The first weekend in August, Anne and I will make our yearly pilgrimage to The Fest For Beatles’ Fans (aka Beatlefest, until all hell broke out a couple years ago over a copyright infringement that had been unnoticed for about 20 years or so). We have been doing this for ages, since I think, 1980. At least that's the first ticket stub I could find.
Go ahead. Make fun. Manilow, the Beatles…and YES, dammit – I’ve been to a Star Trek Convention!! You will never feel so much a part of anything in your entire life until you travel to one of these affairs. As Barry Manilow said so eloquently, “you aren’t a misfit when you are surrounded by other misfits.” They may think I have a couple screws loose at work, but at one of these soirees, I’m just one of the happy crowd bumping elbows with some lawyer from Milwaukee who’s dressed like John in his Sgt. Pepper outfit, or sitting next to a housewife from Duluth in her Yeoman Rand Classic Star Trek red uniform, including a wig with that weaved hair.
And you know what? I’ll bet 99% of the people there are happy. A crowd of happy campers, just there to get a chance to meet Manilow, or watch “A Hard Day’s Night” on the big screen followed by a great talk by Victor Spinetti or shake hands with Leonard Nimoy, who loves to bash his captain Bill, who can dish it back just as well.
So tell me, where’s the harm?
I know. I know. Maybe some people don’t snap back to reality and manage to get back to their lives. But maybe they don’t have much of a life to get back to either.
Me? I’m trying to escape for awhile. Escape work and responsibility and bills and the telephone and e-mail and laundry and shopping and cleaning and refereeing fights between the kids. Nothing says “Escape” better than a blue officer’s uniform with triangular patch over the left breast and a set of Spock ears, or the anticipation of the season’s first Beatles’ Puppet Show.
Beatle time in August means only 2 things: regression and a never ending supply of low-brow laughs courtesy of the flea market (and maybe a couple of drinks to ring in the celebration). When’s the last time you scrounged through Fave, Sixteen and Tiger Beat magazines from the 1960’s? When’s the last time you heard the name Bobby Sherman? When’s the last time Davy Jones’s love life EVER crossed your mind? There's hot news on Paul and Annette, Paul Revere and the Raiders…..the Beau Brummels…..Herman’s Hermits…..that guy named Lloyd Thaxton who drew a face on the side of his hand (the thumb was a jaw) and made stupid jokes….Music Scene….Gary Lewis and the Playboys. When’s the last time you saw your Beatles metal lunch box with matching thermos? Well, if you’ve seen it recently, it’s probably worth about $500.00….so who’s laughing now, huh?
So call us nuts. Call us crazy. But when that Trivial Pursuit question comes up: “Who was the ‘fifth’ Beatle?” you’ll want us around! We KNOW (without benefit of the internet or one single reference book) the answers to this stuff:
So embrace the "fan" in you. Share it with others. I guarantee, "a good time will be had by all..."
Friday, June 29, 2007
Girls Just Wanna Have Fun
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
General Hospital
I actually haven't watched "General Hospital" since Dr. Noah Drake left and I'll explain why. It's really two reasons: #1 -- What for?; #2 -- I work there, figuratively speaking.
It seems the older I get, along with my friends and their loved ones, I'm seeing a wide variety of doctors, nurses, hospitals, hospital rooms, ER's and surgical waiting rooms both as a visitor and patient. Add this on top of being a hospital employee and I believe I have valuable insight that is my duty to relate.
Allow me to share Lara's Rules and Regulations of Doctor/Hospital Etiquette.
The number one rule: Doctors Lie. The word “Discomfort” in their language has a far different meaning than it does between normal human beings. You would assume that discomfort means, well, it’s gonna hurt a bit, but then it’ll be okay. Don’t assume. You know what it makes out of you and me. A doctor saying “discomfort” is like a volcanologist calling Mt. St. Helen’s “a little burp”. You’ve been warned.
The number two rule: Don’t be brave. You need pain medicine? Think you just MIGHT need pain medicine? Yell. Do not, under any circumstances, suck it up. Be a baby. This correlates proportionately to when you are in dire need of pain relief and near unconsciousness, they will tell YOU to suck it up, that you didn’t need it before and why don’t you just wait awhile? If you finally complain long and loud after suffering in silence, you will be considered a “difficult patient” and no nurse will answer your call button...ever.
The number three rule: At the very first glimpse of an opportunity to leave the confines of the hospital, do so ASAP. If the doc says in his singularly see-saw way (I’m thinking William Shatner here), “Well..., we could... keep you overnight...or send you home if you can...” just agree with him. Whatever bodily function he needs you to perform, do it and get out. Those places will kill you...physically and financially.
The number four rule: Pull out every piece of ammunition you’ve got to get them to be nice to you. From the Doctors on down to housekeeping. Tell them whatever they want to hear. Be nicer than the Dalai Lama. Be the life of the hospital party (your pain meds might help with this) and for heaven's sake, don't make waves. Because if you make waves and don't play ball, you will be labeled a “difficult patient” and we already went over where that will get you.
The number five rule: Just because people have initials after their names doesn’t necessarily mean they are smarter than you. MD, BSN, PhD, RT, APN. You know yourself better than anyone. You’ve lived with you for...well, years. So speak up and ask questions. Make sure if you are in for an appendectomy but it seems like they are prepping you for brain surgery, politely ask for a "time out". And if anyone comes at you with a large foreign object that hasn’t been preceded by an anesthesia consult, remember Rule #2.
Finally, throw your dignity out the window but keep your sense of humor intact. After all, anything you've got, they've already seen.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
The Dangers of the Internet
We've heard all about them. Predators. Abusers. Lurkers. Schizophrenic sociopaths.
However, ponder for a moment that neither Ted Bundy nor Jeffrey Dahmer nor Richard Speck had the internet. Nor did the Hillside Stranglers nor the Boston Strangler. They just lurked right out in the open, so to speak.
This weekend, say some, I took my life and the lives of my children and put them in potential harm's way. I invited a female friend and her daughter to my home for the weekend -- a friend I met over the internet.
We bonded over Barry Manilow via blog (i.e. LIKE THIS ONE) and an on-line fan club (www.manilowsmidnightdreams.com). Now I'm sure Mr. Manilow has his share of lurkers, but I'm still here. And I know my kids are still alive because there's no food in the house.
Oh, I know what you are thinking. Yeah, first Barry Manilow. I like Mr. M and we've gotten past that already, haven't we? Now, on-line interaction.
I'm not suggesting that you "converse" with a blogger and invite them for dinner. And none of this applies to anyone under 21 years of age. But I am saying that probably the percentage of bad outcomes is the same for internet interaction as it is for the population as a whole. In other words, there are nuts everywhere. Every day you walk out of your house is a crapshoot. You meet nice people and you meet raging lunatics. Think of your work environment. It's probably safer to invite an internet Manilow fan over than it is to work at the post office ("nothing against the USPS," she said with all love and affection).
It is necessary to use a little brain power, instinct and caution. And while we originally bonded over Manilow, we got to be good friends by sharing stories about our fears and our hopes and our lives. Yes, I could have been a good liar. So could she. But after about a year of "type talking" and a couple conversations on the phone, well, it was apparent that we had many of the same likes besides Manilow singing "Here at the Mayflower": (a good laugh, writing, reading, taste testing tequila, and maintaining our Mother of the Year status) and dislikes (liars, bullies, bigots and my ex-husband). We also share that most beautiful title of all: smart-ass.
Bottom line? We had a wonderful time. The internet brought 2 friends together that never would have met. I'm very grateful for this little cable that connected the 400 miles between us....and of course, Mr. M.
So to my new dear friend and her sweet little angel daughter -- This One's For You.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
The Chat on Fat
I opened my e-mail today and realized that every day I am reminding myself of things I have not done, will not do or simply don't have time for. Every day, I get cute little blurbs from such big hitters as: E-Diets.com, BallyTotalFitness.com, SouthBeachDiet.com, WeightWatchers.com, JennyCraig.com, Nutrisystem.com, JustDoIt.com, DeniseAustin.com, YourFatAss.com. I am starting my day a failure already. I did not work out. I did not meditate on my daily food choices, nor did I have time to make a heart healthy lunch. My emotions are running high and I do not want to think about exercise or dieting or food or anything. What would make me happy is a very large pizza and an even larger Coke. Regular.
Do you know I’ve tried every single diet known in the free world? Cabbage Diet, Jenny Craig, Weight-Watchers, Nutrisystem, Atkins Diet, SouthBeach Diet, Richard Simmons Diet, Grapefruit Diet, Starve Yourself To Death Diet, Pritikin Diet, Heart Healthy Diet, The God Diet (you pray a lot that you won’t gain weight while you shove the food into your mouth), and others I’ve forgotten the names of. I also have an assortment of exercise videos that rival the entire nationwide library of Blockbuster, Inc. Jane, of course, The Firm, The Not So Firm, Walk to Lose Weight, Yoga to Lose Weight, Stretching to Lose Weight, Breathing to Lose Weight and of course, every tape and book released by Richard Simmons. I also have a collection of CD's that you are supposed to use when you are walking and/or jogging to keep a nice, fast pace and I have any and all things even remotely endorsed by Oprah Winfrey. I am currently on high alert for updates on Valerie Bertinelli's weight loss challenge.
Are you getting the impression that the money I have invested in the quest to lose weight has equaled the gross national product of some small countries? No wonder I’m in the red and Jane Fonda has 4 houses.
For grins, let's review the home exercise equipment I have bought, the majority of which has found permanent residence in my garage, until being put out by the front of my house in recognition of amnesty day, when the garbage men will pick up absolutely anything except marked explosives. On second thought, let's not. I just can’t embarrass myself any further.
I’m assuming you are getting the point. I have issues. Food issues. Weight issues. I handle stress by shoving food in my mouth. Don’t care what kind of food particularly and I have found out that even too much of a good thing will add pounds. I once had this thing for oranges. I just fixated on them and ate above and beyond the normal orange per home capita. The entire state of Florida noted off the chart economic growth. I gained weight.
Perhaps there is some credence to the perimenopause idea. I’m experiencing desperate Food Swings. Pizza....celery. Chocolate cake....apple. BBQ Ribs.....spinach. An entire block of dark, dark, chocolate.....and an entire block of dark, dark, chocolate. (I just crave that ALL the time).
So the solution? Yes, I should remind myself of what my cardiologist told me which I shared with you in a previous post -- to make small, permanent changes and stop beating myself up. But WHY? Why...when we can food flog ourselves into self-loathing delirium?
Should life always be neat and easy? No! Of course not. As Captain James T. Kirk said in Star Trek V, "I NEED my pain!" It is our right as women to reject the logical and go for that which will undermine all the work we just did with our psychologist...and our personal trainer.
This, friends, is why I love America.
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...
