When you came home the first time, still and silent in the backseat, I could see your golden eyes in the rear view mirror. I wondered if I had acted in haste. After all, I'd only known you an hour or two and our relationship was already complicated. At the urging of two women who loved you madly, you and I had crept out the back door without saying goodbye or following the proper procedures.
I went to the Bradshaw shelter in Sacramento seeking balm for an aching heart. I had lost my big joyful- no, blunderful -Weimeraner Spencer after 12 years. I found him as a puppy wandering a Safeway parking lot in Guerneville on the Russian River. And for twelve great rollicking funny years, we lived life large because Spencer filled all the space around him and was impossible to ignore.The loss was only a couple of weeks old but the house- and the world outside of it -felt empty.
You were in a kennel with 4 others and I asked the attendant if I could see the German shorthair pointer. Your beautiful shiny brown head was so dark that I could not see you in the shadows. She slipped a leash on you, and we walked quietly to the little fenced area outside. I sat at a table and you sat down comfortably next to me. I can smell the grass, I can feel the soft Sacramento air. I recall everything of that moment. I looked at you, and you looked at me. I stroked your ear, the softest velvet I have ever felt, then or now.
And I told you straight off that I wasn't ready to fall in love again. I wanted that to be clear between us. I still had a broken heart. I could offer you a loving home and good food and someone to care for you but you could never take the place of the one I had lost. I said if that was all right with you, it was all right with me and did you want to come home with me? You listened intently, and seemed to give your assent.
And so we struck our bargain. But the young man back at the kennel was not as enthusiastic. He had eyed you up, realized you were a beautiful and well trained hunting dog, and clearly had you in mind for himself or a friend. He told me you had not had a temperament test, took you into a room and came back to announce you had bitten him. I had been filling out the paperwork and was astonished to learn I could not take you home.
There were two women at the shelter that day who decided your fate. One worked with German Shorthair Pointers. You had caught her attention and she wanted to see you in a good home. The other worked at the shelter. As I wandered once more out to the cages, they brought you to me and urged me to take you home. They said you were gentle and quiet and they knew you had not bitten anyone. The rescue worker gave me her card and two phone numbers. "If you don't want him, for any reason, I will drive to your home and pick him up, " she assured me.
Neither wanted you to go home with the young man, and so, here we were, you and I, running away together like lovers in the night.
When we arrived, you jumped down from the backseat, looked around, and took up your place at my side. In fact, for the first few weeks, I never walked alone. Hence, your obvious and unavoidable name...Shadow. Gradually, you trusted in me enough to let me out of your sight, but not often. We went to the lake and you ran through the fields, once capering off with a coyote but returning calmly as if it were an everyday occurrence. Your quiet nature and unfailing devotion were just what I needed as I moved through my grief over the loss of Spencer.
I wondered about your life before I met you. You were perhaps two years old. Someone had spent a lot of time training you. You were the smartest, best behaved dog I had ever brought into my life. You knew every command I could think of, and others I only discovered over time. One day, more than a year after you joined me, I held your treat up a little higher. You did a smart half circle, plopped down and lifted your head high. You surprised me all the time with what you knew. Once you slipped your head into a bush and came out with a small bird held ever so gently in your big mouth. I told you to let it go, and it flew away.
From the beginning, you were devoted only, and entirely to me. And over the years, you became my constant, unwavering companion. Though I have other dogs I have loved and cherish, you were at my side faithfully wherever I went in or out of the house, and without question, quietly allowing me to do my work, to talk with friends, to laugh, to weep, and at times to heal, as you did when I returned from open heart surgery and was so exhausted I could only fall into bed. You lay down on the floor next to me, not moving once in five hours while I slept, waiting patiently for when my feet would next touch the floor and you could accompany me wherever I wanted to go.
You have always been a perfect living example of Shakespeare's 'ever fixed mark,' his description of love that cannot be changed with time or age.
Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the
remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests
and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's
unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy
lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters
not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of
doom.
How does one let go of such devotion? How to find the will to send such a caring friend away? As you grew forgetful, confused...as you became anxious if I were not near or in your sight... as your back legs began to fail, as medicines lost their power...I knew I had taken too long to make this decision. Everyone who loves an animal knows there is never a good time, not even an acceptable time, to let go. But there is a right time.
So today as I sent you on a journey you have richly earned and were so ready for, as you looked around one last time to fix me in your sight, I told you to remember the talks we have had. We have a plan, you and I. You know that when I come, be it sooner or later, I will call to you. And I know you'll be there. I know you'll be listening.
Oh, and one last thing, Shadow. You know that bargain we struck, how I told you I would never quite love you the same way I did Spencer, that you and I would have a good and caring life together, but you could not expect me to love you as much?
It appears I was mistaken about that. But you knew it all the time.
Monday, March 18, 2013
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Let me Give You...the Bird
Last night, on a foray from the bedroom to the kitchen to cobble together a late night gourmet treat of Wheat Thins with some artichoke dip ... Wait, what? At midnight? Why am I eating this at midnight? Isn't there something else I could be doing?
Actually, no. What can I say? The Ambien makes me hungry, and then I forget how much I've eaten. It's a great system, which only malfunctions when I step on the scale. Since I broke my ankle last summer, I try not to step on the scale because it throws off my balance.
And if that isn't a good enough excuse for you, I have others.
So on my way, I thought I'd glance through the bookshelves in the fireplace room. Yes ... it's a fireplace room because that's where the fireplace is, and it has no other earthly purpose. And I actually found the book I had been seeking.
Bird by Bird...by that smarty pants, witty writer Anne Lamott. Bird by Bird. An apt title, and just what I needed.
For I am The Spring Chicken, and yes, that's a bird... albeit a sort of squatty, squawky, ungraceful (yet delicious with parm and Best Foods mayo) bird. And I'm a writer, who hasn't been in the mood to write for, oh, three years now. (I mean, really, who *is* in the mood to write?)
Ann's book offers 'some instructions on 'Writing and Life' and she ain't whistling writers block. As her writer father told her brother once, when he was overwhelmed at an essay due about birds: Just take it bird by bird.
And so, ever so reluctantly, The Spring Chicken takes up her quill. Please don't go down the metaphor path here because it'll end up with the laying of an egg, which is painful and time consuming and usually ends up scrambled.
I've been doing a bit of writing, actually. On Facebook, and Twitter. Twitter tells me I've logged in over 3000 tweets, and I can attest that each one is witty and pithy and profound.
I'm a bit pithy myself. Pithiness is vastly underrated today. We should all be limited to 140 characters whenever we talk to each other, and then stop, and listen to the 140 coming from the other person, in whom we have absolutely no interest, and are only waiting until he shuts up.
If he can only offer 140 characters, we needn't wait long.
Those who actually answer "How are you?" with the truth need not apply.
Who is this Spring Chicken, you're asking. If you're still here, of course. I'm a bit of an observer, a poker, a prodder, a commenter, an ad libber. A chicken dropping disturber. Yeah, a squawker. I do see the absurd and I like that ability in myself; the tendency to take things too seriously has only given me gas (and a few real estate contracts.)
I'm a cafeteria Catholic whose Jewish relatives and enlightened friends have combined to create a Buddhist, spiritual, meditating, about 27.5% enlightened being who prefers Starbucks French Roast and a really good, authentic bagel. And rainy days and Mondays don't get me down. I'm much more likely to be felled by a cheerful Sunday afternoon pierced by the sound of a motorboat on the lake.
So. Then. Good to be back, and wish me luck with my hopeful commitment to write a chicky blog at least three times a week. Every week.
As Anne Lamott's dad would say...bird by bird.
Actually, no. What can I say? The Ambien makes me hungry, and then I forget how much I've eaten. It's a great system, which only malfunctions when I step on the scale. Since I broke my ankle last summer, I try not to step on the scale because it throws off my balance.
And if that isn't a good enough excuse for you, I have others.
So on my way, I thought I'd glance through the bookshelves in the fireplace room. Yes ... it's a fireplace room because that's where the fireplace is, and it has no other earthly purpose. And I actually found the book I had been seeking.
Bird by Bird...by that smarty pants, witty writer Anne Lamott. Bird by Bird. An apt title, and just what I needed.
For I am The Spring Chicken, and yes, that's a bird... albeit a sort of squatty, squawky, ungraceful (yet delicious with parm and Best Foods mayo) bird. And I'm a writer, who hasn't been in the mood to write for, oh, three years now. (I mean, really, who *is* in the mood to write?)
Ann's book offers 'some instructions on 'Writing and Life' and she ain't whistling writers block. As her writer father told her brother once, when he was overwhelmed at an essay due about birds: Just take it bird by bird.
And so, ever so reluctantly, The Spring Chicken takes up her quill. Please don't go down the metaphor path here because it'll end up with the laying of an egg, which is painful and time consuming and usually ends up scrambled.
I've been doing a bit of writing, actually. On Facebook, and Twitter. Twitter tells me I've logged in over 3000 tweets, and I can attest that each one is witty and pithy and profound.
I'm a bit pithy myself. Pithiness is vastly underrated today. We should all be limited to 140 characters whenever we talk to each other, and then stop, and listen to the 140 coming from the other person, in whom we have absolutely no interest, and are only waiting until he shuts up.
If he can only offer 140 characters, we needn't wait long.
Those who actually answer "How are you?" with the truth need not apply.
Who is this Spring Chicken, you're asking. If you're still here, of course. I'm a bit of an observer, a poker, a prodder, a commenter, an ad libber. A chicken dropping disturber. Yeah, a squawker. I do see the absurd and I like that ability in myself; the tendency to take things too seriously has only given me gas (and a few real estate contracts.)
I'm a cafeteria Catholic whose Jewish relatives and enlightened friends have combined to create a Buddhist, spiritual, meditating, about 27.5% enlightened being who prefers Starbucks French Roast and a really good, authentic bagel. And rainy days and Mondays don't get me down. I'm much more likely to be felled by a cheerful Sunday afternoon pierced by the sound of a motorboat on the lake.
So. Then. Good to be back, and wish me luck with my hopeful commitment to write a chicky blog at least three times a week. Every week.
As Anne Lamott's dad would say...bird by bird.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
I SAY A LITTLE PRAYER
In a quick backward glance I am driving my Mustang on the Nimitz Freeway near Hayward California . I'm on my way to my first teaching assignment, barely older than my students, and I am singing along with Dionne Warwick: while combing my hair now, and wond'ring what dress to wear now, I say a little prayer for you....
To me the song is about Vietnam. I don't have a boyfriend or husband fighting there but I keep the boys in my heart; they are my friends, my classmates, my contemporaries. I want them to come home. They do not belong in this war they cannot - and perhaps should not - win.
I can't see ahead and so I don't know the violence, the losses, the tragedies that await us in 1968. We have already been unspeakably changed by the assassination four years before. We Baby Boomers, who for the most part lived a golden, sheltered life in the fifties with Howdy Doody on the tiny TV screen and doting parents who rented cotton candy machines on Halloween and took us to a fledgling Disneyland...we now knew that bad things can happen, that terrible events can transform us, but in 1967 we don't yet know that the ripples from that poisoned pebble will expand throughout our lives and muddy the waters decades later. It is not an easy fix. There is no closure for this kind of wound.
I say a little prayer for you.
Today, I say one for Barack Obama and all of our candidates. I say one every morning. Because I know bad things can happen, and I know hateful people always live among us. And I am disturbed by the language I am hearing in the McCain campaign. The tenor of the talk has become feverish and infused with meanness. I am worried, I am frightened by it.
I am waiting for John McCain to step up and ask his followers to stop it.
Because John McCain knows bad things can happen. He has lived through them. He remembers.
Sarah Palin does not. Sarah Palin is proud of being in the second grade when Joe Biden was already in Congress. Sarah Palin thinks youth and ignorance are prizes to be worn like beauty contest sashes.
Sarah Palin was not yet born when a shot from a rifle rang through the Dallas morning and cut down a young president. She cannot know the great grief that never quite heals. The place in the heart that one carries in silence. The assassination of a president, regardless of one's political leanings, is something that hurts and in many cases hardens. The death of John Kennedy robbed a generation of its youth and much of its idealism.
Sarah Palin was four years old when Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy were gunned down. She cannot understand. There was anger in the land, an unpopular war and an ineffective, hated president in the White House. There was indecision, worry, and strong words among the people.
Some politicians used the fear in the land to advance their own causes. Anger was condoned, racial slurs and half truths abounded. Rumors spread rapidly, even without our instant internet communication. Violence marred a political convention and blood ran in the streets.
And today, in an atmosphere of strife, economic disaster and an unpopular war, the most disliked president in our history sits helplessly on the sidelines while another campaign draws to its conclusion. And out of desperation, out of a sense that they must win at any cost, again the comments are being made.
They are reckless comments. They use a candidate's middle name because it conjures a hated dictator. They imply that a candidate "pals around with terrorists." They suggest that he is dangerous. They cast doubts. They play on fear and pander to the worst in their supporters.
I ask John McCain to stop. I ask him to tutor and rein in his young vice presidential nominee.
She thinks that whatever she says, she can say freely and without consequence. She does not know the horror of the consequences and I pray she never learns.
She does not know that her words can reap the whirlwind.
I remind my fellow Boomers to tell the story. Share the pain and the lesson with a new generation, who only read of John Kennedy in dusty history books. Who don't remember Robert Kennedy's campaign born of sorrow, or Martin Luther King's devotion to his cause.
Tell the story you carry in your heart. Quiet the noise, take a deep breath, step back.
Both campaigns : have respect for one another. Our country cannot bear another tragic loss. Keep all of our candidates safe, let them fulfill their destinies whatever those may be. Let them sail these treacherous waters with all of us as ballast. Let all participants in the political wars show responsibility and restraint.
I say a little prayer.
To me the song is about Vietnam. I don't have a boyfriend or husband fighting there but I keep the boys in my heart; they are my friends, my classmates, my contemporaries. I want them to come home. They do not belong in this war they cannot - and perhaps should not - win.
I can't see ahead and so I don't know the violence, the losses, the tragedies that await us in 1968. We have already been unspeakably changed by the assassination four years before. We Baby Boomers, who for the most part lived a golden, sheltered life in the fifties with Howdy Doody on the tiny TV screen and doting parents who rented cotton candy machines on Halloween and took us to a fledgling Disneyland...we now knew that bad things can happen, that terrible events can transform us, but in 1967 we don't yet know that the ripples from that poisoned pebble will expand throughout our lives and muddy the waters decades later. It is not an easy fix. There is no closure for this kind of wound.
I say a little prayer for you.
Today, I say one for Barack Obama and all of our candidates. I say one every morning. Because I know bad things can happen, and I know hateful people always live among us. And I am disturbed by the language I am hearing in the McCain campaign. The tenor of the talk has become feverish and infused with meanness. I am worried, I am frightened by it.
I am waiting for John McCain to step up and ask his followers to stop it.
Because John McCain knows bad things can happen. He has lived through them. He remembers.
Sarah Palin does not. Sarah Palin is proud of being in the second grade when Joe Biden was already in Congress. Sarah Palin thinks youth and ignorance are prizes to be worn like beauty contest sashes.
Sarah Palin was not yet born when a shot from a rifle rang through the Dallas morning and cut down a young president. She cannot know the great grief that never quite heals. The place in the heart that one carries in silence. The assassination of a president, regardless of one's political leanings, is something that hurts and in many cases hardens. The death of John Kennedy robbed a generation of its youth and much of its idealism.
Sarah Palin was four years old when Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy were gunned down. She cannot understand. There was anger in the land, an unpopular war and an ineffective, hated president in the White House. There was indecision, worry, and strong words among the people.
Some politicians used the fear in the land to advance their own causes. Anger was condoned, racial slurs and half truths abounded. Rumors spread rapidly, even without our instant internet communication. Violence marred a political convention and blood ran in the streets.
And today, in an atmosphere of strife, economic disaster and an unpopular war, the most disliked president in our history sits helplessly on the sidelines while another campaign draws to its conclusion. And out of desperation, out of a sense that they must win at any cost, again the comments are being made.
They are reckless comments. They use a candidate's middle name because it conjures a hated dictator. They imply that a candidate "pals around with terrorists." They suggest that he is dangerous. They cast doubts. They play on fear and pander to the worst in their supporters.
I ask John McCain to stop. I ask him to tutor and rein in his young vice presidential nominee.
She thinks that whatever she says, she can say freely and without consequence. She does not know the horror of the consequences and I pray she never learns.
She does not know that her words can reap the whirlwind.
I remind my fellow Boomers to tell the story. Share the pain and the lesson with a new generation, who only read of John Kennedy in dusty history books. Who don't remember Robert Kennedy's campaign born of sorrow, or Martin Luther King's devotion to his cause.
Tell the story you carry in your heart. Quiet the noise, take a deep breath, step back.
Both campaigns : have respect for one another. Our country cannot bear another tragic loss. Keep all of our candidates safe, let them fulfill their destinies whatever those may be. Let them sail these treacherous waters with all of us as ballast. Let all participants in the political wars show responsibility and restraint.
I say a little prayer.
GET A LIFE
I went over to the local Wal Mart the other day to get a life.
Everyone keeps saying “Get a life” these days. They tell each other to get a life on TV, in movies, in commercials, and especially when they are disgusted with each other. So I figured, I would just go on over and get myself one.
The thing was, WalMart actually had several different lives for sale over on the Notions Aisle.
At the very front of the aisle I found Married Life, and just beyond it, Single Life.
They were both CDs I could easily run on my home pc, and the best part was, they had them on sale two for one. However, they warned me if I tried to run them both at the same time I might be in for some serious download problems.
So I took my two lives home, and checked them out.
I installed the Married Life first out of curiosity. Having been single for such a long time, I was naturally interested in what I had been missing.
The Married Life CD had a lot of really cool stuff on it.
It offered a very good looking opposite sex spouse of my choice (I had chosen Marriage, Traditional, not Marriage, Alternate) and I decided to name him Max, a solid name, a name with a future.
I could morph Max into any age, hair color, height or weight, but no matter what I did with him, he was always smiling, never complained, and always looked very attractive.
He dressed nice, too, kind of preppy in golf shirts and great fitting slacks with a v-neck sweater tied across his shoulders and unpretentious sunglasses. And I assumed he smelled good, although my pc doesn’t come equipped with that capability yet.
Max came equipped with an entire monologue that, in a nutshell, boiled down to the following phrases: “Yes honey, I agree, you’re certainly right. Gosh you look beautiful. Of course you don’t look fat. Can I give you a massage? I’m sorry you had a bad day. Come here and give me a smooch, you sexy thing. What do you want for dinner?”
Also in the Married, Traditional program was a bouquet of flowers of my choice from 1-800 –Flowers, a Kama Sutra book, a king size, heated water bed, two tickets to Sandal’s Couples Only Resort in the Caribbean, Max’s 401K plan (richly endowed), one 4-bedroom, 3 bath, 3800 square foot home exquisitely decorated with gourmet kitchen, two walk-in closets just for me, a private hot tub off the master bedroom, and a time-share in Aruba.
I selected the No Kids button, but I did opt for Grandkids. Hey, I could have it all without any of the aggravation. This was my life, after all. I decided I liked this Married Life a lot. Reluctantly I closed it and inserted the disk for the Single Life.
It contained a copy of “Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus,” coupons for one latte at my local Starbucks, an individual pizza from Pizza Hut and a map of all the straight singles bars within 10 miles of my house. (Remember, I chose Single, Traditional, not Single, Alternate.) It offered two potential dates, who promised they were sensitive and “authentic,” but they were both too short.
This Single Life CD didn’t impress me, so I took it back to the WalMart and complained that there seemed to be a lot more in the Married Life package.
The manager asked if I had chosen my CD from the Married- Life- Is- Better Preconceived Notions Aisle. I said I had no idea.
“Well,” said the manager, “these Get A Life programs are all set up to match your expectations. If you were divorced, say, and hated being married, you’d pick up a Single, Traditional program in the Single- Is- Better section. But you obviously think being married is great, so that’s the program you picked.”
Could I exchange my two CDs for the other two, in which single was better and married wasn’t so hot? I could.
Back home I came with my new lives, and popped in the Married CD. All it offered was a bald, tired-looking guy named Howard asking me where I had been and if I had taken out the garbage. Oh, and an appointment with a marriage counselor in my neighborhood.
But the Single CD Rom? Spectacular.
As soon as I opened it, the room was filled with upbeat Latin swing music. Dozens of incredibly good looking men, who could be adjusted to whatever specifications I desired, appeared on the screen. They all assured me that I was beautiful, desirable and interesting. They presented their credentials. All were well educated, emotionally and financially secure, and knew how to cook. I had my choice of any of them, and when I grew tired of one I could come back for my choice from an infinite variety.
When I felt tired, or irritable, or bloated, I pressed the “Not Tonight” feature and all of them disappeared from the screen. Up popped scruffy slippers, an extra large t-shirt, an old video of “Sleepless in Seattle” and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey super rich ice cream, spoon already inserted.
Single Life, Traditional, also came with standard features such as my choice of cat or dog, my choice of neighborhood, my choice of décor, my choice of the right or left side of the bed, my choice of vacation spots, and exclusive access to the TV Remote.
It also included a great group of girlfriends to hang out with, a job perfectly suited to my talents which I loved and could work late at with no apologies, and 139 pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes. Size 6, what else?
I really couldn’t make up my mind which life to get. So the other day I took both CD programs back to WalMart. They’re pretty good about refunds. I decided the life I already had was okay because, after all, it belonged to me, and I liked the idea that every day was a fresh new adventure and not pre-programmed. Que sera, sera, I told myself, and decided to stay away from the Preconceived Notions Aisle from now on.
Everyone keeps saying “Get a life” these days. They tell each other to get a life on TV, in movies, in commercials, and especially when they are disgusted with each other. So I figured, I would just go on over and get myself one.
The thing was, WalMart actually had several different lives for sale over on the Notions Aisle.
At the very front of the aisle I found Married Life, and just beyond it, Single Life.
They were both CDs I could easily run on my home pc, and the best part was, they had them on sale two for one. However, they warned me if I tried to run them both at the same time I might be in for some serious download problems.
So I took my two lives home, and checked them out.
I installed the Married Life first out of curiosity. Having been single for such a long time, I was naturally interested in what I had been missing.
The Married Life CD had a lot of really cool stuff on it.
It offered a very good looking opposite sex spouse of my choice (I had chosen Marriage, Traditional, not Marriage, Alternate) and I decided to name him Max, a solid name, a name with a future.
I could morph Max into any age, hair color, height or weight, but no matter what I did with him, he was always smiling, never complained, and always looked very attractive.
He dressed nice, too, kind of preppy in golf shirts and great fitting slacks with a v-neck sweater tied across his shoulders and unpretentious sunglasses. And I assumed he smelled good, although my pc doesn’t come equipped with that capability yet.
Max came equipped with an entire monologue that, in a nutshell, boiled down to the following phrases: “Yes honey, I agree, you’re certainly right. Gosh you look beautiful. Of course you don’t look fat. Can I give you a massage? I’m sorry you had a bad day. Come here and give me a smooch, you sexy thing. What do you want for dinner?”
Also in the Married, Traditional program was a bouquet of flowers of my choice from 1-800 –Flowers, a Kama Sutra book, a king size, heated water bed, two tickets to Sandal’s Couples Only Resort in the Caribbean, Max’s 401K plan (richly endowed), one 4-bedroom, 3 bath, 3800 square foot home exquisitely decorated with gourmet kitchen, two walk-in closets just for me, a private hot tub off the master bedroom, and a time-share in Aruba.
I selected the No Kids button, but I did opt for Grandkids. Hey, I could have it all without any of the aggravation. This was my life, after all. I decided I liked this Married Life a lot. Reluctantly I closed it and inserted the disk for the Single Life.
It contained a copy of “Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus,” coupons for one latte at my local Starbucks, an individual pizza from Pizza Hut and a map of all the straight singles bars within 10 miles of my house. (Remember, I chose Single, Traditional, not Single, Alternate.) It offered two potential dates, who promised they were sensitive and “authentic,” but they were both too short.
This Single Life CD didn’t impress me, so I took it back to the WalMart and complained that there seemed to be a lot more in the Married Life package.
The manager asked if I had chosen my CD from the Married- Life- Is- Better Preconceived Notions Aisle. I said I had no idea.
“Well,” said the manager, “these Get A Life programs are all set up to match your expectations. If you were divorced, say, and hated being married, you’d pick up a Single, Traditional program in the Single- Is- Better section. But you obviously think being married is great, so that’s the program you picked.”
Could I exchange my two CDs for the other two, in which single was better and married wasn’t so hot? I could.
Back home I came with my new lives, and popped in the Married CD. All it offered was a bald, tired-looking guy named Howard asking me where I had been and if I had taken out the garbage. Oh, and an appointment with a marriage counselor in my neighborhood.
But the Single CD Rom? Spectacular.
As soon as I opened it, the room was filled with upbeat Latin swing music. Dozens of incredibly good looking men, who could be adjusted to whatever specifications I desired, appeared on the screen. They all assured me that I was beautiful, desirable and interesting. They presented their credentials. All were well educated, emotionally and financially secure, and knew how to cook. I had my choice of any of them, and when I grew tired of one I could come back for my choice from an infinite variety.
When I felt tired, or irritable, or bloated, I pressed the “Not Tonight” feature and all of them disappeared from the screen. Up popped scruffy slippers, an extra large t-shirt, an old video of “Sleepless in Seattle” and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey super rich ice cream, spoon already inserted.
Single Life, Traditional, also came with standard features such as my choice of cat or dog, my choice of neighborhood, my choice of décor, my choice of the right or left side of the bed, my choice of vacation spots, and exclusive access to the TV Remote.
It also included a great group of girlfriends to hang out with, a job perfectly suited to my talents which I loved and could work late at with no apologies, and 139 pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes. Size 6, what else?
I really couldn’t make up my mind which life to get. So the other day I took both CD programs back to WalMart. They’re pretty good about refunds. I decided the life I already had was okay because, after all, it belonged to me, and I liked the idea that every day was a fresh new adventure and not pre-programmed. Que sera, sera, I told myself, and decided to stay away from the Preconceived Notions Aisle from now on.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Fortune Cookie
There’s a wonderful, fun, dishy movie from 1954 called “A Woman’s World.” In one scene, the always elegant (and disgustingly slim) Lauren Bacall offers up a plate of goodies and a great line to the beauteous Arlene Dahl: “Have a cookie, Cookie.” If you remember that flick, you’re at least as old as I am and you probably thought of June Allyson as “the good one,” Arlene as “the bad one,” and Lauren as “the smart one.”
My, how things have changed in a woman’s world since the fifties. But Bacall somehow never did. She was always smart, always sophisticated. So I tried to think the way she would to come up with what Luck and Good Fortune might mean to us women of 2008. We are not, as were women in the Fifties, dependent on or limited by the success or failure of our husbands. That is a stroke of luck in itself. But along with sweeping and dramatic changes in our lives have come a slate of new choices and challenges. How to survive? How to prosper? How to take a picture with that cell phone?
So here’s what I would wish for us in the way of good fortune today:
Even if you’re officially retired, some kind of work that inspires and rewards
A bathroom scale that always weighs two ounces less than you expect it to
Someone – just one person will do – who really “gets” you
A moment of supreme enlightenment, in which you finally understand how to add an attachment to your e mail
A call on that fancy Bluetooth razor thin cell phone from the one person you’re dying to hear from
A short line in the ladies’ room
A long visit with your best friend
At last, a bra that fits properly
The perfect table at every restaurant (if that’s next to the men’s room, so be it)
World peace. Okay, we’ll settle for peace and quiet at home.
A good, down-to-your-socks belly laugh, at least once a day
Fret-free moments before you drift off to sleep
All the right, healthy choices to eat and drink so you’ll stay healthy and fit… but despite all of them, every once in awhile,
Have that cookie, Cookie.
My, how things have changed in a woman’s world since the fifties. But Bacall somehow never did. She was always smart, always sophisticated. So I tried to think the way she would to come up with what Luck and Good Fortune might mean to us women of 2008. We are not, as were women in the Fifties, dependent on or limited by the success or failure of our husbands. That is a stroke of luck in itself. But along with sweeping and dramatic changes in our lives have come a slate of new choices and challenges. How to survive? How to prosper? How to take a picture with that cell phone?
So here’s what I would wish for us in the way of good fortune today:
Even if you’re officially retired, some kind of work that inspires and rewards
A bathroom scale that always weighs two ounces less than you expect it to
Someone – just one person will do – who really “gets” you
A moment of supreme enlightenment, in which you finally understand how to add an attachment to your e mail
A call on that fancy Bluetooth razor thin cell phone from the one person you’re dying to hear from
A short line in the ladies’ room
A long visit with your best friend
At last, a bra that fits properly
The perfect table at every restaurant (if that’s next to the men’s room, so be it)
World peace. Okay, we’ll settle for peace and quiet at home.
A good, down-to-your-socks belly laugh, at least once a day
Fret-free moments before you drift off to sleep
All the right, healthy choices to eat and drink so you’ll stay healthy and fit… but despite all of them, every once in awhile,
Have that cookie, Cookie.
A Certain Smile
Your day goes the way the corners of your mouth turn.
When I saw this quote I fell into quite a a debate with myself. (Do you ever do that? Debate with yourself? Do you do it out loud? Come on, just between us, do you find yourself walking around your home and sort of muttering to yourself? You might say something along the lines of “I just can’t lose a single ounce!” And then you’ll answer yourself “Well why would I expect to lose any weight when I ate a third of that carton of Chunky Monkey last night. I have absolutely no will power.” And then of course, you’ll have to respond to this rather harsh attack with “But I just had to have something sweet, and if my son hadn’t bought it and put it in the freezer in the first place I probably would have had an apple. And where are my glasses? Where did I put my glasses?”)
So you do know what I mean about debating with myself.
I asked myself “When ‘Anonymous’ wrote this (and, who, by the way, is this Anonymous Guy? I figure it is a guy, not a gal, because women are just more likely to take credit for what they say, not so much because they are proud of it but because they feel responsible for it, whereas some guy will just blurt something out and leave it there on its own.) But when ‘Anonymous’ wrote this, was his mouth turning up at the corners, or down?
Because you can see that it could make a great deal of difference. What kind of day was he having by the time he picked up pen and jotted this little ditty into some kind of journal, or did he just scribble it on a cocktail napkin? Of course, if he was having cocktails in the middle of the day, I bet the corners of his mouth were turned up.
In my case, it’s hard to tell whether my mouth is turned up or down because frankly, after a certain age, the mouth kind of does whatever it feels like. You might think you have a slight smile on your face and catch a glimpse of yourself in a store window and wonder who that grumpy person is. In fact, after a certain age the mouth tends to take on a life of its own. It eats things like pickled pigs feet and smelly cheese. It comes out with tart observations of life that embarrass the kids, and complaints about various aches, pains and unappetizing disorders like excess gas, which don’t make for scintillating dinner conversation. Sometimes you just have to leave the mouth home when you go out.
So who cares whether the corners of your mouth are turned up or down? I say, let your mouth alone. Put a little lipstick on it, perhaps some lip liner but only if you have a nice upper lip. Otherwise you don’t want to draw attention to it.
(And you thought this was going to be another one of those dreadful little motivational self-help articles, didn’t you. )
-Anonymous
When I saw this quote I fell into quite a a debate with myself. (Do you ever do that? Debate with yourself? Do you do it out loud? Come on, just between us, do you find yourself walking around your home and sort of muttering to yourself? You might say something along the lines of “I just can’t lose a single ounce!” And then you’ll answer yourself “Well why would I expect to lose any weight when I ate a third of that carton of Chunky Monkey last night. I have absolutely no will power.” And then of course, you’ll have to respond to this rather harsh attack with “But I just had to have something sweet, and if my son hadn’t bought it and put it in the freezer in the first place I probably would have had an apple. And where are my glasses? Where did I put my glasses?”)
So you do know what I mean about debating with myself.
I asked myself “When ‘Anonymous’ wrote this (and, who, by the way, is this Anonymous Guy? I figure it is a guy, not a gal, because women are just more likely to take credit for what they say, not so much because they are proud of it but because they feel responsible for it, whereas some guy will just blurt something out and leave it there on its own.) But when ‘Anonymous’ wrote this, was his mouth turning up at the corners, or down?
Because you can see that it could make a great deal of difference. What kind of day was he having by the time he picked up pen and jotted this little ditty into some kind of journal, or did he just scribble it on a cocktail napkin? Of course, if he was having cocktails in the middle of the day, I bet the corners of his mouth were turned up.
In my case, it’s hard to tell whether my mouth is turned up or down because frankly, after a certain age, the mouth kind of does whatever it feels like. You might think you have a slight smile on your face and catch a glimpse of yourself in a store window and wonder who that grumpy person is. In fact, after a certain age the mouth tends to take on a life of its own. It eats things like pickled pigs feet and smelly cheese. It comes out with tart observations of life that embarrass the kids, and complaints about various aches, pains and unappetizing disorders like excess gas, which don’t make for scintillating dinner conversation. Sometimes you just have to leave the mouth home when you go out.
So who cares whether the corners of your mouth are turned up or down? I say, let your mouth alone. Put a little lipstick on it, perhaps some lip liner but only if you have a nice upper lip. Otherwise you don’t want to draw attention to it.
(And you thought this was going to be another one of those dreadful little motivational self-help articles, didn’t you. )
Sunday, September 7, 2008
AM I BLUE
Am I Blue … Women and Depression
A personal journey
By Leslie Lafayette
We get them coming, and we get them going.
We get them as teenagers, when an innocent look can spin our world out of control, a careless remark break a fragile heart.
We get them, some of us, every month of our lives in the form of pre-menstrual syndrome. The kind of grinding, mind-numbing despair that lays us low, shuts us down and tears us to pieces.
In a particularly ironic blow, we get them, many of us, after completing a nine-month journey and producing a new life.
We get them in perimenopause.
We get them in menopause.
We get them in old age.
We get them with new jobs or old relationships, with the burdens of childrearing and caregiving and social butterflying. With every pound on the scale, with every glance in the mirror.
We get the blues.
Women seem particularly prone to this personal eclipse, this thief of joy and peace of mind. And the question becomes one not of Why the blues, but How. How to cope. How to endure. Ultimately, how to triumph.
Because women do triumph over the blues.
My first memory of that stomach-in-the-falling-elevator feeling, that Big Empty that lives inside of us all, is myself sitting in the backseat of my parents’ Oldsmobile. I am twelve years old and something from Jimmy Dorsey is playing on the radio. It’s melancholy, and what twelve year old knows from melancholy? Yet I do. I know it in that moment, that sadness without a reason, without a face, without a purpose.
I wouldn’t have known what to say to my parents. “Help me, I’m lost,” comes to mind now, but then, I just felt small and alone despite the presence of the two most important adults in my world just inches away from me, and the Santa Monica sand shimmering next to the bluest of waters.
After years of battling what are now called “mood disorders,” ranging from mild bouts of tears to occasional intractable dark moods … panic disorder to a sort of loss of appetite for life (Woody Allen, who battled his depression demons for years, nearly named the movie “Annie Hall” after this condition, called anhedonia, a lack of gusto or enjoyment, a sort of emotional limbo) …and enough ups and downs to rival any elevator… I can honestly say that this time of my life, past menopause, is reminiscent of the first eleven years of my life, those childhood days when I was less aware of myself than of the world around me … and therefore I have to grudgingly admit that this is also – if not the happiest time of my life, certainly the least unhappy.
(A disclaimer here: I am Russian and Hungarian, and I would find it genetically impossible to brag about my cheerful disposition under any circumstances.)
The chicken-and-egg battle in the world of depression is about physical depression (researchers say chemical imbalances, particularly low levels of serotonin in the brain, cause depressed feelings) versus situational blues (the marriage is no good, the mortgage is too high, the first born is into drugs, the shoe doesn’t fit so you can’t wear it…the list goes on ad infinitum.)
The argument that we don’t see things the way they are, we see them the way we are, still doesn’t answer the question, does it. If our brains are not producing the “feel good” chemicals, we are bound to see the world through a glass darkly, and that glass is likely to be half empty. So for some of us women, anti-depressant medications have truly made all the difference in quality of life. For others, hormonal therapies in peri-menopause and menopause itself are the answer to our prayers.
And then there are those of us who somehow muddled through and went to sleep at night covered not with a down quilt but a dozen self-help books; who asked themselves the same questions over and over (what does all this mean? Why aren’t I happy? What is to become of me?) but didn’t get the answers; who cried the tears and lost their way again and again but eventually triumphed over this most perplexing and debilitating of all life ailments – this godawful depression – by changing the way they thought…by giving less credence to the feelings of the moment and practicing a different way of being in the world. We stopped romanticizing depression and looked at it straight on and saw it for what it was: a destroyer of precious moments, one after another, moments that add up to lifetimes.
What did I learn from a lifetime of battling the blues?
I learned that “taking actions against a sea of troubles,” as Hamlet suggests in his famous soliloquy, really does work. Except sometimes, doing nothing is the better choice; if one doesn’t work, try the other.
I learned that there is no way to fill up “the Big Empty,” that place inside where you feel all alone. You have to live around it and with it, and in spite of it, and because of it. You can’t drink enough milkshakes or martinis. You can’t take enough drugs or love enough men or buy enough cashmere sweaters or play enough slot machines to fill up that space. It is part of you and part of every human being who ever lived, so make peace with it as early as you can.
Billie Holiday sang “Good morning, heartache, pull up a chair,” and I learned to welcome the pain of loss and heartache into my living room because it wasn’t going anywhere soon, so it might as well make itself at home. Funny, but it was easier that way.
I learned not to take myself so seriously. What was bothering me five years ago? I can’t remember. I will feel the same five years from today. I learned to “save the drama for my mama,” because nobody else was particularly interested, and I saved a lot of energy that way.
I learned to stop chewing on things, like a Rottweiler with a hambone. When I was younger I felt if I could only “think through” a situation in my life that was getting me down, I could “fix” it. Instead, I changed my thoughts, distracted myself, put on a funny movie, went out the door, weeded the garden, walked the dog. It wasn’t easy; in fact, it was the hardest thing I ever did.
I (mostly) learned to stop calling friends and dumping all over them unless I absolutely couldn’t help myself. This saved phone bills and friendships and gave me a break from my own thoughts.
Memories of the way we were might make for great song lyrics, but it doesn’t make for a great way to live. I learned that wandering through the past is walking a dangerous path. For one thing, it was never quite the way I think it was. For another, it is there and gone, and I am here and now. And if I want to keep living, that is where I intend to stay.
Most of all, living long enough has taught me that Scarlett was right. Tomorrow really is another day. It doesn’t mean my sorrows and losses will be gone. It just means I have another chance to eke out some moments of peace, laughter, contentment. Some days they come easier than others. Life bestows on us a river of gold every day, but it’s up to us to wade in and mine the good stuff , to keep it, marvel and reflect upon it, for every new day we’re given.
(Depression can be a serious, life-threatening disorder. If you need help, seek it out immediately. If you feel you are in danger of doing anything to harm yourself or others, go immediately to the nearest emergency room or call Suicide Prevention. There is always someone who will help you. Reach for that help.)
A personal journey
By Leslie Lafayette
We get them coming, and we get them going.
We get them as teenagers, when an innocent look can spin our world out of control, a careless remark break a fragile heart.
We get them, some of us, every month of our lives in the form of pre-menstrual syndrome. The kind of grinding, mind-numbing despair that lays us low, shuts us down and tears us to pieces.
In a particularly ironic blow, we get them, many of us, after completing a nine-month journey and producing a new life.
We get them in perimenopause.
We get them in menopause.
We get them in old age.
We get them with new jobs or old relationships, with the burdens of childrearing and caregiving and social butterflying. With every pound on the scale, with every glance in the mirror.
We get the blues.
Women seem particularly prone to this personal eclipse, this thief of joy and peace of mind. And the question becomes one not of Why the blues, but How. How to cope. How to endure. Ultimately, how to triumph.
Because women do triumph over the blues.
My first memory of that stomach-in-the-falling-elevator feeling, that Big Empty that lives inside of us all, is myself sitting in the backseat of my parents’ Oldsmobile. I am twelve years old and something from Jimmy Dorsey is playing on the radio. It’s melancholy, and what twelve year old knows from melancholy? Yet I do. I know it in that moment, that sadness without a reason, without a face, without a purpose.
I wouldn’t have known what to say to my parents. “Help me, I’m lost,” comes to mind now, but then, I just felt small and alone despite the presence of the two most important adults in my world just inches away from me, and the Santa Monica sand shimmering next to the bluest of waters.
After years of battling what are now called “mood disorders,” ranging from mild bouts of tears to occasional intractable dark moods … panic disorder to a sort of loss of appetite for life (Woody Allen, who battled his depression demons for years, nearly named the movie “Annie Hall” after this condition, called anhedonia, a lack of gusto or enjoyment, a sort of emotional limbo) …and enough ups and downs to rival any elevator… I can honestly say that this time of my life, past menopause, is reminiscent of the first eleven years of my life, those childhood days when I was less aware of myself than of the world around me … and therefore I have to grudgingly admit that this is also – if not the happiest time of my life, certainly the least unhappy.
(A disclaimer here: I am Russian and Hungarian, and I would find it genetically impossible to brag about my cheerful disposition under any circumstances.)
The chicken-and-egg battle in the world of depression is about physical depression (researchers say chemical imbalances, particularly low levels of serotonin in the brain, cause depressed feelings) versus situational blues (the marriage is no good, the mortgage is too high, the first born is into drugs, the shoe doesn’t fit so you can’t wear it…the list goes on ad infinitum.)
The argument that we don’t see things the way they are, we see them the way we are, still doesn’t answer the question, does it. If our brains are not producing the “feel good” chemicals, we are bound to see the world through a glass darkly, and that glass is likely to be half empty. So for some of us women, anti-depressant medications have truly made all the difference in quality of life. For others, hormonal therapies in peri-menopause and menopause itself are the answer to our prayers.
And then there are those of us who somehow muddled through and went to sleep at night covered not with a down quilt but a dozen self-help books; who asked themselves the same questions over and over (what does all this mean? Why aren’t I happy? What is to become of me?) but didn’t get the answers; who cried the tears and lost their way again and again but eventually triumphed over this most perplexing and debilitating of all life ailments – this godawful depression – by changing the way they thought…by giving less credence to the feelings of the moment and practicing a different way of being in the world. We stopped romanticizing depression and looked at it straight on and saw it for what it was: a destroyer of precious moments, one after another, moments that add up to lifetimes.
What did I learn from a lifetime of battling the blues?
I learned that “taking actions against a sea of troubles,” as Hamlet suggests in his famous soliloquy, really does work. Except sometimes, doing nothing is the better choice; if one doesn’t work, try the other.
I learned that there is no way to fill up “the Big Empty,” that place inside where you feel all alone. You have to live around it and with it, and in spite of it, and because of it. You can’t drink enough milkshakes or martinis. You can’t take enough drugs or love enough men or buy enough cashmere sweaters or play enough slot machines to fill up that space. It is part of you and part of every human being who ever lived, so make peace with it as early as you can.
Billie Holiday sang “Good morning, heartache, pull up a chair,” and I learned to welcome the pain of loss and heartache into my living room because it wasn’t going anywhere soon, so it might as well make itself at home. Funny, but it was easier that way.
I learned not to take myself so seriously. What was bothering me five years ago? I can’t remember. I will feel the same five years from today. I learned to “save the drama for my mama,” because nobody else was particularly interested, and I saved a lot of energy that way.
I learned to stop chewing on things, like a Rottweiler with a hambone. When I was younger I felt if I could only “think through” a situation in my life that was getting me down, I could “fix” it. Instead, I changed my thoughts, distracted myself, put on a funny movie, went out the door, weeded the garden, walked the dog. It wasn’t easy; in fact, it was the hardest thing I ever did.
I (mostly) learned to stop calling friends and dumping all over them unless I absolutely couldn’t help myself. This saved phone bills and friendships and gave me a break from my own thoughts.
Memories of the way we were might make for great song lyrics, but it doesn’t make for a great way to live. I learned that wandering through the past is walking a dangerous path. For one thing, it was never quite the way I think it was. For another, it is there and gone, and I am here and now. And if I want to keep living, that is where I intend to stay.
Most of all, living long enough has taught me that Scarlett was right. Tomorrow really is another day. It doesn’t mean my sorrows and losses will be gone. It just means I have another chance to eke out some moments of peace, laughter, contentment. Some days they come easier than others. Life bestows on us a river of gold every day, but it’s up to us to wade in and mine the good stuff , to keep it, marvel and reflect upon it, for every new day we’re given.
(Depression can be a serious, life-threatening disorder. If you need help, seek it out immediately. If you feel you are in danger of doing anything to harm yourself or others, go immediately to the nearest emergency room or call Suicide Prevention. There is always someone who will help you. Reach for that help.)
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