinking, At last! I can use all that shit I learned in Home Ec! Because I can do it! Cost per serving? A snap. Nutritious yet cheapie meals? All day long, baby. Menus for a small planet? Got it. Stacked on top of that, I can darn socks, stitch buttons, hook rugs, make a hospital fold, and staunch the flow of blood. I can cook up a pot of starch, iron linens, and wash silk. I'm your Household Goddess: a wet-dream Betty Crocker.
Of course, all those hard-earned skills went by the wayside during the whole feminist thing. Back then, juggling a teaching job, grad school, and community theatre, I got intimately acquainted with every quickie horror-show Tuna/Beef Helper casserole mix on the market. I also became proficient in snarling, Just what I'd expect from a brain-washed tool of the patriarchy. And then, during the counter-culture years, when I made my own candles and sandals, I realized I was falling badly short of the hippie-chick ideal. There was a book by Alicia Bay Laurel, Living On the Earth, that spelled it out. She had instructions on how to bury a dead body, how to tan leather, how to dry fruits and veggies, how to have a baby and share the placenta, and I couldn't do any of it, any more than I could grow my hair down to my ass. And sometime before old Alicia cranked out her tome and sometime after the feminist thing, I learned classical French cooking.
I hope Obama understands my problem. I know old-timey, hard-timey skills will be required, but which ones? I have so many. And then there are those others where I was a total dud. I can do touch typing, cut a stencil or a rubylith, even give up hair products and roll-on mascara. Don't ask me to deliver a baby, though. What's going to be required here? And how de-automated are we gonna be?
Spell it out, brother.
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