All posts by Deirdre Straughan

Gay Marriage

“Polls suggest that acceptance of gays in the United States, the most religious industrialized society in the world, extends only up to the chapel steps.”

“I know a lot of people who want to give all the rights and privileges to gay couples that married people have, but they don’t want to change the traditional meaning of the term marriage,” said Norval D. Glenn, a professor of sociology at the University of Texas who specializes in the demography of the family. “We’re more traditional in how we define marriage in this country than is the case in most of the Western world.”

From “Why America Has Gay Marriage Jitters” By ELISABETH BUMILLER, New York Times, August 10, 2003

Oh, get over it!

“Traditional” marriage as defined by most Americans is “one man, one woman.” Add 2.5 kids, and you have the traditional nuclear family. If you’re American, tell me: how many people do you know who actually grew up in a traditional nuclear family? At age 10, I was one of the first on my block to have divorced parents. But, by now, I hardly know anyone of my generation whose parents didn’t divorce; America has the world’s highest divorce rate. So much for the “sanctity” of marriage. Are the straights worried that the gays might be better at staying married than we are? They might well be. It seems to me that, when you have to fight most of the culture around you and city hall to obtain something, you’re more likely to make it work.

Dec 3, 2003

In the New York Times op/ed page, Nov 26, Harvey Fierstein wrote: “What is it with you people, anyway? Are you so insecure about the way you handle marriage that you’re scared gay folk will show you up? Trust me, we will make as much of a mess out of matrimony as you do. Just give us a chance.”

May 3, 2004

Mike L. tells me about the Netherlands: “Gay marriages have official status since a few years. Gay couples can get married in the town hall just like hetero couples. The difference between “just living together” and being fully married aren’t that much anyway. Only real differences are that when you have kids, the father has to explicitly go to town and officially “recognize” the kid, otherwise the offspring will receive the mother’s last name instead of the father’s, and when one dies, the other may not be the only beneficiary so that you’ll have to make arrangements (usually a will or a living-together-contract) for your partner. (In our case, the house automatically becomes property of the one who lives longest, and most of the mortgage will be paid by the insurance when one of us dies).

The tax office never cared much about marriage anyway, you can just check a box on the tax form in order to have the tax office treat you as ‘partners’ (so you can share expenses and income which will in general save money).”

This pragmatic approach to human relationships seems to me a good solution. It allows every couple, straight or gay, to determine their own terms of commitment, both personal and financial, with a flexibility that realistically meets the needs of today’s rapidly-changing society

Some wise words

Fess Up: What Happens when a Name Can’t Be Translated into Italian?

During our US trip last year, Ross and I visited the Texas History Museum in Austin (new since I graduated from the University of Texas in 1986). They had a temporary exhibit on Davy Crockett, the near-mythical frontiersman who was a Senator from Tennessee before moving on to Texas, where he died at the Alamo. The exhibit included a section on the Crockett revival of the 1950s or 60s, when Disney did a movie and kids wore coonskin caps (raccoon skin, with the tail on). There was a huge poster for the movie, evidently taken from the Italian release.

Most Americans probably remember that the actor who played Davy Crockett was named Fess Parker. Fess is a weird sort of name even in the US, I can’t think what it would be a nickname for. But in Italian, “fesso” means a complete idiot – not the name you want to associate with a movie hero! So the Italian movie poster renamed the actor “Fier Parker.” Fier is a non-existent name in Italy (and probably everywhere else), but you would assume it’s related to the word “fiero” – proud.

I laughed out loud in front of the poster, drawing inquiring looks from a man standing nearby, so then I had to explain to him what was funny.

August 20, 2003

John Sanders tells me that “Fess Parker was born Fess E. Parker. The E. did not stand for anything. Also Fess Parker is a graduate of the University of Texas. I read that Fess Parker learned as a young boy that fess meant ‘Proud’ in England of old.”

Richard Munde adds: “I remember my seventh grade French teacher telling us that Fess Parker was a huge star in France because of the Disney Davy Crockett series. Fess, she said, was French slang for ass and so he was re-named there too. (Can’t remember what they called him, though.)”

Fitting Bras

Men, you have no idea how important it is to have a bra fit well. (I suppose there might be something analogous in male attire, but probably not something that most of you have to wear every day.) Well, I’m here to tell you: it’s critical. It is extremely hard to get bras to fit right, and a constant, nagging discomfort when they don’t. Perhaps that’s why a lot of women I know hate to shop for bras. We know we’re going to spend hours rifling through racks and trying things on (when every trip in and out of the fitting room means getting undressed and redressed completely), and still go home with something that doesn’t quite work. Shopping with friends can take the edge off by making the whole situation very funny: you find the most ridiculous bras you can and try them on for each other, laughing uproariously and wondering who the hell would ever wear that for real.

One difficulty in buying bras is that they don’t all fit the same way, even within a given size. Just like clothing, bras come in different styles, and some styles work better with your body shape than others. If, like me, you wear an unusual size, finding anything at all in that size can be tricky.

There used to exist a cadre of women who actually knew how to fit bras, and worked in department stores sharing this knowledge with the benighted masses. They could tell you exactly what was wrong with each bra you tried on, and, after you’d rejected half a dozen, would trot out to the racks and instantly, unerringly, lay their hands on the item that would fit.

Macy’s used to have them, but the Macy’s ladies appear to have gone the way of the dodo. So I now know of only one place on earth where buying bras is relatively painless: Lady Grace. I just realized looking at their website that it’s actually a chain, with locations in Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Maine. I’ve only been to the store in Brookline. When I first started going there, thanks to a friend, around fifteen years ago, their fitters were the classic little old ladies. Now they’re young ladies, but, thank God, the wisdom has been passed on. On my recent visit to Boston, I spent an hour and a half in Lady Grace, departing with seven new bras, and a whole new world of comfort.

There’s one difficulty that a single visit can’t resolve. Many breasts are not the same size all month. Water retention before our periods makes them swell (and become tender – no touchy!), so a bra that fits well the first week of our cycle won’t later on. So, yes, there is a reason why we need about two dozen bras in service in any given month.

Bra Straps

What is it with the visible bra straps these days? There’s something in my upbringing, American or Asian, I dunno, that tells me that only sluts let their bra straps show. I could never wear spaghetti-strap tops or dresses because I absolutely need to wear a bra, and there’d be no way to hide its straps. (Yes, there are strapless bras, I have one because of a bridesmaid’s dress I had to wear once, but it’s practically a corset – doesn’t exactly fit with the carefree look one is trying to create with spaghetti straps.)

But lately I see girls and women letting the straps of their bras – and sometimes backs and fronts! – just hang out of whatever they’re wearing. I can’t help but think it looks trashy. Not to mention, in some cases, REALLY stupid (yes, even on Sarah Jessica Parker in Sex & the City). Honey, that backless black halter top with the white bra entirely visible from the back? Not workin’ for ya.

In Italy there are bras with transparent plastic shoulder straps which are supposed to resolve this problem, but it just doesn’t work. No matter how transparent, the straps are clearly not skin, especially when they’re digging into the shoulder. You might fool the eye at a distance, but that’s not really the point, is it?

So my advice to my daughter has been: enjoy the braless look while you still can, and give it up when it’s time to.


More on Bras

August 20, 2003

(Another of those articles that generated responses!)

A woman friend forwarded this to me: “A good friend is like a good bra: hard to find, very comfortable, supportive, holds you up when you are down, and always close to the heart.”

Buying bras in less-developed countries was very difficult back in the 1970s-80s. Sally Kibblewhite, who was my English teacher at Woodstock, wrote me: “The thought of you going off with seven bras reminded me of the selection I had when we set off for India, because we had been advised that bazaar bras were not ideal. I had washed them and they were drying in the sitting room of David’s brother’s house. He never forgot this vision of many pastel-coloured bras dangling from the clothes horse, and regularly asked me how my bras were going.”

I wish someone had thought to warn me about the less-than-idealness of bras in India. When we left the US for Bangladesh, my breasts weren’t large enough to worry about wearing bras, and none of us thought ahead to the time when they might be (my then-stepmother rarely wore a bra herself, being an uninhibited flower-child type, and small-breasted). By the time I got to boarding school at Woodstock 18 months later, I needed a bra. Being socially naive, I didn’t realize this until I took a dip in a cold river (wearing a T-shirt) during our 9th grade class hike, exciting much comment. Then my family had to scramble to get hold of some bras somehow. In India in those days, all bras were made the same way, of heavy cotton, with the cups sewn in a spiral to maximize pointiness – not what a blushing adolescent wants for her first bra, even if there had been any small enough to fit. We had to get my stepmother’s parents to mail me some “training” bras from Pittsburgh. (My dad’s running joke was that training bras are to train the boys how to undo them.)

Re. fitting bras in more modern times and places, Mike Looijmans suggests:

“Bring your (boy)friend and have him run up and down the aisle with bras. That saves you from having to undress and dress multiple times. He’ll have a chance to peek at half-dressed women (if all’s right, he’ll mostly be looking at you) in need of bras. Also, at the end of the afternoon, he’ll have a good idea of what size you are, so that if he wants to give you something naughty to wear, it’ll at least be somewhere near the right size.”

He adds: “I don’t think I’d take two women shopping for bras together seriously… While the two of you were doing that girlish giggling in the dressing room I’d probably be holding out a cupped hand and asking the kind lady in the shop for “about this size…” 😉 ”

In regards to my rant about today’s “anything shows” attitude, Mike and a few others pointed out that a décolleté lined with lace can look very classy instead of slutty. For the older generations (which doesn’t include Mike), back in the day when there was less flesh in general view, a mere glimpse of lingerie could be very exciting. Mike points out a solution for the straps problem: “My girlfriend has a bra that ends in two spaghetti straps on either side. If worn under something with a spaghetti strap, there’ll be a total of three straps on each shoulder, and that looks like it’s meant to be so. (strapless isn’t an option for her either).” My daughter has now found some bras like this, and they do look great. However, Benetton doesn’t have sizes to fit me!

Yesterday in the supermarket we saw another non-solution: a woman was wearing a low-backed sundress, so that the back of her bra was completely in view (and the front wasn’t entirely covered, either). I am not offended by total nudity (though I might find it surprising at the supermarket), but that, to me, just looked completely trashy. (She must have been a tourist. The ladies of Lecco often dress even more elegantly than the Milanese.)

Mike gets the final word on this one: “Now we’re on that topic anyway, am I the only guy who thinks a [full] bathing suit looks much sexier than a bikini?”

Cultural Assumptions

What You Think You Might Know About Somebody… Might Be Wrong

Years ago, before we were even living in Italy, Enrico and I spent a night in Courmayeur, on the French side of Mont Blanc, on our way to somewhere. Our hotel included breakfast (most of them do), eaten at large, bare wooden tables with benches. We were asked what form of coffee we wanted, then crusty rolls, croissants, jam, butter, etc. were brought, and we began eating, scattering crumbs all over the bare table just like everyone else.

The waiter overheard us speaking English.

“Are you American?” he asked.

She’s American, he’s Italian, we explained, as usual.

“You’re American!” exclaimed the waiter in horror. “Then you want this!” And he rushed to set the table with paper placements.

I wonder what traumatic encounter he’d had with an American to fix that notion so firmly in his mind.

*******************

I picked up some pictures that had been framed, and remembered at the last minute that I should have told the framer to put two hooks on the sides, rather than one hook on the top as Italians always do. With the two hooks, I can run a wire between them and have the picture hang from a hook behind it, rather than seeing a hook in the wall at the top of every picture. This seems an obvious improvement to me, but Italians prefer a hook at the top, perhaps because that way the picture lies flat against the wall.

The framer was happy to do what I asked. “You must be English,” he said. “The English always want the two hooks that way.”

Once Enrico and I were on vacation in the mountains. He would go off hiking all day, I was working intensively and happily on my novel, but would go for brief walks to stretch my legs and enjoy the scenery. To amuse myself on these walks, I collected wildflower seeds, to try planting them at home. I strolled along a level path that had once been a railway line, and found a huge meadow full of flowers. I was in there, collecting seeds, when a young man passed by, supporting his aged mother on her daily constitutional. Half an hour later, when they came back the other way, I was still there, intent on the plants.

“Crazy Germans,” the man muttered.

*******************

Oct 21, 2003

Last October we drove to Munich for a friend’s birthday. On the way, we stopped in Vipiteno, a town on the Italy side of the German border. We’d been looking for an enoteca (wine shop) to buy Markus some wine, and found a very good one there. We sampled several good wines, and had selected two or three bottles when the shop owner asked us: “Who is this for?”

“A friend in Germany, it’s his birthday.”

“Oh, then you don’t need to spend so much. Just get him this [pointing to the six-euro stuff in the window]; he’s German, he won’t know the difference.”

We still got him the good stuff; Markus does know the difference.

Feeling the Seasons in Italy

First week in August, and most of Italy is shutting down, except the beaches and some mountain resorts, which are booming with Italian vacationers. The cities will be largely left to foreign tourists and those who serve them. Kids are off school from mid-June to mid-September, and many adults take off all or most of August.

You might think this an example of “typical” Italian laziness, but the situation down here on the ground makes it clear: it’s too darn hot. In the afternoons, when it’s muggy and even the air is too hot to move, it’s simply impossible to concentrate, and all you want to do is sleep. No one can be expected to be productive; you might as well give in to Mother Nature and go on vacation.

It used to be that way in the US as well, until the invention of air-conditioning. I read somewhere that the pace of government picked up amazingly when A/C was introduced to muggy, swampy Washington.

But most of Italy is not air-conditioned. Except in some offices, I’ve never seen central A/C here the way it’s done in the US. Due to the high cost of electricity, not many families even have room air conditioners. During this June’s heat wave, so many rushed out to buy air conditioners that the national power grid couldn’t cope, and there were rolling blackouts.

Ourselves, we make do with fans, and I’ve become so unaccustomed to A/C that I’m always cold in the US. I prefer not being insulated away from the seasons, no matter how uncomfortable they sometimes get. Here in Lecco I’ve learned that there’s a wonderful breeze off the lake in the morning, so I get up early and open all the windows on the windward side of the house, cooling down and airing out the stuffiness of the night (when windows and shutters on the balcony side have to be closed, for fear of burglars). Around noon I’ll close it all up, to retain the cool when the sun moves around to that side and only hot air blows in. And then I’ll take a nap.