What Not to Do: An Assessment Upon Viewing Seven Brides for Seven Brothers

After a long hiatus of writing on here, I decided to do a light-hearted critique on this famous musical. I just saw it for the first time yesterday, and with a name like it has, isn’t it just crying to be written about on such a forum? ;-)

First of all, for those who haven’t seen it, here is a plot summary from that venerable site of all movie wisdom, www.imdb.com:

“Adam, the eldest of seven brothers, goes to town to get a wife. He convinces Milly to marry him that same day. They return to his backwoods home. Only then does she discover he has six brothers - all living in his cabin. Milly sets out to reform the uncouth siblings, who are anxious to get wives of their own. Then, after reading about the Roman capture of the Sabine women, Adam develops an inspired solution to his brothers' loneliness.”

With that said, here are my thoughts upon viewing the movie. In short, men of cyberspace, here is a simple list of 10 things to keep in mind/NEVER do when considering wooing a woman...

1. Just because you’re place is a pigsty and you can’t cook for beans doesn’t mean you need a wife. It means you need to grow up.

2. Adam Pontipee is the epitome of how NOT to view/treat women. I have no idea why Milly ever fell for him. Sheer desperation? If I met a man like him and he talked to me/treated me like that, he’d have a swollen lip and good kick in the pants in about ten seconds.

3. Don’t think you can just march into town one day and get a wife like buying chewing tobacco and wagon supplies. This isn't Oregon Trail, and if you think it is, you may have an unfortunate accident fording the river, if you catch my drift.

4. Don’t think singing “Bless Your Beautiful Hide” is gonna woo anyone over.

5. Essentially saying, “I don’t have time to get to know you, so just agree to marry me on-the-spot after knowing me five minutes,” is bad news. Oh, and then accusing a woman of being prideful if she doesn’t agree to marry you under such circumstances is asking for nothing but trouble. If this wasn’t a 1950’s musical, I doubt there would be a happy ending.

6. Note how many times Milly refers to feelings when she is trying to convince the reverend that she should marry a complete stranger. Girls, please don’t justify being with a guy because of ooshy-gooshy feelings (or just because he’s not a creep).

7. Don’t keep important information from your future wife--like how you have six, animalistic brothers who live with you and how you expect your new wife to cook, clean and pick up after them like Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. Catch how many times Adam refers to all the work that needs to be done around the house and then punctuates it by saying, “But now that YOU'RE here...” Gag me. There’s a monumental difference between having a wife and having a “cook, washer-woman and hired girl”(in Milly’s words).

8. Never say, “One woman’s pretty much like the next.” Especially in her presence. Gee, that sounds great. Way to make a gal feel special there, Adam.

9. Pursuing a woman is one thing. Kidnapping seven engaged women and then causing an avalanche to keep them from escaping is...not cool.

10. If you’re confronted about something you need to work on (in Adam’s case, being repeatedly extremely inconsiderate and arrogant), don’t go out into the wilderness and pout about it and then refuse to come home when you find out your wife is pregnant. What’s worse, never a) disbelieve that she had a baby or b) accuse her of having a baby as “just one of her tricks to get me to come back”. Um, I’m pretty sure it’s not all her doing that she’s pregnant, meat head. Oh, and then when you find out she had a girl, don’t be all let down about it as if you’ve been cursed. If only men knew back then that it’s them that determine the gender...

Anyway, I had a good laugh, and I appreciated the creativity in choreography (I mean, a whole musical number with axes is pretty sweet). There are good lessons in this movie is well, so don't come after me about that. This is meant to be tongue-in-cheek.

Grazie!

This post is not addressed to any future husband who may or may not ever come calling, but to the wonderful person/people who gave me the amazing surprise yesterday afternoon of leaving my favorite ice cream on my doorstep.

The day started out horridly for me due to reasons I won’t get into on here, but in the midst of the whirlwind, I received a mysterious phone call from a woman saying she was an “elf” and that I should check outside my front door. Before I could ask who it was, she hung up. Sure enough, outside the front door of Andalasia was a plastic bag containing “Joe’s Italian Bliss”, a heavenly hazelnut ice cream that has since been christened as “Giuseppe” (Giuseppe being the Italian rendering of “Joseph”) and jokingly referred to as my “husband” on this blog. Attached to the top of the ice cream carton was a white post-it-note with the following message:

“Dear G-pers,

God loves you. Phil. 4:19

~ Your blog fan club”

Awww!! How cool is that?!

After quite a bit of detective work, I was able to put some of the puzzle pieces together, but there are still some holes to be filled in. One thing I figured out, however, was that whoever sent me the ice cream a) reads this blog/has read my post on Giuseppe ice cream and b) is friends with me on Facebook as they saw that I was having a bad day via my status, and then sent the ice cream my way.

So, whoever you are, thank you, grazie, spaciba. I hope your identity doesn't always remain mysterious though because you deserve a proper “thank you” in-person. As life would have it, the thing I was mentally spazzing about yesterday turned out to be absolutely nothing, but I still deeply appreciated the ice cream (as did the other Andalasia ladies). Anything with chocolate and hazelnut cures a multitude of ills, even if they turn out to be unfounded, pseudo ills by the end of the day. Your kind and thoughtful gesture definitely did not go unnoticed.

Let's Be Honest

You will earn more points than you can imagine if you can speak Russian, try to speak Russian, slaughter Russian, or acknowledge that the Russian language exists. I realize it’s a tricky language. The alphabet is a train wreck of dyslexic letters (backward N’s, and R’s--neither which make an “N” or “R” sound) and letters that are reminiscent of something found in the Star Tribune’s Cryptoquip word puzzles (C=S, P=R, B=V). It’s a minefield to navigate, and anyone who makes the valiant effort to tame and dismantle it deserves to be commended. The great thing is, once you do learn to read it, everything will basically be spelled the way it sounds (take that, English!!)

Convoluted alphabet aside, the sound to my ears is hard to surpass (except maybe by Ukrainian). Don’t bother trying to sweep me off my feet with silly, French poetry. Pushkin makes French look like unintelligent babble (some people learn Russian just to be able to read Pushkin’s works), and if you bring up that he was killed in a dual with a Frenchman (in efforts to defend his wife’s honor), you will be in the red by a negative five million points and pretty much irredeemable. D’Anthes was a jerk, and Pushkin would not have died of such a wound if he had lived in more modern times, but I digress.

Black belt level: Know more Russian than I do, and use it in conversation. Not that I know tons of Russian by any means, but going beyond basic phrases would be nice. I do realize a guy has to start somewhere though, and seeing that you’re trying to make an effort is wonderful. I do have patience.

Above all, don’t mistakingly think that throwing out random phrases to impress me is going to work. Flattery is shallow. Sure, it may briefly snag my attention, and I’ll appreciate the gesture and may smile kindly in return, but what will really catch my eye is if you love the language/culture/people/history/literature, etc. on it’s own terms. A country of eleven time zones and 1/6th of the world’s land mass is not a pawn in a game to win a gal’s affections. It has to be something that God has put in your heart, something you can’t shake, fathom, or describe. If you like Russia just because you like me, I’ll figure it out pretty fast. If, however, you have a genuine, unquenchable thirst of knowledge and passion for all things of Rus’, I just may be a puddle of goo. This is not a guarantee. My personality does contain more than one dimension, and my areas of interest are pretty broad, so making the effort of getting to know me as an entire person on multiple levels is best. In other words, a lot of other factors need to come into play, but like I said, you’ll have bleeped on the radar. Seeing as though so many people I know jokingly reduce Russians to barbaric, alcoholic, Communists, it is indeed a thing of comfort to find anyone who views them intelligently (let alone has travelled to/wants to travel to Russia) and knows Russians for the depth of inner beauty that they possess.

As I once read somewhere:

"Russia is huge, as are its needs and its glories; it is wild, it is unpredictable, it is passionate, and it is wonderful."

In other words, Russia is an adventure waiting to happen. If I can find someone who’s up for such an adventure (from time to time as money permits ;-)), I’m taking applications.

Embracing the Inner Disney Princess

For my birthday a few weeks ago, I was given not one, but two cards with Disney princesses on them. Both of them played music. I am a 20-something-year-old gal, mind you. Granted, one was picked out by my four-year-old niece who is obsessed with all things Disney princesses, but the other was from my 100% Italian, 5’1, 87-yr.-old Nana. Of course, it was carnation-pink with Cinderella in her blue ball gown flanked on either side by a flippered Ariel and graceful Sleeping Beauty donning a golden crown and off-the-shoulder, pink dress. “For the Birthday Princess” it read in white lettering across the top, my name written in pen below with an arrow swooping down and pointing to Cinderella’s clavicle. Sure, I’ll settle for Cinderella. Ariel was whiny and spoiled, Sleeping Beauty was dim-witted and naive, and let’s face it, unconscious for a good portion of the movie. Cinderella put up with a lot of crap! She’s by far the most realistic. She was down-to-earth, content and humble despite her circumstances and she didn’t throw pity-parties about how her prince hadn’t come yet, nor did she think said prince would solve all her problems. It’s not that she didn’t wish things were different. She was optimistic, but also realistic.

I’ve often wondered what the draw is to these princesses as they often only reinforce unrealistic expectations about beauty, love, marriage, and so many other things. “Every girl can beeee a princess!! Any dream can beeeee!!” the card from my Nana wistfully sang. I guess I must be an odd duck in the sense that I never went through the typical girly princess phase. Although my room growing up did have matching Pepto Bismol pink curtains and bedspread, and pink was hands-down my favorite color in Kindergarten, not much else materialized in that realm. For the most part, I was never one to host tea parties for my Care Bears, nor did I ever want traditional dolls or long to twirl around in poofy skirts just for fun (the exception being when I would get to wear awesome, poofy skirts for dance costumes or dress up in my sister’s old ballet dresses). As far as Disney movies went, my favorites have always been non-princess movies (Pinocchio and Lady and the Tramp). Go figure. In reflecting upon my childhood, I’ve often wondered if my parents’ divorce when I was five had anything to do with the silencing of my inner Snow White. I mean, five-years-old is prime princess phase time. I’ve always had a great, close relationship with my dad, but sometimes I wonder if something subliminal happened at that point. It doesn’t really make sense for a little girl to dream of a prince on a white horse coming to whisk her away in a pretty dress and make everything better when the reality of marriage not always ending in “happily ever after” is staring at her cold in the face.

On the tangent of princesses, I have often seen this sentiment of girly perfection carried over into expectations of Christian women. Just pick up any book on relationships, understanding women (yes, some people attempt such risky endeavors), or look on the nightstand of most female freshman at Northwestern, and you’ll find plenty of kindling on the matter. Yes, men and women are definitely wired differently which is a gift and something I’m thankful for, but I don’t think we should pigeon-hole ourselves into these neat, little categories of “warrior man” and “princess woman”, and I think God’s a bit more creative than that. I mean, it’s ridiculous to expect every man to love deer hunting, American football and fixing cars, but why is it expected that all little girls are the same? I remember reading Captivating a few years back, and it had a lot of truth in it and a lot that I could relate to. At the same time, I look around me, and so often there’s this unspoken impression that I have to be this 1950’s housewife who wants seven children and does all the “right” Christian, womanly duties to be considered Godly.

Let me just add here that I do acknowledge the generalizations made in such books as Wild at Heart and Captivating. Men, regardless of interests or pastimes, do enjoy a good adventure and pursuit and women do have an inward wiring for romance and being pursued. I’m just saying that how that will be expressed from man-to-man or woman-to-woman will vary.

With that said, I’m not a 21st-century Betty Crocker. I don’t particularly like cooking, nor do I find emotional satiety in baking. I hated sewing class in 8th grade. I wear skirts and dresses only when mandated (weddings and the like) although that is slowly changing. I recently wore a skirt every day for a week, and I’ll admit that I was a little sad when I wore jeans again. I’m definitely not a tomboy, though. I grew up loving My Little Ponies and Rainbow Brite, and I took dance classes (including ballet) for 10 years. I am terrified of creepy-crawly bugs, I own a jewelry box along with soft purple sweaters, and I do enjoy an occasional chick-flick surrounded by my close friends and good chocolate.

So here’s where I wonder (rhetorically)...Do I have to fit some unattainable, cookie-cutter, model of what it means to be a Christian woman? Am I supposed to embrace this “inner Disney princess” that I’m pretty sure has gone on a 20-year wild goose chase? Do I have to be so sweet 24/7 that I ooze pixie sticks out my pores? Does hospitality have to be my highest score on a spiritual gifts inventory test? Despite the fact that I’m wired pretty strongly as a reflective and reserved introvert, sometimes I ponder if you’ll still consider me lovely and beautiful if I’m witty and sarcastic at times or if you’ll think me unladylike if I jump up and down and yell at the screen like a maniac when the Vikings are on. Will you think I’m a weirdo if I insert random, Russian words into everyday conversation? I say I ask these things rhetorically because I know deep down that it’s ridiculous to think I have to compromise who I am or be someone I’m not to be accepted by others. After all, haven’t we been spoon-fed this stuff from Mr. Rogers since we were pre-schoolers?

In closing, (I know, you’re asking “IS there an end to this post?) I once read a piece of flair on a friend’s Facebook page that said, “All I want is a guy who knows my flaws and struggles that come with loving me and still thinks I’m worth the trouble!” I think a lot of women would agree with this, and I’d expect a lot of guys would say the same in what they’re looking for in a woman. Nobody wants to be put in compartmentalized boxes of expectations but to be accepted for who they are, warts and all. As I’ve heard it said, “What else do we want, each one of us, except to love and be loved?” Whoever you are, future husband, I want you to know that I have more than my fair share of quirks, flaws and struggles. I’m a work in progress, and after living with 31 people over the last seven years, I’m convinced everyone, even those who would love to don a paper mask that they have it all together, have their own issues and emotional baggage to claim. The last thing I want you to feel is that you have to be this unrealistic knight in shining armor on a white horse. Have a goofy sense of humor, embrace your inner Star Trek junkie, have a never-ending quest of finding the perfect Swedish cuisine to be shared by candlelight (as long as it’s not lutefisk). It doesn’t really matter. Let’s just be human and do this crazy thing called “life” together because living like gender textbook robots and greeting card princesses whisks all the fun out of life.

Of Spiders and Damsels in Distress

Dear Man of Mystery,

I really could have used your assistance last night when I encountered a ginormous spider in a bedroom. It was trying to be sneaky and hide in the shadow on the edge of the carpet and hug the baseboard. Alas, it was no match for my eagle eye, which is always on the paranoid lookout for creepy crawlies (yet another reason why I dislike summer--apparently, bugs like air conditioning, too). Maybe I should just marry an Orkin Man. I hear they bring in the big bucks.

At any rate, I occasionally have moments of bravery where I can kill things, so I took the chance that this might be one of those windows of grace where God decides to help me control the pest population. I grabbed a shoe, and sure enough, it was on the move almost immediately. I guess his spidey senses told him death was hovering with his ominous, black hood and wielding his sickle of justice. I have a piece of flair on Facebook for good reason that says, "I'm paranoid because the spider I just saw five seconds ago isn't there anymore."

Sure enough, the little cretin outsmarted me by wiggling his way into a rather large crack in the wall of the neighboring bathroom. It didn't even move that fast. I totally could've gotten it, but I froze and decided to yell instead. So much for bravery.

I'll admit, I then stared at a crack in the wall for a good 20 minutes during most of the length of the 10:00 newscast being broadcast from the living room. Thus, I waited simultaneously sitting on the edge of the bathtub with a big, clompy shoe on one foot while being informed on current events. Then, somewhere during the sports report, I got a genius idea. Hark! A large, orange spray bottle sat on the bathroom vanity! I could still see where the spider was in the crack of the wall by the floor. Perhaps if I just sprayed the crack, it would coax the little demon out and I could clobber it with my shoe!

I filled up the bottle and tested it out. The water jet was like a lazar and not all fanned out like some spray bottles, and the distance it could shoot was impressive. I therefore could keep my distance from the beast. Sure enough, with one squirt, the spider zipped out into the open, froze in place, and *whomp* it was reduced to a greasy spot on my shoe. Victory!!

By no means does this mean you're not needed, dear future husband. I could have gotten back those precious 20 minutes of life if you had swooped in and killed the darn thing in the first place. I mean, men love to feel needed and like they can fix and rescue things, right? Well, I can't imagine anything more heroic than saving a gal from something with fangs and eight legs. Ok, so I can think of a few more things that are more heroic, but this would be a good place to start. I hear Kohls is having a sale on capes. Don't bother on the spandex.

Giuseppe

Giuseppe,

I met you, as so many people meet their husbands, through a friend. In fact, it was in the very cliché location of a grocery store. It’s not all bad. I’m an old-fashioned kinda gal. The moment I saw you, I gasped, my heart fluttered...I just knew it was love at first sight.

I never thought I’d meet a man like you in America. I’ve caught glimpses of you in my wanderlust European travels...Belarus, Ukraine, Russia...even in exotic Turkey which I later found out was your country of origin.

Where have you been all my life, Giuseppe? (I should add here that “Giuseppe” is Italian for “Joseph”.) You are pure, Italian bliss. It said so right on your carton.

Yep. Carton.

Ok, time for a confession. Giuseppe, my husband, is really Stoneridge Creamery’s “Joe’s Italian Bliss”. It’s “hazelnut-flavored ice cream with ribbons of hazelnut fudge and chocolatey chips”. It was love at first bite. I almost spewed expletives because it was so amazing. I’ve never had an ice cream encounter like that. Being the lady that I am though, I settled for huddling on the ground in the kitchen and giggling like a school girl. Just ask my housemates.

Sadly, it looks like the girls loved Giuseppe, too. Twenty-four hours later and he’s been devoured in love. Don’t worry honey, I’ll come for you later. We’ll have a romantic rendezvous at Cub sometime soon before the weather turns too cold. Then we’ll just hafta settle for a long-distance relationship until next summer. In the meantime, I’ll take up therapy and maybe knitting.

So, dear future husband. There seems to be a nasty love triangle. You may have to arm wrestle Giuseppe to win my affections, but he can’t even last 24 hours in a house of lovely women. He’s a pushover. Only real men need apply.

~G

Footnotes:

1. Hazelnut-flavored things are much more popular in Europe than here.
2. Turkey is the largest producer of hazelnuts.
3. Giuseppe is pronounced “Joo-SEPPY”. You’re welcome.