Who I Wanted To Be When I Grew Up
We all dreamed about what we wanted to do and who we wanted to be when we grew up. Here's 13 people I wanted to be that I remember -- I'm sure there's many, many more that I forgot!
1. A writer (was always #1!)
2. A doctor
3. A vet
4. A professional singer
5. A television/movie star
6. Mrs. George Harrison
7. Manager of a band
8. A fashion designer
9. Editor of a teen magazine (so I could meet David/Shaun Cassidy, Bobby Sherman, Michael Cole and just for Anne: Sajid Khan)
10. Professional photographer like Scavullo or Annie Liebovitz
11. A trailblazer like Gloria Steinem
12. A total genius like Stephen Hawking
13. A scientist like Marie Curie
Who did you want to be??
Showing posts with label My history. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My history. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Thursday Thirteen #31
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Thursday Thirteen #23
I Don't Know Where I'm Going, But I Know Where I've Been! 13 places I've visited.
1. England. This was in 1976 while the Queen was celebrating her millionith year on the throne. But I fell in love. In love. I was there for 10 days and roamed around London and off into the countryside. I'd go back in a NY minute. Highlights: Saw Rudolf Nureyev dance. He was older, but it was still powerful. And I walked the walk of the 4 lads where Apple Corps was located (scene of the rooftop performance) and almost got killed looking the wrong way before crossing the street...saw the supposed official "round table" of the Knights...and Stonehenge.
2. Ireland. I'm Irish. What can I tell you? I love Ireland. Went to Dublin and saw the Ring of Kerry and stayed at youth hostels. Then it was advisable not to go any farther north because of all the trouble in Belfast. Saw the Blarney Stone, which you need to hang outside of a tower to kiss, and hearing the stories about the locals peeing on the stone and getting an ol' Irish hoot watching idiot tourists kiss it, well, I waved at it and moved on. I did my history proud and got hammered on Paddy Whiskey. For this reason, I missed most of Scotland....but
3. Scotland. I did revive somewhat for Edinburgh. So old, so much history and an amazing castle that overlooks the city. We weren't there very long and I was praying to just die for most of it...after my salute to Ireland.
4. Wales. All I gotta say is....who knew? The Welsh people (Not Racquel, but Tom Jones is Welsh if that helps) are a damn scream. Beautiful seaside sojourn...and many laughs. Could be I was just happy to have survived Paddy Whiskey.
5. France. Paris mostly. While others in my college troop went off to sample the abundance of the French grape, I went in search of Frederick Chopin. Yes, I knew he was dead, but he spent many years in Paris -- he had an apartment in the Place de la Concorde, which I found via the Metra with some difficulty considering I speak NO French. Got lost in the damn underground....but really did enjoy France. Saw Notre Dame and the Louvre, walked along the Seine. Went out into the countryside and heard about Napoleon and Marie. Highlight: Finding out you absolutely CAN live on bread, wine and cheese.
6. Hawaii. oooo, I loved Hawaii. I mean, how can you NOT? Altho I went with Anne and our friend Jane not to enjoy sun and ocean, but to hunt down Mr. Magnum PI. I found that house too, where they filmed the show. Highlight: Maui. Island home of one Mr. George Harrison, who had a sign that said, in effect, "GET THE F*** OFF MY PROPERTY" in about 17 languages. He didn't want any misunderstanding. No matter where you were from.
7. Dallas, Texas. Some friends of mine moved down there from Chicago about 10 years ago. The only thing I knew of Dallas came from that TV show "Dallas". (We did go visit Southfork, which is an actual ranch, but the inside doesn't look anything like the interiors of the show and the pool is about the size of a 1/2 dollar). But I LOVED Dallas. I loved Texas. It's big and open and you can wear shit-kickers anywhere, anytime and be considered "dressed". The land is open, the food is big and I had a great time. Highlight: fell in love there. Toby Keith. You understand...
8. Philadelphia. My friend Jane moved there and I visited a couple years ago for a girl's weekend. It was terrific!! Ben Franklin and pubs and early American history. A bus ride through skinny streets and brightly painted 18th century row houses. Oh, and the real Liberty Bell. We went to Valley Forge too which was serenely beautiful.
9. Los Angeles. My family moved out to Rosemead California in the 1960's. It's just outside LA. They've moved all over and I've seen alot of Southern California. I like that you can be in 80 degree heat during the day and have it drop into the 50's at night. Or be in horrid heat during the week and head off to the mountains and see snow over the weekend. That and the diversity. Food, people, culture -- all in moderate temps and a few earthquakes. I lived through one quake when I was younger and I remember standing in the door jamb waiting for it to pass. To me, as a kid, it reminded me of living by train tracks and hearing the freight trains pass through.
10. Alaska. Anchorage, Juneau. Went the end of September about 20 years ago and it was warmer in Anchorage than it was in Chicago. It's on the ocean and the way the current flows, Anchorage can be warmer in the winter than Illinois. Again...who knew? Great history there too....but the economy is really tough and I remember alot of empty stores and empty houses. It is extremely beautiful country though. Just going to the store takes your breath away if you look at the scenery around you.
11. Cincinnati, Ohio. I may have lived in Chicago, but in my youth, I was a traitor. I loved the Cincinnati Reds baseball team. I loved Johnny Bench. I saw him catch a game and I fell in love. He was such an incredible athlete -- and I'm sure he still is. But ol' John got me to Cincinnati several times so that when "WKRP in Cincinnati" came on TV, I knew exactly what it was about. Ohio in general, was also a major favorite when I went to college in Muncie Indiana, as all we had to do was cross the border to get a drink.
12. Las Vegas. How could we not put this on the list? I was there in the days of the Desert Inn (Frank's hangout), the Flamingo, Elvis and when the MGM Grand was the end of the strip. And I've seen it grow out farther into the desert and get bigger and grander. Vegas is just a lifeforce all its own. Can't explain it if you've never been there. But you need money....and sleep in optional.
13. Sedona, Arizona. This was quite awhile ago, but if you've ever gone, Sedona sticks with you forever. It's like the Grand Canyon...Meteor Crater....the Pyramids of Egypt. There's just something majestic about the place. I don't remember much except staring at the beauty of it and wishing I could take a piece of it home with me.
But no matter where I've gone, I've found there truly is no place like home.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Me and Volunteering
Growing up, I didn't have a whole lot of interaction with people who weren't like me. I'm talking across the board, culture, age, income bracket. We lived in the suburbs and everyone around us was like....well, us.
My parents, however, had grown up differently. My mom grew up in a very ethnic neighborhood, where if you didn't speak Czech or Polish, you couldn't function. Everyone spoke Czech as a first language, read the Slavik papers, and English was a second language.
My dad grew up in rural Illinois, but from a very culturally diverse and huge family. Because my grandfather was one of the only people in town who didn't lose his job during the depression, my dad said that their dinner table always had strangers. Local people, people passing through. Black, white, young, old. The feeling was that since there was enough food for the 8 of them, there was still enough for a couple more. The rule was....wash your hands and sit down. It wasn't fancy, but it was food.
Anyway, I think my parents knew I was missing out on an important piece of the life puzzle growing up as I did. So when I was 14, they had me volunteer as a candystriper at a large, metropolitan medical center.
It was the best thing that ever happened to me.
I got an education that no amount of schooling would ever teach me. I was around black, white, hispanic, oriental. Old and young. The sick and the infirm. The dying. I saw burn victims and car crash victims. I saw young people dying from cancer. I saw "dead".
And I saw what drugs can do to you first hand.
I was taking papers into the emergency room. There was a policeman standing by a gurney, where a young man lay, eyes wide, frightened, shaky, sweaty, painfully thin and dirty. I saw that the young man was handcuffed to the steel bars of the gurney. As I passed, with his free hand, he tried to stop me.
"Please get the bugs off me....Please...." he pleaded.
He was scary and pathetic at the same time. I really didn't understand. The policeman looked at me and said gently, "Drugs. Take a good look. Don't let this be you someday."
I never touched a street drug in my entire life because of that policeman and that sad young man.
My parents never knew the true depth of what they did for me. I learned so much more than they ever had probably hoped for. Compassion. Understanding. Patience. Gratitude. Our gift of choice. I was a candystriper there for almost 3 years, until I got a regular part time job.
So this is my call to everyone. Volunteer. Share your talents with those who are less fortunate. And involve your kids. The lessons learned will be with them for a lifetime.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Thursday Thirteen #16!
13 Jobs I Have Had, Not in Any Particular Order:
**And yes, I can hear you: not my most original or witty TT, but hey, I'm trying to produce 2 billion words a day for NaNoWriMo -- what do you want from me? :-)
1. Waitress/Hostess (like almost every other woman I know)
2. Legal Secretary (sucked. Absolutely sucked)
3. Receptionist (I was 19, my first job in the city. It was fun and left me lots of time to daydream about other things...)
4. Radio Traffic Reporter (working hours were nasty: 5am-10am and then 3pm-7pm. But it was fun being on the radio and I learned to talk about 100 mph.)
5. Medical Staff Secretary (working with doctors is always fun, ain't it??)
6. Office Manager for a Chiropractor (zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz)
7. Billing Manager for Doctor's Office (it was actually fun and I learned so much about medical billing.)
8. Patient Coordinator in Pediatric Cardiology (hard. Very, very hard dealing with sick babies and little children)
9. Babysitter (my first, first job. The kids played and I watched "All My Children")
10. Practice Manager for OB/GYN group (I love to hear the sounds of the fetal monitors registering the little heartbeats!!)
11. Cashier (now this is fun -- worrying that the next person who comes in has an eye on your register and a gun in his pocket)
12. Data entry person (see number 6)
13. Cleaning lady (hard work and very little reward)
36 years of almost uninterrupted employment!!!
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Portrait of the Writer as a Young Girl
Yes, that's me. 1958-ish. Obviously winter and obviously dressed to the nine's with my muff, matching hat and burgundy coat.
In case you were worried, I still have that chair I'm sitting on.
So how, do you ask, did a cute little thing like me with devoted, kind, intelligent parents end up depressed and suicidal in WAM-ville?
Oh, wait, let's see if I can get Rose and Frank's pic in here too.
There they are. Wedding day. September, 1948. (Go ahead, check the dates. They were married years before I came along).
Q: Lara, didn't you KNOW that WAM was a possessive, nasty, control freak? You dated him for 3 years before you married.
A: Remember this and remember it well: abusers chose their victims with care. They are as persistent and well educated at reeling you in as Captain Ahab. You will almost never see through their screens. I had a few bad feelings in the pit of my stomach, which I didn't listen to...and my dad never liked WAM, which I didn't pay attention to. Perhaps standing back listening to my "little voice" and paying closer attention would have helped.
Q: What about your parents? Did you recreate your family home like so many do?
A: Nope. My mother was an excellent role model. She had her own stuff, maintained a job, took no crap from my dad, who was mild-mannered, more on the reticent side and very respectful of women. My mother had me read Thoreau’s “Essay on Self-Reliance” when I was 13. So, bottom line? No. I jumped into a whole new nightmare that I have to worry about my children recreating.
Q: So what did your Mom say when you told her about WAM?
A: Well, both my parents became ill after I got married. My mother died 366 days after I got married, my dad a year after that. So I really couldn't dump my horrid marriage on them. When I did mention to my mom that that marriage wasn’t EXACTLY what I had anticipated, she told me in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t to take shit from anyone. She didn’t raise a daughter to cow-tow to some two-bit moron. I was to value my own intelligence and self-worth above all, and basically bag anyone who didn’t subscribe to the same agenda. My dad concurred.
Q: What happened?
A: Maybe because I lost them so quickly and so close together, I dropped into grief and mourning and didn't have the strength to deal with WAM. Or eventually the strength to leave him. I became the antithesis of who my parents wanted me to be. I was frightened, abused, petrified, numb. I felt stupid, useless. I told Anne that in WAM’s eyes, I was FULS. Fat, ugly, lazy, stupid. That’s how I was treated and that’s how I began to see myself.
Q: Why did you believe him? You were 30 years old -- had been on your own, traveled, had a good job, had many friends, came from a strong background.
A: When I married WAM, I loved and respected him. His opinion mattered. When I realized he thought I was worthless, I became worthless in my own eyes. (Can you say "co-dependent"?) I couldn’t see that his perceptions were a result of his own problems, his own issues with women. I couldn’t imagine that I had made a mistake falling in love with him or marrying him. I was the epidimy of the saying “A woman will do almost anything to avoid facing the truth about the person she loves.”
Are you getting the idea that I was a mess? I was a mess. "Was" being the operative word.
Q: So why you? Why WAM?
A: I used to joke and say: The planets aligned, Saturn's rings were in the 7th House of Usher, we met, we got married. But the truth of the matter is, if I hadn't met the WAM-ster, I wouldn't have Sean and Erin. Motherhood is the absolute best thing that ever happened to me. I've told both my children that because of them, I know that God exists in the universe. My parents and my cousin (who lives far away) were all the family I had and after my parents passed away, I felt disconnected and groundless. Having Sean and then Erin, especially since WAM didn't want children (there's another story) was a gift. A true and real gift from God.
And you know, things might have turned out differently. If my dad had discovered the actual true nature and personality of WAM before he passed away, WAM would have been dead, and my dad would have been in jail. If the timing of this well-justified murder was bad, I might have missed out on having my kids. Sometimes, you can just feel the hand of God on your shoulder.
Q: And what about now?
A: Now, I have my kids. I have my cousins. I have friends. I went to hell and came back stronger. I really did. I am living proof that sometimes, as pitch-awful as it is, we just have to let the bad stuff happen.
Then, when we are better, when we are healed, we can extend a hand to those who are where we once were.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
You've Got To Have....
Yes, friends.
And the one I've had the longest is Anne. The attached picture was taken probably around 1962. Anne is still a cute, little cherub and I'm still a....witch. What is most notable in this picture is that not only is Anne still in my life, but so is that piano we are sitting on. It was the first piece of furniture my parents brought new in 1951 and it is still in my living room, below the same picture that adorns the wall behind us. There is something soothing in the constancy, especially when a good part of my adult life was filled with abuse.
For those of you in abusive relationships, although I've gone through it, I simply can not tell you what to do. You need to figure that out on our own, through your own power. Those steps you take to free yourself, whether it's working things out with your mate or divorcing, will give you ultimate strength to deal with what is meeting you down the road. The main thing is to GET HELP and GET IT FAST.
I don't really have bad feelings for my ex, WAM (as he is nicknamed) any longer. After 6 years of being free from him, I traveled to find myself again for my own benefit, as well as my children. But it was a long, hard, tearful road. I consistently took 2 steps forward and 4 backwards, but I slowly made progress. I was lucky to have a close knit group of friends, including Anne, who were there for me all the way. I learned something very, very important from all of them who patiently listened, who comforted, who prayed for me and also who slapped me upside the head when I needed it. I learned from them by example what a truly wonderful and devoted friend is. There is no way I could thank them enough.
I was also lucky to find wonderful, supportive counselors who helped me. To all of them, friends, my cousins, counselors, physicians, I owe an enormous debt of gratitude.
At this point, it might seem strange that as I look back, I feel like a schizophrenic. I laugh at the situations as I feel sorry for who I was then. Here, for example, was normal dinnertime conversation with WAM:
“Are you going to eat that? Why did you make that? You know it’s really not healthy. And why aren’t the kids eating that? You should not let them eat peanut butter sandwiches at dinner. That’s not a meal. It’s unhealthy. They should be made to eat what we are eating. You let them get away with murder. If they turn out undisciplined, that’s gonna be on your head, not mine. I’d make them eat the stuff on the table. (Breath) Didn’t you kind of take a big serving of that stuff? Are you going to exercise to work that off? It’s probably got a lot of calories and god knows how much fat. You should eat off a smaller plate. You know they say if you eat off a smaller plate you get full faster. We should eat more healthy. Fish is good, but I don’t like fish. And I don’t like salads or vegetables, but let's try to eat more healthy. (Breath) Didn’t you say something was wrong with your mother's liver or something before she died? Is that why she got a big belly? You know, your belly is getting big like hers. Did you ever have a blood test to check your liver?”
You think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not. I saw Dustin Hoffman in that movie, and I realized I had the perfect name for Mason: Rain-WAM.
I know what you're thinking: why didn't you tell him to shut the f*** up? Because he controlled by threats, by the daily diminishing of my self esteem and confidence, by creating fear, by a horrid and vile temper. It was my job to quiet the waters, shut up, and keep the playing field as clear as possible. Anything could turn him nasty. Baseball team losing. Cut off in traffic. Revisiting some memory from his childhood. Didn't matter. I was the closest thing in his vicinity (because most people -- friends and family included -- had deserted the playing field long ago), and someone had to pay for his misery. That was me.
Now trust me here: all men are NOT like this. My father wasn't. Sam, my significant other, isn't like this. My son is not like this. What makes a man a mean, cruel, vindictive person? I'm not sure. He was just damaged in some way and was totally unable or unwilling to ask for help or accept the help he was offered. Accepting help was a sign of weakness....and weakness just wasn't allowed.
Alcohol was a crutch. Medication was a crutch. Religion was a crutch. Cigarettes were a crutch. Should you use any of these for relief, you were subject to ridicule and berating. As a "man", I guess you were supposed to take "everything" and then go home and beat your wife and scream at your kids. If you were a woman under stress, well, too bad. Life sucks.
I'm not a doctor, only a victim. You need to protect yourself and your children. The problem with victimization is that depression goes along with it and makes you utterly powerless to make any decision in your own behalf. Break the cycle...and get help. Use every resource at your disposal -- friends, family, counselors, physicians.
I can't tell you it'll be easy....but I realized I was worth it with a little help from my friends....and so are you.
Monday, June 18, 2007
A New Point Of View Is Beginning...
I feel compelled and must, MUST continue to tell you the story of my book writing odyssey. Only unlike Hubbell from "The Way We Were", who was beautiful beyond beautiful, smart beyond smart and talented beyond talented, my journey was born out of depression and a need to focus on anything besides my horrid marriage, even more horrid divorce and the looming title of “Single Full-Time Working Mom”. Besides, I promised “redcat” I’d finish the story. And really, wouldn’t Barry Manilow like to know?
No. I didn’t think so either. And actually, right or wrong, poor Mr. Manilow had nothing to do with any of this, other than having the tenacity and talent to hang around from 1974 through to the new millennium.
So to summarize, we left Lara post Manilow google, doing some serious contemplating and welcoming in of January, 2006.
The remaining notes I took during my journey were in diary form.
January, 2006
Knowing I’m going to hit 50 this year, I’ve decided I’m going to take a trip to Vegas, perhaps by myself and see Barry. I haven’t seen him since 1979 – in the old Chicago Stadium. I found the program from that concert the other day and really cracked up. Lots of jumpsuits and rhinestones! I also found my calendar from 1976 when I saw Barry for the first time in concert – Ravinia in Highland Park. I suspect his Vegas show is nothing like Ravinia, which featured 3 backup singers, a small band, him and his piano. Oh and the palm tree. Loved the palm tree and his frenetic pace back and forth on the stage.
When I told Anne of my plans, she heard the words “Vegas” and “birthday” and said, “I’m so there.” Manilow is merely a side attraction. She is checking on hotels and flights. I’m in charge of Barry tickets.
We have hotel, flight and tickets for October, 2006. I have put my confirmation up on my bulletin board at work. My co-workers, while admiring by Beatles calendar and Captain James T. Kirk action figure (along with pictures of my kids – I’m not that crazy) are puzzled by this Manilow addition.
I realize I am awash in a sea of….Manilow-who-cares? You know, they wondered if he was even still alive. I march boldly on, used to the chuckles and snickers. As Barry said years ago, “You take a lot of shit for being a Manilow fan.” Fine.
There is some recognition that he is indeed still alive as his 50’s CD debuts at Number 1 on the charts. Sorry, Barry, but I just can’t make the purchase. That picture on the cover frightens me. A part of me realized you just might need me to set you straight on what is “cover-worthy”.
February, 2006
I decide that I need to touch base with other Manilow fans, as I realize there are none within a 200 mile radius of where I live.
I’ve hit paydirt. On-line fan clubs! Now this is what the internet was designed for! The BMIFC/Barrynet thing is fine, but I’m beginning to realize that his fans are like the population in general. You’ve got Right Wingers, Middle of the Roaders and Left Wingers. The extremists scare me, but I’m a big girl and have been taught not to give out my home address and social security number, even if they ask.
I have written a reminder on my computer at home limiting myself to 45 minutes of Barry Manilow a day. Any more than that, and I may have to check myself into rehab.
Anne, Vegas companion and friend since kindergarten, tells me that my Manilow fixation comes out of left field to her. She hasn’t remembered the name Barry coming up in any of our conversations since Barry Newman. Or Barry VanDyke. I tell her it’s hormones and to just play along. I know all her secrets.
March, 2006
Not only are there on-line fan clubs (Barry’s Retro Fans Unlimited, Manilow’s Midnight Dreams, Manimodems, Barry Manilow, All4Barry Manilow, Melting for Manilow to name only a very few) but there are bloggers. Lots and lots of bloggers. Anne tells me to check out one she found on line. I do so and start corresponding to one in particular, using an alias of course. See? I know how to feed my fixation and remain anonymous.
I painfully realize that while I am well versed in Manilow trivia from 1974-1990, I am sorely ignorant of his tours, travels, loves and fax paus from 1991-2001. Oh, I have all the mainstream albums and CD’s, but have not ventured into the purchasing of CD’s that have all the songs from say, Barry Manilow II, along with a bonus track, necessitating the need to dish out $11.99 for one song. I remind Anne that I have scoured racks of CD’s during our 25 year annual pilgrimage to the Fest for Beatles’ Fans looking for a particular McCartney compilage, which has everything from “Ram” on it, except in a different order. She accepts my Manilow fascination as a fact of life.
I yank out my old VHS copy of “Copacabana” taped off the television in 1987 and notice it’s disintegrating before my eyes, plus irritating me with commercial interruption. How can I get a new one? Oh, look here. Barry Manilow merchandise on-line! Imagine that! Starz.bz. Perhaps along with replacing my worn copy of “Copacabana”, I can get a tee-shirt that actually fits. I could finally put that medium sized “I Love Beagles” shirt to rest, where it really has been since I was last able to wear it in 1980.
April, 2006
It’s spring and I’m busy. I do keep up with the on-line fan clubs and notice there is lots and lots of information out there on poor Barry Manilow. Part of me starts to feel sorry for him. Thirty years of having the press up your ass at every turn must be very wearing, especially when they usually rip you a new one every time. There’s lots of press because of the 50’s CD and his Music and Passion show.
I realize, via Barry, that he likes his fans and could give a good shit about what the press and reviewers have to say about him. He laughs his ass off all the way to the bank. I finally get a good night’s sleep. I hear that he’s planning a 60’s CD as a follow up to the 50’s CD and I wonder if I can get a note to him quickly enough, offering my suggestions for the cover. I lose sleep once again.
I have been getting to know one of the Barry bloggers fairly well. Her blogs are a riot...she comes up with very humorous stuff. We “converse” via blog, which is an interesting way to talk to anyone. You are having a conversation with someone solely via the written word. It’s like the 1800’s again, only you can’t give out your real names or where you really live.
I’m still contemplating how I can meld my future writing career and Barry.
I get my answer at 2am during a very impressive panic attack. The fans. The fans share stories, their pictures. There’s the Manilow Fund for Health and Hope. Why not create a book of fan stories/pics and donate the proceeds to his charity?
I decide to think about that some more.
To be continued...
Remember These Priceless Gems
My parents weren't really much on sitting me down and lecturing me on the finer points of survival in the world. They showed me what dignity was, they showed me the value of integrity, of honesty, mainly by example. They also imparted on me little chunks of advice that I have never forgotten. The information was never beaten into me, rather it was wrapped around a story or an incident. I remember so vividly sitting in the car with my dad, Frank, when a story came on the radio about the Moral Majority. All my dad said was "The Moral Majority? I don't think they're either." It took me years to get it, but it rolled around my cranium from the time my dad uttered it, to this day.
Now my parents did have other bits of advice that I've lived my life around. Little beauts that I will share with you because of their simplicity, their importance, their relevance. These gems are timeless and I've gotten to 50 fairly intact by remembering them.
So here, for the first time, is all the advice I ever needed from Frank and Rose:
From my Dad:
1. Always pump your brakes;
2. Always balance your checkbook;
3. Always be honest;
4. Always admit when you are wrong or have made a mistake, then take your lumps like a man;
5. When you shake a person’s hand, look them in the eye and shake like you mean it;
6. Always be a good girl.
From my Mom:
1. No matter what you do, where you do it, how you do it or with whom, make sure that when you get up in the morning, you can be proud of who stares back at you in the mirror;
2. If you want to be treated like a lady, act like a lady. No matter what;
3. Always be a good girl.
Done.
Thank you, Frank and Rose.
P.S. -- In my 30+ years of driving a total of 5 different cars, I've never needed a brake job.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Come Monday....
my life starts again.
I've thought about that since I've reached a certain age --- you know, if I'd want to go back and be a kid again. I see what my children (a teenage boy and pre-teen girl) go through and I most emphatically say "NO!" It's not only that, but I'd have to go through all the things I've prayed to God to just get through the first time. Highschool, parents dying, abusive 15 year marriage, divorce, entering the dating world again with offspring for chaparones. Dear Holy Lord. No thank you.
The only advantage would be watching all the body parts that have started a downward descent begin to head north, the fading of wrinkles, the ability to sneeze without worrying if you are wearing a pantyliner and, once again, to jump out of bed on a dime without worrying about throwing your back out. This is just the tip of the iceberg -- and I'm not THAT old. Let's just say I watched the Beatles on Ed Sullivan and fell in love with George Harrison on the spot. (There has been some discussion between myself and my friend Anne that I fell in love with George because she had immediate dibs on Paul, but we can discuss that later.)
For now, let's discuss blogging. I've heard it's a good creative outlet for those of us wanna-be writers who are intimidated by the actual writing/publishing game. Yes, I write all the time. No, I've never been published. Yes, I'm too afraid to submit anything. I hate the thought of going through everything to just get rejected -- I can just stay home with my kids and get that.
I thought I would just make your day by relating my little trip into the realm of creating a book for publication. It brought out the best in me creatively and ignited my worst fears of failure. It got me in touch with a new dear friend and opened my eyes to some wonderful possibilities. It confirmed that I have friends in my corner that will always hope for my success, no matter what idiot moves I make. It also proved to me that when things look the bleakest, I'll find some way to survive, someway to keep myself occupied.
Hang onto your hats as we take a trip down the path of my convoluted thinking processes trying to write a book about.....Barry Manilow.
No. I'm not kidding.
And I know what you are thinking: Barry Manilow? Damn, she is crazy. But just hang in there. I can explain. Eventually.
Scene: I was extremely out of sorts, to put it mildly, following a divorce from a guy who wasn't really nice to me for most of the 15 years we were married (she said, being PC). It was the first weekend my children, then 4 and 10, were with their father. I was pretty lost, alone, confused and had shut down emotionally from the stress. There isn't much I remember about that time. However, as I did subscribe to the benefits of "retail therapy", I took a trip to a local super-store that had everything from lettuce to 50-inch television sets. Sure, I looked and felt like I had been emotionally tackled by the defense team of the 1985 Chicago Bears, but at least I was moving. I think I had even managed to take a shower and brush my teeth, so I was actually way ahead of some of my other days.
So I wandered around the store. Not looking at anything -- just wandering. The music department called my name and off I went. I spotted a new CD on a front rack. "Here At The Mayflower". I picked it up, curious, as I couldn't decipher the cover art. It was Barry Manilow. Of course. Barry Manilow! He'd been kicked around like a piece of talentless shit for years...but there he was. New CD and all. Well, ok. Ok...the world still worked on some level, I told myself. Barry Manilow was still standing and surviving. Fine. So could I.
I picked up the CD, left my empty cart in the aisle, paid for it and left the store. I went home and looked at it. I placed it unopened by my stereo. It remained there, wrapped in its original cellophane, for a long, long time.
I don't know why I didn't open it. I didn't open that CD for years -- until my life was better, until I was able to function like a normal human being again. Why? I don't know. Another mystery that is me.
After a couple of years of once a week couch time and whining endlessly to my dear, patient girlfriends, I got ME back and the only thing that I wanted to do was write. The only thing I could think of to write about was Barry Manilow. Once again, I don't know why. My psychologist doesn't know why. Manilow was my life raft and there you go. "Mayflower" made me realize once again that Barry Manilow was very talented and I fell in love with him all over again...just like when I was 19 and saw him for the very first time in 1976.
Anyway, I contemplated poor Mr. Manilow for a long time. Not contemplated like in "stalked", or contemplated like in "losing touch with reality", but just as in hey, maybe I could write something about Barry. He wouldn't care. At least I'd be nice, which was a big foot up from most of the crap that has been written about him.
So in July, 2005, I googled Barry Manilow for the first time (and I hope he enjoyed it). I started squirreling and sifting my way through mountains of internet information. I looked to see if other books had been written about him during the years I lost my Manilow-focus and didn’t find much. Mostly just the usual lambasting of his work, looks, fans, tours and personal life in magazine articles and reviews. SOS, different years.
I began contemplating digging up my own information and maybe...you know maybe...seeing if...sort of...I could...maybe...write something about him. I had some serious self confidence issues at the time, which, you'll be happy to know, I've overcome. Mostly. So from August to December, 2005 I thought lots and lots more about writing about Barry Manilow (which to you new writers is called the “exceedingly long contemplation phase”). I think, therefore I am --- but that's it. Nothing gets down on paper. Thinking will only get you to ... thinking some more, unless you take pen to paper and plop some of those thoughts down.
However, I was keeping myself busy. Which, viewing the whole thing in my rear view mirror, was probably the point. I could have taken up needlepoint or yoga or painting or yodeling, but it was Barry Manilow.
And my story isn't done yet.
Friday, June 1, 2007
Bowing Before False Idols
I walked into my 10 year old daughter’s room the other day and noticed that one entire wall was filled with pictures of various stars of the Disney Channel. As a mother, as a woman who was once a little girl, I wept. Wept. Any concern I had that she had taken after her father completely disappeared. She was mine. All mine. Those pictures of Zach and Cody and Hannah and Raven confirmed that my sweet girl did indeed carry a heavy load of my DNA.
I was whisked back in time to my 10th year in 1966, and remembered my bedroom walls covered with pictures of the Beatles, the Monkees, the stars of “The Mod Squad”, Donny Osmond and Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise (whose picture, I’m sorry to say, was always hard to find in the latest editions of Fave, Tiger Beat and Sixteen). As I move my time line to 1976, I see Robert Redford, that infamous picture of Al Pacino as Serpico, Shaun Cassidy and Barry Manilow. The 80’s – who else? The poster man of ALL poster men, Tom Selleck…and a newly issued picture of William Shatner as our Captain, now featured in the big screen version of Star Trek. The 90’s? Well, if I’d had the nerve to do it, I would have put David Duchovny up on my wall. The year 2000? Please. Johnny Depp, alrighty.
Now should you think I developed this fascination for celebrities through any fault of my own, let me correct you. Allow me to introduce you to my mother, Rose.
My mother loved Clark Gable. She snuck off to the theater to see “Gone with the Wind” when she was a young girl and was hooked. Hooked on Gable, hooked on movie stars, hooked on the movies. My grandmother NEVER would have allowed my mother to see such a movie. “For heaven’s sake, Rosebud,” – they called my poor mother Rosebud to distinguish her from the dozen other Rose’s in my family – “they show a woman HAVING A BABY in that moving picture!” Reason enough in my grandmother’s mind to disallow such a consideration. (Please note: Gramma was from the old country and thought the following: seeing a scary movie when you were pregnant produced birth defects and sitting on cement caused kidney problems. We loved her anyway.)
But my dear mother’s legacy of loving the movies, Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Chopin, Van Cliburn, Victor Borge, Van Gogh and Monet left an indelible mark on me. Not only did she love them and share them with me, she loved whom I loved.
1964. The Beatles on Ed Sullivan. My mom noted how innovative they were, how fresh, how different and how their music had a great, bluesy/jazzy beat. She also liked that John Lennon spoke his mind and except for that "Jesus" quote, never backed down from a confrontation.
My mother traveled with me through the Monkees (“didn’t Neil Diamond write some of their songs?”), Shaun Cassidy (“lots of talent there, Cookie! Check out his parents!”), Barry Manilow (“such a nice voice and a talented pianist – he likes Chopin! How can you go wrong?”), William Shatner (“Captain Kirk is the ultimate hero!”), and of course, Tom Selleck (she just fanned herself with a dishtowel).
Yes, I come from a history of bowing before false idols. But as my mother watched Star Trek with me and listened thoughtfully to Alice Cooper and Led Zeppelin, I reciprocated. I truly listened to Mozart and Mahalia Jackson. We watched dark film noir starring Robert Mitchum and that squirrelly little blonde guy whose name I’ve forgotten; giggled at Lana Turner, cheered on Joan Crawford as “Mildred Pierce” and was shocked when Bette Davis let her husband die in “The Little Foxes”. We loved William Powell and Myrna Loy in the “Thin Man” series and we watched every single black and white horror movie that Universal ever made. We watched Chaplin, Pickford, Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn.
What did I learn? To share my enthusiasm for music and film and art with my children. The first song either one of my children learned was “Here Comes the Sun” by George Harrison. I have my Beatles posters from the 60’s framed and up on the wall. My Barry Manilow calendar graces my kitchen and we play his albums on my old turntable (When my daughter yelled, “Hey, where’s the other 6 songs???”, I had to explain that albums weren’t like CD’s with all the songs on one side; that you had to flip the album over to hear the rest of it. She was very put out by this ancient technology, and let out a heavy, 21st century sigh. She was even more aghast with my mono version of “Meet the Beatles” which is a worn shade of gray and produces more static than music.) We watch the original Star Trek episodes on VHS tape (“Mom, it’s so cool and CHEESY!”) and DVD’s of the X-Files and Magnum PI. However, I have learned to appreciate what my children love. Through my mother’s talent of finding something good in literally anything and everything, I can sit through Disney Channel sitcoms and laugh with my daughter. Not because it’s funny necessarily, but because she thinks it’s funny. I can listen to my son’s new wave/heavy metal music and smile, thinking of my mother trying to say something nice about “Welcome to My Nightmare” by Alice Cooper. I mean is there any difference between Green Day and White Snake when you come down to it, really?
It can be a struggle to come up with something brilliant to say about “The Suite Life of Zach and Cody”, but I think my daughter is just happy to sit with me and hear me laugh with her. Just as I was with my mom. “The Monkees”, “Gidget” and “Batman” just cracked us both up. I know my son is happy is have me in his room, while he tries to play his own guitar to a new song he just purchased by Alkaline Trio. This sharing forms a unique and long lasting bond that transcends time and teaches some valuable life lessons.
My mother has given me a great gift...to look for things to appreciate in what your friends and loved ones like, even if it really isn't your cup of tea. To find something to enjoy in what others may wrongly dismiss as idiotic or not worth their time. Life becomes more of a shared adventure and bottom line, it just might be fun, you just might learn something, or you just might meet someone who will be important to you the rest of your life.
My girlfriend jokingly once told me, “you’d have fun at a garbage dump.” And I just might. Thanks to Mom.
Monday, May 21, 2007
An Affair of the Heart
Now that I've shared a couple of my nightmares: abusive ex-husband and weight control, let's move on. I will warn you tho, from time to time these very subjects will rear their ugly heads. I've actually polled my dear friends to pick their favorite WAM (Wierd-Ass Mason) stories. There are so many to choose from. For instance:
“The ACL Tear Nightmare on SuperBowl Sunday.”
“The Final Act Before Divorce Saga.”
“The Shower Query Affair.”
“WAM as Dad…The Whole Untold Story.”
“The Hamburger Restaurant Debacle.”
I could go on and on. And I will. Later.
Right now, I thought I'd take a minute and maybe help you save your own life. Yes, I'm writing down my journey through an abusive marriage, divorce and recovery to help myself and maybe help others. I know I've probably personally financed my psychologist's house in the country, but it was so worth it. Make yourself a priority and get the help you need if you are in an abusive relationship. It's even doubly important if you have children.
And here's something else to think about: your emotional health impacts your physical health more than you realize. Like I said, I had a heart attack at 41. A real, complete heart block, occluded right coronary artery, heart attack. Being a woman and 41, well, when I got to the ER of my local hospital complaining of stomach pain, they began working me up for gallstones, pancreatitis, etc. I was home alone with the kids and began experiencing terrible stomach pain, right in the "pit" of my stomach. Then I started flop sweating beyond belief. I was home alone with my kids (ages 8 and 2) and my 8 year old called 911. I went to the ER with no one suspecting I was having a heart attack. Luckily, I was in the ER having an abdominal ultrasound when I had the actual heart attack. I heard them say "atropine and nitroglycerine" and I knew what was going on. When I woke up, I was on my way to the cath lab for a balloon and a stent, signing the release as they wheeled me down the hall.
I was lucky. Very lucky. I don't have any residual problems because I was treated so promptly. So listen to your body. Heart disease is the number 1 killer of women -- and we don't present with the usual symptoms you've heard of: chest/jaw pressure, left arm pain. And just to make it more difficult, I didn't have high cholesterol or high blood pressure. I don't drink to excess or smoke or have a family history of heart disease. I was a medical cardiac mystery....except that I lived day to day, every day, 365 days a year for 15 years under the constant strain of a bad, abusive marriage. Dr. Dean Ornish wrote a book called "Love and Survival" about the relationship between physical health and emotional health. I highly recommend it.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Sneak peak into the past
Considering my previous post, you may be asking when I found the time to get to the health club. This decision was part of a 6-month contemplation phase. (Yeah, more like 6 years, but let’s get past that). Do I get up at 6 am and turn on LifeTime television and perky Denise Austin? Oh, dear god. No offense to Denise, but I can’t take that at 6 am. I know my ex-husband had told me that I was an expert in excuses not to exercise…that I was weak, no backbone, no willpower. But truly, it’s not that I have an aversion to exercising in the morning…I just believe in conserving your energy as much as possible before the kids get up and start ruining your day. That, and the fact that I had a heart attack in the morning (I was only 41 at the time...I'll explain later) and have some left-over angst in that area. If my heart rate gets above 80 before 9 am, I’m running for Xanax and Nitrostat.
Perhaps now would be a good time to explain the ex-husband thing.
My ex-husband had a long, long, very long history of bad behavior. I said “I do” and he said “I own her now.” One of my very first memories of being married revolves around car repair. My car needed maintenance. I called the dealership where I normally had taken it and made an appointment to bring the car in for service. I asked Mason (the ex) to meet me at the service department so he could then drive me back home. That was agreeable.
I left the car with the clerk, turned to Mason (aka "WAM", which I'll explain later) and realized something had set him off. I don’t know what it was. It could have been that he was “disrespected” by the service attendant. It could have been that he had been cut off in traffic on the way over. It could have been the woman at work didn’t answer his request in a timely manner. I don’t know. What I also didn’t know at this point is that it had nothing to do with me, but I was a newly-wed and figured this time was supposed to be the golden highlight of my life and our relationship. I mean, when was it gonna get better than newly married?
Anyway, for some unknown reason, an argument started. Back then, I was ….. well, different. More self-protective, more willing to speak up for myself, unafraid and mostly unaware of what anyone could do to me. He started yelling at me and I carried the conversation outside. I, of course, was at first perplexed. Then I realized he was pretty out of control over something that was probably pretty ridiculous, if I could remember what the hell it was.
It was dark outside, there was really no sidewalk, just a path worn in the grass in front of the dealership. When I realized this was going to get ugly, I told him to get away from me; to leave me alone, that I was walking to my parents’ house, which was probably 7 or 8 miles away. I didn’t care. I wanted to get away from him and his rage. However, he had other ideas of which I had no clue at that point. That idea, I came to discover, was that NO ONE LEAVES HIM. NO ONE TURNS THEIR BACK TO HIM. TO DO THESE THINGS UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE IS NOT ALLOWED.
So he started to pull my arm and yell in my face to the point that I was utterly terrified. I was frozen. One section of my brain knew husbands do not treat their wives like this. My father never raised his voice to my mother, ever. WAM was swearing and yelling and I just wasn’t hearing him anymore. I grew more petrified as his rage increased and I knew I had to do something before he hit me.
My brain was spinning and I was more scared of him that I had been of any human being ever……so I urinated on myself and fell in a heap of hysterical crying.
No. This is true. But don’t worry, he apologized. Said it would never happen again, was so, so, so sorry, took me to K-Mart and ran in to get me a pair of sweatpants so I could change out of the wet jeans (size 7) that I was wearing. He was beside himself with horror at what he had done and what had happened. Really. He was so sorry.
Then I made my very first mistake. I believed him.
Let me backpeddle a bit. I was no 19 year old babe in the woods when I met and married WAM. I was 29 when we tied the knot. I was living on my own, very happily, working, going out with friends, taking trips when I could afford it – Hawaii (to hunt down Tom Selleck - hey, it was the 80's), Las Vegas so see the shows. I dated. I enjoyed myself. I met WAM and I don’t know what happened. I thought he was a nice guy. But know you, my Dad never liked him. Didn’t voice it too much, but didn’t like him. My Mom sort of remained quiet on the subject, simply stating if I was happy, she was happy. Here’s another little piece of information: if your parents don’t like your intended, take a VERY LONG look at what you're are doing.
More later ... my psychologist wants lunch.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Welcome to the Pork Farm
Upon facing another day where my jeans size is 18 (okay, 20 comfortably), I walked into the health club that I have been a member of since its doors first cracked open during the Johnson Administration. I went consistently before I was married, before I had kids, before my life spun totally and completely out of control. However, several years have passed by since I plucked up the courage to cross the threshold. I don’t know what I thought would happen. I mean there were times when I would actually drive to the health club, sit in parking lot for 10 minutes and leave to go get a donut and coffee (with extra cream and sugar). But this time I actually walked in and nothing happened, except that I realized my married name was still on the membership card and that ferry had crossed like 6 years ago. Of course, that’s a whole other story….abuse, infidelity, kids, divorce, suicide attempt….but let’s hold off on all the really juicy stuff until I tell you what happened on my first venture into the health club in probably 10 years.
I didn’t die.
Didn’t die of embarrassment or humiliation or from the fact that my major muscle groups haven’t moved like that in near decades. No one looked at me like I was the worn-out, ugly, stupid hag that I thought I was. Well, maybe they thought it -- but if they did, they hid it well.
I hear and read so many stories about women stuggling with weight and self esteem. I married a man who thought that you should just shut the hell up and move. Get to the club you lazy ass…and there’s golf, karate, running, bowling, this, that, etc. However, he said this in the same breath as “where’s my dinner, how come there’s no fruit in the house and I need my baseball pants washed by tomorrow.” Followed by “see you later…I’ve got a fantasy football meeting….say hi to the kids for me. Bye.” So you can see where some of my issues lay. However, I will take total responsibility for my tonage. No one held me at gunpoint and wouldn’t release me until I shoved a Big Mac and large Chocolate Shake down my throat.
Anyway, it would be lovely if we could all get to the healthclub and go for a manicure and maybe stop at the mall for a little shopping, maybe ring up the Queen to see if she’d like to join us for an afternoon cup of Earl Grey…but you know, there’s like…life. There’s kids and shopping and laundry and cooking and homework and the PTA….and dishes and the cats and the gardening and social obligations and and and. Oh, and working full time. Finding any time for anything is an undertaking of monumental consequences. When a mom wants to do something, she needs to consult: her kids and their schedules including piano lessons, guitar lessons, soccer, pre-set playdates, birthday parties, school parties; any commitments all ready in place to co-workers, family, neighbors, local church. Are there any upcoming: dental appointments, doctor appointments for children, mother, father, grandparents? When is registration for school, baseball, field hockey and the YMCA summer camp? Oh, and what about work? Any projects coming up? Any promises made to cover for a co-worker? You get my drift. Never mind the stuff that blindsides you like your car won't start in the morning or you hear your youngest throwing up at 3 am.
I think as moms, single or married, we struggle with alot and honestly benefit from sharing our journeys. I struggled through 15 years of a bad marriage, I struggled through divorce and depression, I struggled with getting fat, I struggled with bad health, I struggled with isolation and having no family other than my children. The only thing I never struggled with was wonderful friends and wonderful kids. God blessed me completely, total and unequivocally when it comes to that. They have kept me afloat when all I wanted to do was check out permanently.
But that's another story for another day....
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