Silliness Personified

Like Craig Ferguson, love They Might Be Giants.

This is My Michael Jackson Post

That's me in my MJ-like leather jacket.

My mind can’t help but be full of Michael Jackson. His death is everywhere I hang out – mostly the internet. I’ve been reading other people’s comments on Twitter – the good, the bad and the tasteless.  And I have formed a few of my own opinions about the whole ordeal.

First: I am not mourning Michael Jackson’s death.  I was surprised by it, certainly. I feel sad for his family. But I am not emotionally effected by his passing.

Second: I am not mourning the death of Michael Jackson’s music.  His music rode the waves of fame and martyrdom over the years.  How else can his high record sales numbers be explained?  His “hit” songs were not that great, and today, pop hits are made by The Suits anyway. Doesn’t mean the songs are any good.  Jackson’s best musical years were way behind him and they were way behind me, too.

Third: Michael Jackson’s contributions to black history were hidden because of Jackson himself. Hearing that he broke down racial barriers was a surprise to me and I don’t think it is because I am unaware of recent historical African American breakthroughs. I imagine that the press touted Jackson’s contribution to breaking down racial barriers through the years, but over time talk about his important moments was overshadowed by his strange activity.

Fame’s everlasting question “But what have you done lately?” gets answered one way or another.  A smart celebrity (ie: Angelina Jolie) learns that question quickly and manages the answer. Jackson wasn’t one of those celebrities. Or perhaps he wanted it both ways – he wanted to do whatever he wanted, act however he wanted but with total forgiveness by his fans and the press.  The more his sanity was questioned, the more he blasted against the reality of fame. Meanwhile, he allowed the media and the general public to answer the question, “What have you done lately?” with the term “Wacko-Jacko.”

Fourth: I feel sad for his kids and I believe that they think he was the best dad. But he wasn’t a great father because he didn’t take care of himself.  His death was clearly due to self-induced starvation coupled with high levels of prescription medication. His death wasn’t an accident, like falling off a ladder. He didn’t have his kids in mind with these choices and I find that inexcusible. He is not martyr.

Fifth: I have respect for Jackson the Artist but none for Jackson the Person. I am good with those two worlds being separate. I will never know an famous Artist as a Person. Normally, I have respect for one while knowing the other is out of my orbit. Sometimes, I have respect for both because the Person becomes known through philanthropic activity, for example. With all I learned about Jackson the Person (multiple plastic surgeries, whitening his skin, multiple and brief marriages, close relationships with young boys, owning a pet chimp, wearing masks in public, hanging his baby over a balcony, and the list goes on) the less I respected him.

I believe he had a difficult life. His father seems to be a real ass. Being a child star is difficult – adults putting all of their dreams into him, not knowing who was telling the truth, world adulation with no one else who can relate (no wonder his best friend was Diana Ross) – and I don’t blame him for that difficulty. But as an adult, he knew what a normal reaction to all the stress was and what was absurd. Outside of the box is one thing – outside of reality is another.

Ultimately, I believe (and mind you I am not a professional, um, anything) that Michael Jackson didn’t know who he was. He was lost – all that talent but not able to connect at a human level with anyone because he couldn’t connect with himself. That is why I think he had these “close” relationships with boys (I use quotes because how emotionally close could he be with an 8 year old? And I am not accusing him of being a pedophile since he was acquitted of the charges). He was trying to get to know himself as a child  since that part of his life disappeared with his rising fame. And if he could know himself as a child, maybe he would know himself as a man.  That never came to pass, and now he is dead.

After saying all this, I could say that I’m ready to move on.

Only, I moved on from Michael Jackson a long time ago.

Since When Are Strawberries the Enemy?

Forbidden Fruit

A lot has changed since we last met.  We moved into our new house, a home we finally own. We are done unpacking and are now in the “putting away/hanging pictures” stage. My daughter ended preschool and is on summer vacation. She hasn’t been out of school for this long in over a year, and we have 2.5 more months before Kindergarten. I am both excited to spend time with her as well as looking forward to her weeks of camp.

The latest development, however, is nothing short of a steamroller through my life, through my emotional well-being.  I have Interstitial Cystitis.  Basically, it is a condition where the mucus membrane of the bladder disintegrates, no longer protecting the lining of the bladder from the urine it holds. So, I feel like I have a Urinary Tract Infection all of the time but without the infection.

Here are two links: layperson friendly and technical.

I know what you want to know: what is the treatment? Well, no treatments work 100%. Or even 60%.  Medication works only 30% of the time, you have to take it for 4-6 months and it causes hair loss while you take it. There are other therapies but I am not in that much pain. I am annoyed and uncomfortable but I wouldn’t call it “pain,” like someone who is doubled over with an inflamed bladder and has to crawl to the bathroom. Thankfully, I am not like that and it might not get that bad.  It is bad enough, however, that it can’t be ignored.

The recommended way to stop an I.C. attack is through diet. The less acid in my bladder the less it hurts. Check out what I can’t eat (this is abridged for space):

• Most fruits (except blueberries, pears and melon)
• tomatoes and onions
• Anything with vinegar (ie: salad dressings and marinades, condiments)
• fruit juice, caffeine, artificial sweeteners, any drinks with bubbles
• meat with nitrates, tofu
• aged cheese, yogurt (I can eat string cheese, cottage cheese, American)
• anything spicy
• Chocolate
• Alcohol

If you followed me around all day, you would see that everything I eat is on this list, except for my beloved sweet potatoes and steamed vegetables.   At this point, I eat a lot of blueberries and am practically drowning in water.  The list might not seem so bad, but when I say it is everything I eat, I am not kidding. We practically live on chicken apple sausage.  My husband cooks with loads of spices. And I can eat a tomato like an apple (and often do…or did).

I am passionate about eating. I love strong flavors like gruyere cheese and meat grilled with spices and herbs. I drink wine, often. Olives! Pickles! Nectarines! Food is a way J and I experience life, especially when we don’t have family in town and rarely have a sitter.  In place of going out to fancy restaurants and dining ourselves into bankruptcy, my husband makes delicious meals accompanied by wine or beer. Every night is date night in our household.

The change in diet has brought on a lot of anxiety and sadness for me, and it isn’t only because of how much I love Jardine’s steak rub.

In college,  a therapist and a dietitian helped me work through compulsive eating. To give myself comfort from the never ending barrage of insults I threw at myself, I ate constantly. Especially at night. Especially peanut butter. (I stopped buying it but ended up eating my roommates’ jars. Yes, JARS.)  Eating was the only way I knew to fill the pit of my stomach that was always in knots from my constant questioning: Why am I so ugly? Why am I so stupid? Why am I so worthless?

Over the years, I have worked through the self-hatred and the eating has subsided. Mostly. I can normally talk myself out of the behavior and walk out of a store with nothing to gulp down by the handfuls. PMS often brings on some kind of crazy eating, but now I share my experience with my husband and I’m done.

However, I also need to feel that all food is accessible to me. I assume this is related to the compulsive eating somehow. Even when I diet for weightloss I can NEVER have a category of food off limits. Limited in intake? I can handle that. Off limits? I’ll eat even more. The feeling of punishment is simply too strong to overcome the “no-carb” diet. If I can’t eat a food that some skinnier, prettier woman can, then it proves what I always knew about me: I am stupid, ugly and worthless. So, I eat lots of healthy food and sometimes not so healthy food.

So I am completely boxed in here. I have no choice in what I can eat. At restaurants, I am one of those annoying people who has to ask what is in everything and ask the waitress to take things off (next time you are at a restaurant and about to order a salad, try taking off the bacon, tomatoes, onion and dressing and see if it is even worth buying anymore). I stare at strawberries in our fridge and want to cry. I miss juice. I miss yogurt. I miss eating what I want when I want.

This blog was never meant to be about anything in particular. I don’t intend for that to change. But having I.C. will definitely be a theme, as well as food and the psychology of eating. Because if there is one thing I am definitely no expert at, it’s how to maintain my sanity while being told what I can and can not eat.

Eat a strawberrty today, and think of me.

It’s a Dad Thing

I loved the show “Alias” because Sydney had a “Dad Thing.”  I’d weep while Sydney and her father worked out their issues.  Watching him struggle to connect with her, to be a good dad after being such a horrible one, was heartbreaking and heartwarming.  I watched as though I saw my own father wrestle with his mistakes, witness regretful looks and hopeful glances I didn’t see as a kid but hoped were there.

My dad is not a demon nor is he a saint.  While his temper and lack of understanding were difficult for us kids, he was a vast improvement on his own mother and father.  Over the years I have come to have compassion for him and how hard it must have been to want to do good but not know how to do it.

That said, he can still piss me off.

Before visiting my parents to help with my mother’s heart surgery recovery, I was nervous about being with my father for a whole week. A high emotional charge plus being in the house a lot and having to do things my parents’ way signaled impending clashes. I focused on being there for my mother and allowing my parents to tell me what to do while I was home; more like a servant than a visiting guest. That worked, for a few days.

The fight was over pills.  Not just any pills but the steroid pack my mother was on.  See, you take a different number of pills each day, and at different times.  My mother and I were in contrast: I kept forgetting about them and my mother asked if she needed to take them 3xs more often than there were pills. My dad didn’t help when he punched pills through the foil backing the wrong way, making directions hard to read. That particular morning, my mom choked on one of them – I thought she was having a heart attack and called 911. We all hated these fucking pills.

(You know it wasn’t the pills, right? It was the fear of my mother not getting better as quickly as we wanted, her persistent and undiagnosed cough, her exhaustion. It was the fear of her choking on the pills again. It was the fear of her dying.  But we fought over the pills.)

After both my mother and father questioned when she had to take the next dose, I made a snarky comment about how I did, in fact, know how to read medication information, then my dad snapped at me and I began to shake and my dad started yelling and I walked away saying I wouldn’t be spoken to that way. I came back for dinner and sincerely apologized for snapping and for being a jerk.  My dad isn’t good about accepting apologies, though. I knew he didn’t hear me when he said angrily, “We are ALL upset about you mother, Linda.”

I mean, he heard me but he wouldn’t let it in. I needed him to let it in. I needed to see him soften, to stop and realize I am his daughter and connect with me. That has been my struggle all along, to get him to hear, “Dad! I’m trying to connect with you! Please connect with me! Let it in! Let ME in!”

I left the table, not angry but sad, and sat in my room, in the dark, crying. I wanted to feel the fear and sadness coming up and didn’t want anyone’s anger to stop me.  Minutes later, I heard the footsteps up the stairs. Had to be Dad, Mom can’t walk up the stairs quickly enough to make footsteps. I tensed up, but vowed not to fight. He knocked and I said he could come in.

“Honey, I’m sorry. Don’t sit in the dark alone, come be with us.” I stood up and walked into his open arms. He held me like a Dad. “I am sorry. I was wrong. I shouldn’t speak to you like that. We are all upset about Mom and I know you are scared. You have been through so much today and I am a dummy for how I talked to you. Don’t be alone. I love you so much.”

I let him rub my back and rock me back and forth and go on and on about being sorry, and I pretended like I was a little girl getting the apology and connection I always wanted from him. By letting him love me, I felt him let my love in. And because I allowed myself to feel it, to be present to it happening, a part of me got whole.

If my dad only lets in my love like that once in my lifetime, in his lifetime, it will be enough.

A Quickie

Hi. Thanks for checking out my blog.

My mom is doing much better after heart surgery. It took 4 weeks and several doctor appointments to figure out the cough she had wasn’t from her lungs but from a nerve in her vocal chords. She sounds infinitely more confident about her health now.

Unfortunately for me, I am having a bad reaction to some medication. I was planning on updating my blog this week but now I just feel like hell.

As soon as I can, I will write something new. It is going to be about my Dad and it might make you cry.

Upscale, Everyday

“Dresses give me lots of freedom to dance. Plus, they twirl. This is my Easter dress from Children’s Place. So what if Easter is over?”

The following is an interview with child style-prodigy, L (she’s so amazing, she doesn’t even use her full first name).  After only 4.10 years on Earth, L has already been credited with beginning and advancing the latest trend in young wear: Upscale, Everyday.

L was gracious enough to sit down with the editor of Child Design Magazine Jasmine Brockstone (in exchange for a cupcake) to discuss her beauty practices, clothing philosophy and the future of children’s clothing.

Jasmine Brockston: L, you are a fashion phenomenon.  Tell me how you came to such a sophisticated style philosophy.

"This is more of an indoor look."

L: Well, up until I was 2, my mom put me in a lot of jeans.  They were cute, sure, but I don’t have hips yet.  No matter how tight she made the side adjuster-things, they fell down. No self-respecting toddler shows her butt-crack. So when I was 3, and could dress myself, I officially stuck with dresses and skirts.

JB: How did your mom feel about this?

"My mommy is my biggest fashion influence. Because she buys my clothes."

L: She was disappointed because there are a lot of darling tops out there. But once I explained that the buttons cut into my adorable, round belly, she understood.

JB: Do you and your mom argue over clothing?

L: (smiles) Only when I say I’ll wear something and then when she gets it home I refuse. (giggle) That drives her crazy. I used to purposely not match my clothes and watch her work hard not to say anything.  Now, though, I only mismatch my hair bands – much  more subtle.

JB: What is your favorite look for Spring?

L: Right now I am really into Easter dresses even though we’re Jewish and Easter is over. I have never been one for formality. I’m already wearing white and it is only April. I think kids should wear what they like and not be held to adult rules. We get enough of that at the dinner table.

JB: What about upkeep?  I mean, you are wearing Easter dresses to school.  Doesn’t your mom worry they will get ruined?

L: Well, apparently they are not too expensive because she always announces the price to my Nana when they shop together and then says, “That’s cheap!”  She has said that she can’t understand paying $50 for any single piece of clothing I will grow out of in 4 months, so she looks for bargains.  Plus the materials make it easy to remove stains.

JB: What was your most daring look?

L: I once wore camouflage pants with a tulle ballet skirt over them.  More recently, I wore two different shoes to school. Also, to the Father/Daughter Dance I added fairy wings – nothing says “special night” like fairy wings.

18 months and already showing fabulous style.

JB: Who do you typically wear?

"Mom says this is a 'Pucci' look. Sounds like a bad word to me."

L: I do a lot of The Children’s Place and The Pumpkin Patch because they carry cute dresses and skirts.  Love Carter’s still, just wish they offered more cotton jammies in my size.  Old Navy works sometimes but they are more on the casual side…

JB: Meaning they have a lot of pants and capris?

L: Right. (rolls her eyes)

JB: What do you think of the dust up with Michelle Obama and her choice of clothing for official engagements? She kind of takes an opposite approach to you – dressing a little more down scale.

L: I’m a big Barack Obama fan and I think those mean people should leave Michelle alone.  Name calling isn’t allowed in my class and those who say mean things have to sit at the Thinking Table.  I think Oscar De La Renta needs to sit at the Thinking Table and then say he’s sorry.

JB: How do you keep your skin so beautiful?

L: Um, I’m 4, so my skin is still good. I use California Baby shampoo/bath soap. My dad let’s me play with bars of soap in the bath, which is so much fun because I can make lots of good experiments with it.  My mom complains but Dad doesn’t stop me.  That’s why I like bath time better with Daddy.

JB: How do you see this Upscale, Everyday trend working with kids your age?

L: You know, much like the fashion trend setters before me, I am not too concerned with what others do. I have a style that works for me – it is comfortable and yet I feel great about myself. I make sure I wear leggings under the dresses and my skirts usually have shorts, so things are proper. I think we can get away with mixing high fashion with low brow fun, unless I’m making mudpies. Then my mom insists on old shorts and old shoes.

JB: Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out.

L: Yup….Can I go now? I need to go potty. (while running out of the room) Don’t forget my cupcake!

Birthday Diary

Thanks to anyone who looked at my blog while I have been on hiatus (unofficially).

My life is upside down in the worst way, so to bring a little bit of cheer and “happy thoughts” into my brain I am going to review my birthday weekend.  Well, really the Friday night before my birthday party because that was by far the best part.

Years ago I told J I had never had a surprise party and always wanted one.  Unbeknownst to me, J set a surprise party in motion for my 40th birthday almost 3 years ago.  So all that complaining I was going about missing my friends and family on this significant birthday?  He was just chuckling underneath his compassionate expression.

For 3 years, J was taking money out of his wallet and hiding it around the house.  (”I can’t believe you never found any of it!” he laughed on Friday night.What can I say?  I’m not a snoop.) In 2007, he and my mom worked out dates and began to get everyone on board: my sister and her kids, my brother and her kids, my cousin and her husband and his family, none of who live in my state.   And I never knew a thing!

On the Friday night before my party, I thought I was meeting my parents for dinner.  J was, oddly, not rushing us out the door.  That was the first weird thing.  Second weird thing was him calling my mother on our way to the restaurant to see if they were there already.  I heard her say “David and Shaina,” my brother and sister-in-law, and I thought for a moment they might be in.  But that was ridiculous – they have three young kids. They wouldn’t come in.  At the restaurant, my parents were sitting at the bar even though we had a table.  That was the third odd thing.  The last one was J trying to hold my hand as we walked to the table.

I tried looking for my brother and his family to the right and when I turned to the left, all of my family was standing there (ironically, not my brother but he was on his way).  I cried my eyes out!  I was so happy to be with them all and couldn’t believe that they were there for me. (J tried so hard to get friends to come but the economic downturn made that impossible.  One friend, Laura, came in on Saturday night for my party, also a surprise.  It was awesome to be together, even for a day.)

After all that fretting over turning 40, I stood there with my family and basked in their love, forgetting about my age.  All I could think was, “They did this for me.”

I have the best husband.  Thoughtful, loving, compassionate and fun.  He took care of me, and I will appreciate that for a long time to come.

What Is

Today is my birthday.

The past 4 months or so have been stressful and I realize now that I have been making them so.  Last summer I was the Campaign Manager for a guy running for U.S. House.  I was busy.  I loved it.  I liked working for Tom, I liked working with volunteers, I liked having a purpose.  He lost and the campaign ended.

Since then, I have been clamoring to keep myself at that level of busy.  I worked on my marketing business, worked on my sales business, began this blog, began my dating book, etc.  In the past couple of months I became Vice President of a new Democratic group in town.  But I wasn’t happy.

I’d call my good friend and fret over taking on too much but still feeling unfulfilled.  She suggested I get a regular job.  She felt that staying at home with L just wasn’t enough for me and none of my projects were at the point of full operation – they were all start-ups, basically.  “You need to be with other women, create friendships, wear cute clothes, have something to do,” was the basic message.  And in some ways, she is right.  I do thrive in that environment.

I thought about her suggestion and decided it wasn’t for me.  I liked the sound of it but it is more complicated than that.  First, I’d have a boss, something I really don’t want. Second, I’d have to somehow take care of my family while working, something I didn’t want to do. And third, I like being at home and the feeling of freedom I have to do what I want (provided I take care of my family).

“What?” I asked myself.  “Did you just say you like being at home?”  It shouldn’t have been a surprise.  I have always loved the sense of freedom as a freelancer and I like being spontaneous, something an 8-5 job doesn’t offer.   Most importantly to J and I is raising L and being there for her in these early years.  So where does that leave me?  It leaves me with what already is: I am a stay-at-home-mom.  A homemaker.  A housewife.  That is my job.

Wow.  What a relief!  Since I have allowed myself to be what I actually am, I am much happier.  When L goes to school, I work on the two projects most important to me right now and the rest of the time I read, write my blog, clean the house, do laundry, run errands – but no rushing.  I’m not frantic like I was.  I feel peaceful.

I realize now how fortunate I am that I don’t have to work.  That’s right, I said it, in the face of the nation’s almost total economic meltdown.  For the lifestyle that we live, I don’t have to work.  Bills get paid, we can afford some new clothes, we go out to dinner from time to time…life is good.  We are happy.  For a while I felt pressured to bring in money so we could buy a house.  We are now looking at smaller homes using the money we have already saved.

I am grateful that my husband works hard to create the life I get to live.  He has few expectations of me (short of making sure I pick up L at school and managing our budget so we never overdraw on our checking account, he’s good).  With layoffs always looming, I know this might not last so I am enjoying it while I can.  And, perhaps most importantly, I am admitting it: I’m a housewife.

So what have I done so far on my birthday?  Well, I cleaned poop off the bathroom floor, plunged the toilet, got more laundry done, put dishes away, took my daughter to school, and stayed home while the carpet cleaner was here.  I am looking forward to taking L to dance class and then reserving a date for her “Get Doted On” birthday party in May.  I’ll get some writing done on an article and run to the mall for a few errands.

A typical day for me, and now, really, a perfect day.

What Was

If you read this post, you’d know that in honor of my 40th birthday I addressed the things that I dreamed about that I didn’t accomplish.  It was a way to be complete, to let go of old dreams to make room for new.

I had said that I was going to write a list of my accomplishments.  I wrote the list on paper, sitting in my car while waiting for L to finish her piano class.  It felt fine to do it, but I am not going to put it on my blog.  It seems…too…self-indulgent.  Besides, this way when I need some crazy story about my past, I haven’t already used it for a list.

Interestingly, after I wrote the list, I didn’t feel better about myself.  I didn’t feel a surge of confidence or more clarity about what I am supposed to do next.  Funny.  I thought I would.  Especially after looking at the things I hadn’t accomplished.  But I knew all of those already and so many were, frankly, old.  I thought, “If my old high school friends read this, it would sound sad.”

So where does that leave me?  Tonight, I’m not sure.  Been rough with my daughter the past few weeks, I’m struggling to write this unwieldy, overwhelming article where I have to act like a real reporter and confront public officials about unworkable policies (never done that before), and I need to have three different confronting personal conversations, none of which I want to have.  I’m not much in the mood to create big plans or tout my own successes.

Right now, I need a plan to get through this week.  A plan for the rest of my life will have to wait.

Aunt Bernadine – Our family’s oldest feminist

As you know, my Great Aunt Bernadine died last week.  (If you don’t, see this post.)  At her funeral, I learned some things about her that I wanted to share.  I don’t think I adequately, or at this point fairly, described her.  My experience of Aunt Bernadine was based mostly on what others said to me about her and my small experience of being with her.  We never spent time alone together and I didn’t get a chance to ask her questions about her life.  Now that I know more, I think it is the right thing to do to share what I learned.

• Aunt Bernadine was 94, not 92, when she died.
• She had 5 sisters and 1 brother, total of kids coming to 7!
• Bernadine, along with all of her siblings, graduated from the University of Michigan.  That would have been around 1934.
• Bernadine was married and divorced before she met my Uncle Ned.  Divorced in the 1930’s!!  Can you believe it?
• My uncle was a very nervous fellow while my aunt was much more laid back.  My cousin thinks that is why they made a good couple. Apparently her philosophy was, “Tomorrow is another day.”  I now see why my Nana had such a hard time with my aunt – my Nana was the biggest worrier I knew.  Must have really rattled her chains!  Hilarious.
• I knew this but forgot to mention it: after my Uncle Ned died, Aunt Bernadine took the QE2 (the premier cruise ship of the Cunard line) to England and then flew back on the Concord.  By herself!  Because she wanted to!

My aunt most certainly would have been one of the millions of professional women working today if she had been born later.  I don’t think she was on the front lines of feminism but rather quietly telling her daughter, who is now the epitome of the career woman in all the best ways, that she could be anything she wanted to be.  I respect my Aunt Bernadine more than I ever had.

PS: In the Jewish tradition, anyone attending a funeral can drop a bit of dirt on the lowered casket, a way of signifying that we are caring for our dead.  When my cousin dropped her little bit of dirt on top, she said with a smile, “Toodle-loo, Bernadine!” If if Aunt Bernadine was listening, I am sure she got a good chuckle out of it.