For those of you that just know me on the Internet, you may be shocked (SHOCKED!) to find that I wasn’t always Emily Heist Moss. I added the Heist a couple of years back to correct an imbalance I felt in my name.
After reading Molly Caro May’s excellent essay on The Hairpin about giving her daughter her last name instead of her husband’s, I decided to share the full rationale for the Heist addition this week on Role/Reboot:
Related Post: What’s in a name? A post for The Good Men Project on other options besides adopting the husband’s last name.
Related Post: Guest post from Julianna Britto Schwartz
“I don’t really watch TV.”
THIS BAFFLES ME. I mean, obviously, to each his or her own, but I just love television so much that when I hear this declaration (less and less frequently, according to my unscientific and entirely anecdotal experience) I’m as shocked as I’d be if someone said, “I don’t really eat cheese.”
Wait, what? Some people don’t eat cheese?
I kid. But in all seriousness, deciding to give up cheese or TV would be a fucking heartbreaker of a Sophie’s Choice in my world. But in the end, the cheese would have to go, because the satisfaction of a hunk of brie is temporary, but the joy of a ten-year relationship with my shows (or 8-episode relationship for these new miniseries deals) gives me stuff to chew over for weeks and months to come.
This week for Role/Reboot, in honor of Mother’s Day, I wrote about the range and variety of TV moms. June Cleaver is out, Cersei Lannister is in. Is that a good thing? Read on!
Related Post: Moms and body image, from Mika Brzezinski to Jennifer Weiner
Related Post: True Detective and the male gaze.
A few months ago I moved into my first solo apartment. From parent house one to parent house two to dorm, dorm, roommates, roommates, roommates, I am now all by my lonesome in my little rickety, high-ceilinged, ancient-refrigeratored one-bedroom. After Sara Eckel wrote a modern love column about moving in with her boyfriend after 20 years of living solo, I decided to reflect on the beginning of that journey. So, 159 days into solo-living, here’s where I’m at:
Related Post: The break-up museum, and relics of exes that we cart from place to place.
Related Post: That time the roof caught on fire.
For Role/Reboot this week, I wrote about a little bit of a lot of things. A little bit of Christmas blues, a little bit of holiday traditions, a little bit of family drama. Last Christmas my brother and I had our first “grown up” argument about whether or not he’d be home for Christmas. I “won” the battle, but only on the condition that I wrap my head around the idea that our traditions will eventually evolve and I’m going to have to be okay with that.
This year, the chips have fallen as he predicted, and I can’t call in favors, beg/plead, cry and weasel my way into winning again. So… he won’t be home for Christmas. Now what? Given that this is the reality, and I feel as strongly as I do, it seemed worth exploring why I have SO MUCH attachment to this particular set of traditions. It has something to do with divorce, I think, and the desire of kids of divorce to preserve the most stable of traditions they have.
Related Post: Why I’m glad my parents chose joint custody.
Related Post: Massachusetts reconsiders its custody bias.
This week for Role/Reboot I wrote about this:
I keep hearing the same chorus from moms writing about body image and aging, and it goes something like this: Man, I have been micromanaging my body for thirty years and I haven’t been able to stop. I really hope my daughters figure out a different way.
What kills me about it is that, obviously, we the daughters look to you the mothers as our first source of inspiration on how one should be with one’s body. Even if we eventually outgrow our reliance on that one source, it is the first, the most primal, the most difficult to shake.
Related Post: The problem with “strong is the new skinny”
Related Post: How Title IX changed my life.
On consecutive weekends I watched two couples get married. First, in Iowa City, I played the witness for Helen and Lindi of Clover + Lace in a magistrate’s office. Then, I was the maid of honor as my oldest friend got married in the Hudson Valley. I know everyone is supposed to cry at weddings, and all that jazz, but I really thought that it wouldn’t get to me. I was truly surprised by how emotional I was during both occasions, enough so as to trigger a little introspection on the subject of marriage and my knee-jerk feelings towards it.
Related Post: There’s no wrong way to make a family.
Related Post: Andrew Sullivan on how marriage inequality = the infliction of emotional distress
1. HOOPS: Bill Simmons, who I generally love, gets rightfully reamed by college basketball player Wayne Washington when Simmons refers to his dreads as “stinky.”
2. AUTHORS: Curtis Sittenfeld (Prep, American Wife) gets interviewed by The Rumpus about her new book, Sisterland.
3. NEW MEXICO: The New Yorker‘s Rachel Syme, writes eloquently about the hometown she shares with Walter White.
4. CELEB: I really dig this advice from Olivie Wilde in Glamour, or rather, this advice from her ghostwriter. Regardless, I’m into it.
5. MOMS: My favorite, Roxane Gay, interviews her mother for The Hairpin about how she feels about her mothering decisions, 30 years later. Should we all be so lucky as to have these conversations.
6. SPORTS: What does it say about you as a parent when you push your daughter down the path of soccer, dance, or chess? Apparently a lot?
Related Post: Sunday 108: George Saunders, OITNB, Ill-Doctrine, etc.
Related Post: Sunday 107: Amanda Palmer = awesome, millennials worry, email mapping!