Sirnames October 29, 2007

 

 The last time I looked, there were thousands of genealogy websites on the internet, and each one begins with a search for a name. I spent a lot of time on those sites after my divorce–looking for my ancestors, looking for myself

Growing up, I was uncomfortable with my name–Sikorski. It identified me as an outsider, the Polish syllables as foreign to the German-Swiss citizens of my small town as my lanky six-foot frame and dark hair. My name also set me apart as a remnant, an unmatched set with my mother and her new husband. Everyone else’s name matched that of their parents. For years, my sister and I were the only stepchildren in the community. I spent my school years answering to anything that sounded vaguely Polish (“Sishkory? Sirokski? Sisuski? ”) and explaining why my name didn’t match my mother’s (divorce as a concept hadn’t reached our conservative backwater).  At 17, I married; a hasty presto-chango into a new life, a new identity. Our matched pair grew to a quartet—balance! symmetry!—and the absolute unremarkability of our life sustained me. For a time.

Eleven exhausting years later, I had outgrown the boy I married and the name he gave me. We divorced, bitterly. To distance myself as much as possible I decided to revert to my maiden name. My sister laughed.

“Why? What does it mean to you?” she asked. 

She had a point. Our name and 23 chromosomes were all that our father had given us. In reality, it meant nothing to me. Why keep the name of a man I had never even met?  I wanted my new name to be meaningful, and reflect something that was true about me.  I decided to create a name from scratch, and in the process, birth a new, improved me along with it, one who would be immune to the mistakes I had made in the past. I would not revert to my old identity: an outcast looking desperately for a matching set to step into. I would find a strong name, one that stood on its own. I spent a lot of time on the renaming project. I searched the family tree, looking for something with an ancestral tie. But one simple fact invaded my consciousness. All surnames of women are rooted in the names of men—given at birth, given at marriage. In some families this is a gift, a source of pride. In my family, as I dug deeper, I found that my female ancestors bore the names of men who abused them, cheated on them, abandoned them, and even murdered them. If there had been time in their daily fight for survival and sanity, did they ever think about their names? Was there ever a woman in our family who had a name she owned, a name that gave her a sense of pride, a feeling of strength?

It would have been nice to go the iconic, one-name route: Cher, Madonna, Liza! “Karen” doesn’t quite have the cachet of those names, and besides, as a nurse, I am expected to be comforting and normative; I am expected to have two names. Otherwise I’m not allowed to handle the narcotics.

My busy life as a single parent curtailed my search for the perfect name. People knew me as Karen C———, and my daughters and I still formed a matched set. Still, every once in a while, I thought about it. I searched webpages about matrilineal societies and their naming customs. My family has always seemed a family of women; my mother, my sister and I formed the core triad, my kind but remote stepfather orbiting somewhere around the edges. My daughters and I re-enacted that family structure. I found little to give me direction, nothing that appealed, nothing that revealed the truth of who I am. One thing was clear, though, and thoroughly matrilineal—the inescapable connection of my female ancestors to the names of men we barely knew or wished we didn’t. Men who, in the end, left us little but a few letters to define our relationship. I gave up. I kept my ex-husband’s name.

Time passed. I met a new man and married him. I hadn’t yet found a name I liked, and his was plain, simple, and easy to spell. It sounded good with my name, an apt trade for an early spot in the alphabet. His name is not his own, either. It is his stepfather’s. His real father refused to give him a name, and left before he saw his son, proving once again that my experiences are not unique.  

I hope I will want to share this name forever, but regardless, I think I will be Karen Roberts for the rest of my life. I like its simplicity, its generic feel; the company of 2- million-plus hits on google. This name, with its easy economy and anonymity, reveals nothing true about my nature. Having failed to find one unique name that identifies me, I happened on the next best thing. My name could be everywoman’s name. And so, like a one-size-fits-all gown, it feels just fine.

I have a glandular condition…. October 26, 2007

Oh, if I had a dollar for every time some poor woman has looked at me with shining eyes, and asked eagerly, “Do you think it’s my thyroid?” I’d be a wealthy woman, or at least drive a fancier car. In all of medicine, thyroid disease is the one that women are secretly pulling for. They wouldn’t want eczema, endometriosis, or irritable bowel, but secretly, they long for hypothyroidism. It’s the answer to all their problems, all their symptoms. Check out this list of hypothyroidism symptoms from an endocrine web site (the thyroid is part of the endocrine system):

 

Fatigue
Weakness
Weight gain or increased difficulty losing weight
Coarse, dry hair
Dry, rough pale skin
Hair loss
Cold intolerance (can’t tolerate the cold like those around you)
Muscle cramps and frequent muscle aches
Constipation
Depression
Irritability
Memory loss
Abnormal menstrual cycles (if you still have them)
Decreased libido

 

Hmmm. Yup. Yup. Yup….OH MY GOD, I’VE GOT IT TOO! (Hysterical jubilation as I realize I won’t actually have to give up my nightly dish of Breyer’s® Ice Cream) Oh, damn. I forgot. They checked it last year. Normal. Sigh.

 

Okay, so first: the thyroid is a bow-tie shaped gland at the base of your throat on the outside of your neck—under the skin, though, of course, so you can’t mistake it for formalwear. Unless it’s enlarged, as with a goiter (remember Aunt Tilly’s goiter? Eeek! That’s a whole other column. And what a word…goiter. Urk. But I digress.) you usually can’t see it. The thyroid is kind of like the body’s engine idle; if it is running too fast (hyperthyroidism) you ramp up a lot of the body’s processes and usually lose a bunch of weight unintentionally. Yeah. I don’t know what that’s like either. Before you get all, “Oh, gosh that sounds great!” consider this. Just one of the problematic symptoms of hyperthyroidism is that your eyes start to bug out, and it’s NOT REVERSIBLE if it’s left too long. No one aspires to be Barney Fife, girls.

It can also progress to a dangerous and sometimes life-threatening condition called “thyroid storm” when it really goes into overdrive. (Sound like a Celtic heavy metal band… “And now, taking the stage, are the explosive guitars and bagpipes of…. Thyroid Storm!”)

Anyway, if you get hyperthyroidism, sometimes the thyroid turns around on its own with a little medicine and some stern talk, but often, like some kind of glandular zombie, they have to actually destroy the hyperactive little thing with radiation and then give you a normal dose of thyroid hormone to replace it. For the rest of your life. So it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.

Okay, so let’s look at the flip-side, and your question, Stilly. What if your thyroid is lazy, like me on the Stairmaster? What if it’s lying around your neck like a string of cheap pearls, not lifting a finger to help you in your valiant weight loss efforts….? You get fat, tired, and all of those other things on the list. It’s a real drag. And a dose of synthetic thyroid can correct a lot of the symptoms. But I have to tell you, dear readers, in the 8 years I’ve been practicing, there have only been a few occasions when I’ve tested someone at her request because of weight gain and found a problem. It’s usually just something that turns up as an incidental finding. Most of the women I have tested are normal. They’re just tired, stressed, and living la vida loca. Or la vida Americana, which is about the same thing. And we also know that people tend to OVER estimate their exercise and UNDER estimate their eating. Not that you would do that, of course.

(A side note: Many alternative practitioners diagnose something called “sub-acute hypothyroidism.” This means your labs are normal but you have the symptoms. Some patients claim to feel much better on a low dose of a natural thyroid—who wouldn’t feel better with a little extra kick in the engine, right? Even if you don’t really need it—but it still has to be gotten with a prescription. The science is not good on this, and I personally have mixed feelings. So your regular health care practitioner may not be willing to give you the prescription. Some—not me!—may be downright hostile about it. Just an FYI.)

I’m not saying you shouldn’t be tested. You should, if you have those symptoms. Maybe you do have a thyroid problem. It’s fairly common, after all. But I wouldn’t put all my donuts in one basket on it, if you take my meaning.

 

The Back-up Boyfriend, Final Chapter October 21, 2007

 

 

Of course these chapters are listed in reverse, so quickly! quickly! Head to chapter one for the full effect. Thanks, and get me a g& t, would you darling?

The foil on my highlights rustled faintly under the dryer, and I was nursing a g&t while I browsed the latest fashions in Vogue. The latest CK advert reminded me that it was time to hire a new cabana boy. Good help is so hard to find.

“Oh, there you are, darling!”

I looked up to see my impetuous young friend mincing toward me on spike heels, her arms laden with packages and bags.

“Someone’s been shopping, I see,” I said, gesturing to her bags. “And, if I’m not mistaken, those bee-stung lips are new, too.” I assessed her, shrewdly.

“Oh, yes, darling,” she said, in a slightly slurred manner. “That was last month. I’ve enrolled in the “Procedure of the Month” Club with Dr. Joven. This month it’s…let me see…is it ear lobe reduction, or…oh, never mind—I’ve delicious news!”

“Tell me. Is the Senator’s wife having an affair? Going into rehab? Taking Oxycontin? What?” I demanded.

“I have a Backup,” she mumbled through swollen lips.

“You have a pickup? Whatever do you need a pickup for? The Urban Cowboy thing has been done to death, darling. Get an SUV, for heaven’s sake.”

“No, a Backup—as in boyfriend.” She puckered up her enormous lips and squinted in a manner intended to be winsome. I flashed upon a childhood memory of carp rising to the surface, their sucking, greedy mouths open to receive the fish food we purchased from a gumball machine at the zoo.

“Brava, darling, Brava! Tell me all about it,” I said, gesturing to Serge to bring me another g&t.

“Well, my dear, with your advice—which by the way, is now a bulleted list on my palm pilot homepage—and my new look, courtesy of Dr. Joven, I have secured a BUB.” She leaned in. “And I think he’s a keeper.”

The fish leapt to mind once again. “That’s simply spectacular, darling. How did you meet?”

“Well, he’s the CEO of a Biomedical conglomerate—I actually met him in the hallway as I was leaving Dr. Joven’s office.” She whispered conspiratorially, “Stem cells are the future of plastic surgery.”

“What a coincidence, darling. My BUB is also in Biomed—but he’s working on some sort of nipple erector device—perpetually perky nipples can be quite an edge in today’s business world.”

“He’s been on a string for several weeks now, and just as you said, he grows more eager each day. I’ve followed your rules to a T, darling, and while he’s gotten a glimpse of the goods, he hasn’t made it onto the showroom floor.”

“Ah, you’re learning,” I smiled fondly at her. “What about Mr. ________?”

“Oh, things are smooth as silk, darling. He suspects nothing. We’ve never been more compatible.” The corners of her mouth strained into a bloated smile.

“Trinkets? Baubles? Tokens?” I asked.

“Stunning and daily, darling; mostly in little blue boxes. He has the most divine little five-story beachfront bungalow in Villa Blanca. It’s quite lovely there this time of year, you know.”

“Villa Blanca? Really? And what is this young man’s na”—

“The really lovely thing is that he supports my self-improvement schemes wholeheartedly,” she interrupted. “Why, he’s the one who enrolled me in Dr. Joven’s little club.”

“Well, that is lovely, darling, but call me old-fashioned. I believe anything over eight surgeries is just gauche.” She looked wounded. “Except on you, dear,” I said soothingly, “You’re the exception that proves the rule. His name, darling?”

“You might want to reconsider, darling,” she said airily. “He used to be BU for another woman, but he told me she’d started to let herself go. Pity. She sounded wonderful. He just couldn’t have it, he told me. After all, his motto is “Never too high, never too tight”—

“Never too perfect,” I finished, my voice flat.

“That’s right. How did you know?” She looked at me, all silicone and innocence. Squinting her eyes and pursing her surgically inflated lips, she kissed me on the cheek. “You are a darling,” she said. “So wise, so…seasoned. Such sound advice.” I stared at her, overcome by weakness.

She caught the g&t just as it slipped from my hand.

“Careful, old girl,” she said, her eye spasming into a facsimile of a wink. She took a quick swig through her bloated lips. “Mmmm. Refreshing. Well, off to my facial appointment. Ta, darling.”

 

Shakily setting the g&t on the table nearby, I took a deep breath and turned back to Vogue. Quietly, so as not to alert anyone in the crowded salon, I tore a coupon for age-defying moisturizer from its pages and slipped it into my handbag.

 

The Back-up Boyfriend, Chapter 3 October 16, 2007

 

I fanned myself a bit and shifted on the wet towel beneath me as someone entered the door.  Squinting through the steam, I said, “Oh, it’s you darling.  Do join me.  I’m having a bit of a steam to purge the impurities, you know. I overindulged a bit last night, I’m afraid,” I added, nodding significantly at the hair of the dog that was in my hand.  “Where is that girl? I’ve been waiting for a fresh g&t for twenty minutes! And pour some more water on the rock, dear, I’m feeling a bit parched.”

She did as I asked, and then wrapping her towel securely around her, gingerly settled on the bench across the small room.  I sighed.  “What now, darling?” 

She grimaced.  “Tummy tuck. It took me an age to wriggle out of that compression girdle.” 

“Good Lord, love, I’ll hardly know you in a few weeks. All this surgery—it’s really rather ghastly, don’t you think?  I prefer to age gracefully, and do my best with healthy living.”  I raised my glass wickedly and took a sip. The poor girl had no recourse, really, with her gene pool.  Some of us were above it all, thankfully.  Breeding will out.

“So, tell me, dear, how are things?  Any new on the romantic front, or are you and hubby patching it up?”

“No, things are just as difficult as always at home.  There’s little hope, I’m afraid.”  She looked sadly at floor. 

“At least he’s still paying your bills, darling.  That has to count for something.  Someone has to keep Dr. Joven in pocket change.”

She brightened.  “That’s true.  Anyway, I do have something to tell you.” She leaned in and dropped her voice. “I believe you’ll be proud of me.  I’ve found a back-up!” She could barely hide her jubilation, and the look on her face—well, I admit I welled up a bit.  Helping others is what I live for.

“Tell me.  Tell me everything.”

“Well, I know you will agree that he is a much more suitable candidate—he’s one of the officers at our bank.  You know we’ve been purchasing new properties, and he’s been handling the details.  Since most of the money is from Daddy, and but is held jointly, I must sign all agreements. It’s so tedious…But! I’ve had occasion to meet with him many times.  Once I took your wonderful advice, it wasn’t long before I piqued his interest.  On our last transaction, he planned a special celebratory lunch at the Raphael.  He booked one of their intimate little dining suites, and gave me the most cunning little charm.”  She held out her arm, jingling a charm bracelet in front of my eyes. 

“A charm bracelet.  How sweet,” I murmured, while my eyes took in the charm dangling there.  Hmmm….a dollar sign, white gold, superior craftsmanship, tiny diamonds—real—embedded in the vertical crosspiece.  At least $4000. By God, she may be on to something here, I mused. And a real estate banker, at that.  She could end up with a pretty little country home, tucked away in a quiet corner of the county.

“Fabulous.  This is more like it.  Your mechanic couldn’t afford the Raphael or this stunning bauble, now could he?”

“You’re right.  You are so wise. I am so glad I held out for an appropriate back-up.  What are daisies, after all—a weed?  This is what I deserve.”  Throwing back her head, she trilled with giddy laughter, and then clutched her stomach, coughing a bit.

“Careful, dear.  Now, on to the future.  When are you seeing him again?  What are your plans?” I rubbed my hands together.  “Oh, this is all too exciting.”

“Soon.  Very soon,” she said with a wicked gleam in her eye.  “He says he can’t get enough of me.  Why, if I hadn’t been due at Dr. Joven’s office, I’m not sure he would have let me out of bed!”

I swiveled my head toward her. “Bed?  Did you say bed?” I looked at her in disbelief.

“Oh, dear…” she ducked her head and clutched her stomach.  “Not again—I thought…oh, no.”

“Let me get this straight.  You have seen this man, on a number of business occasions, correct?” A nod. “But this was your first, shall we say, assignation?”  Another miserable nod.  “And you were…intimate with him?”  She looked away, and muttered something.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Twice.” She hung her head.

“Good Lord.  And I though you had sense.  I cannot believe that I have been wasting all of my good advice on you and now you have gone and…”  I noticed that tears were running down her face.  “Oh, well,” I sighed.  “What’s done is done.  What we need now is damage control.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, sniffling a bit.  “I thought this was the goal—lovely afternoons, gifts, and well, you know…sex.”

“Darling, please.  Sex is such a basic drive, one easily satisfied by any willing and able body.  Afternoons at the Raphael, expensive trinkets, fine wines; now those are higher callings.”  I leaned in. “Not to be coarse, darling, but I believe you just let the dear boy have the milk for free.  And on the first outing, too.  Pity.  I suspect that’s the last trinket you’ll see out of him.  He’s won the prize, after all.  You must realize that he is in demand.  He’s a hot prospect, darling.  He has bored, wealthy women in his office every day, alone.  Now that you’ve signed the deed, so to speak, there’s no need for him to complete the survey or woo the landowners.  I’m afraid this backup is played out,” I said sadly.

“But…No!” she moaned.  “I can’t believe it.  How could I be so blind?  What shall I do?”  And then she stopped.  “No.  I don’t believe you.  He is sincere, and he wants to see me again.  There will be more afternoons, I know it.”

“Darling, be reasonable.  Let’s examine the evidence. Did he specify a day when he would call?”  She shook her head. “Do you have the number for his private line?”  Again, negative. “Did he say he would be out of town on business soon?”  Burying her face in her hands, she nodded, and I heard anguished sobs escaping through her fingertips. “There, there, dear. Don’t go on so—you’ll untuck your tummy. Buck up. Remember what I said in the beginning.  There’s always another to be had. You’ve learned an important lesson.  Pull yourself together and start again.  And this time, remember:  you can keep a man on a string indefinitely.  Don’t rush to award him the prize.  Make him work his way up through the mailroom, as they do in business.  He’ll respect you all the more for it, mark my words.”

“Do you really think so?” she asked.

“I know so.  Now, get out there and find another prospect.  And don’t take that compression girdle off for anything short of real estate.”

 

The Back-up Boyfriend, Chapter 2 October 13, 2007

 

 

Chapter 2

“Hello, dear. Do sit down.”  I laid aside my copy of the New Yorker and gestured to the seat next to me.  I gestured to the cabana boy for a pitcher of gin and tonics.  Appraising my friend, noticing a certain glint in her eye, as well as two new shades of gold in her hair, I surmised that she had taken my advice to heart, and had procured a back-up boyfriend (BUB).  She also bore the rosy glow of a recent assignation with an aesthetician.  I suppressed a trace of annoyance, as she continued to stand at my side, blocking my view of a certain junior Senator’s wife and her extremely common mother-in-law.  “Darling, sit,” I commanded.

“I can’t, dear,” she said, and grimaced ever so slightly, or perhaps had a jaw spasm.  “I just had a derriere lift.  It’s still a bit tender, and Dr. Joven strictly prohibits prolonged sitting.  I rode over in the limo, and I’m afraid I’ve reached my limit for this morning.  I’ll just stand.  Hand me a g&t, darling, I need another Percocet.”

“So. Tell me, dear, have you put my advice to good use, hmmm?” I asked.  “You look like the cat that’s got to the cream, I must say.  What’s he like?  I want details!”

“Darling, you are brilliant.  Putting your advice into practice, it took me no time at all to find a back-up.  I must say, during an argument, it is a delicious sensation to know that one has a tasty side dish. I believe I smiled. I do hope Mr. ___ didn’t notice.”

I sniffed.  “Not much chance of that darling; not to worry.”  She narrowed her eyelids in a partial blink, slightly suspicious.  “Men are such oblivious creatures, really.  Why, I once had a minor surgical procedure during an argument with Mr. ___.  He didn’t bat an eye.”

“Thank goodness!” she exclaimed.  “All right.  Here’s the entire naughty tale.”  She leaned in a bit, and began to whisper into the top of my head.  I sighed and cocked an ear. “His name is Donald.  He is quite taken with me, just as you said.  He calls me hourly, and sent flowers to the spa on Tuesday.  Darling, if I had known how easy this would be, I would have done it years ago.  He’s like putty in my hands.  Every whim, every emotion is of interest to him—he notices all!  We’ve lunched twice, and had cocktails three times.”

“Excellent, my dear.  Interested, engaging, available—He sounds like a prime specimen.  How did you meet this young man?  Tell me every romantic detail,” I said, breathlessly, stubbing out a slim European cigarette, and making a mental note to order the duck from the Chinese market.

“I was in to service the Lexus—you know, the silver one I got for my anniversary last year, and we just started talking.  He’s my service technician, and I must tell you, his body”—

“Stop. Right. There.”  I held up my hand, nearly choking on an ice cube.  “A mechanic?  Oh, no, this will never do.  You have missed the point of the lesson entirely.  This…service technician, as you call him, is nothing more than a common grease monkey. One wonders if he graduated from high school.  Darling, it’s one thing to bestow a few sexual favors on a mechanic when one is short of funds and in dire need of a brake job, and I’ll admit there is a certain sweaty…appeal; but taking one as a back-up–why, it’s simply not done. Your young man should be an investment banker, stock broker, heavens, even a junior executive will do.  Eventually, as I have, you will secure a CEO.  Because think, darling, what can a mechanic do for you, really?  Will he take you to the finest restaurants?  Buy you rare orchids?  Gift you with diamonds?  I think not.  You’ll be lucky to get the combo at Steak and Shake and a bouquet of daisies.”

“I’ve always felt that daisies were sweet,” she murmured, “you know, sincere.” 

“I see,” I said wearily. “Darling, I think your hopes are higher than your newly elevated haunches.  If he starts with daisies, where will he go next—carnations?  Honestly, you can do better.  Now, review what you’ve learned and march right back out there and find another, more suitable back-up.  With your new (ahem) work”—and here I gestured discreetly to her hindquarters—“it should be like taking candy from a baby.”

“Are you sure?” she said.  “He’s very handsome.” 

“I’m positive.  Now go.”  Weaving slightly from the Percocet and g&t, she turned to leave.  Watching her retreat, I made a mental note to purchase honeydew for the bridge lunch, and returned to my surveillance.  I do believe the good Senator’s wife is a bit tipsy.

The Back-up Boyfriend October 11, 2007

 

 Chapter 1

A dear, dear friend intimated to me that she was having marital difficulties.  Feeling somewhat put-upon, but putting down my gin and tonic just the same to convey interest, I cooed, “Darling, but that’s horrible.  Tell me all about it.” 

“Oh, I don’t know…it’s the little things, really.  He didn’t notice how glowing I was after my last facial. He didn’t compliment me on the menu that Elena served at our last dinner party, and, well, in the bedroom, he…he…well, lets just say he hasn’t been to the wine cellar in quite some time.  My dear, I can’t recall the last time he brought me a trinket from Tiffany’s.  It used to be trips to the wine cellar and diamond baubles day in and day out—how I long for those days.  Perhaps he’s losing interest,” she said sadly. 

“Perhaps he is unaware of your distress, my dear,” I said briskly.  “Botox does muddy the ‘guess how I’m feeling today,’ waters, hmmm?”

“I suppose,” she mused, settling her face into what I suspect was a look of concentration.  “I know,” she said excitedly, her eyes sparkling just a tiny bit under her unmoving brows, “I’ll take a lover!”

“What a very sensible idea,” I said.  “Who shall it be?  Which of the back-ups will you move into rotation?  Oh, do tell.”

“Back-ups?” she said.  “Whatever are you talking about?  Why, I don’t know what you mean.”

That’s when I let her in on my little secret—the secret of my lucrative yet distant marriage to Mr. _________. 

“Listen and learn, darling.  A smart woman always has a back-up boyfriend, possibly more than one.  Back-up boyfriends, or BUBs, as I refer to them are different than real boyfriends, and in many ways, superior. The BUB is what the name implies—an extra, should something run amuck in the primary relationship. They are a safety net when things are tumultuous with the primary object of affection. The BUB is there, in theory, to embrace when and if you are suddenly without a man.  He enables you to transcend that tiresome period of loneliness and uncertainty.  There is comfort in his designation as BU.  When embroiled in a vicious argument with the primary, you can remember that you have options; in fact, several, and therefore needn’t grovel or capitulate in any way to unreasonable demands.”

“That sounds fabulous, but a bit complicated.  Tell me more.”  She leaned in to listen intently.

 “The BU relationship is easy on the psyche,” I continued. “There is no real emotional investment—it is merely diversion.  One needn’t worry about maintaining his interest; there’s always another one to be had.” Here she cut in, her fluttering hands conveying the excitement her face could not.

“Tell me, how do I get one?  I must know!”

“Patience, my dear, I will tell all.  It’s remarkable, really, how little it takes to recruit a back-up. The touch to arm or shoulder, the lean-in-and-laugh, the cutting of the eyes during a compliment, indeed, the mere presentation of warmth and openness immediately bring most men into the green room—so to speak. Once they are welcomed onto the stage, leaning across the desk to breathlessly answer a personal question, they accept the role readily, eager for the party afterwards at the chic supper club.”

“That’s all there is to it?  Why has no one told me this before?  It sounds so simple—but then, men are simple creatures, really.  What sort of man do you look for?” she asked.

“I have only a few requirements for the BUB.  He must be completely enchanted and taken by surprise by my warmth.  He will likely be confused and uncertain—“Are we friends, or does she want…more?”  The uncertain man is so charming, so devoted. Within his mind, he is in a constant state of turmoil and excitement.  Waiting for confirmation of his suspicions, he makes himself available for late night phone conversation, dinners and lunches, anytime I am need of affirmation or a confidante.  Solicitous of my needs at all times, his behavior is a return to chivalry, so often lacking in modern relationships.  The graciously held door, the offered jacket, the bouquet of flowers hidden bashfully behind the back—these are the gifts of the BUB.”

“That sounds like heaven,” she said, sighing. “But where to find a proper man?  Must he be unattached?”

“Frankly, I prefer my BUBs to be married to another. There is less opportunity for heartache, in my opinion. A gentle reminder wifey often brings to heel an overzealous BUB. The relationship is structured, even orchestrated. It is a civilized association, and as such, follows rules which must be strictly maintained.  These rules may be unspoken, but I prefer to list them, in the clear and sober light of day. The BUB association has its bounds, and the BU must remain within these bounds to remain within my favor.”

“Darling, you are absolutely brilliant!  I shall go about looking for a back-up immediately.  And who knows, maybe one day, he and I…” she tightened her lips in the merest imitation of a satisfied smile.

“Oh no, Darling, you misunderstand me. Though the role seems to suggest that in time, and under the proper circumstances, the BU may become the primary, nothing is farther from the truth. The BU is like your second string jewelry, your second favorite shade of eye makeup—you would wear it in a pinch, but it would never be your first choice.” I took a deep draught from the g&t in my hand, giving her a wink. 

She left the table after a prolonged and significant look, which I took to mean that my advice had, in a small but substantial way, altered her life for the good.  I felt a warm glow of altruism but, remembering the Botox, decided it was just the gin.

Am I Blue? (go smurf yourself!) October 10, 2007

 

With last year’s landscaping project misery forgotten, it seemed like a good time for a home improvement project. Our kitchen linoleum was laid during the Carter era and had definitely lost its luster. It was time for a change. We picked out some lovely birch laminate and then took stock of the rest of the room.

Cabinets: dark brown, a few mismatched doors, grubby brass handles.

Light fixture: Harvest gold, sixty watts. Our guests look as though they have hepatitis.

Wallpaper: Dingy yellow floral stripe, reminiscent of a garage-sale housecoat.

Stove: harvest gold drop in with matching hood.

Sink: Ditto.

Dishwasher and fridge: Thankfully, almond.

Despite what VH1 says, I don’t love the seventies, having tried and failed to copy Farrah’s ‘do and ditched my granny-square vest and crocheted poncho years ago. (Wouldn’t you know, those ponchos made a comeback?)

We flirted briefly with the idea of painting the cabinets, and I even brought home a Martha Stewart magazine that told me how, but then I realized I was reading Martha Stewart and snapped out of it. She and I share no DNA, not even the tiniest amino acid common to most humans, I’m sure of it. Unless I get to borrow her staff, nothing in her magazine is going to be accomplished by me anytime in the next century. So we settled on new walls.

At first, we were going to paint over the wallpaper. Everyone advised against it—except people who had once stripped wallpaper. Websites revealed horror stories. “…and then, during Mrs. Ryan’s dinner party for thirty-two, the wallpaper which she had so thoughtlessly painted over began to fall from the walls like rain. The weight of the paint, you see, pulled it right off. And with it went all hope of her husband’s promotion.” Taking heart from the Kilz™ brochure, which showed Kilz being applied, willy-nilly, over wallpaper, we forged ahead. We got paint and brushes—again, (where do they go?) for around $40. Not too shabby, we thought.

First we moved the fridge. This is the first time in eight years we have moved it, I am ashamed to say, and it was as disgusting as you might imagine. For several years, our refrigerator has made a shuddering, jolting sound when the compressor stops. Turns out that all it needed was a bit of a clean. It’s been silent as a churchmouse since. Who knew? Anyway, as I was sanding the seams to give a smooth finish, the strip came away from the wall.

“It’s peeling right off,” I said, and grabbed a corner above the sink. That tore away cleanly as well. “This is a breeze,” I said. “Let’s do this thing right.” I looked at my husband, who said doubtfully, “Okay, if you’re sure…”

Seven hours later, we were pulling tiny pieces the size of chewing gum wrappers away with our fingernails. Hot water and vinegar wasn’t doing the trick, so I called my sister and brother-in-law. “You gotta use the chemicals,”

they said. We hate chemicals; hate to use them, hate to dispose of them. But we couldn’t stand it once more moment. So we chemically stripped away. It was easier, but still not easy. We spent two weekends stripping the walls, and only damaged them enough that it will take at least a gallon of spackle to smooth over it.

Once said gallon of spackle was applied, we thought we’d sand it smooth, for a professional finish. A few minutes of hand-sanding convinced us to buy the most cunning little belt sander at the hardware store. We started in on the fully-spackled walls, and soon the kitchen was covered in white powder. The place resembled Al Pacino’s living room in “Scarface,” minus the whores. My husband and I looked like mimes, covered head-to-toe in spackle dust. I’m sure we have the beginning of white lung. This was clearly a misstep. Several hours later, with most of the powder washed off the walls, we began to paint.

It wasn’t long before we figured out that semi-gloss paint wasn’t the best choice for the job. Every flaw picked up the light. Every error reflected back, making it glaringly apparent that this job was done by amateurs. Not to mention that the shade that looked so calm in the store (“Moody Blues”) was actually the shiny, shocking turquoise-blue of our local swimming pool. Under the dim light fixture, we both looked like Smurfs, and we began to swear like them, too. “Son of a smurf! This smurfing smurf looks like smurf! Who picked out this smurfy shade of blue, anyway?”

Being the kind Smurfette that I am, I offered to go to the hardware store for more (different) paint. My husband declined, and grimly said, “Let’s just get this smurfing thing finished.”

Once we got the new appliances and light fixture in place, and gave it some time, we actually grew to like our wild turquoise kitchen. Chocolate brown and turquoise is “in” again, so we were fashionable, and what’s more important, we were finished. Once we have grown sick of a job, it’s amazing how we can overlook little things, grow used to mistakes, and make peace with our choices. Our kitchen definitely looks better than it did before, and if I look a little Smurfy, well, what the heck. Blue’s a much better color for me than yellow.

But I’m Just Big-boned! October 9, 2007

Weight is one of the biggest issues for the women I see in my practice. We live in a world where cramming just a little more fat in a pizza is the end goal of the food industry. A world where a “fourth meal of the day” is encouraged. A world where Ben and Jerry are allowed to be chubby, schlubby guys peddling a potentially addictive substance, while we women are expected to remain stick-thin with abs and buns of steel. Magazines are full of diet ads and ads for delicious food. It’s a crazymaker.

“Dieting,” as popularized by the media, isn’t really the answer. Sorry to break it to you, but in 2004, 32.2% of US adults were obese—and it’s only gotten worse since then. That same year, we spent 46.3 BILLION dollars on weight loss. You’d think with all that money thrown at the problem, somebody would be thinner, not to mention wide awake from all those diet pills. And they probably were, for a time. But sadly, 95% of dieters gain the weight back—plus more, as many of you know. The real truth is that there is no magic bullet, and those who successfully lose weight and keep it off (besides the Hollywood “I have a personal chef/trainer/coach” types) tended to figure out on their own what works for them, stick to it diligently, and change many of their habits to make it happen. Not an easy proposition for those of us who think making microwave popcorn takes too long!

This doesn’t mean that popular diets and diet pill prescriptions don’t work for some people, because they do; but the long term data are as weak as a fat-free, sugar-free, half-caf latte. There’s also a lot of good information that people deprived of food, like dieters, overeat, even binge, for quite a long time after the diet, due to the earlier deprivation. (And this makes sense, because once, when I had to go for a long time without watching a Johnny Depp film, I watched 4 in one weekend!)

So, what to do? Well, I’ve got some suggestions to help you, but you’re not going to like them. Because the truth of the matter is, we live in a relatively lazy (c’mon, how many remotes do you have?), insane food culture. And, for the record, I didn’t say I didn’t like it, it’s just that it’s soooo bad for us! So, here are my weight loss tips:

1) Exercise. You gotta move it, baby. Find something you can stick to, and do it.

2) Eat food that you cook at home, from scratch. Limit prepared foods. Fresh is best. Eat a variety. Follow the new food pyramid. http://www.mypyramid.gov/

3) Drop the chips—quit snacking! Eat a full meal, even dessert if you want, and then stop. Or, conversely, you can have six small meals a day. I emphasize the word small—no snacks in between.

4) Get rid of all sources of high-fructose corn syrup—if you can. It’s everywhere. And lay off the diet soda, too! It just keeps your taste for sweet stuff going.

5) Manage your stress. A stressed woman is an eating woman, in many cases.

6) Eat some yummy stuff once in a while. Life’s not worth living if you don’t.

These elementary things once again point out that it’s not rocket science. Most of us know what to do; it’s just easier not to. Listen, when I realized that the main reason I never practiced my yoga/meditation was because I had a full stomach (at any and all hours of the day and evening) I realized something true about myself—I eat too damn often. I’m still working on 25-30 more pounds. I lost 20 two years ago with exercise (yoga, walking, bellydance) and have kept off all but 2 pounds. So incremental success is possible, but tough, especially in midlife. And the people at Breyer’s® aren’t making it any easier on me…mmmmm, mint chip!

For further reading, here are a couple of interesting websites.

http://healthyamericans.org/reports/obesity2006/Obesity2006Report.pdf

This is the National Weight Control Registry. To be in the registry, you have to be that rare oxymoron, a successful loser!

http://www.nwcr.ws/default.htm

 

 

image courtesy of CuteOverload

*This prairie dog found love with a male who appreciated her full figure and food-finding abilities. She’s living happily in a roomy burrow somewhere in Western Kansas.

The Cottonwood Three October 7, 2007

 
Let me just preface this by saying that I have been called a treehugger. The label fits; in fact, I embrace it.  That’s why I shamefully report my feelings toward the trees in my backyard: I hate them.

  I’ll admit, they are gorgeous and they provide beautiful shade in the heat of the summer.  But here’s the thing.  They’re cottonwoods. I can hear those of you in the know gasp with horror.  For those of you not acquainted with my messy little friends, let me enlighten you regarding the “to-do list” of the cottonwood tree. 

 

• Early spring: Drop sticky green-yellow leaf-bud jackets that stain deck, carpet, feet and socks. (They also stick in clumps between the dog’s toes.  When she pulls them out, inevitably eating some of them, she throws up—lime green.)
• Late spring, usually May:  Burst the millions of pea-shaped pods that hang like malignant clustered grapes and release “cotton” over the entire neighborhood. Simulate blizzard.  (The asthma producing cotton clogs the air conditioner, billows like soap-suds in the driveway, sticks in your hair, throat and drifts aimlessly for weeks.  When we bought our house the owners told us cotton season lasted about two weeks.  They failed to add “per tree.”  We have three.)  
• The minute the cotton is gone:  Drop previously mentioned pods. (Everywhere.  Particularly our gutters.)
• Late Autumn:  Drop approximately 10,000 leaves per tree. (Endless raking and bagging.)
• The remainder of the year:  Drop 200 sticks and branches per square inch of yard on a daily to weekly basis.  (These must be collected before each mowing and set out with the trash.)

 

Cottonwood trees are, as you may know, the State Tree of Kansas. The cotton-bearing variety is also generally “outlawed.”  So although my trees are official dignitaries, they are, also, in fact, common criminals. The “Cottonwood Three” possess all the traits that earned the tree its place of honor in Kansas history—they are fast growing, hardy, relatively wind resistant, and drought tolerant.  They have a vast network of taproots, driving hard toward sources of precious water, like our pipes.  Frankly, we’d like to have them removed.  But a recent, single branchectomy was quite pricey, to say the least. I tried to get the neighbors—who hate the cotton as much as we—involved, but as they only enjoy a portion of the criminal activity, they declined.  I hoped for some sort of blight. I interrogated the Master Gardener at the Extension Office regarding sadistic gene splicing experiments to render them sterile. I recklessly attracted lightning during a harsh storm.  No luck. 

I have tried to love these trees.  Really.  To get to know them, I did some reading.  I discovered that the Lakota consider the cottonwood a sacred tree, one with the earth and sky.  It is used in their Sun Dance rituals.  The Hopi carve the Kachina dolls from its roots.  The tree is instrumental in mediating conflict among other tribes, and its heart-shaped leaves reveal its sanctity.  It is known as “the People’s tree.”

Cottonwoods were welcomed by the pioneers. A stand of cottonwoods was a harbinger of nearby water—so vital, so precious. Planted near their new homes, the trees grew quickly toward the sky, sheltering the homes, animals and gardens of the intrepid prairie dwellers. These things impressed me.  So, while I cannot love them, I try to give these old ladies some measure of respect.  I hope I can withstand the love they, in turn, shower on my home daily. 

Until recently I have spent little time in my backyard, for several reasons—the trees, and the deathtrap we called a deck.  But I have a sturdy new safe-for-human-usage deck.  For several weeks after it was completed, I sat out on it, sipping lemonade and listening to the rustle of those heart-shaped leaves, trying to hear the wisdom of the Cottonwood Three. 

But just when I was feeling safe, the pods began to rupture, spewing cotton into the air like alien spores.  I have retreated, and am trapped in the house for the duration. I race from the car to the house to avoid the choking fluff that falls around me.  Dramatic? Perhaps. 

But think of horror films, science fiction films.  Consider how many of those films involve pods.  Coincidence?  I think not.

 

Postscript: This spring’s late freeze eliminated the “cotton.” First time in 11 years. If you think I missed it, you’re crazy.

 

 

Amazon Adventure Pants October 5, 2007

PS: this essay was written a while back. I’m now back down a couple sizes. You’d think this would make it easier to find clothes. Nuh-uh.

Does this look that hard to find? Guess again.

I just finished paging through a pile of women’s clothing catalogs, and I discovered that in the world of women’s fashion, you are assumed to be a) tall and willowy, or b) short and dumpy. I suppose this is based on scientific evidence gathered by men—the kind of men who say (if asked), “I’m looking for a woman with the mind of a lawyer and the body of a dancer.” I am no longer tall and willowy nor am I short and dumpy. I don’t know what terminology designers apply to my unconventional frame. Hopefully not what one of my etiquette-challenged colleagues calls me: “the big lady.” Thanks, buddy. Way to build the self-esteem.

I was tall and willowy, once upon a time, back in the day when all the other women were assumed to be average size and knew their place. Those were hard days. “Yes, child; I had to walk a mile in the snow in poorly fitting men’s Levis™. The wind was whistling down my exposed butt crack, waistband flapping. I could barely get ‘em over my hips. And cropped pants? Why, I practically invented ’em, young’uns.”

Eventually, tired of banging their heads on the doorjamb, tall women came out of the closet. Brooke Shields and Lady Diana Spencer arrived on the scene. Flats were all the rage, and designers added 4 inches to the inseam of many pants. I was happy; peaceful even. Life wasn’t perfect, of course. I crammed my long legs into movie seats, got my hair caught in a ceiling fan, and told hundreds of curious strangers “No, I do not play basketball.” But, damn, did my jeans drag the ground.

Time passed. I crept up past size 14, 16, and 18, blissfully oblivious to the dangers ahead. Suddenly, I was a size 20—a Woman’s size. (And Ain’t I a Woman? Oh, that’s right, I was a “Miss.” Whatever that is.) Having aspired to womanhood for so many years, it was a shock to find myself betrayed by my new status. Only a handful of catalogs recognized me. To most, I was persona non grata. Those merchants kind enough to make concessions to my obviously freakish deformity offered some items in size 20 Tall. Some. Not swimwear—evidenced by a peek-a-boo tank suit that ended beneath my breasts, or the tankini which exposed enormous stretches of my not-quite-fabulous belly. Not dresses, whose empire waists rode my breasts two inches above my nipples. But there were pants, shorts (tall shorts—does no one see the irony here?), and skirts. Of course, this is my last stop. Size 20 is it. I have been warned. Women’s sizes fit to 5’8,” 5’9” at the most. I can only surmise that any poundage that I pack on from this point forward will weigh down my frame. It will force the collapse of skeletal structures, vital organs, and my last remaining resistance to fashion designers and their incredible grasp of the whole fabulous variety of human existence….but I digress.

Fat ass, long legs and all, I am going on a kayaking trip. I need a pair of pants. Most end several inches above my ankle, which may be fashionable but not safe when it comes to insect protection. I trudged through the inevitable “order, try on, scream with frustration, pay exorbitant postage to return item, re-order” nightmare that has marked so many of my shopping quests. I was already weakened by a recent seven month search for a swimming suit, finally satisfied by marrying parts of two suits, purchased in their entirety at great expense, and, might I add, in two different colors. So, just six defeated months into this ordeal, I finally decided to sew my own.

I hate sewing clothing. I really do. In my naïve period, which encompasses my entire first marriage, I tried to learn to sew–I would solve my troubles by making all of my own clothes! This seemed like a fabulous idea, until I realized that I had absolutely no talent for pattern alteration. When I made pants, the crotch would be either down around my knees, or so tight that had it featured a built in speculum, I could have skipped my pap smear for the year. Putting aside these memories and, might I add, common sense, I forged ahead. I am now the proud owner of a pair of adventure pants—durable, rustly, gloriously long, severely baggy adventure pants. They are not flattering, but they are comfortable, which is more than the fashion industry offers me. Unfortunately, I found them to be so loud and rustly that they scared away all forms of wildlife on the trail and prevented us from sleeping. They had to go.

Sixty dollars later, I found my answer. I added a four inch band to a pair of too-short pants I already owned. They are again, not fashionable, but are serviceable.

Armed with my pants, I am ready for the adventure. When I think about it, though, the real adventure is living in this world as a gloriously tall, larger-than-life woman. I am frustrated by fashion but not by life. I forge ahead, creating my own space, cutting through crowds with ease, taking what I want from the top shelf, and opening doors with my powerful hips. There are others like me. We are unrecognized, but not unloved—indeed, some of us are positively worshipped. We are WOMEN!