butterfly dream

Haven't been to the Metro Reference Library in ages, so decided to swing by tonight. As an aside, I really can't see why I don't do same more often. 'Food for thought' is a concept that I take seriously, and the Metro Ref is the equivalent of a black-tie banquet; all that lovely knowledge spread forth to be sampled, savoured or flat-out snarfed up, just as the mood strikes.

However, this post isn't about my contented daze - it covers the line that snapped me out of it. In re: Michael Landon and Little House on the Prairie, a TVGuide tome claimed that, roughly, 'He showed millions of viewers what a happy loving family could be..."

Ah...huh. I do not wish to pile it on the man any higher than the six feet already manifest, but come ON, now. As I think even the most sentimental of us can admit, this is feting a guy whose concept of loving family happiness mostly involved exploring the ways it deepens wounds and heightens suffering. On this show, if you love someone, welcome to a nigh-endless parade of drug addiction, blindness, alcoholism, abuse, rape, miscarriage, abandonment, menopause, the death of a child/wife/parent/dog, crop failures, devastating fires, loathsome plagues...you get the idea. It was family togetherness as primal scream therapy, is what it was. And it usually wasn't even that subtle ("Say it! My brother is going to die! Say it! MY-BROTHER-IS-GOING-TO-DIE!")

This started me thinking about TV families generally, and why, the more they insisted on this kind of realism ('gripping drama' was the phrase usually used) the less I, scion of a highly *ahem* realistic family, could actually relate.

It could be that the Shoe clan just wasn't that interesting even in dysfunction, a distinct possibility. Then again...it could be that, overall, real families in crisis generally aren't particularly exciting - speaking from the objective dramatic POV, at any rate. It's been my experience that people in RL tend to paper over their broken bits as much as possible - and by natural extension, their families' - simply because when you're in this kind of a situation your ultimate goal, your consuming desire, is to just be normal. Or anyway as close to it as you can possibly get, in public if nothing else.
Mind, there's always the chance that you'll grow up to develop a fascination with 50's radio comedians partly because they seem so blissfully average. But on the whole, not so much with the Huge Honking Traumatic Deal it all seemed to be on your Little Houses and Family-s and even The Waltons there for awhile. I mean, of course it often is a huge deal, it's just...well, you know. You deal with it, and part of that is you look for a nice escape on the TV, and instead there's John-Boy angsting over some ruddy traditional rite of Walton manhood or another. Just shoot the damn deer already, Freakish Mole Boy.

This in turn has got me realising a bit wistfully that I'll never really know normal, at least not in terms of family... at least. Is it kind of weird that, seriously, one of my chief interests re: Bob & Ray is playing around with the idea of them as average husbands and fathers? You know, contented patriarchs of their own little clans, wherein dads love their wives, and are kind and wise and understanding to their kids rather than forcing it to be the other way round, and everybody has supper together in the evenings, and it's all very (I'm assuming) sweater-intensive?

Yes, before you rush to the comments box, I know deep down that it was never really like that, for anyone. B&R had eleven kids between them at the height of the Baby Boom, I know damn well it couldn't have been even close to like that for them. Anyway, not after 1964.
Also, I should mention that I feel pretty silly, whining like this over comparatively minor issues. Shoedad wasn't a bad guy; he was just far too damaged himself to ever provide real emotional support to anyone else. As for the things that broke him...well, they're the stuff mainly of understood silence save the occasional loud accusation at the end of a drunken evening. I didn't say that there weren't times when a huge cathartic screaming fit wouldn't be welcome...only that it's unlikely.

Instead, I revel in the fact that I'm a ferociously independent woman who's learned strength in ways many people never will. And...I daydream, sometimes.

Sat up with a cranky computer Friday night and most of Saturday (barring an unpleasantly cold and dingy foray into preaching service). Pages won't load, downloads crawl along then corrupt. 'Course, I only discover that last bit after I uninstall current antivirus program, because I thought it had been disabled by a killer virus.

Got a sick nervous headache.

Dragged self - in a medicated stupor - to a friend's card party anyway, after friend made wistful noises about uneven tables when I called to cancel.

Resumed computer ministrations immediately on getting home, wound up awake at 2:30 AM trying for the literal fourteenth time to get fresh antivirus to download.

Finally fell asleep to docudrama about the Boston Strangler, had horrible nightmares.

Sunday morning, woke up early, antivirus suddenly downloads like a dream. Just happy enough that I don't have worse problems to avoid punching holes in monitor with shards of juice glass.

Promptly get into huge fight with Shoesis over the usual random failure to respect. In the middle of it all, Shoemom suddenly bursts into tears, on startled questioning confesses she's in a mood anyway because she's sick and tired of city life. We apply usual therapy - ie., take off for Niagara. One thing leads to another, and we're discussing moving as far out to the country as a transit commute will extend.

Arrive home all excited, hop on Net...discover that despite being literally just down the highway from each other, the area we want to move to and the area I work in aren't connected by transit.

Oh, well. At least Shoesis eventually apologised. Eventually.

I have a wicked sunburn, a baggie full of the shells that I swore I was not going to bother collecting this time, another bag of random outlet-mall tchotchkes that I am now eyeing warily from across the room trying to remember what they were, three hundred fifty or so sunset pictures with the horizon slightly crooked, and a half-eaten pack of Cracker Barrel caramel corn.

Plus enough field experience, mostly from that day I decided to walk all the way to the top of the island, to write an entire grad-school thesis on The American Tourist Goes to the Beach. Let us just say that this dovetailed rather unfortunately with my parallel inquiries into The Caloric Value of American Junk Food. Then there were the teeny Santa hats on the pink plastic flamingo wine stoppers...

In short, I had the most wonderful time.

Someday, I may even get around to recording more details, probably right after I tackle the mountain - strongly resembling the ones we drove thru at four-frelling-AM this morning - that is my f-list backlog. (For starters, It seems that rj_anderson went and had a book released, and it is getting the fantastic reviews it richly deserves, so that's at least one Dance of Joy to be added to the list.)

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go take a well-earned vacation from getting back from my vacation.

The most hideously ear-sporking holiday song EVER in the HISTORY OF THE UNIVERSE is that Jose Feliciano thing - can't really even call it a song, because all he does is like "I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas!" over and over and OVER until you are CHEWING PIECES OUT OF THE CAR SEAT ARRRRRGH.

...The only redeeming feature this thing has is that, after awhile, Shoemom will turn to me and say, very solemnly, "Y'know, I think he wants to wish us a Merry Christmas." Then we giggle. It's our little tradition.

 So it occurs to me - sitting here with a comfortable stomachful of ribs, having caught up on all the family gossip - I might have been just a wee bit hard on the Shoe clan, yesterday. I'm not such a snob as can't appreciate their kindness and warmth; nor the generosity with which they scatter same hither, yon...and home-made BBQ sauce. Mmm.

Seriously...It's not such a bad thing after all, being a Shoe. Most of the time I get what I want - except perhaps in the matter of Jacuzzi tubs, but into every life some rain etc. - and have been blessed with a whole lot more than I deserve, besides. Especially with friends who'll forbear during my random fits of dissatisfaction, heh heh...right guys?

...Guys?

OK, back to the cute distractions next week, I swear.