And then there's Maude.
Someday I’m going to be old. I mean really old. And I may still be single. All of the things I thought I’d do as an old lady like grow my hair really really long or keep pet squirrels and/or ravens—I may be doing these things alone. I don’t really feel sad about it, I’m just noticing it, the way one might notice that Oops, I forgot to reproduce. Guess I’ll be taking care of my own self when I finally get one of those debilitating diseases my family is so fond of.
The summer after I turned 16 my parents made me do driver’s ed, even though I hated driving and was terrible at it. I had driver’s ed every morning at the high school for about a month and it was awful to have to get up and go to that torture chamber when school was out of session. To make matters worse, my driver’s ed teacher was the football coach, a fat stupid bald man who was really mean and who didn’t like girls who weren’t bubbly or hot (I was neither). He yelled at me about once a week for driving on curbs, cutting people off, and doing the other bad driver things I was so good at. He made us drive to the crappy city south of the lame ass college town we lived in so he could pick up his Richard Marx or whoever tickets at a record store. I hated him. Hated. Hated. The other people in my car were the quarterback and a hot “slutty” girl whom all the male teachers pretended to hate while they were staring at her boobs and flirting with her. Driver’s ed was kind of like hell on earth, only it was actually one of my more positive high school experiences, considering the other horrible things that happened to me as a sullen teen. And, oh yes, I failed it. But I’m actually an ok driver today, though I’d much rather walk if given a choice.
After driver’s ed each morning and before I went to work in my dad’s lab in the afternoon (my summer job throughout high school and college—I mostly washed test tubes) I would collapse into a fetal position in front of the TV and watch Maude. Maude came on every day at 10 am. I watched with amazement. Why had no one ever told me about this show? Why did it not come on with the other parade of early evening reruns: Little House, All in the Family, Three’s Company? I remember my dad zoned out in front of all three shows before they went into syndication, but I guess he wasn’t into the shows with feminist themes, watered down and prime timed though they were. But the Seventies clothes (caftans!)! and interior design, the Seventies situations! and Bea Arthur in all of her Bea Arthur glory! I loved her, especially when they’d do those close ups of her looking like she was about to kill you. In one episode Walter (Maude’s second husband) leaves her for Bernadette Peters (does it get better than the 1976 era Bernadette?) whose name I remember to be Cathy Rivers or something equally Seventies Alternative Lifestyle. For some reason Walter brings her to some kind of function at Maude’s house, maybe something to do with Maude’s daughter. Maude takes one look at the girlfriend’s chest and says, in her bored voice, “The bigger they are, honey, the harder they fall.” Being the late-bloomer I was (I still hadn’t entered puberty at the age of 16—don’t ask), I found this to be excellent advice and proceeded to think these words each time I was faced (or looking down at, as I towered over most of the girls in my class) with yet another popular girl’s boobies.
Ok, so why am I thinking about this? Getting old. Appearances are really important to my family. My mom, for example, hinted on many occasions that certain someones may not like unshaved legs or my old habit of dying my hair pink. But what’s worse than the grooming habits of a makeupless pseudo punk weirdo? A saggy unmarried used-to-be-kind-of-cute-but-is-now-just-kind-of-old. I still don’t have a whole lot for gravity to work its magic on, but there’s more there than there used to be. I know it’s the lamest thing ever, but I feel kind of mad that if I’m ever with any significant other ever again, he’ll never know that I used to have a cuter butt. All he’ll get is the middle-aged butt. I think I’m ok enough with my body to like it for what it is, but then there’s that voice: If you would have gotten married at 21 like I did, this would never be an issue. Whoever would just have to accept your butt for whatever it turned into. Forever.
I think part of what spawned this is watching the movie Manhattan last night. When Woody Allen tells his 17-year-old girlfriend (he’s 42) Mariel Hemingway that he’s in love with someone else, he says “Someone my age. Well, not as old as me, but in my age group,” I felt so mad. The way he says “Well, not as old as me,” as if he thinks that the thought of a 42-year-old woman would be too unappealing even for his girlfriend he’s breaking up with. I realize that that was the Seventies and that I probably wouldn’t want to date Woody Allen anyway, but I just feel mad. Because, you know, fuck that.
The summer after I turned 16 my parents made me do driver’s ed, even though I hated driving and was terrible at it. I had driver’s ed every morning at the high school for about a month and it was awful to have to get up and go to that torture chamber when school was out of session. To make matters worse, my driver’s ed teacher was the football coach, a fat stupid bald man who was really mean and who didn’t like girls who weren’t bubbly or hot (I was neither). He yelled at me about once a week for driving on curbs, cutting people off, and doing the other bad driver things I was so good at. He made us drive to the crappy city south of the lame ass college town we lived in so he could pick up his Richard Marx or whoever tickets at a record store. I hated him. Hated. Hated. The other people in my car were the quarterback and a hot “slutty” girl whom all the male teachers pretended to hate while they were staring at her boobs and flirting with her. Driver’s ed was kind of like hell on earth, only it was actually one of my more positive high school experiences, considering the other horrible things that happened to me as a sullen teen. And, oh yes, I failed it. But I’m actually an ok driver today, though I’d much rather walk if given a choice.
After driver’s ed each morning and before I went to work in my dad’s lab in the afternoon (my summer job throughout high school and college—I mostly washed test tubes) I would collapse into a fetal position in front of the TV and watch Maude. Maude came on every day at 10 am. I watched with amazement. Why had no one ever told me about this show? Why did it not come on with the other parade of early evening reruns: Little House, All in the Family, Three’s Company? I remember my dad zoned out in front of all three shows before they went into syndication, but I guess he wasn’t into the shows with feminist themes, watered down and prime timed though they were. But the Seventies clothes (caftans!)! and interior design, the Seventies situations! and Bea Arthur in all of her Bea Arthur glory! I loved her, especially when they’d do those close ups of her looking like she was about to kill you. In one episode Walter (Maude’s second husband) leaves her for Bernadette Peters (does it get better than the 1976 era Bernadette?) whose name I remember to be Cathy Rivers or something equally Seventies Alternative Lifestyle. For some reason Walter brings her to some kind of function at Maude’s house, maybe something to do with Maude’s daughter. Maude takes one look at the girlfriend’s chest and says, in her bored voice, “The bigger they are, honey, the harder they fall.” Being the late-bloomer I was (I still hadn’t entered puberty at the age of 16—don’t ask), I found this to be excellent advice and proceeded to think these words each time I was faced (or looking down at, as I towered over most of the girls in my class) with yet another popular girl’s boobies.
Ok, so why am I thinking about this? Getting old. Appearances are really important to my family. My mom, for example, hinted on many occasions that certain someones may not like unshaved legs or my old habit of dying my hair pink. But what’s worse than the grooming habits of a makeupless pseudo punk weirdo? A saggy unmarried used-to-be-kind-of-cute-but-is-now-just-kind-of-old. I still don’t have a whole lot for gravity to work its magic on, but there’s more there than there used to be. I know it’s the lamest thing ever, but I feel kind of mad that if I’m ever with any significant other ever again, he’ll never know that I used to have a cuter butt. All he’ll get is the middle-aged butt. I think I’m ok enough with my body to like it for what it is, but then there’s that voice: If you would have gotten married at 21 like I did, this would never be an issue. Whoever would just have to accept your butt for whatever it turned into. Forever.
I think part of what spawned this is watching the movie Manhattan last night. When Woody Allen tells his 17-year-old girlfriend (he’s 42) Mariel Hemingway that he’s in love with someone else, he says “Someone my age. Well, not as old as me, but in my age group,” I felt so mad. The way he says “Well, not as old as me,” as if he thinks that the thought of a 42-year-old woman would be too unappealing even for his girlfriend he’s breaking up with. I realize that that was the Seventies and that I probably wouldn’t want to date Woody Allen anyway, but I just feel mad. Because, you know, fuck that.
posted by Julia Story at 2:06 PM
2 Comments:
Ohmigod! Maude! Jesus, Shrew, I'm so pleased I stumbled across your blog! Where have you been all my life?
Yay! another Maude fan. A Canadian Maude fan? Or at least one who resides in Canada. Sounds good to me.
Ever since I wrote this entry I've had the Maude theme song in my head, and feel strange about the list of women with whom Maude reportedly keeps company: Lady Godiva, Joan of Arc, and Betsy Ross? Couldn't we at least have a little Betty Friedan in there, or perhaps Rosa Parks?
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