Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Sisters from another mother
Through Facebook, I renewed friendships with women that I had known for over 30 years at a time in my life that I had never been lower. I was planning our high school reunion and used FB as a tool to keep classmates up to date on events planned for the weekend. The reunion was planned for October 2009. By then there was a core group of us that communicated regularly. Some of us had been closer than others of us throughout life, and I had not been in touch with any of them over the past 30 years, but as a group we struck up a friendship. It was a throwback to high school - funny, giggly, silly but also filled with wisdom, compassion and grown-up women issues of family, love and life.
In March, the reunion planning committee arranged a mini-reunion at a local restaurant/bar near our hometown. Five of “the girls” (as we dubbed ourselves) showed. Pam, Erin, DeeDee, Drury and Laura. We moved from our Facebook friendship to something real that night. Erin and her husband Jim owned a house on a lake in North Carolina. She invited us all, including another classmate, Kelley, to come that summer for a ladies weekend at the lake. Miracle of miracles, we found a weekend that worked for us all. I hadn’t been working but was lucky enough to have FF miles to use. And so it was that the end of July, I boarded a flight to Charlotte.
Aside from the mini-reunion, I hadn’t seen Erin in 30 years. We weren’t particularly close in high school - we rode the same bus our senior year and always sat next to each other and I always liked her but we ran in different groups. Upon my arrival, I went outside to meet her - she drove up to the baggage claim in her mini-van and when she got out of the car, I knew her immediately. She was as beautiful as I remembered, her smile was big and lit up her face. We threw my suitcase in the car (Full disclosure - suitcases, plural! I admit that I ridiculously overpacked for a long weekend at the lake where all I needed was my bathing suit, shorts, t-shirts and flipflops) and we we off!
The lake house was about 90 miles from the airport. I remember the conversation like it was yesterday. We talked about life and love - the men in our lives. It would be the theme of the weekend. I shared with her the story of Charles’ illness and death from cancer and all the accompanying drama fostered by his ex-wife and the “prayer circle”. She talked about her failed first marriage and we shared our individual dating nightmares - most of mine from online - she got lucky, she married her first online date and what would be the love of her life - Jim - end of story. Really, how does that happen?!
We drove up to her house in the middle of God knows where - I’m a city girl, for heaven’s sake - when I got out of the car, all I could hear were crickets. Thousands of them singing; a concerto of welcome. It was loud and musical and yet calming and you could hear the quiet beauty of the lake underneath the song. We ate potato salad, chicken salad and pasta salad that night. We sat in the living room and I met Jim and we watched TV and I remember laughing at how many used car commercials we saw. Later I got a tour of the dock. A gorgeous bar with hammered aluminum, festive lights strung across; music hooked up, chairs, couches, a porch swing and the lake shining in the moonlight. Behind me were steps up to the house. Erin and I sat on the screened-in porch later and talked some more. The crickets chimed in their opinion of our thoughts. Happily tired, I retired to the guest room and claimed a top bunk on one of the two bunkbeds in the room.
The next day the rest of the crew arrived - DeeDee - senior superlative winner of “best dressed” and “most talkative” as voted by her classmates, a fellow Drill Team member; Drury - beautiful, tiny, wisecracking Drury - the end of the Drill Team line; Laura, thin, lovely wisp of a woman aka the “saucy minx” - the center of the Drill Team line; Kelley - loving, centered, athletic; and me - damaged but authentic, funny - center left on the Drill Team line. Six women (and Jim) about to embark on a weekend of water, wine and whatever else was in store for us.
Everyone brought something. The cars were loaded with food and liquor. Cookies with mini Reese’s cups baked into them. Turtle Chex mix that I became instantly addicted to. Salads, chocolate. Wine, Tanqueray, and beer. Bottled water and diet coke for me. I love when women get together and eat, really eat! We do, you know. We graze through it all. No thoughts or care to our waistline or who is watching or what anyone else thinks. We fed more than our bellies that weekend. We fed our souls. We ate unabashedly.
And the lake! The joys of the lake! The pontoon boat, Captain Jim and his first mate, Miss Belle, their little dog that was without a doubt the belle of the ball - she sat in the co-skippers chair or marched up and down the length of the boat ensuring that we all knew who the alpha female was in this group! There was a thunderstorm on Friday night. We took a sunset/rain cruise. The sky was blackening with streaks and pockets of orange, magenta, red and pink. Stars peeked in and out from behind the dark clouds and nightfall. We marveled at the beauty and talked together or in little huddles of girls depending on where we sat on the boat or who we were next to. We were in sweatshirts and shorts, our hair unstyled and dried with lakewater in it. No makeup. No purses. Our smiles the only accessories we wore.
We jet skied that weekend, Jim the master of making all water sports fun, scary and exhilarating, threw us back into our teenaged selves. We were all 16 years old again - squealing, laughing and screeching! A few of us were brave enough to ride a huge tube behind the boat and held on for dear life as Jim made it his mission to terrorize us into peals of laughter. DeeDee flew off the tube and hit her mouth on Drury’s head. On my turn, after hitting huge waves in the wake and bumping along at what felt like 100 miles an hour, I flew off backwards and as I slammed into the water, my bikini bottoms were ripped from my body; an upturned foot is all that kept the girls from having to haul my nude lower half back onto the boat (Thanks, God!).
We floated around the dock, paddling ridiculous rafts and tubes attached together in a line by hooking our feet over the edge of someone else’s float. Laura manned the chain of silly girls about the lake with an unwieldy kayak oar. Drinks were spilled. One of us (okay, me) decided that it was perfectly logical to step 2 plus feet from the dock’s edge into a rubber raft. The ensuing spill into the lake was worthy of a America’s Home Video grand prize. Too bad we didn’t capture it on film. But it is all memorialized in my head. Sitting on the dock in our pj’s every morning talking and drinking coffee. The shrimp boil. The “drunk dial” aka “DD” calls to the boys we liked in high school. Sleeping in bunk beds in one room. Laughing at our pictures in the yearbooks from high school. Wondering where our other classmates had disappeared to. Discussing the merit of any hairstyle that included “wings”. Who we kissed. Who we wanted to kiss. Who we would secretly kiss today. Trying on each others clothes. What would we wear to the reunion? And always the silliness and the giggling.
The giggling was the signpost marking the weekend I turned the corner in my healing. I was loved, safe and secure. I was surrounded by a group of remarkable women who had each shouldered life’s burdens with grace and dignity. These were women with children at home now - the same age we were when we met. It didn’t seem possible that so much time had gone by - thirty years and still we were still the same girls inside but happier, braver, more loving and infinitely wiser and kinder. I felt the barrier I had put up against the pain of my life of the last five years break that weekend. Surely as the pain, rage and fear bound me to the darkness, the weekend on the lake baptized me into my new life. If I had been dressed in white and dunked in the water on the banks of the lake, I could not have been more reborn than I was that weekend. I hope that these beautiful women know what they gave me that first weekend in August, what they brought me, how they helped me to let go of the past and trust in the love that only women can give each other. I love you, ladies.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Saturday, October 8, 2011
A Weighty Matter - Manufactured Beauty - Part 2
When I think about the last 30 years of my life and how much of it I spent worrying about my weight or how I looked, I realize that it was almost all time wasted. My battle with my body was a war that occurred on the front lines of my daily life and also as an ever-present undercurrent of my inner life. We are told in a thousand different ways through the bombardment of media and entertainment that in order to be beautiful we must strive to be anorexically thin. I am somewhat grateful that the Super Models of my youth - Christie Brinkley, Rachel Hunter, Kim Alexis, Carol Alt and Cheryl Tiegs - they each projected an image of beauty, strength and health and had what seemed to be, at the time, reasonably attainable figures. Those days are long gone - the image projected by today's models is excruciatingly thin and impossible for most women to even attain - and we won't even talk about the airbrushing that is standard in the industry today.
I lived in Los Angeles for 20 years where the obsession with beauty and weight is legendary. I remember talking to a friend once who had lunch with a famous socialite/actress. The woman was incredibly thin - my friend said that when she ordered her lunch she asked for a grilled piece of fish, no butter or sauce, no more than 4 ounces to be brought out with a cup of steamed, fresh veggies. That was her lunch. She had ordered the same thing at lunch to be polite and couldn't believe how little food it was. She wanted a piece of bread but her lunch guest had banished the customary bread basket from the table. My friend left the lunch starving and grabbed something else to eat when she got home. I recently read an interview with the beautiful and hugely talented actress Julianne Moore where she said she was always hungry - morning, noon and night but that the Hollywood obsession that actresses represent a certain size and thinness didn't allow her to eat very much...I can't imagine always being hungry by choice.
Once I was in line behind Renee Zellweger at Williams Sonoma in Beverly Hills. She was the tiniest thing I ever saw - she probably came up to right underneath my breasts and her thigh looked to be as big around as my upper arm. I am dead serious. I felt like a behemoth. Most actors are notoriously small but look much bigger and taller on film. Tom Cruise is 5'7" tall and towered over Zellweger in Jerry Maguire - I don't know why I was so surprised at what a small woman she is. The same with Eva Longoria of Desperate Housewives fame. She was on a soap I used to watch before becoming famous, and I saw her at Disneyland. She is so petite and thin it's shocking in person. Neither woman represent any version of beauty that I could ever attain given our genetic differences.
I saw Cheryl Tiegs in Ralph's grocery store in LA a few years ago. She looked terrible, she was losing her battle against the aging process. Too much work and injectables can actually give you the opposite effect of what you are going for. She was 60 trying to look 30 and looked exactly what you think 60 trying to look 30 looks like. She had much too much work done and it wasn't sitting well on her face. Also, she had become so thin, she looked horribly ill. Her wonderful, curvy figure was totally gone and all that was left was a brittle, thin shell.
The other problem with this bullshit image of beauty that we are fed is that these women have spent thousands, if not tens of thousands, of dollars on attaining this unattainable image of beauty. They starve themselves and then because they are too thin and have lost all their body fat, they have no boobs...so they get implants. They botox, inject, liposuction, nip and tuck themselves into Barbie doll perfection.
I had a friend in sobriety who had a nosejob, eye lift, breast implants - then bigger breast implants - and then had those taken out and had smaller implants put in (she was tired of not being able to button her blouses or having to buy them in a larger size and have them taken in at the torso and waist); lip implants, lipo on belly, arms, knees, back, butt; tummy tuck, facelift, a second eye job, veneers, hair extensions and also managed to get her 5'9" frame down over 50 lbs to somewhere around 112-115 pounds via lots of juicing and protein shakes and veggie soups with negative calorie count. She was horribly thin but when I mentioned my concerns, she told me she was in perfect health, worked out everyday and knew what she was doing - but I thought she looked anorexic - from behind I could see the outline of her pelvic girdle, not a pretty sight. But she was thin, by God and in LA, that's gold. People coo over you when you are that thin. All the women want to know how you did it. What's your secret? Once we were out to breakfast in Brentwood and the waiter inquired as to whether my 45 year old friend was a "starlet" - she looked so familiar. She giggled and batted her eyelashes at him - that compliment made her day. I didn't even know there were such things as "starlets" anymore. She died of pneumonia 3 years ago. I think she got so thin and had so many surgeries that when she got so sick, she had nothing to fight it with. Her maid found her dead on her kitchen floor one morning shortly before her 50th birthday. She was a hugely successful, self-made businesswoman, funny, smart, irreverent and gorgeous - even before all her "work". She became obsessed with perfection, literally rebuilt herself from the ground up in some false image of beauty and I think it killed her.
You see all these (aging) actresses who claim to get lots of sleep, eat well, exercise and take supplements and that's why and how they look so good/young. It's all bullshit, people! They've all had work. They all have botox and filler....you can't get into your 40's without a wrinkle and certainly cannot be striding towards fifty with a smooth face, full lips, firm breasts and wide eyes without a lot of help. To be clear, I don't care what they've done - it's their business, their body - but to try to make the rest of us think that they are circumventing the aging process through common sense alone should be offensive to all women who are fighting their own battle against Father Time. (Notice how Time is represented as a man? What's that about?)
How do I know this? Through my *own* common sense and my (some of them costly) attempts in my quest for a semblance of external beauty and also to slow the aging process....
Part three of this series will bring the focus back to me and my struggle to discover what truly makes me beautiful. Full disclosure ahead - the good, the bad and the ugly! ;)
Pax
I lived in Los Angeles for 20 years where the obsession with beauty and weight is legendary. I remember talking to a friend once who had lunch with a famous socialite/actress. The woman was incredibly thin - my friend said that when she ordered her lunch she asked for a grilled piece of fish, no butter or sauce, no more than 4 ounces to be brought out with a cup of steamed, fresh veggies. That was her lunch. She had ordered the same thing at lunch to be polite and couldn't believe how little food it was. She wanted a piece of bread but her lunch guest had banished the customary bread basket from the table. My friend left the lunch starving and grabbed something else to eat when she got home. I recently read an interview with the beautiful and hugely talented actress Julianne Moore where she said she was always hungry - morning, noon and night but that the Hollywood obsession that actresses represent a certain size and thinness didn't allow her to eat very much...I can't imagine always being hungry by choice.
Once I was in line behind Renee Zellweger at Williams Sonoma in Beverly Hills. She was the tiniest thing I ever saw - she probably came up to right underneath my breasts and her thigh looked to be as big around as my upper arm. I am dead serious. I felt like a behemoth. Most actors are notoriously small but look much bigger and taller on film. Tom Cruise is 5'7" tall and towered over Zellweger in Jerry Maguire - I don't know why I was so surprised at what a small woman she is. The same with Eva Longoria of Desperate Housewives fame. She was on a soap I used to watch before becoming famous, and I saw her at Disneyland. She is so petite and thin it's shocking in person. Neither woman represent any version of beauty that I could ever attain given our genetic differences.
I saw Cheryl Tiegs in Ralph's grocery store in LA a few years ago. She looked terrible, she was losing her battle against the aging process. Too much work and injectables can actually give you the opposite effect of what you are going for. She was 60 trying to look 30 and looked exactly what you think 60 trying to look 30 looks like. She had much too much work done and it wasn't sitting well on her face. Also, she had become so thin, she looked horribly ill. Her wonderful, curvy figure was totally gone and all that was left was a brittle, thin shell.
The other problem with this bullshit image of beauty that we are fed is that these women have spent thousands, if not tens of thousands, of dollars on attaining this unattainable image of beauty. They starve themselves and then because they are too thin and have lost all their body fat, they have no boobs...so they get implants. They botox, inject, liposuction, nip and tuck themselves into Barbie doll perfection.
I had a friend in sobriety who had a nosejob, eye lift, breast implants - then bigger breast implants - and then had those taken out and had smaller implants put in (she was tired of not being able to button her blouses or having to buy them in a larger size and have them taken in at the torso and waist); lip implants, lipo on belly, arms, knees, back, butt; tummy tuck, facelift, a second eye job, veneers, hair extensions and also managed to get her 5'9" frame down over 50 lbs to somewhere around 112-115 pounds via lots of juicing and protein shakes and veggie soups with negative calorie count. She was horribly thin but when I mentioned my concerns, she told me she was in perfect health, worked out everyday and knew what she was doing - but I thought she looked anorexic - from behind I could see the outline of her pelvic girdle, not a pretty sight. But she was thin, by God and in LA, that's gold. People coo over you when you are that thin. All the women want to know how you did it. What's your secret? Once we were out to breakfast in Brentwood and the waiter inquired as to whether my 45 year old friend was a "starlet" - she looked so familiar. She giggled and batted her eyelashes at him - that compliment made her day. I didn't even know there were such things as "starlets" anymore. She died of pneumonia 3 years ago. I think she got so thin and had so many surgeries that when she got so sick, she had nothing to fight it with. Her maid found her dead on her kitchen floor one morning shortly before her 50th birthday. She was a hugely successful, self-made businesswoman, funny, smart, irreverent and gorgeous - even before all her "work". She became obsessed with perfection, literally rebuilt herself from the ground up in some false image of beauty and I think it killed her.
You see all these (aging) actresses who claim to get lots of sleep, eat well, exercise and take supplements and that's why and how they look so good/young. It's all bullshit, people! They've all had work. They all have botox and filler....you can't get into your 40's without a wrinkle and certainly cannot be striding towards fifty with a smooth face, full lips, firm breasts and wide eyes without a lot of help. To be clear, I don't care what they've done - it's their business, their body - but to try to make the rest of us think that they are circumventing the aging process through common sense alone should be offensive to all women who are fighting their own battle against Father Time. (Notice how Time is represented as a man? What's that about?)
How do I know this? Through my *own* common sense and my (some of them costly) attempts in my quest for a semblance of external beauty and also to slow the aging process....
Part three of this series will bring the focus back to me and my struggle to discover what truly makes me beautiful. Full disclosure ahead - the good, the bad and the ugly! ;)
Pax
Friday, October 7, 2011
A Weighty Matter - Go Figure - Part 1
I can't remember a day since my mid-teens when I wasn't worried about the weight or size or shape of my body. Prepubescent, I had that awkward pre-teen girl's body - a kind of lumpy roundness that almost looked fat. My mother Penny was on a diet her entire adult life. Always. On. A. Diet. She gave birth to me when she was 21 and then in rapid succession had two more children so that by the time she was 24, she was a mother of three and diagnosed with diabetes. She never got rid of the baby weight in between pregnancies and she "lost her figure", as the old saying goes.
When I was six, my dad sent Penny to her first "Fat Farm" (as my dad called it) at Duke University Medical Center. She packed up and was gone for two or three months. A wonderful, elderly woman, Mrs. Freeland, came to live with us. She took care of me and my sisters, my dad worked while my mom was in search of her health and her figure. From what I remember and the stories I heard and pictures I saw, the fat farm seemed to be more a huge party than anything else. The diet was better known as the Duke University Rice Diet. You were fed a couple of cups of white rice each day with a few veggies and fruit thrown in for color and the doctors made you walk everywhere.
Once, my sisters and went to spend a weekend with my mom at the Fat Farm. All the "patients" stayed in a motel near the medical center. I remember a big kidney-shaped swimming pool, a whole bunch of poolside drinking with Johnny Mathis playing on the record player or radio incessantly - it all felt very glamorous - to this day, my sisters and I still have a fondness for Johnny Mathis. Lorne Greene, of Bonanza fame, was at the fat farm too and he and my mom became friends. I still have an autographed photo of Lorne with a lovely note to me and a 45 record of one of his hit singles - who knew Lorne had a singing career? Make your own judgements, people! Every day, the patients would walk to the "Rice House", eat their rice breakfast, walk home, walk back, eat lunch rice, walk back to the motel, walk back to the Rice House, eat rice dinner, walk back and proceed to spend the rest of the night playing duplicate bridge and drinking. I have deduced the only reason they lost any weight at all was all the walking and the starvation diet they were on. I think my mom and the other "patients" stayed smashed for three months.
My mom made the front page of the Durham newspaper once. She sent us a copy. She was beautiful in the photo - she had lost a lot of weight and it must have been autumn - she was dressed in a long, dark purple leather trench coat that belted at the waist, she had on matching sunglasses with dark purple frame and lenses, her hair was done up with a "fall" and she was wearing uber-cool boots. That outfit would be hip today and I'd give anything for that leather coat. Using her as the Rice Dietfat farm model of success, the article went into the details of her daily regimen - the walking, the food, the top notch medical care. The article mentioned nothing about the copious amounts of vodka and grapefruits consumed by the pool. Alcohol consumption be damned, she still came home three months later slim, gorgeous and rested.
But not happy. Never really happy. The closest representation of my mother I can come up with in pop culture is Betty Draper from Mad Men - in a bad marriage, seethingly unhappy, perpetually discontent, patently selfish and always looking for something more. She was stuck in that time before women were allowed to have different choices or roles and she resented it. In due course, the weight returned and she returned to the fat farm the following year. It became our little dysfunctional family ritual for about three years.
We called it the "fat farm" because that's what my dad called it. It was a colloquialism that wasn't considered offensive at the time, but I still felt some shame - I don't recall telling anyone that my mother was at the quote-unquote fat farm. In fact, I don't remember ever telling anyone that she was gone. We all just pretended that this was a normal thing that all families do. I learned to keep secrets at a very young age.
My mother's battle with her weight never ended. Her diets were insane. It was usually something really horrible like 2 cooked hot dogs, no buns and sliced tomatoes or cottage cheese. I don't know why she ate those particular foods, even today it's horrible to remember. But along with the hot dogs were the vodka grapefruits and they must have madeher life the diet tolerable. There I was, a mother in and out of the fat farm and a father who was sure to let you know if he thought you had gained even the tiniest amount of weight. You can see where this is going, right? I remember my first diet was my junior year of high school. I don't know why I decided I was fat. I was 5'8" and 132 pounds. I was athletic and fit but when I looked in the mirror I didn't see that. I saw FAT. I went down to 125 pretty quickly by basically starving myself and in retrospect, I think it was more about the discipline - that I could do it if I chose to and that there was at least one thing in my life I could control.
When I arrived at Southwest Texas State University, I tried out for the dance team - the Strutters. One of the first things you had to do at tryouts was get on a scale and be weighed in front of all the other girls. By then, I was almost 5'9". In front of 100 girls, none of whom I knew (I was a Virginia transplant, remember) I stepped on the scale. The scale read 142 - a not unreasonable weight for someone of my height and bone structure. I'd bet dimes to dollars that my body far was pretty low back then. Ms. Tidwell, our director, announced my weight to all the world, as she had every other girl's, and commanded that I be down to 132 by the time two-a-days were done. (Yes, like the football teams, the Strutters had their own two-a-days.) Thus began my first truly bad dieting experience. For the next two weeks, I ate one small meal each day and took 4-6 ExLax every night before bed. It was horrible and without going into detail - use your imagination - I was under 130 at the end of that two week period. It was an almost impossible weight for me to maintain, and I lived in fear of that damn scale - we weighed in every Friday before game day and if we were over our directed weight, we couldn't dance.
The thought that I wasn't thin enough coupled with the "stranger in strange land" mentality, decimated my self-confidence. Being from Northern Virginia, I stuck out like a sore thumb in Texas. I didn't know how to do my makeup or hair - it seemed to me that the other girls were successful beauty contest contestants and knew all the secrets - and they weren't sharing. They each were perfectly groomed and coiffed and they seemed to know each other regardless of their age or class. Unfortunately for me, I arrived on campus in a pink metallic Cadillac Seville that my dad gave me stuffed with a wardrobe from Neiman Marcus and Saks. They probably thought I was a pretentious Yankee and I was so shy and uncertain in this new world that I isolated. I didn't have one friend on the dance team except my "big sister" but for reasons not important here, she was gone from school most of the year - so I was basically alone. My dance mates shunned me and it was crushing. I didn't understand Texas and I understood this group of girls even less. I was an 18 year old pariah. My dancing career was doomed and the next year, I would not be a Strutter. But by then, I had made friends, wonderful friends - women who are still in my life today.
In my junior year, I went from my dancing weight of 130 to 155. I felt terribly fat. My roommate Alisa and I joined a gym. We were going to Puerto Vallarta for spring break and wanted to be thin. Alisa brought home a new, amazing diet book - The Beverly Hills Diet by Judy Mazel and that diet rocked our world. For the first ten days we ate pineapple, mango and papaya - that's it, I think. A potato thrown in here and there. Corn on the cob once in a while. A banana before bed. It was all about food "grouping". No laxatives needed on this diet, trust me! Alisa and I went from skinny bitches to super skinny bitches. I wore a green knit string bikini in Puerto Vallarta - Alisa and I still talk about that bikini - but the overwhelming feeling I had on that trip was one of being uncomfortable in my body and still feeling fat. This is how I felt at the thinnest, fittest time of my life. It was the beginning of yo-yo dieting for me.
I was twenty years old and doing my own version of Penny's "fat farm" without even realizing it.
To be continued......
When I was six, my dad sent Penny to her first "Fat Farm" (as my dad called it) at Duke University Medical Center. She packed up and was gone for two or three months. A wonderful, elderly woman, Mrs. Freeland, came to live with us. She took care of me and my sisters, my dad worked while my mom was in search of her health and her figure. From what I remember and the stories I heard and pictures I saw, the fat farm seemed to be more a huge party than anything else. The diet was better known as the Duke University Rice Diet. You were fed a couple of cups of white rice each day with a few veggies and fruit thrown in for color and the doctors made you walk everywhere.
Once, my sisters and went to spend a weekend with my mom at the Fat Farm. All the "patients" stayed in a motel near the medical center. I remember a big kidney-shaped swimming pool, a whole bunch of poolside drinking with Johnny Mathis playing on the record player or radio incessantly - it all felt very glamorous - to this day, my sisters and I still have a fondness for Johnny Mathis. Lorne Greene, of Bonanza fame, was at the fat farm too and he and my mom became friends. I still have an autographed photo of Lorne with a lovely note to me and a 45 record of one of his hit singles - who knew Lorne had a singing career? Make your own judgements, people! Every day, the patients would walk to the "Rice House", eat their rice breakfast, walk home, walk back, eat lunch rice, walk back to the motel, walk back to the Rice House, eat rice dinner, walk back and proceed to spend the rest of the night playing duplicate bridge and drinking. I have deduced the only reason they lost any weight at all was all the walking and the starvation diet they were on. I think my mom and the other "patients" stayed smashed for three months.
My mom made the front page of the Durham newspaper once. She sent us a copy. She was beautiful in the photo - she had lost a lot of weight and it must have been autumn - she was dressed in a long, dark purple leather trench coat that belted at the waist, she had on matching sunglasses with dark purple frame and lenses, her hair was done up with a "fall" and she was wearing uber-cool boots. That outfit would be hip today and I'd give anything for that leather coat. Using her as the Rice Diet
But not happy. Never really happy. The closest representation of my mother I can come up with in pop culture is Betty Draper from Mad Men - in a bad marriage, seethingly unhappy, perpetually discontent, patently selfish and always looking for something more. She was stuck in that time before women were allowed to have different choices or roles and she resented it. In due course, the weight returned and she returned to the fat farm the following year. It became our little dysfunctional family ritual for about three years.
We called it the "fat farm" because that's what my dad called it. It was a colloquialism that wasn't considered offensive at the time, but I still felt some shame - I don't recall telling anyone that my mother was at the quote-unquote fat farm. In fact, I don't remember ever telling anyone that she was gone. We all just pretended that this was a normal thing that all families do. I learned to keep secrets at a very young age.
My mother's battle with her weight never ended. Her diets were insane. It was usually something really horrible like 2 cooked hot dogs, no buns and sliced tomatoes or cottage cheese. I don't know why she ate those particular foods, even today it's horrible to remember. But along with the hot dogs were the vodka grapefruits and they must have made
When I arrived at Southwest Texas State University, I tried out for the dance team - the Strutters. One of the first things you had to do at tryouts was get on a scale and be weighed in front of all the other girls. By then, I was almost 5'9". In front of 100 girls, none of whom I knew (I was a Virginia transplant, remember) I stepped on the scale. The scale read 142 - a not unreasonable weight for someone of my height and bone structure. I'd bet dimes to dollars that my body far was pretty low back then. Ms. Tidwell, our director, announced my weight to all the world, as she had every other girl's, and commanded that I be down to 132 by the time two-a-days were done. (Yes, like the football teams, the Strutters had their own two-a-days.) Thus began my first truly bad dieting experience. For the next two weeks, I ate one small meal each day and took 4-6 ExLax every night before bed. It was horrible and without going into detail - use your imagination - I was under 130 at the end of that two week period. It was an almost impossible weight for me to maintain, and I lived in fear of that damn scale - we weighed in every Friday before game day and if we were over our directed weight, we couldn't dance.
The thought that I wasn't thin enough coupled with the "stranger in strange land" mentality, decimated my self-confidence. Being from Northern Virginia, I stuck out like a sore thumb in Texas. I didn't know how to do my makeup or hair - it seemed to me that the other girls were successful beauty contest contestants and knew all the secrets - and they weren't sharing. They each were perfectly groomed and coiffed and they seemed to know each other regardless of their age or class. Unfortunately for me, I arrived on campus in a pink metallic Cadillac Seville that my dad gave me stuffed with a wardrobe from Neiman Marcus and Saks. They probably thought I was a pretentious Yankee and I was so shy and uncertain in this new world that I isolated. I didn't have one friend on the dance team except my "big sister" but for reasons not important here, she was gone from school most of the year - so I was basically alone. My dance mates shunned me and it was crushing. I didn't understand Texas and I understood this group of girls even less. I was an 18 year old pariah. My dancing career was doomed and the next year, I would not be a Strutter. But by then, I had made friends, wonderful friends - women who are still in my life today.
In my junior year, I went from my dancing weight of 130 to 155. I felt terribly fat. My roommate Alisa and I joined a gym. We were going to Puerto Vallarta for spring break and wanted to be thin. Alisa brought home a new, amazing diet book - The Beverly Hills Diet by Judy Mazel and that diet rocked our world. For the first ten days we ate pineapple, mango and papaya - that's it, I think. A potato thrown in here and there. Corn on the cob once in a while. A banana before bed. It was all about food "grouping". No laxatives needed on this diet, trust me! Alisa and I went from skinny bitches to super skinny bitches. I wore a green knit string bikini in Puerto Vallarta - Alisa and I still talk about that bikini - but the overwhelming feeling I had on that trip was one of being uncomfortable in my body and still feeling fat. This is how I felt at the thinnest, fittest time of my life. It was the beginning of yo-yo dieting for me.
I was twenty years old and doing my own version of Penny's "fat farm" without even realizing it.
To be continued......
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Eye of the Beholder
I am enamored of the Hipstamatic camera app on my iPhone. The original Hipstamatic was a camera invented by two guys in the early 80s who wanted to create a cheaper camera for the masses, so they created one in which all the parts were made of plastic (good for the masses, not so good for the environment.) Anyway, different combinations of film, lenses and flash were used with the end result being an old-timey feeling or otherworldly photos. You never knew what you would get when you took a picture and the iPhone app manages to capture that and in many cases, the results are breathtaking.
I am drawn to these photos because to me, they are a reflection of a fantasy world. The vibrant blues, greens and yellows enhance the reality of what you actually see in the viewfinder. The resulting photos spark my imagination and to be honest, offer an escape from a sometimes overwhelming reality. The lines are softer, gentler and the beauty of the moment captured by the lens is almost stark.
As a child, I escaped into alternate realities. My first and enduring escape (and love) are books. I think I have always known how to read and I was a voracious reader. Several times a week, I walked to the library in Lake Anne and spent hours in its aisles. The library was tiny, but to me it was a whole other universe. In that library I discovered Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House books, Nancy Drew, CS Lewis's Chronicle of Narnia, JRR Tolkien's The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, Agatha Christie, Perry Mason, Jane Eyre, Rebecca, Anne of Green Gables, Charles Dickens, The Grimm Brother's fairy tales and fables, Robinson Crusoe, Cherry Adams RN - the list goes on and on. I would load up as many books as I could carry and I am sure the librarian smiled proudly as I trudged home with a stack of books I could barely see over.
Reading was my first addiction and like alcohol would later, took me away from the reality of my childhood. If was a refuge from the chaos of living with my mother. When I read, I was somewhere else, I was some-one else. I could shut the world out with my nose in a book. I was safe and no one could hurt me when I was in Narnia or the Shire or Dickens' London.
As I progressed through childhood, I found other means of escape as well. I was lucky enough to live in a time and place where the great outdoors was all the freedom a child could desire. It seemed I was always outside. We had free rein to wander and explore - to become a part of the natural world. My bike could take me anywhere. We swam and sailed little Sunfish boats, fished off the dock, climbed trees, explored the secret tunnels under manhole covers. We ran and played kickball, hopscotch, Red Rover and Freeze Tag. We hung from and fell off monkey bars. We sledded in the winter and crashed into trees and even streams. We were fearless daredevils and we owned the world. Whether I was lost in a book or conquering early Reston, I was safe. I remember the exhilaration and peace of being at the top of a tree and thinking that I was safer up there among the canopy of leaves than in my own home. The view of the horizon promised adventure and escape just like the books did.
Nature has always held a special appeal for me. I love being outside. After Charles died, I began the healing process by the simple act of hiking. The physical challenge coupled with the reward of sitting on the top Runyon, all of Los Angeles spread below me - the glittering ocean 15 miles west, the Oz-like downtown to the east, and the blue-brown Santa Anita mountains north - restored my soul. This was my city as seen through the Hipstamatic viewfinder of my mind. From a distance, you only see the beauty of the city, all the things that make city living difficult are hidden. When I am in nature, I see the natural world through a magnifying lens. I notice the shapes and colors of flowers and foliage. I can see and feel the roughness of the tree bark or the seashells of a long-distant past in the hills of Tennessee - where there has not been an ocean for a very long time! My imagination is sparked, my senses come alive, the part of my brain that is chaotic is stilled. I feel as one with my world.
This last year has been one of great solitude. I didn't make very many friends in Nashville. I don't know why, but in retrospect, I think it wasn't to be; my path led somewhere else. Until I found Percy Warner Park, I was adrift and could feel the blanket of depression starting to wrap around me again. I needed a "Runyon Canyon" and it took me five months to find PWP. I had heard of the park but didn't believe that such a place could exist in the middle of the city. In AA we call that "contempt prior to investigation". But when I found it, it became my second home. The day wasn't complete if Pink, Blue and I didn't hike. It's trails were challenging and sometimes the heat and humidity almost did us in, but me and my two dogs loved it. It was a mystical place, surprisingly not very well trafficked and that was fine with me. Sometimes, I would hike the entire 5-mile loop and not run into one other person. The park was all mine.
I love taking photos of the world around me. I love that through my iPhone, I always have a camera at the ready. I really started snapping pictures at Runyon in an attempt to capture the mood and the beauty of what I saw. The photos in their own odd way, contributed to my healing. Each captured moment served as a reminder of the beauty of my world. All I had seen for five years was illness and death and pain, I had lost the ability to see anything else. But the pictures I snapped with my phone were glorious, beautiful, real. The reality wasn't what was in my head, it was in the viewfinder. I had just forgotten how to see it. Then I found the Hipstamatic app. I was puzzled why I was so captured by its results. I didn't was to escape reality but the photos are a call of the siren to me. Then I realized that the photos are not an escape into fantasy but simply a different view of reality - beautiful, haunting, vibrant. What I see in those ethereal photos helps me to remember that beauty is all around me; the fantastical nature of the photos is just an abstraction of the beauty of reality. No harm no foul.
I seek out beauty today. It is the sustenance of my soul. I am soothed by an intricate web hanging between two branches or an amazing cloud floating over the water. Living so close to the water again, I am struck by the difference in light - the colors are more vivid, brighter, the horizon is different in a familiar way. I am comforted and relaxed - safe. I have learned to stop and see, to appreciate a moment that captures me and if I am lucky to freeze that moment forever in a frame.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Below a selection of Hipstamatic prints:
Most of the time though, "real" beauty stands alone and doens't need my help (Thanks, God!):
Pax.
I am drawn to these photos because to me, they are a reflection of a fantasy world. The vibrant blues, greens and yellows enhance the reality of what you actually see in the viewfinder. The resulting photos spark my imagination and to be honest, offer an escape from a sometimes overwhelming reality. The lines are softer, gentler and the beauty of the moment captured by the lens is almost stark.
As a child, I escaped into alternate realities. My first and enduring escape (and love) are books. I think I have always known how to read and I was a voracious reader. Several times a week, I walked to the library in Lake Anne and spent hours in its aisles. The library was tiny, but to me it was a whole other universe. In that library I discovered Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House books, Nancy Drew, CS Lewis's Chronicle of Narnia, JRR Tolkien's The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, Agatha Christie, Perry Mason, Jane Eyre, Rebecca, Anne of Green Gables, Charles Dickens, The Grimm Brother's fairy tales and fables, Robinson Crusoe, Cherry Adams RN - the list goes on and on. I would load up as many books as I could carry and I am sure the librarian smiled proudly as I trudged home with a stack of books I could barely see over.
Reading was my first addiction and like alcohol would later, took me away from the reality of my childhood. If was a refuge from the chaos of living with my mother. When I read, I was somewhere else, I was some-one else. I could shut the world out with my nose in a book. I was safe and no one could hurt me when I was in Narnia or the Shire or Dickens' London.
As I progressed through childhood, I found other means of escape as well. I was lucky enough to live in a time and place where the great outdoors was all the freedom a child could desire. It seemed I was always outside. We had free rein to wander and explore - to become a part of the natural world. My bike could take me anywhere. We swam and sailed little Sunfish boats, fished off the dock, climbed trees, explored the secret tunnels under manhole covers. We ran and played kickball, hopscotch, Red Rover and Freeze Tag. We hung from and fell off monkey bars. We sledded in the winter and crashed into trees and even streams. We were fearless daredevils and we owned the world. Whether I was lost in a book or conquering early Reston, I was safe. I remember the exhilaration and peace of being at the top of a tree and thinking that I was safer up there among the canopy of leaves than in my own home. The view of the horizon promised adventure and escape just like the books did.
Nature has always held a special appeal for me. I love being outside. After Charles died, I began the healing process by the simple act of hiking. The physical challenge coupled with the reward of sitting on the top Runyon, all of Los Angeles spread below me - the glittering ocean 15 miles west, the Oz-like downtown to the east, and the blue-brown Santa Anita mountains north - restored my soul. This was my city as seen through the Hipstamatic viewfinder of my mind. From a distance, you only see the beauty of the city, all the things that make city living difficult are hidden. When I am in nature, I see the natural world through a magnifying lens. I notice the shapes and colors of flowers and foliage. I can see and feel the roughness of the tree bark or the seashells of a long-distant past in the hills of Tennessee - where there has not been an ocean for a very long time! My imagination is sparked, my senses come alive, the part of my brain that is chaotic is stilled. I feel as one with my world.
This last year has been one of great solitude. I didn't make very many friends in Nashville. I don't know why, but in retrospect, I think it wasn't to be; my path led somewhere else. Until I found Percy Warner Park, I was adrift and could feel the blanket of depression starting to wrap around me again. I needed a "Runyon Canyon" and it took me five months to find PWP. I had heard of the park but didn't believe that such a place could exist in the middle of the city. In AA we call that "contempt prior to investigation". But when I found it, it became my second home. The day wasn't complete if Pink, Blue and I didn't hike. It's trails were challenging and sometimes the heat and humidity almost did us in, but me and my two dogs loved it. It was a mystical place, surprisingly not very well trafficked and that was fine with me. Sometimes, I would hike the entire 5-mile loop and not run into one other person. The park was all mine.
I love taking photos of the world around me. I love that through my iPhone, I always have a camera at the ready. I really started snapping pictures at Runyon in an attempt to capture the mood and the beauty of what I saw. The photos in their own odd way, contributed to my healing. Each captured moment served as a reminder of the beauty of my world. All I had seen for five years was illness and death and pain, I had lost the ability to see anything else. But the pictures I snapped with my phone were glorious, beautiful, real. The reality wasn't what was in my head, it was in the viewfinder. I had just forgotten how to see it. Then I found the Hipstamatic app. I was puzzled why I was so captured by its results. I didn't was to escape reality but the photos are a call of the siren to me. Then I realized that the photos are not an escape into fantasy but simply a different view of reality - beautiful, haunting, vibrant. What I see in those ethereal photos helps me to remember that beauty is all around me; the fantastical nature of the photos is just an abstraction of the beauty of reality. No harm no foul.
I seek out beauty today. It is the sustenance of my soul. I am soothed by an intricate web hanging between two branches or an amazing cloud floating over the water. Living so close to the water again, I am struck by the difference in light - the colors are more vivid, brighter, the horizon is different in a familiar way. I am comforted and relaxed - safe. I have learned to stop and see, to appreciate a moment that captures me and if I am lucky to freeze that moment forever in a frame.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Below a selection of Hipstamatic prints:
Most of the time though, "real" beauty stands alone and doens't need my help (Thanks, God!):
Monday, September 26, 2011
Perfectly Imperfect
It had been an admittedly tough four days. I was very down on Thursday and part of it was that my sister TP was packing and moving to Asheville. We had moved here together, excited and confident in our decision. She was going to marry Prince Charming and we would continue our sister journey living in the same area. It didn't work out that way though. Prince Charming turned out to be a warty, old frog (my apologies to real frogs everywhere) and she was left in an untenable situation; she had given up her job, moved halfway across the country and when it all fell apart, she had to make quick decisions. Luckily, she is an awesome salesperson and her old company hired her back immediately and gave her the Asheville territory. She packed up and moved to her new home Sunday morning. We spent Saturday evening weeping - uncertain, afraid and sad at the turn of events. The good news is she's only a six hour car drive away - annoying but certainly not impossible - and we were able to bond over this whole, glorious, painful, growth-inducing experience.
But Saturday, oh Saturday, was something else. It was rainy and gray for the 9th day in a row and it got off to a rocky start for reasons that I won't go into. On top of that, I had a very painfulconversation, (argument) with someone very important in my life. By the end of the conversation (fight), we were both in tears and nothing was resolved. My spirits were low to say the least and I had that horrible, anxious feeling that I get when I have to walk around with unresolved feelings. I do not do this well - granted, I used to be worse - I would beat a dead horse relentlessly until the subject was resolved one way or another. The problem with this approach is that I usually end up with a resolution that is unfavorable to my desired outcome because I pushed and pushed and pushed and just couldn't let.it.go. This has been one of my most difficult challenges in sobriety - to learn to sit with unresolved conflict. To practice restraint of pen and tongue. To give the situation some time and space so everyone can breathe and regroup. To count to ten....or a hundred or even a thousand or ten thousand. I absolutely hate uncertainty and I am *certain* (heh, joke!) that it stems from the uncertainty that plagued my childhood and teen years because of my mother's alcoholism and mental illness.
To my very small credit however, I did manage to table the conversation before it descended from merely "ugly" to "fatally corrupted" but I'd like to have put the brakes on even earlier - when it first took a wrong turn; but hey like we say in AA, it's progress, not perfection. Anyway, there I was, a rainy Saturday, miffed and off-kilter for so many reasons and next on my plate is a project that I had been looking forward to for several weeks - my Raku pottery class. I have been enamoured with Raku for several years and wanted to learn how to do it since I first saw it. And full disclosure, it also holds a sentimental value for me with regard to the person I fought with that day. It was a class being given in conjunction with the Craven Arts Council Festival, and I discovered it on a fluke which of course I consider to be serendipitous....nothing happens by accident in God's world, people!!
Despite the poor beginning to my day, I was terribly excited. I was finally going to learn about Raku and create my first pieces. There were only three of us in the class and it was outside under a big tent in the rain. We chose 2 pre-made, basic, unfired vases and the instructor/artist explained and guided us through the process. One of the pieces was to be for my friend with whom I had just had the fight - it was always my plan, even before the fight. I applied my tape on the vase in the shape of a fish - a special symbol for us and dipped the vase in the mixture that would become the glaze on the piece. When the piece is fired, the tape melts into the pot and creates a design in the pot. I created another beautiful piece for myself with a free form floral design and we dipped our pieces in wax to protect the bottom from the heat (I think) and then they went into the kiln. For 45 minutes, our art would "cook". I wandered into the convention center to see the other offerings and visit the booths of all the vendors. New Bern and Eastern Carolina are filled with some talented artists, I was pleasantly surprised and very motivated to pursue my own artistic pursuits. They even had a writer's corner and the local theater groups were present as well. All the artsy things I love under one roof! Heaven! In short order, I was feeling better about the last couple of days.
At the designated time, I made my way back to our tent. The instructor Candace was puttering about. As I approached she looked up. "How are we doing?" I chirped. I was reinvigorated, happy - calmed by the creative process. "Well," she said, "both of your pieces exploded." I looked at her in disbelief. I could not believe what I heard. "WHAT?" I said. "Yes, I am so sorry. One totally exploded and I had to remove it from the kiln." She pointed to where the pieces of one of my vases lay. "The other is very damaged, but I think the part of the vase with the fish on it is ok..." I just stood and looked at her and I felt unwanted tears prick my eyes and all the disappointment and sadness of the last three days come crashing back in around me. As I tried to speak, my throat caught and tears eked out of the corners of my eyes. SHIT. I can't believe I'm crying now. Poor Candace looked at me not understanding, I imagine, why in the world I was crying. "I am so sorry", I said, "it's been a tough week and this just feels like the last straw." I stood there still crying, trying desperately to compose myself. Finally, I looked down at my cute pink and brown Burberry rainboots and stared at them until I could speak and meet her eyes without bursting into tears again.
After a bit, I looked up. She gave me a hug and said, "Now you know the heartbreak of Raku. If you still want to do this after this experience then you're hooked." She offered to give me my money back or a discount of a future weekend workshop. I said I would think about it. Everyone else's vases were still being fired, so I went back into the convention center and talked to the women at registration. I told them what happened, tears in my eyes again. I explained that I had had a bad week and suddenly they had tears in their eyes. "Please don't cry", one of them said - "you'll make us cry." Suddenly, the three of us were giggling at that and we agreed to see how my damaged piece came out and if I wanted my money back, they'd give it to me. It was up to me.
Armed with a potential refund (although all I wanted were my vases), I went back to the tent again. We tore up pieces of paper into metal trashcans; when the vases are removed from the kiln, you put them in a bed of paper and throw paper on top until the piece is covered. The paper bursts into flames and the smoke and paper change the oxidation process, causing the piece to absorb the smoke and changing the glaze giving it a coppery, shimmery finish. Candace and a helper removed the kiln cover and wearing thick, protective gloves and using long heavy tongs removed the vases from the fire, laid them on the paper in the trashcans while we quickly threw more paper on top watching as the paper first smoked and then caught fire. We put covers on the trashcans and now had to wait 10 more minutes for this process to finish. The last step would be to dip the pieces in water (where another risk of cracking still waited) and wash them.
The ten minutes ticked by. Candace opened the trashcans and one by one pulled out the pieces. The burnt paper clung to them but through it you could see the shimmery blues, greens and coppers of the Raku. She then removed my remaining but damaged vase. She dropped it in the water and I waited to hear the inevitable crack - the final destruction of what was left, but amazingly, just heard the sizzle of heat meeting water - no crack! I went to the tub of water and peered in. I reached in and pulled my piece out. The bottom was totally blown out and there was a jagged hole in the back side like a cauterized wound. But a funny thing happened; I wasn't disappointed - I wasn't even sad because it was beautiful. The Raku process had finished perfectly on what was left of my artwork. The fish I designed had burned into the clay - it looked like a relic from a time long ago. The colors were amazing. It was perfect. Damaged, broken and it would never be a vase, but it was absolutely stunning regardless. I scrubbed it clean and silently marveled at its beauty. Watchers and passer-bys including the ladies at registration oohed and aahed. The ladies hugged me and marveled at its imperfectness.
In its imperfection it had achieved a beauty it could never have had it come out of the kiln academically "perfect". In that moment, I saw that the piece was a reflection of me and my heart. Cracked and chipped with few holes blown through me, but like the old Skin Horse from the Velveteen Rabbit, real.
That vase is perfect and real. I am real and because I am the only one in this universe with this particular set of DNA, I am unique and beautiful. If everything in my life unfolded perfectly, if I never faced challenges of either moral, physical or spiritual nature, I would be something that needed to be kept very carefully - full of sharp edges and broken to the point of no repair. The lines in my face, the gray hair on my head (which I dye - look - I've earned my gray hair but I reserve the right to honor it in secret), the cracks and scars in my heart all bear witness to my becoming "real". I have loved with open heart and open mind. I have lost with great, almost unbearable pain. The rabbit asked if it hurt. It does. But still I retain the desire and capacity for love. I am undeterred, despite the loss and pain, on my quest for love.
I appreciate the broken yet still beautiful things in my life, more I realize, than the new, shiny things. The broken, chipped and cracked things have a story, a history and usually a memory that goes with them. I lug them around from place to place and when I unwrap them yet again, in another new home, each one never fails to bring a smile to my face. With my heart it's different. Some of the memories are difficult and painful, they hurt when I pull them out and look at them. I must look at them though. They are a timeline of my life and the love I've given and received. When I look at them, I remember the love that filled my heart, that still fills my heart. It reminds that I cannot shut my heart down, give up hoping for love again. I know that someday, someone will look at me, broken and cracked yet still beautiful - perhaps even more beautiful because of it and see me as I am. Perfectly imperfect.
But Saturday, oh Saturday, was something else. It was rainy and gray for the 9th day in a row and it got off to a rocky start for reasons that I won't go into. On top of that, I had a very painful
To my very small credit however, I did manage to table the conversation before it descended from merely "ugly" to "fatally corrupted" but I'd like to have put the brakes on even earlier - when it first took a wrong turn; but hey like we say in AA, it's progress, not perfection. Anyway, there I was, a rainy Saturday, miffed and off-kilter for so many reasons and next on my plate is a project that I had been looking forward to for several weeks - my Raku pottery class. I have been enamoured with Raku for several years and wanted to learn how to do it since I first saw it. And full disclosure, it also holds a sentimental value for me with regard to the person I fought with that day. It was a class being given in conjunction with the Craven Arts Council Festival, and I discovered it on a fluke which of course I consider to be serendipitous....nothing happens by accident in God's world, people!!
Despite the poor beginning to my day, I was terribly excited. I was finally going to learn about Raku and create my first pieces. There were only three of us in the class and it was outside under a big tent in the rain. We chose 2 pre-made, basic, unfired vases and the instructor/artist explained and guided us through the process. One of the pieces was to be for my friend with whom I had just had the fight - it was always my plan, even before the fight. I applied my tape on the vase in the shape of a fish - a special symbol for us and dipped the vase in the mixture that would become the glaze on the piece. When the piece is fired, the tape melts into the pot and creates a design in the pot. I created another beautiful piece for myself with a free form floral design and we dipped our pieces in wax to protect the bottom from the heat (I think) and then they went into the kiln. For 45 minutes, our art would "cook". I wandered into the convention center to see the other offerings and visit the booths of all the vendors. New Bern and Eastern Carolina are filled with some talented artists, I was pleasantly surprised and very motivated to pursue my own artistic pursuits. They even had a writer's corner and the local theater groups were present as well. All the artsy things I love under one roof! Heaven! In short order, I was feeling better about the last couple of days.
At the designated time, I made my way back to our tent. The instructor Candace was puttering about. As I approached she looked up. "How are we doing?" I chirped. I was reinvigorated, happy - calmed by the creative process. "Well," she said, "both of your pieces exploded." I looked at her in disbelief. I could not believe what I heard. "WHAT?" I said. "Yes, I am so sorry. One totally exploded and I had to remove it from the kiln." She pointed to where the pieces of one of my vases lay. "The other is very damaged, but I think the part of the vase with the fish on it is ok..." I just stood and looked at her and I felt unwanted tears prick my eyes and all the disappointment and sadness of the last three days come crashing back in around me. As I tried to speak, my throat caught and tears eked out of the corners of my eyes. SHIT. I can't believe I'm crying now. Poor Candace looked at me not understanding, I imagine, why in the world I was crying. "I am so sorry", I said, "it's been a tough week and this just feels like the last straw." I stood there still crying, trying desperately to compose myself. Finally, I looked down at my cute pink and brown Burberry rainboots and stared at them until I could speak and meet her eyes without bursting into tears again.
After a bit, I looked up. She gave me a hug and said, "Now you know the heartbreak of Raku. If you still want to do this after this experience then you're hooked." She offered to give me my money back or a discount of a future weekend workshop. I said I would think about it. Everyone else's vases were still being fired, so I went back into the convention center and talked to the women at registration. I told them what happened, tears in my eyes again. I explained that I had had a bad week and suddenly they had tears in their eyes. "Please don't cry", one of them said - "you'll make us cry." Suddenly, the three of us were giggling at that and we agreed to see how my damaged piece came out and if I wanted my money back, they'd give it to me. It was up to me.
Armed with a potential refund (although all I wanted were my vases), I went back to the tent again. We tore up pieces of paper into metal trashcans; when the vases are removed from the kiln, you put them in a bed of paper and throw paper on top until the piece is covered. The paper bursts into flames and the smoke and paper change the oxidation process, causing the piece to absorb the smoke and changing the glaze giving it a coppery, shimmery finish. Candace and a helper removed the kiln cover and wearing thick, protective gloves and using long heavy tongs removed the vases from the fire, laid them on the paper in the trashcans while we quickly threw more paper on top watching as the paper first smoked and then caught fire. We put covers on the trashcans and now had to wait 10 more minutes for this process to finish. The last step would be to dip the pieces in water (where another risk of cracking still waited) and wash them.
The ten minutes ticked by. Candace opened the trashcans and one by one pulled out the pieces. The burnt paper clung to them but through it you could see the shimmery blues, greens and coppers of the Raku. She then removed my remaining but damaged vase. She dropped it in the water and I waited to hear the inevitable crack - the final destruction of what was left, but amazingly, just heard the sizzle of heat meeting water - no crack! I went to the tub of water and peered in. I reached in and pulled my piece out. The bottom was totally blown out and there was a jagged hole in the back side like a cauterized wound. But a funny thing happened; I wasn't disappointed - I wasn't even sad because it was beautiful. The Raku process had finished perfectly on what was left of my artwork. The fish I designed had burned into the clay - it looked like a relic from a time long ago. The colors were amazing. It was perfect. Damaged, broken and it would never be a vase, but it was absolutely stunning regardless. I scrubbed it clean and silently marveled at its beauty. Watchers and passer-bys including the ladies at registration oohed and aahed. The ladies hugged me and marveled at its imperfectness.
In its imperfection it had achieved a beauty it could never have had it come out of the kiln academically "perfect". In that moment, I saw that the piece was a reflection of me and my heart. Cracked and chipped with few holes blown through me, but like the old Skin Horse from the Velveteen Rabbit, real.
“Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.'
Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit.
Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.'
Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?'
It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand. Once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."
That vase is perfect and real. I am real and because I am the only one in this universe with this particular set of DNA, I am unique and beautiful. If everything in my life unfolded perfectly, if I never faced challenges of either moral, physical or spiritual nature, I would be something that needed to be kept very carefully - full of sharp edges and broken to the point of no repair. The lines in my face, the gray hair on my head (which I dye - look - I've earned my gray hair but I reserve the right to honor it in secret), the cracks and scars in my heart all bear witness to my becoming "real". I have loved with open heart and open mind. I have lost with great, almost unbearable pain. The rabbit asked if it hurt. It does. But still I retain the desire and capacity for love. I am undeterred, despite the loss and pain, on my quest for love.
I appreciate the broken yet still beautiful things in my life, more I realize, than the new, shiny things. The broken, chipped and cracked things have a story, a history and usually a memory that goes with them. I lug them around from place to place and when I unwrap them yet again, in another new home, each one never fails to bring a smile to my face. With my heart it's different. Some of the memories are difficult and painful, they hurt when I pull them out and look at them. I must look at them though. They are a timeline of my life and the love I've given and received. When I look at them, I remember the love that filled my heart, that still fills my heart. It reminds that I cannot shut my heart down, give up hoping for love again. I know that someday, someone will look at me, broken and cracked yet still beautiful - perhaps even more beautiful because of it and see me as I am. Perfectly imperfect.
Perfect
The back side - a votive holder*
Bottom is top. Let the light shine!*
* a special thank you to the bartender at Craven 247 who helped me discover alternate uses! :)
PS. I am signing up for a Raku workshop this fall and taking a wheel class - so that's that, I'm on the path. Wish me luck as I see if I have potter skills!
PS. I am signing up for a Raku workshop this fall and taking a wheel class - so that's that, I'm on the path. Wish me luck as I see if I have potter skills!
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Poor me....
I need a fix today. I need something to fix me. I am ungrateful and sad. I miss Charles. I miss being loved by a man. I hate having to decide if I can afford to buy a hot chocolate. I hate counting every penny. I hate that my computer is on the fritz and I hate that I can't afford to get it fixed or just buy a new one. I hate that my friend threw away her sobriety after over 20 years and couldn't get sober again and died. OD'ed or killed herself with a combo of alcohol and sleeping pills. I hate even worse that she hurt our sponsor - the most wonderful woman I know. I hate alcoholism and I hate that it kills people I love including family members. I am in one bad bad mood today. Once in a while, I get a day like this and I just need to unplug. But instead, I have to deal with another computer that is horribly outdated and outmoded and it has frustrated me to the point of screaming. I hate that I owe people money. It's an albatross around my neck. Nope, this is not a happy nor funny blogpost today. The lyrics to that old Talking Heads song runs through my mind:
And you may ask yourself-Well...How did I get here?
Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
Into the blue again/after the money's gone
Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.
And you may ask yourself
How do I work this?
...And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house!
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful wife!
Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
Into the blue again/after the money's gone
Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.
And you may ask yourself
How do I work this?
...And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house!
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful wife!
And the days go by....
Since my birthday, I am overcome with a sense of urgency. I feel like time is slipping by and I have so much to do still and yet today, I just want to get back in bed and pull the covers over my head. It feels overwhelming. Charles used to say that we picked our life - our soul - the person we were going to be, parents, our path - a predetermining choice - that our souls know what we need to learn and accordingly, I picked me - Pamela Pletz - to be, and today, I don't like this choice. All I wanted was the happy marriage, the 2.5 kids, 2 cars in the driveway and a nice, happy, normal life. I don't want all these challenges and obstacles. I don't want to be an alcoholic today. I want to have a glass of wine with dinner (no worries, I won't). I want to look across the table at a man who loves me. I want to get in bed and put my cold feet on someone. I want passion and desire. I want to have the financial means to do some of the things that I want to do, that I have done before, that I took for granted. I don't take them for granted anymore. I want to worry about my children and my family. I want a different life today. Is that okay? Is being ungrateful for who and what I am today wrong?
I am tired of being brave. I am tired of being strong. I am tired of trudging the road of happy destiny. Did you know the definition of "trudge" is to "walk with purpose and determination"? I just want to meander for a while. I want to pick a different life for a bit. I want to be a character in a movie with a sappy, happy ending. When do I get that? Life is supposed to be the journey, but today I am focused on the destination. I want to be THERE. Many of my problems are of my own making, but I don't want to look at that today. I don't want to settle. Or get by. Or accept that this is the way it is...
And now I am tired of whining and more tired of being in my own head, so I am going to end this post and watch horribly, wasteful TV - 2 hours of X Factor and I am going to eat pizza and watch more premiere TV tonight. If you've read this and want to jump off a bridge, I apologize, but it's where I am today. I know I am not the only person who has ever felt this way and usually I try to hide it behind a smile but I'm too tired to smile today and much too tired to fake it. So real, grumpy Pam is going to relish in her realness and her grumpiness. Seacrest out.
Pax.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Truce - God Style
I think belief in God is a matter of choice. In AA, you are only asked to find a Higher Power of your own understanding. I was raised in the Episcopal Church and have continued, on and off, to come back to it. My belief in God is still strong, but what I realize is that my concept of God is totally and fatally limited to my own brain's puny understanding. I think we put a human face on God so we can relate to Him - our Creator, but I don't think anyone has the God thing locked up and I actually think it's insulting to God to even try to limit him - which is what happens when we put a face on Him. The magnitude of God is as immense and infinite and the universe.
I read once that the universe is still expanding which puts my brain into one of those circular references that causes it to explode because if the universe encompasses everything, then what is it expanding into? What is that space the universe is taking over called? Isn't it already part of the universe? And if not, then the universe doesn't really include all space and matter, so the universe is therefore limited and encroaching on some other universe, which doesn't make sense at all, if this universe is, again, everything. So anyway, you can see how this question keeps me up nights, right?
God. Every once in a while, I am given glimpses of something much bigger than me working in my life and I will tell you now about one of those times. If you know me, or have read my blog, you know that Charles was diagnosed with cancer shortly after I moved everything we owned to Norfolk, Virginia. Without rehashing the story (just read it in a previous blog), it was decided that Charles would stay in Los Angeles and I would stay in Virginia and finish the remodel. We would see each other as much as we could in between his chemo and radiation.
His housing situation was complicated - our house in LA was sold and he was going to stay in the garage apartment until the new owners moved in; it wasn't really a good solution but our options were limited. A month or so after he was diagnosed, he told me that his ex-wife Sharon had offered her guest room to him. Sharon and I had never met at that point, but I knew she didn't like me because until I came along, she always thought that she and Charles would reconcile. They had been separated for years and when he formally asked for the divorce so we could marry, she was shocked. I don't blame her. Charles was totally unprepared for her response - I had to explain to him that as long as that door was left open - even just a crack - she thought there was still a chance for them. Suffice it to say, she never liked me.
Given our immediate and pressing dilemma though, I was eager for Charles to have a safe place to stay and this seemed like the best option. I trusted Charles 100% and it never crossed my mind that he would break his marriage vows to me, I knew he loved me and this was much bigger than that. So, Charles moved in with Sharon. His chemo and radiation were brutal and he was incredibly sick. When I saw him, I was horrified. He was sick and frail and suddenly old. His essence had been reduced; and that made me even more grateful and happier that he had a safe place to live. Our former housekeeper, Fidelina, whom we loved, was also Sharon's housekeeper, so I knew she would take care of him when she was there. I was confident in this decision and proud of my ability to put aside any fears and jealousies I may have secretly held so I could do what was best for Charles.
This is how we lived our life for almost ten months. In April, Charles called me and told me he was in remission. It was a miracle and one I had stopped hoping for, I truly didn't believe my husband was going to beat this. We decided to sell the house and I would move back to LA, so he could continue any needed followup treatment with his doctors there. The remodel of the house was done - or at least done enough so I could sell it. That day, I went out back to mow the yard. It was a beautiful day but hot and I slowly made my way across the yard. A woman walked up the driveway and got my attention over the roar of the mower. She introduced herself - she was a realtor - and asked me if I was interested in selling my house - she had a buyer that wanted it. It had only been hours since we decided to sell - my jaw gaped open to the ground; I thought she was surely putting me on but she was serious.
In short order, the home was sold. I sold much of our furniture and kept enough to fill a 6' trailer that attached to my SUV. Charles came to drive cross-country with me, but he was sick the entire trip and I knew that there was something wrong with this "remission". This didn't feel or look like any remission I had ever heard of. Regardless, we headed West. We found an apartment near the Marina and moved in almost immediately. We stayed at Sharon's for a couple of days while we arranged the move-in and it was the first time I felt her animosity. She didn't think Charles should move and live with me - his wife - it would be better in her opinion, if he continued to stay with her. But there was absolutely no question of that happening. We moved into our apartment and everything began to change very quickly.
Charles' remission was false. Within 2 weeks of my return, we were told by his first oncologist that there was nothing more he could do for Charles. Charles, Sharon and I (yes, Sharon - she insisted on coming to all his appointments, even though I was there now) looked at the doctor, frightened beyond understanding. We immediately found a new oncologist/researcher who was willing to take Charles on and wanted to get him in a study for an experimental drug. The drug was incredibly expensive and not covered by insurance. I worried about the cost and the effect on our already devastated financial situation. Instead of forking over the money, I decided to call the drug manufacturer and see if they would give it to us for a reduced cost since Charles was going to be a guinea pig. When Sharon found out, she called me at work and screamed at me that I should spend every penny I have and buy the drug regardless the cost, toll, expense, devastation. She told me I was selfish and only cared for myself. This from a woman who accepted rent from my dying husband. I sat at my desk and cried after that call. I couldn't for the life of me understand how I ended up here. Feeling terribly guilty, I called the drug manufacturer anyway and managed to get the experimental drug which was $360 per pill per day for free. I remember what a friend, whose grandfather was a baker in NYC during the Great Depression, once told me - his grandfather used to give away bread and rolls for free to the poor and destitute, they only need ask. He always said, "if you don't ask, you go hungry."
Then came the prayer circle. The hateful, harmful, horrible prayer circle. The people who, courtesy of, and besides Sharon, caused more damage to our marriage that anything else we ever faced. They met at Sharon's house and they told Charles things like he needed to accept love into his heart. If he could he would be healed. They made him doubt himself and who he was as a man. He began to think that somehow he had morally and emotionally contributed to his disease...this from the most loving, kind man I ever knew. This from a man who helped newly sober people stay sober as a matter of record; this from a man who lit up a room when he entered it with his love and energy and unbridled enthusiasm for life. I admit it, I hated them. I hated what they said and did and I would not go to any of the prayer circle's meetings. As the cancer was killing my husband physically, the prayer circle was killing him spiritually. Those of you who know me, know that holding my tongue is not my greatest strength. But I tried. For reasons known only to Charles, he tapped into what they were telling him and it became his lifeline. I tried to remind him what a wonderful, loving man he was. I told him his heart was filled with love; overflowed with love but he would hear none of it. He spent his few fitful waking hours worried about the supposed darkness of his soul and trying to let it go, so he could be healed.
He grew weaker and because I had to work, I scheduled people that knew him and loved him for years to come see him, to bring him lunch, to try to talk some sense into him, to remind him of who he was - AA people, people from my church, old friends. But he slowly shut down, stopped letting people in, his appetite fading as the light in his eyes did. One day, he told me he wanted to go back to Sharon's house to live in the guest room - what we jokingly referred to as "the cave". I was absolutely devastated, but I couldn't deny him this. He was dying and like a wounded animal, wanted to hide, to live in his cave, to not have to, every day, see his pain and fear reflected in my eyes. He moved to Sharon's and Blue, the cats and I moved to a smaller, less expensive apartment. I am not sure I can ever fully convey the sense of pain, betrayal and abandonment I felt. There was a vise around my heart that grew tighter with each passing day. Like all the times in my childhood, I covered it with a smile and went along, when all I wanted to do was scream until everything was quiet.
I still went to all his appointments and stopped to see him every day after work. Sharon continued to attend his appointments and always took the lead when it was time to schedule the next appointment or chemo or radiation, she was the one who worked with the nurses. I know you wonder why I allowed this to happen and the truth was I was afraid to rock the boat. I didn't want to upset Charles or cause any discord that would add to his pain. I asked her to try to schedule the appointments for late afternoon but she kept making them for late morning or early afternoon. I was trying not to miss too much work - Sharon was self-employed and she had much more flexibility. Finally frustrated one day, I rushed to the nurse's desk and made the next series of appointments. I asked the nurses to note his chart to schedule his appointments after 3 p.m. whenever possible. When Sharon made it to the desk and found out I had already made the appointments, she stormed to where I was waiting in the chairs. Those times do not work for me, she coldly stated. Well, they work for me, I said calmly. And I am Charles' wife. I will pick him up and take him back to your house. If you can't make it, that's fine, I can do it all myself; in fact, I really don't need your help at all with this and you don't need to come any more. Either Charles or I can update you on his progress... She had backed herself into a corner and I kept her there.
But she wasn't done. One day, a friend of Charles, and a member of the prayer circle called me. I am so so sorry, she said. I listened not comprehending what she was sorry about. Finally I responded - Sorry about what, Lisa? - Sorry to hear that you and Charles are getting a divorce. I just wanted to make sure you were okay...she trailed off.
I felt as though someone had punched me in the stomach. All the air left my body. What?? I said. What? Where did you hear that? At the prayer circle, she said. Who told you this? Sharon told us. Was Charles there? No, he was still in his bedroom. She told us beforehand and asked that we not mention it to him. I was stunned silent and then all the months of pain and fear and anger that I had held inside me burst out of me - a dark, black, fountain of cold rage. What I said went something like this.
Lisa, Charles and I ARE not getting a divorce. The only problem Charles and I have is Sharon and the prayer circle. You are telling the most loving, giving man I know to accept love in his heart and be healed. That is not what he needs. Do you know WHAT he needs from you all? He needs to be told to not be afraid, to FACE his death, to be brought to some kind of acceptance, that it is okay to be scared and pissed off and confused. Do you know what you all have done though? You have denied me and my husband the opportunity to discuss all the things we need to talk about. You have denied me the chance to tell my husband how scared I am. How much I love him. To find out HOW I can help him prepare. To find out if there is anything I can do for him, anything he wants to do or see before he dies. Instead, you tell him he is sick because you have decided to play God and have decided you know why he has cancer. You are NOT God, you are not doctors, you're not even good Christians. Do you know what the definition of gossip is, Lisa? Gossip is murder via character assassination, and THAT is what you and your friends are practicing. Why in the world would Charles and I get divorced? HE IS DYING. Do you understand that? He is living with Shelley because that is what he wants to do, and it HURTS me but I love him and want him to feel safe; it is not what I want. It will never be what I want. He is not living with her because we are getting divorced and they are reconciling. Did you know that Charles' cancer is Stage 4 metastasized? I didn't think so. That means, barring some unforeseen, unbelievable miracle, he is going to die. According to his doctor, it will probably be in 3 to 6 months - since they always try to stretch it out, I am thinking it's 3 months. You didn't know that did you? No, because no one has allowed him or helped him to face the truth so he can talk about it. And you have denied me the ability to fulfill the promises I made him on our wedding day...you all have played God and held out a carrot to a man who is never going to win the race. How dare you. How dare you.
It was ugly. I was uglier, but I could not contain the pain for one more second. I don't know how long I went on but at some point, I was aware of her crying. I was crying too but I had no sympathy. I was done with this whole sick thing. That was the last straw. I was angrier than I remember ever being and now I was arming myself for a very unnecessary battle, one that with some compassion, could have been averted. I wasn't taking this shit anymore and an inner steel was forged in me that day. A few weeks later, the end of October, in front of his nieces and nephews who were visiting, Sharon accused me of wanting Charles to die when I suggested that we stop treatment and try to help him find a way to find some acceptance and peace. The ugliness just didn't stop.
Finally, the tide changed. After Thanksgiving, Sharon was going out of town for a week and I insisted that Charles come stay with me and best of all, he wanted to. Sharon fought it tooth and nail but I prevailed. That didn't stop her however, from picking a fight about where in my apartment to put the hospital bed. I wanted it the bedroom but she wanted it in the living room. I didn't even understand why she cared. Finally, I told her that it was not her decision and, by the way, none of her business. We both understood that we weren't fighting about the hospital bed. If Charles came to stay at my apartment, that was where he was staying until he died. I would never let him go back there again.
Until Charles' death before Christmas, she waged war against me. The last weekend of Charles' life, she stood outside my apartment door berating me; I was standing in the doorway with a minister who later noted to me that she could have given Sharon a small shove, and down the stairs she would have gone. Certainly not very Christian, but I'll admit it was one of the few smiles I managed during those long, dark months.
In the end, Charles died while I held him. Blue at our feet, the cats standing sentry at the end of the bed. It was just us. Five days of visitors and friends coming to say goodbye - I let the members of the prayer circle come to say their goodbyes as well. I took the higher ground because that was one of the things my husband taught me - to be kind, to forgive and regardless, they had given him something he thought he needed. But that last weekend, if I left his side for even a minute, he became terribly agitated and in that space, I knew that our love had survived. It was battered and bruised and sometimes had been on life support, but it was still there. Charles couldn't stop talking about "the love" in his last days, it became his mantra, that I must talk about the love when he was gone. And I am convinced he waited until our little family, as it was, was all alone - all the visitors were gone or had left for a bit - to die.
Even his memorial service, Sharon had to put her mark on, but I didn't care anymore; Charles was dead. I walked around for months in a daze. Sometimes, I fell down for no reason - one minute I was walking, the next I was on the floor or the ground. I was sapped of every emotion and the toll of all the ugliness and discourse on top of the illness and death of the most important person in my life took me years to recover from.
Ten months later in October, I was going through Charles art portfolio and I came across a piece of art that was a sister piece to one he had given Sharon before he died. Looking at that piece of art, I realized that I still had an enormous amount of resentment and anger toward her - in fact, it consumed me. I sat looking at the art and started praying fervently. I didn't want to be filled with this anger and hatred - and then an idea that I can only say was divinely inspired, came to me. I would send the piece of art to Sharon with a note. The next day, I did that, I was compelled to get it out in the mail. I rolled it up and wrote a simple note saying that I knew Charles had given her one of the pieces and that I thought she should have the other piece too. I thought Charles would like that. I put both in a FedEx tube and overnighted it to her. I can't say that I felt a tremendous sense of relief, but I felt better. By acting kind, a tiny portion of the anger left me.
I didn't hear anything from her and honestly never expected to. About two weeks later, I checked my mailbox as I was taking Blue out for a walk. There was a note from Sharon. I opened it up as I walked. Dear Pam, it read, imagine my surprise when I got home from a day of meetings on my birthday and found a FedEx tube on my porch with your note and a piece of Charles' artwork inside. Charles must have wanted to send me a last birthday gift. Thank you, Sharon.
I literally stopped dead in my tracks and began to sob hysterically. I did not know it was Sharon's birthday when I sent the tube. I had no idea when Sharon's birthday fell. And I didn't imagine that Charles wanted to send her a last birthday gift - because it was much bigger than that for me. My Charles had a wicked sense of humor, perfect timing and also a huge capacity for forgiveness and helping others to forgive. In that instant, I knew that Charles via God and my prayer had orchestrated this event - he knew I would understand and he knew the effect it would have on me. I stood on the sidewalk unable to stop crying and then finally I started laughing. In that moment all the anger and hatred and resentment dropped away. It was expelled from my body and my psyche with every tear and every strangled guffaw. My small act of kindness, done with no expectation of acknowledgement, released me from the resentment that blackened my heart and spirit. In AA, we have a saying about resentment - resentment is when you take the poison and wait for the other person (whom you resent) to die.
Can I say that in that moment all of the pain that plagued me dissipated? No, of course not. But it was the first in a series of miracles that led to my ultimate healing. It was a long process and even today, I am still healing. The difference is that today, I don't hate Sharon or the prayer circle - but I have not forgotten what happened and what it cost me. What I know is this. Everyone did the best they could at that time but it wasn't enough and it was ugly and hurtful and totally unnecessary. I can't judge their words or actions, only they can say in retrospect if they are square with what they said and did, but it no longer holds sway over me. What I went through has, without an iota of doubt, made me a better, kinder, more loving person. I made mistakes too; there are many things I would change if I could go back, but I can't. I did the best I could as well. But that day, I stood on the street holding that pink notecard and my journey took a right turn, I started to find my way back to me. Light entered my heart and my life changed, again. This was only possible through a Higher Power and I can see Charles, his gorgeous grin lighting up his face, chatting it up with God and talking him into "playing a good one" on me - and it was a good one.
Pax
I read once that the universe is still expanding which puts my brain into one of those circular references that causes it to explode because if the universe encompasses everything, then what is it expanding into? What is that space the universe is taking over called? Isn't it already part of the universe? And if not, then the universe doesn't really include all space and matter, so the universe is therefore limited and encroaching on some other universe, which doesn't make sense at all, if this universe is, again, everything. So anyway, you can see how this question keeps me up nights, right?
God. Every once in a while, I am given glimpses of something much bigger than me working in my life and I will tell you now about one of those times. If you know me, or have read my blog, you know that Charles was diagnosed with cancer shortly after I moved everything we owned to Norfolk, Virginia. Without rehashing the story (just read it in a previous blog), it was decided that Charles would stay in Los Angeles and I would stay in Virginia and finish the remodel. We would see each other as much as we could in between his chemo and radiation.
His housing situation was complicated - our house in LA was sold and he was going to stay in the garage apartment until the new owners moved in; it wasn't really a good solution but our options were limited. A month or so after he was diagnosed, he told me that his ex-wife Sharon had offered her guest room to him. Sharon and I had never met at that point, but I knew she didn't like me because until I came along, she always thought that she and Charles would reconcile. They had been separated for years and when he formally asked for the divorce so we could marry, she was shocked. I don't blame her. Charles was totally unprepared for her response - I had to explain to him that as long as that door was left open - even just a crack - she thought there was still a chance for them. Suffice it to say, she never liked me.
Given our immediate and pressing dilemma though, I was eager for Charles to have a safe place to stay and this seemed like the best option. I trusted Charles 100% and it never crossed my mind that he would break his marriage vows to me, I knew he loved me and this was much bigger than that. So, Charles moved in with Sharon. His chemo and radiation were brutal and he was incredibly sick. When I saw him, I was horrified. He was sick and frail and suddenly old. His essence had been reduced; and that made me even more grateful and happier that he had a safe place to live. Our former housekeeper, Fidelina, whom we loved, was also Sharon's housekeeper, so I knew she would take care of him when she was there. I was confident in this decision and proud of my ability to put aside any fears and jealousies I may have secretly held so I could do what was best for Charles.
This is how we lived our life for almost ten months. In April, Charles called me and told me he was in remission. It was a miracle and one I had stopped hoping for, I truly didn't believe my husband was going to beat this. We decided to sell the house and I would move back to LA, so he could continue any needed followup treatment with his doctors there. The remodel of the house was done - or at least done enough so I could sell it. That day, I went out back to mow the yard. It was a beautiful day but hot and I slowly made my way across the yard. A woman walked up the driveway and got my attention over the roar of the mower. She introduced herself - she was a realtor - and asked me if I was interested in selling my house - she had a buyer that wanted it. It had only been hours since we decided to sell - my jaw gaped open to the ground; I thought she was surely putting me on but she was serious.
In short order, the home was sold. I sold much of our furniture and kept enough to fill a 6' trailer that attached to my SUV. Charles came to drive cross-country with me, but he was sick the entire trip and I knew that there was something wrong with this "remission". This didn't feel or look like any remission I had ever heard of. Regardless, we headed West. We found an apartment near the Marina and moved in almost immediately. We stayed at Sharon's for a couple of days while we arranged the move-in and it was the first time I felt her animosity. She didn't think Charles should move and live with me - his wife - it would be better in her opinion, if he continued to stay with her. But there was absolutely no question of that happening. We moved into our apartment and everything began to change very quickly.
Charles' remission was false. Within 2 weeks of my return, we were told by his first oncologist that there was nothing more he could do for Charles. Charles, Sharon and I (yes, Sharon - she insisted on coming to all his appointments, even though I was there now) looked at the doctor, frightened beyond understanding. We immediately found a new oncologist/researcher who was willing to take Charles on and wanted to get him in a study for an experimental drug. The drug was incredibly expensive and not covered by insurance. I worried about the cost and the effect on our already devastated financial situation. Instead of forking over the money, I decided to call the drug manufacturer and see if they would give it to us for a reduced cost since Charles was going to be a guinea pig. When Sharon found out, she called me at work and screamed at me that I should spend every penny I have and buy the drug regardless the cost, toll, expense, devastation. She told me I was selfish and only cared for myself. This from a woman who accepted rent from my dying husband. I sat at my desk and cried after that call. I couldn't for the life of me understand how I ended up here. Feeling terribly guilty, I called the drug manufacturer anyway and managed to get the experimental drug which was $360 per pill per day for free. I remember what a friend, whose grandfather was a baker in NYC during the Great Depression, once told me - his grandfather used to give away bread and rolls for free to the poor and destitute, they only need ask. He always said, "if you don't ask, you go hungry."
Then came the prayer circle. The hateful, harmful, horrible prayer circle. The people who, courtesy of, and besides Sharon, caused more damage to our marriage that anything else we ever faced. They met at Sharon's house and they told Charles things like he needed to accept love into his heart. If he could he would be healed. They made him doubt himself and who he was as a man. He began to think that somehow he had morally and emotionally contributed to his disease...this from the most loving, kind man I ever knew. This from a man who helped newly sober people stay sober as a matter of record; this from a man who lit up a room when he entered it with his love and energy and unbridled enthusiasm for life. I admit it, I hated them. I hated what they said and did and I would not go to any of the prayer circle's meetings. As the cancer was killing my husband physically, the prayer circle was killing him spiritually. Those of you who know me, know that holding my tongue is not my greatest strength. But I tried. For reasons known only to Charles, he tapped into what they were telling him and it became his lifeline. I tried to remind him what a wonderful, loving man he was. I told him his heart was filled with love; overflowed with love but he would hear none of it. He spent his few fitful waking hours worried about the supposed darkness of his soul and trying to let it go, so he could be healed.
He grew weaker and because I had to work, I scheduled people that knew him and loved him for years to come see him, to bring him lunch, to try to talk some sense into him, to remind him of who he was - AA people, people from my church, old friends. But he slowly shut down, stopped letting people in, his appetite fading as the light in his eyes did. One day, he told me he wanted to go back to Sharon's house to live in the guest room - what we jokingly referred to as "the cave". I was absolutely devastated, but I couldn't deny him this. He was dying and like a wounded animal, wanted to hide, to live in his cave, to not have to, every day, see his pain and fear reflected in my eyes. He moved to Sharon's and Blue, the cats and I moved to a smaller, less expensive apartment. I am not sure I can ever fully convey the sense of pain, betrayal and abandonment I felt. There was a vise around my heart that grew tighter with each passing day. Like all the times in my childhood, I covered it with a smile and went along, when all I wanted to do was scream until everything was quiet.
I still went to all his appointments and stopped to see him every day after work. Sharon continued to attend his appointments and always took the lead when it was time to schedule the next appointment or chemo or radiation, she was the one who worked with the nurses. I know you wonder why I allowed this to happen and the truth was I was afraid to rock the boat. I didn't want to upset Charles or cause any discord that would add to his pain. I asked her to try to schedule the appointments for late afternoon but she kept making them for late morning or early afternoon. I was trying not to miss too much work - Sharon was self-employed and she had much more flexibility. Finally frustrated one day, I rushed to the nurse's desk and made the next series of appointments. I asked the nurses to note his chart to schedule his appointments after 3 p.m. whenever possible. When Sharon made it to the desk and found out I had already made the appointments, she stormed to where I was waiting in the chairs. Those times do not work for me, she coldly stated. Well, they work for me, I said calmly. And I am Charles' wife. I will pick him up and take him back to your house. If you can't make it, that's fine, I can do it all myself; in fact, I really don't need your help at all with this and you don't need to come any more. Either Charles or I can update you on his progress... She had backed herself into a corner and I kept her there.
But she wasn't done. One day, a friend of Charles, and a member of the prayer circle called me. I am so so sorry, she said. I listened not comprehending what she was sorry about. Finally I responded - Sorry about what, Lisa? - Sorry to hear that you and Charles are getting a divorce. I just wanted to make sure you were okay...she trailed off.
I felt as though someone had punched me in the stomach. All the air left my body. What?? I said. What? Where did you hear that? At the prayer circle, she said. Who told you this? Sharon told us. Was Charles there? No, he was still in his bedroom. She told us beforehand and asked that we not mention it to him. I was stunned silent and then all the months of pain and fear and anger that I had held inside me burst out of me - a dark, black, fountain of cold rage. What I said went something like this.
Lisa, Charles and I ARE not getting a divorce. The only problem Charles and I have is Sharon and the prayer circle. You are telling the most loving, giving man I know to accept love in his heart and be healed. That is not what he needs. Do you know WHAT he needs from you all? He needs to be told to not be afraid, to FACE his death, to be brought to some kind of acceptance, that it is okay to be scared and pissed off and confused. Do you know what you all have done though? You have denied me and my husband the opportunity to discuss all the things we need to talk about. You have denied me the chance to tell my husband how scared I am. How much I love him. To find out HOW I can help him prepare. To find out if there is anything I can do for him, anything he wants to do or see before he dies. Instead, you tell him he is sick because you have decided to play God and have decided you know why he has cancer. You are NOT God, you are not doctors, you're not even good Christians. Do you know what the definition of gossip is, Lisa? Gossip is murder via character assassination, and THAT is what you and your friends are practicing. Why in the world would Charles and I get divorced? HE IS DYING. Do you understand that? He is living with Shelley because that is what he wants to do, and it HURTS me but I love him and want him to feel safe; it is not what I want. It will never be what I want. He is not living with her because we are getting divorced and they are reconciling. Did you know that Charles' cancer is Stage 4 metastasized? I didn't think so. That means, barring some unforeseen, unbelievable miracle, he is going to die. According to his doctor, it will probably be in 3 to 6 months - since they always try to stretch it out, I am thinking it's 3 months. You didn't know that did you? No, because no one has allowed him or helped him to face the truth so he can talk about it. And you have denied me the ability to fulfill the promises I made him on our wedding day...you all have played God and held out a carrot to a man who is never going to win the race. How dare you. How dare you.
It was ugly. I was uglier, but I could not contain the pain for one more second. I don't know how long I went on but at some point, I was aware of her crying. I was crying too but I had no sympathy. I was done with this whole sick thing. That was the last straw. I was angrier than I remember ever being and now I was arming myself for a very unnecessary battle, one that with some compassion, could have been averted. I wasn't taking this shit anymore and an inner steel was forged in me that day. A few weeks later, the end of October, in front of his nieces and nephews who were visiting, Sharon accused me of wanting Charles to die when I suggested that we stop treatment and try to help him find a way to find some acceptance and peace. The ugliness just didn't stop.
Finally, the tide changed. After Thanksgiving, Sharon was going out of town for a week and I insisted that Charles come stay with me and best of all, he wanted to. Sharon fought it tooth and nail but I prevailed. That didn't stop her however, from picking a fight about where in my apartment to put the hospital bed. I wanted it the bedroom but she wanted it in the living room. I didn't even understand why she cared. Finally, I told her that it was not her decision and, by the way, none of her business. We both understood that we weren't fighting about the hospital bed. If Charles came to stay at my apartment, that was where he was staying until he died. I would never let him go back there again.
Until Charles' death before Christmas, she waged war against me. The last weekend of Charles' life, she stood outside my apartment door berating me; I was standing in the doorway with a minister who later noted to me that she could have given Sharon a small shove, and down the stairs she would have gone. Certainly not very Christian, but I'll admit it was one of the few smiles I managed during those long, dark months.
In the end, Charles died while I held him. Blue at our feet, the cats standing sentry at the end of the bed. It was just us. Five days of visitors and friends coming to say goodbye - I let the members of the prayer circle come to say their goodbyes as well. I took the higher ground because that was one of the things my husband taught me - to be kind, to forgive and regardless, they had given him something he thought he needed. But that last weekend, if I left his side for even a minute, he became terribly agitated and in that space, I knew that our love had survived. It was battered and bruised and sometimes had been on life support, but it was still there. Charles couldn't stop talking about "the love" in his last days, it became his mantra, that I must talk about the love when he was gone. And I am convinced he waited until our little family, as it was, was all alone - all the visitors were gone or had left for a bit - to die.
Even his memorial service, Sharon had to put her mark on, but I didn't care anymore; Charles was dead. I walked around for months in a daze. Sometimes, I fell down for no reason - one minute I was walking, the next I was on the floor or the ground. I was sapped of every emotion and the toll of all the ugliness and discourse on top of the illness and death of the most important person in my life took me years to recover from.
Ten months later in October, I was going through Charles art portfolio and I came across a piece of art that was a sister piece to one he had given Sharon before he died. Looking at that piece of art, I realized that I still had an enormous amount of resentment and anger toward her - in fact, it consumed me. I sat looking at the art and started praying fervently. I didn't want to be filled with this anger and hatred - and then an idea that I can only say was divinely inspired, came to me. I would send the piece of art to Sharon with a note. The next day, I did that, I was compelled to get it out in the mail. I rolled it up and wrote a simple note saying that I knew Charles had given her one of the pieces and that I thought she should have the other piece too. I thought Charles would like that. I put both in a FedEx tube and overnighted it to her. I can't say that I felt a tremendous sense of relief, but I felt better. By acting kind, a tiny portion of the anger left me.
I didn't hear anything from her and honestly never expected to. About two weeks later, I checked my mailbox as I was taking Blue out for a walk. There was a note from Sharon. I opened it up as I walked. Dear Pam, it read, imagine my surprise when I got home from a day of meetings on my birthday and found a FedEx tube on my porch with your note and a piece of Charles' artwork inside. Charles must have wanted to send me a last birthday gift. Thank you, Sharon.
I literally stopped dead in my tracks and began to sob hysterically. I did not know it was Sharon's birthday when I sent the tube. I had no idea when Sharon's birthday fell. And I didn't imagine that Charles wanted to send her a last birthday gift - because it was much bigger than that for me. My Charles had a wicked sense of humor, perfect timing and also a huge capacity for forgiveness and helping others to forgive. In that instant, I knew that Charles via God and my prayer had orchestrated this event - he knew I would understand and he knew the effect it would have on me. I stood on the sidewalk unable to stop crying and then finally I started laughing. In that moment all the anger and hatred and resentment dropped away. It was expelled from my body and my psyche with every tear and every strangled guffaw. My small act of kindness, done with no expectation of acknowledgement, released me from the resentment that blackened my heart and spirit. In AA, we have a saying about resentment - resentment is when you take the poison and wait for the other person (whom you resent) to die.
Can I say that in that moment all of the pain that plagued me dissipated? No, of course not. But it was the first in a series of miracles that led to my ultimate healing. It was a long process and even today, I am still healing. The difference is that today, I don't hate Sharon or the prayer circle - but I have not forgotten what happened and what it cost me. What I know is this. Everyone did the best they could at that time but it wasn't enough and it was ugly and hurtful and totally unnecessary. I can't judge their words or actions, only they can say in retrospect if they are square with what they said and did, but it no longer holds sway over me. What I went through has, without an iota of doubt, made me a better, kinder, more loving person. I made mistakes too; there are many things I would change if I could go back, but I can't. I did the best I could as well. But that day, I stood on the street holding that pink notecard and my journey took a right turn, I started to find my way back to me. Light entered my heart and my life changed, again. This was only possible through a Higher Power and I can see Charles, his gorgeous grin lighting up his face, chatting it up with God and talking him into "playing a good one" on me - and it was a good one.
Pax
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Fantasy Football - Pam's Playbook
Yes Ladies, it's that time of year again. We are in week 1 of the NFL Football season and like 99% of women in America, if you are not a football fan then you are a football widow. But I am here to advise, counsel and in some cases, console you! Basically, it comes down to this: Pam's Playbook gives you three choices, ladies. Three. I have enumerated them below in order of least fun to most fun (IMHO) application of said choices. Full disclosure, I am a huge football fan so this is a great time of year for me but for those of you who are not, I present these solutions straight from the playbook.
1. This is the simplest solution and best for those ladies with no sense of humor or for those who just.don't.care. You are a football widow. Your man is now unavailable these days of the week for the next 4 months - all day Sunday, Sunday night, Monday night and Thursday night. You don't care because it allows you to go out to dinner with your girlfriends, go shopping or a happy combination of both. I really have no advice for you except to advise you not go drinking with your girlfriends after you shop as it is likely everyone else in the bar is watching one of the many games being shown on the bar tv(s). And I wish you good luck with all that! Sadly, you are not my target audience, however - please keep reading because I have several other options you may actually find intriguing!
2. My second solution is really just a means to torture your man. It's a passive-aggressive application of trying to be a part of something that is important to your husband but if you follow my advice, will be much more fun for you!
Pick a team to root for. It doesn't matter which one, but it's probably most effective to root for the same team as your husband especially if you want to make his head explode. On game day, come into the TV room wearing your team jersey. You may want to, in advance, prepare your favorite cocktails - margaritas, mai tais, appletinis - anything besides a beer works here. Prepare some canapes or delicious hors d'oeuvres - something classy and elegant! Lots of little knives and toothpicks really add panache - no beer, chips and dip for you, missy!!
As soon as you sit down, start peppering your loved one with incredibly stupid questions. Be relentless. Now, a bit of advice, this approach works best if you have done a tiny bit of research. An online search will give you the quarterback and coach names and then find out who the stars of your team are. It is very important to discover who your team's "bad boy" is so you can discuss said player's merits with your man. Examples abound - Plaxico Burress who plays for the Jets now, was just released from prison after serving two years for shooting himself in the thigh at a club when the gun he was carrying in his waistband began to slide down and as he grabbed for it he accidentally pulled the trigger missing the family jewels by millimeters.
Better yet, bring up the Brett Favre scandal. Brett, now retired but ex-longtime QB for the Packers and for a short while the Vikings, sent pictures of his erect johnson to a female sports reporter. The worse part of this story was not that a married man (and grandfather) sent unsolicited photos of his penis to a woman but that the photos reveal that he was wearing Crocs while doing so (and laying down on a bed in said Crocs. Crocs, really? I am fairly certain that is why the guy never got laid by the hot female sports reporter.) Anyway, you ladies get the drift - this works because guys just want to watch football. They don't care about all the gossipy stuff, but really girls - that's the best part in Pam's playbook! To continue, just keep talking about "your" team. No matter what - do NOT learn anything substantial about the game of football!
Once in a while say something like "Oh, I think he was offsides!" Or "that was definitely pass interference" or "do you think they'll go for the 2 point conversion?" or "THAT WAS DEFINITELY A PERSONAL FOUL!!" It doesn't matter when you say it, just say it. Trust me.
Now here's the fun part. As a woman, you really have an advantage in this next segment. A discussion about team colors and uniform styles is a must! Use words like pumpkin and nutmeg, aquamarine and azure - you get the drift. A gratuitous mention of how cute their butts look in their tight, little pants is appropriate here. No football Sunday is complete without a discussion of the ever-changing yet always fashionable hair styles of Tom Brady. Tom is the QB (that's quarterback) for the New England Patriots and is married to Supermodel Gisele Bundchen. Girls, if you have any imagination at all, I don't think I need to advise you on how to use this information to make your man throw his hands up in the air in total frustration. Anyway, back to Tom's hair - be sure to discuss what a trendsetter he is. His hair has gone from short and clean cut - the All American Boy - to long, luscious locks (that would have put Farrah Fawcett's to shame back in the day) to his present day cut of a loose, longer cut shag. He is always perfectly coiffed - even during the games - and I am sure he spends more time and money on his hair and hair products than I do. You really should Google "Tom Brady's hair" to see what I am talking about. Of course, being married to a Supermodel probably puts incredible pressure on Tom to always be on that razor's edge of fashion so be sure to quickly segue into a "discussion" on fashion and the new Sex and the City movie. (By now, your man should be sitting on the couch, head in hands, moaning in agony.) He may actually offer you money to go shopping. It's up to you whether to take it or not or see if he'll up the ante next week...!
So, that about covers it for this option. The above is just a suggested "offensive" strategy - feel free to finesse and put your own pass rush to the test.
This brings me to the last option:
3. A full-out immersion of football which includes your own fantasy football draft. Each NFL team has 11 players that play offense and 11 that play defense and then some special teams - ie. kickoff, field goal etc. In regular fantasy football, each league has a different number of players and positions, so my team of twelve is well within the fantasy football norms. Here's the thing, ladies - the truth is that underneath all those pads and spandex and helmets are some serious eye candy and if none of the options above pique your interest, what follows below should - at least for long enough to watch a bit. Accordingly, my fantasy football team has absolutely nothing to do with stats, rankings or the win/loss column. It's all about the external, baby!! How HOT are you, Mr. Football Player??? With that criteria in mind, I now give you my fantasy team comprised of the 12 hottest players in football according to my personal "playbook". You may use my whole team or pick and choose, but if these examples of extreme eye candy don't make you want to watch football, nothing ever will.
(Remember these are my choices - you don't have to agree - there is plenty of other eye candy from which you can field your own team.) Note: These are in no particular order except for the player in my number one spot is, hands down, the hottest player in the NFL. Note #2: You will see that Tom Brady, although beautiful to a fault, is not on my team. He's just too damn perfect and his life is equally so, that I just walk around waiting for regular life stuff to happen to him like it does the rest of us. It's just annoying. Tom Brady inspires a serious case of Schadenfreude in me. It's ugly, I know, but I can't help it. Note #3: I am going to try to refrain from commenting on my players, uh.....assets and let the photos speak for themselves because basically all the comments would go something like this. "Yum" or "a tall, cool glass of water" or "I like my men the way I like my coffee - strong, hot and black" - so, ah, yes - I'll refrain for the most part from here on out. With no further ado then - here are the men in my team playbook:
1. Brady Quinn, QB, Denver Broncos, #9. 6'3", 235 lbs., 26 years old.
2. Chad Ochocinco, WR (Wide Receiver), New England Patriots, #85. 6'1", 192 lbs., 33 years old.
3. Ray Lewis, LB (Linebacker), Baltimore Ravens, #52. 6'1", 250 lbs., 36 years old.
More than any of these guys, Ray Lewis inspires a unbelievable case of lust in me. He's just that hot. Right, Erin?
4. Patrick Willis, LB, San Francisco, #52. 6'1", 240 lbs., 26 years old.
5. Christian Ponder, QB, Minnesota Vikings, #7. 6'0", 215 lbs., 31 years old.
6. Adam Vinatieri, K (Kicker), Indianapolis Colts, #4. 6'0", 202 lbs., 38 years old.
7. Cam Newton, QB, Carolina Panthers, #1. 6'5", 248 lbs., 22 years old.
8. Troy Polamalu, DB (Defensive Back), Pittsburgh Steelers, #43. 5'10", 207 lbs., 30 years old.
That hair...!
9. Michael Vick, QB, Philadelphia Eagles, #7. 6'0", 215 lbs., 31 years old.**
** a note on Vick - I know, he went to prison for doing some really shitty, horrible things to dogs and he was truly a thug and admittedly ungrateful and normally I wouldn't have him in any group BUT I think he has truly reformed and has earned a second chance. We all deserve a second chance, and *I* of all people know that. If I thought he was disingenuous in any way, he'd never be on my fantasy team. I can't pretend to understand the cultural influences that caused him to think what he did was acceptable but I think 2 years in a cell gave him a chance to really think about what God blessed him with and how he came *this* close to throwing it all away for nothing. It's amazing that he was even able to come back at all.
10. Clay Matthews, LB, Greenbay Packers, #52. 6'3", 255 lbs., 25 years old.
Please drag me off to your cave, Clay. Please.
11. Tony Gonzales, TE, Atlanta Falcons, #88. 6'5", 247 lbs., 35 years old.
and finally, the hottest man in the NFL (drumroll please!)
12. Mark Sanchez, QB, New York Jets, #6. 6'2", 225 lbs., 24 years old.
1. This is the simplest solution and best for those ladies with no sense of humor or for those who just.don't.care. You are a football widow. Your man is now unavailable these days of the week for the next 4 months - all day Sunday, Sunday night, Monday night and Thursday night. You don't care because it allows you to go out to dinner with your girlfriends, go shopping or a happy combination of both. I really have no advice for you except to advise you not go drinking with your girlfriends after you shop as it is likely everyone else in the bar is watching one of the many games being shown on the bar tv(s). And I wish you good luck with all that! Sadly, you are not my target audience, however - please keep reading because I have several other options you may actually find intriguing!
2. My second solution is really just a means to torture your man. It's a passive-aggressive application of trying to be a part of something that is important to your husband but if you follow my advice, will be much more fun for you!
Pick a team to root for. It doesn't matter which one, but it's probably most effective to root for the same team as your husband especially if you want to make his head explode. On game day, come into the TV room wearing your team jersey. You may want to, in advance, prepare your favorite cocktails - margaritas, mai tais, appletinis - anything besides a beer works here. Prepare some canapes or delicious hors d'oeuvres - something classy and elegant! Lots of little knives and toothpicks really add panache - no beer, chips and dip for you, missy!!
As soon as you sit down, start peppering your loved one with incredibly stupid questions. Be relentless. Now, a bit of advice, this approach works best if you have done a tiny bit of research. An online search will give you the quarterback and coach names and then find out who the stars of your team are. It is very important to discover who your team's "bad boy" is so you can discuss said player's merits with your man. Examples abound - Plaxico Burress who plays for the Jets now, was just released from prison after serving two years for shooting himself in the thigh at a club when the gun he was carrying in his waistband began to slide down and as he grabbed for it he accidentally pulled the trigger missing the family jewels by millimeters.
Better yet, bring up the Brett Favre scandal. Brett, now retired but ex-longtime QB for the Packers and for a short while the Vikings, sent pictures of his erect johnson to a female sports reporter. The worse part of this story was not that a married man (and grandfather) sent unsolicited photos of his penis to a woman but that the photos reveal that he was wearing Crocs while doing so (and laying down on a bed in said Crocs. Crocs, really? I am fairly certain that is why the guy never got laid by the hot female sports reporter.) Anyway, you ladies get the drift - this works because guys just want to watch football. They don't care about all the gossipy stuff, but really girls - that's the best part in Pam's playbook! To continue, just keep talking about "your" team. No matter what - do NOT learn anything substantial about the game of football!
Once in a while say something like "Oh, I think he was offsides!" Or "that was definitely pass interference" or "do you think they'll go for the 2 point conversion?" or "THAT WAS DEFINITELY A PERSONAL FOUL!!" It doesn't matter when you say it, just say it. Trust me.
Now here's the fun part. As a woman, you really have an advantage in this next segment. A discussion about team colors and uniform styles is a must! Use words like pumpkin and nutmeg, aquamarine and azure - you get the drift. A gratuitous mention of how cute their butts look in their tight, little pants is appropriate here. No football Sunday is complete without a discussion of the ever-changing yet always fashionable hair styles of Tom Brady. Tom is the QB (that's quarterback) for the New England Patriots and is married to Supermodel Gisele Bundchen. Girls, if you have any imagination at all, I don't think I need to advise you on how to use this information to make your man throw his hands up in the air in total frustration. Anyway, back to Tom's hair - be sure to discuss what a trendsetter he is. His hair has gone from short and clean cut - the All American Boy - to long, luscious locks (that would have put Farrah Fawcett's to shame back in the day) to his present day cut of a loose, longer cut shag. He is always perfectly coiffed - even during the games - and I am sure he spends more time and money on his hair and hair products than I do. You really should Google "Tom Brady's hair" to see what I am talking about. Of course, being married to a Supermodel probably puts incredible pressure on Tom to always be on that razor's edge of fashion so be sure to quickly segue into a "discussion" on fashion and the new Sex and the City movie. (By now, your man should be sitting on the couch, head in hands, moaning in agony.) He may actually offer you money to go shopping. It's up to you whether to take it or not or see if he'll up the ante next week...!
So, that about covers it for this option. The above is just a suggested "offensive" strategy - feel free to finesse and put your own pass rush to the test.
This brings me to the last option:
3. A full-out immersion of football which includes your own fantasy football draft. Each NFL team has 11 players that play offense and 11 that play defense and then some special teams - ie. kickoff, field goal etc. In regular fantasy football, each league has a different number of players and positions, so my team of twelve is well within the fantasy football norms. Here's the thing, ladies - the truth is that underneath all those pads and spandex and helmets are some serious eye candy and if none of the options above pique your interest, what follows below should - at least for long enough to watch a bit. Accordingly, my fantasy football team has absolutely nothing to do with stats, rankings or the win/loss column. It's all about the external, baby!! How HOT are you, Mr. Football Player??? With that criteria in mind, I now give you my fantasy team comprised of the 12 hottest players in football according to my personal "playbook". You may use my whole team or pick and choose, but if these examples of extreme eye candy don't make you want to watch football, nothing ever will.
Pam's Fantasy Football Team
The Twelve Hottest Players in the Game Today
(Remember these are my choices - you don't have to agree - there is plenty of other eye candy from which you can field your own team.) Note: These are in no particular order except for the player in my number one spot is, hands down, the hottest player in the NFL. Note #2: You will see that Tom Brady, although beautiful to a fault, is not on my team. He's just too damn perfect and his life is equally so, that I just walk around waiting for regular life stuff to happen to him like it does the rest of us. It's just annoying. Tom Brady inspires a serious case of Schadenfreude in me. It's ugly, I know, but I can't help it. Note #3: I am going to try to refrain from commenting on my players, uh.....assets and let the photos speak for themselves because basically all the comments would go something like this. "Yum" or "a tall, cool glass of water" or "I like my men the way I like my coffee - strong, hot and black" - so, ah, yes - I'll refrain for the most part from here on out. With no further ado then - here are the men in my team playbook:
1. Brady Quinn, QB, Denver Broncos, #9. 6'3", 235 lbs., 26 years old.
2. Chad Ochocinco, WR (Wide Receiver), New England Patriots, #85. 6'1", 192 lbs., 33 years old.
3. Ray Lewis, LB (Linebacker), Baltimore Ravens, #52. 6'1", 250 lbs., 36 years old.
More than any of these guys, Ray Lewis inspires a unbelievable case of lust in me. He's just that hot. Right, Erin?
4. Patrick Willis, LB, San Francisco, #52. 6'1", 240 lbs., 26 years old.
5. Christian Ponder, QB, Minnesota Vikings, #7. 6'0", 215 lbs., 31 years old.
6. Adam Vinatieri, K (Kicker), Indianapolis Colts, #4. 6'0", 202 lbs., 38 years old.
7. Cam Newton, QB, Carolina Panthers, #1. 6'5", 248 lbs., 22 years old.
8. Troy Polamalu, DB (Defensive Back), Pittsburgh Steelers, #43. 5'10", 207 lbs., 30 years old.
9. Michael Vick, QB, Philadelphia Eagles, #7. 6'0", 215 lbs., 31 years old.**
** a note on Vick - I know, he went to prison for doing some really shitty, horrible things to dogs and he was truly a thug and admittedly ungrateful and normally I wouldn't have him in any group BUT I think he has truly reformed and has earned a second chance. We all deserve a second chance, and *I* of all people know that. If I thought he was disingenuous in any way, he'd never be on my fantasy team. I can't pretend to understand the cultural influences that caused him to think what he did was acceptable but I think 2 years in a cell gave him a chance to really think about what God blessed him with and how he came *this* close to throwing it all away for nothing. It's amazing that he was even able to come back at all.
10. Clay Matthews, LB, Greenbay Packers, #52. 6'3", 255 lbs., 25 years old.
11. Tony Gonzales, TE, Atlanta Falcons, #88. 6'5", 247 lbs., 35 years old.
and finally, the hottest man in the NFL (drumroll please!)
12. Mark Sanchez, QB, New York Jets, #6. 6'2", 225 lbs., 24 years old.
Million dollar smile. Nuf said.
So, there you go - my fantasy football team for 2011. There's a little something for everyone and I am happy to share this with you all! I look forward to your comments (and disses) and to hearing who you ladies would have on your team. I am always willing to weigh the merits of any player I may have overlooked. There's always room for a few more on my team, and I did it that way on purpose. Yum.
Pax
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