Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Friday, April 3, 2009
The Ghosts of Boyfriends Past
Lately, courtesy of Facebook, I have been spending quite a bit of time revisiting my past. Some of it has not been terribly pretty, but, mind you, the wardrobe has rocked. I have reconnected with old friends whom I've not seen or spoken with in 25-30 years, and I now meet regularly with a group of people who went to the same junior high I attended in 9th grade. These evenings are always a strange cocktail of margaritas and memories.
There is a certain ease in being around people who were there when you were at your most insecure and awkward moments. You can't pretend or put on airs for the people who saw your bucktoothed grin before the orthodontist and Bright Smile got a hold of you; who fought the same battle against acne armed only with Neutrogena and Clearasil; who watched helplessly and laughed raucously as you puked up the Mickey's Big Mouth beer you were so coolly drinking only moments before.
Not all reunions are all sunshine, tequila and salt. There are, to be sure, the bitchy girls who grew up to be the bitchy women you knew they were going to be. They are the ones who, with a glance, or an aside comment, remind you that you are 40lbs heavier than your fattest day in high school and you are suddenly possessed with the burning desire to haul them off by their dyed hair and bitch slap them silly. Others are a complete surprise. People you never really had much in common with in your youth are suddenly fast friends in the adult world. The bygones of high school are bygones and you're damned if you can remember why you weren't best friends years ago.
The oddest moments, by far, are the ones when you encounter an old love. When you run into an ex, particularly one from a heart-wrenching teen-aged love affair, you are forgiven if your palms sweat and you get a case of the butterflies. These are the great romances that shaped your adult love life. A few weeks back I saw a range of emotions fleetingly cross the face of my old boyfriend, Chris, when he found himself seated at a bar with Yole, his first slow dance, moi, his first "serious" girlfriend, and Angela, his prom date. We were like a living timeline of his puberty. And in our collective middle age, I am sure a good reminder of why he's now dating beautiful young men.
At dinner the other night my new/old friend Stacy broke the news to me that in her early 20's she had dated my high school great love and heartbreaker, Andy. He was not the only boy she and I have had in common (I was quite the harlot in my youth and Malibu is quite a small town). But in this case I was simultaneously amused and bitterly jealous. My adolescent imagination had always figured that once he was finished with the girl he broke-up with me for, he had pined, for at least a decade, lived a wretched existence full of regret for the mistake that leaving me clearly was - and it was only because I had left the country and he didn't know where to find me that he hadn't come begging forgiveness and reconciliation. Never mind that by this point I had embarked on my decade long tour of the Boys of Europe and was madly in love with Alan the Englishman or was it John the Cypriot? Now, 25 years later I find out he was dating the girl down the street instead! The fates conspired, did they not?
Lest he feel singled out, Andy is not the only beau my adolescent fantasies consigned to a life of being single, living in their parents' basement and delivering pizza for Domino's while wondering what their lives would have been like if they had just stayed with me and, of course, trying to figure out ways to woo me back. Having never met any of my ex-beaus' wives or seen their homes, I have no real evidence to the contrary and so as not to torment them, I order from Pizza Hut.
Of course on the flip side is running into the hook-ups and one-night-stands that were better left forgotten. I have received Facebook friend requests that have, more than once, had me muttering to myself or messaging an old friend with "Did I sleep with him?" in the desperate hope that the answer is "No!" The insecurity of adolescence mixed with cheap liquor did not always make for good judgment, and thank heavens the drugs make for poor memory. I am also frequently grateful for the ignore function, with the click of a button I can continue to repress certain memories and the truth remains denied another day longer.
It is a good thing that I have a husband who finds the twists and turns of my trip down memory lane fairly entertaining, if not enlightening. He's had the chance to meet a handful of my former beaus including Chris and Jim (the boy to whom I donated my virginity) and the odd one-night-stand and is always amused. Of course I'm afraid that this means that I too will have to be magnanimous when I finally meet his high school sweethearts. Or maybe not, he's always been the better person and I'm still a bitter adolescent girl.
There is a certain ease in being around people who were there when you were at your most insecure and awkward moments. You can't pretend or put on airs for the people who saw your bucktoothed grin before the orthodontist and Bright Smile got a hold of you; who fought the same battle against acne armed only with Neutrogena and Clearasil; who watched helplessly and laughed raucously as you puked up the Mickey's Big Mouth beer you were so coolly drinking only moments before.
Not all reunions are all sunshine, tequila and salt. There are, to be sure, the bitchy girls who grew up to be the bitchy women you knew they were going to be. They are the ones who, with a glance, or an aside comment, remind you that you are 40lbs heavier than your fattest day in high school and you are suddenly possessed with the burning desire to haul them off by their dyed hair and bitch slap them silly. Others are a complete surprise. People you never really had much in common with in your youth are suddenly fast friends in the adult world. The bygones of high school are bygones and you're damned if you can remember why you weren't best friends years ago.
The oddest moments, by far, are the ones when you encounter an old love. When you run into an ex, particularly one from a heart-wrenching teen-aged love affair, you are forgiven if your palms sweat and you get a case of the butterflies. These are the great romances that shaped your adult love life. A few weeks back I saw a range of emotions fleetingly cross the face of my old boyfriend, Chris, when he found himself seated at a bar with Yole, his first slow dance, moi, his first "serious" girlfriend, and Angela, his prom date. We were like a living timeline of his puberty. And in our collective middle age, I am sure a good reminder of why he's now dating beautiful young men.
At dinner the other night my new/old friend Stacy broke the news to me that in her early 20's she had dated my high school great love and heartbreaker, Andy. He was not the only boy she and I have had in common (I was quite the harlot in my youth and Malibu is quite a small town). But in this case I was simultaneously amused and bitterly jealous. My adolescent imagination had always figured that once he was finished with the girl he broke-up with me for, he had pined, for at least a decade, lived a wretched existence full of regret for the mistake that leaving me clearly was - and it was only because I had left the country and he didn't know where to find me that he hadn't come begging forgiveness and reconciliation. Never mind that by this point I had embarked on my decade long tour of the Boys of Europe and was madly in love with Alan the Englishman or was it John the Cypriot? Now, 25 years later I find out he was dating the girl down the street instead! The fates conspired, did they not?
Lest he feel singled out, Andy is not the only beau my adolescent fantasies consigned to a life of being single, living in their parents' basement and delivering pizza for Domino's while wondering what their lives would have been like if they had just stayed with me and, of course, trying to figure out ways to woo me back. Having never met any of my ex-beaus' wives or seen their homes, I have no real evidence to the contrary and so as not to torment them, I order from Pizza Hut.
Of course on the flip side is running into the hook-ups and one-night-stands that were better left forgotten. I have received Facebook friend requests that have, more than once, had me muttering to myself or messaging an old friend with "Did I sleep with him?" in the desperate hope that the answer is "No!" The insecurity of adolescence mixed with cheap liquor did not always make for good judgment, and thank heavens the drugs make for poor memory. I am also frequently grateful for the ignore function, with the click of a button I can continue to repress certain memories and the truth remains denied another day longer.
It is a good thing that I have a husband who finds the twists and turns of my trip down memory lane fairly entertaining, if not enlightening. He's had the chance to meet a handful of my former beaus including Chris and Jim (the boy to whom I donated my virginity) and the odd one-night-stand and is always amused. Of course I'm afraid that this means that I too will have to be magnanimous when I finally meet his high school sweethearts. Or maybe not, he's always been the better person and I'm still a bitter adolescent girl.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Farewell to Christopher Robin
As long as I have known Stella the mountain has been trying to kill her. Last week it finally succeeded. And while it is cliché to say, she did die doing what she loved.
I first met Stella in the 80's, shortly after she had learned to walk but could not yet tie her shoes. She was not a toddler at the time (despite an undeniable childlike quality to her personality), rather she was in her late 20's and recovering from the mountain's first attempt to kill her. She had offended the ancient god by racing down its slopes at world record setting speeds, and it had tried to teach her a lesson by breaking nearly every bone in her body. However, Stella didn't like to take orders from anyone, including Mother Nature.
Stella was, by definition, fearless. Not so much I think because she wasn't afraid to die, but because she didn't actually believe the rules applied specifically to her. She saw "OUT OF BOUNDS" signs as invitations rather than warnings. She would jump a mountain bike off the side of a cliff before checking to see if there was a safe place to land on the presumption that the universe would create one by the time she got to the bottom. I had, on a number of occasions, accused her of having a death wish - but in retrospect - she was actually sparring with death. They would take jabs at each other from time to time. She also made periodic sacrifices of others to the great gods to appease them and keep their wrath at bay. I know she tried to feed me to the mountain at Squaw Valley at least once and Ski Patrol was none too pleased to have to come fetch my sorry ass from the shoulder deep powder she dragged me into after I refused to take one of her "short cuts" (read off a cliff) down the mountain. She also took me for a walk on a Mexican beach filled with sea snakes and suggested I try to dodge them like an obstacle course.
Like a sailor with a girl in every port, Stella left a trail of broken men in nearly every town and country we visited. I have lost count of the bodies over the years, but the victims were always the same. Relatively nice, often good looking, men who fancied themselves attractive and athletic. A few of them may even have been professional athletes. They would come to her and say "Hey, Stella - we should go for a run (bike ride, ski down the mountain, fill in the blank with the extreme sport of the day). I hear you're pretty good." Stella would coyly smile and bat her eyelashes and say "Sure that sounds great." While Carol, Julie, Elaine, Tally or I would shout warnings like "You really don't want to do that!" or "Do you have health insurance?" to no avail. Once Stella had cast her spell on them, all else was white noise.
Stella would invariably put them through their paces. The heartier ones would survive the adventure and return to base camp with as many bruises on their male egos as on their bodies, and the solemn vow never to go out with her again. However, more often than not, Stella would leave men by the side of the road, bloodied and sobbing for their mothers. She would go for help, but depending upon how bad your wounds were, she'd usually leave you to the professionals and finish her workout.
While it is true that Stella died young at 53, I honestly think she went at the right time. She would not have borne the agonies of aging particularly well. She would not have appreciated the confinement and restrictions of age. Arthritis, Osteoporosis, broken hips, and the like would have broken her spirit. She thrived on being not just physically active, but being extremely active. She was fueled by the challenge to her body and the hormonal rush of feats that make us mere mortals quake to think of.
This was not Stella's first brush with death, or with an avalanche and I suspect her final moments were filled not with terror, but in an endorphin high from the adrenaline rush of being chased down the mountain by her old adversary doing battle, once again, albeit I am sure she never imagined that it was for the last time. I can only hope she left a bitter taste in the ancient god's mouth, for her death has left a hole in the Hundred Acre Wood.
Obituary for Stella Keane
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Mirror, Mirror
My family has a magical mirror. It is a huge ornate gold mirror that once hung in the White House, and when you stand in front of it, it magically transforms you to be inches taller and pounds lighter. For generations women have come from far and wide to our home to get ready for a big night out, and a number of women have modeled their wedding gowns before it. It is one of the few items that heirs in my family will claw each others' eyes out to inherit. (My sisters should consider themselves forewarned - the mirror is mine bitches!)
The world, it seems, is full of magical mirrors. It's just that not all of them use their powers for good. I always find it so interesting how much my reflection can change in the course of a day. In my full length mirror at home, I am not half bad. Liz Hurley I am not, but I don't quite hear hordes of snickering children making piggy noises either. However, by the time I get to the gym, my body has changed dramatically. Standing in the aerobics classroom, I am reflected, in triplicate, with flabby arms, jowls, wide hips, and an ass you could park a TV tray on. My workout pants should say Swanson on the rear. That I can transform so quickly, the gym is only 5 minutes from my home, is staggering. I am not sure if this is a super-power I alone posses, but if it is, I'm not clear how I'm supposed to save humanity with it.
The other day, in a "Power Pump" class (whatever that is), I am in the back row (always) and am armed with hand weights and my super-power working full force in the mirror, when I look in front of me and I see a woman who looks like she could be Little Ms 2%'s mother, or is the ghost of Little Ms 2% future. She is mid-fifties, pushing 98lbs, retaining none of the water she is drinking from her sports bottle - all sinew and bone. I look at her and I look at her reflection and I wonder does she see what I see? Do she and those of her ilk not realize that once you hit 40 starving yourself thin and replacing all your body fat with muscle and Botox doesn't make you look young and healthy, it actually makes you look more skeletal and closer to death? And for those of us who are a box of donuts away from a coronary, it's not really very encouraging to workout with the Grim Reaperettes.
I don't know if it is the same in gyms around the world, or if it is an Angeleno experience, but the gyms are increasingly full of very sad and scary women. I have been, off and on, a member of the same gym chain for about 20 years. It's a fairly expensive club, so the membership tends to be skewed towards people who can afford Pilates classes, private training sessions and plastic surgery. When I first joined, back in the day of high-impact aerobics, g-string leotards, and Reebok high-tops, the biggest annoyance was the bleach blond trophy wives with hardening breast implants prancing around fully made up and flirting with the instructors. However, as I have grown older, they too, much to their chagrin, have aged, replaced their silicone implants with saline, given up white food, and swapped their leotards for sports bras bearing rhinestones and Don Ed Hardy's signature and leggings that say "Juicy" on the ass. Now, they aren't annoying so much as they are creepy. Many of them have lost their natural female curves in favor of a gaunt boy like physique, and while I appreciate the hours of dedication that have gone into obtaining those rock hard abs, I don't want to see them exposed under Shar-Pei-like wrinkled skin squashed between breasts that are abnormally high and a waistband so low it is abundantly clear that they wax their pubic hair in fancy shapes. However, it seems to be bad form to ask them to please put a shirt on, and they've done enough Tae-Bo to make kicking my ass in the parking lot a reality.
In the locker room, there is very little room to hide the scars of our battles with our weight and our age. It is very clear who is natural and who is not. Who has had liposuction, a tuck 'n' roll job, or a full body lift. From my vantage point (locker in the back corner where I can avoid scrutiny) I watch them put on their game faces to head into the real world. Many of them seem to be wearing masks. Foreheads Botoxed in place, lipsticked Juvederm Jack Nicholsonesque Joker grins, and collagen plumped up lips that only look good on Angelina Jolie (by the way, would someone please tell this to Melanie Griffith and Nadya Suleman). I wonder if their reflections show them this reality or if their super-power is the ability to look through the glass darkly.
I don't begrudge these women their self-loathing and plastic surgery. That would be a pot and kettle situation of epic proportions. I, myself, will someday need to find a talented surgeon to lift my eyes lest I should live out my days with my lids taped open like Aristotle Onassis. I have even wished that my breasts, which I've had since I was about 9 and are starting to show signs of Newtonian physics, could be lifted up a few inches. However, I don't confuse wanting to stave off the inevitable signs of aging with pretending that it is not happening or thinking that I can magically reverse it. That is not a super-power I possess and neither does anyone else.
The world, it seems, is full of magical mirrors. It's just that not all of them use their powers for good. I always find it so interesting how much my reflection can change in the course of a day. In my full length mirror at home, I am not half bad. Liz Hurley I am not, but I don't quite hear hordes of snickering children making piggy noises either. However, by the time I get to the gym, my body has changed dramatically. Standing in the aerobics classroom, I am reflected, in triplicate, with flabby arms, jowls, wide hips, and an ass you could park a TV tray on. My workout pants should say Swanson on the rear. That I can transform so quickly, the gym is only 5 minutes from my home, is staggering. I am not sure if this is a super-power I alone posses, but if it is, I'm not clear how I'm supposed to save humanity with it.
The other day, in a "Power Pump" class (whatever that is), I am in the back row (always) and am armed with hand weights and my super-power working full force in the mirror, when I look in front of me and I see a woman who looks like she could be Little Ms 2%'s mother, or is the ghost of Little Ms 2% future. She is mid-fifties, pushing 98lbs, retaining none of the water she is drinking from her sports bottle - all sinew and bone. I look at her and I look at her reflection and I wonder does she see what I see? Do she and those of her ilk not realize that once you hit 40 starving yourself thin and replacing all your body fat with muscle and Botox doesn't make you look young and healthy, it actually makes you look more skeletal and closer to death? And for those of us who are a box of donuts away from a coronary, it's not really very encouraging to workout with the Grim Reaperettes.
I don't know if it is the same in gyms around the world, or if it is an Angeleno experience, but the gyms are increasingly full of very sad and scary women. I have been, off and on, a member of the same gym chain for about 20 years. It's a fairly expensive club, so the membership tends to be skewed towards people who can afford Pilates classes, private training sessions and plastic surgery. When I first joined, back in the day of high-impact aerobics, g-string leotards, and Reebok high-tops, the biggest annoyance was the bleach blond trophy wives with hardening breast implants prancing around fully made up and flirting with the instructors. However, as I have grown older, they too, much to their chagrin, have aged, replaced their silicone implants with saline, given up white food, and swapped their leotards for sports bras bearing rhinestones and Don Ed Hardy's signature and leggings that say "Juicy" on the ass. Now, they aren't annoying so much as they are creepy. Many of them have lost their natural female curves in favor of a gaunt boy like physique, and while I appreciate the hours of dedication that have gone into obtaining those rock hard abs, I don't want to see them exposed under Shar-Pei-like wrinkled skin squashed between breasts that are abnormally high and a waistband so low it is abundantly clear that they wax their pubic hair in fancy shapes. However, it seems to be bad form to ask them to please put a shirt on, and they've done enough Tae-Bo to make kicking my ass in the parking lot a reality.
In the locker room, there is very little room to hide the scars of our battles with our weight and our age. It is very clear who is natural and who is not. Who has had liposuction, a tuck 'n' roll job, or a full body lift. From my vantage point (locker in the back corner where I can avoid scrutiny) I watch them put on their game faces to head into the real world. Many of them seem to be wearing masks. Foreheads Botoxed in place, lipsticked Juvederm Jack Nicholsonesque Joker grins, and collagen plumped up lips that only look good on Angelina Jolie (by the way, would someone please tell this to Melanie Griffith and Nadya Suleman). I wonder if their reflections show them this reality or if their super-power is the ability to look through the glass darkly.
I don't begrudge these women their self-loathing and plastic surgery. That would be a pot and kettle situation of epic proportions. I, myself, will someday need to find a talented surgeon to lift my eyes lest I should live out my days with my lids taped open like Aristotle Onassis. I have even wished that my breasts, which I've had since I was about 9 and are starting to show signs of Newtonian physics, could be lifted up a few inches. However, I don't confuse wanting to stave off the inevitable signs of aging with pretending that it is not happening or thinking that I can magically reverse it. That is not a super-power I possess and neither does anyone else.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Stop Playing With My Food
Anyone who knows me well knows that I have rather bizarre dreams. In my REM world I am married to Evil Dave, who is, as his name implies the exact opposite of my husband, or rather he is everything Dave and I both wish he was. Evil Dave is a dirt bag with a borderline psychotic personality disorder and a lot of young girlfriends. I have also had the odd prophetic dream about a friend’s pregnancy or a flat tire. I even have haunting dreams of my dead sister, Parrish, who seems really pissed off that I’m the only one who can hear her in the afterlife. Seriously, can you blame her? However the most disturbing dream I’ve had of late has involved the seemingly innocuous appearance of a naked Jamie Lee Curtis. And not the Jamie Lee Curtis of the “Perfect” era either. Rather it was the middle-aged yogurt hawking Lady Haden-Guest that scared me awake in a cold sweat. I’m just glad I woke before she whipped out a spoon shaped scepter and a roll of Charmin.
Why, Ms. Curtis of all people, you ask. Because thanks to Jamie Lee and Dannon, there is more talk of bowel movements in my home than is necessary or healthy. Dave has developed an irrational fear of all yogurt based products. He is concerned, and not without good reason, that I might slip him an Activia just to be spiteful. Jamie Lee might be rubbing her belly and touting it as the Latin multisyllabic Bifidus Regularis , but let’s face it, Dannon is, essentially, putting laxatives in their yogurt. They say it’s there to help you “stay regular”, but so too was the infamous chocolate Ex-Lax in the brownies we all made a batch of in junior high school. The commercials for Fiber One’s version have a customer binging on the yogurt in the store with everyone looking uncomfortable when the reality of her situation dawns on them. Coming from a long line of binge eaters, I have good reason to flinch. Perhaps, it’s not as frightening as the time my mother spent 3 days in a fugue state after eating the entire pan of hash brownies, but it means that with my predisposition to eat the entire box or bag of whatever snack is on hand, I have to stay on my toes. As a nation have we so easily forgotten Olestra? The side effects of binging on the Wow potato chips were so bad the FDA had to get Frito Lay to put warning labels on their packaging. Anything that offers “oily anal leakage” as a side effect should be treated with the respect and dread it deserves and shouldn’t be considered a value add for breakfast foods.
Rather than encouraging us to eat fresh fruits, the fine folks at Coca Cola have decided to save us the effort of masticating and have kindly added Vitamin E to their Cherry 7-Up with Antioxidants. I am pretty sure that the benefits of the trace amounts of vitamins in the soda are going to be negated by the sugar in the regular soda and the Aspartame in the diet version. It’s not just the 7-Up line either. Coca Cola seems to be spiking their Diet Coke brand with a derivative of Vita-Vegemin as well. Have you looked at the label of Glaceau’s Vitamin Water? It’s not just vitamins and water like their advertising implies there’s a couple of cellulite ripples worth of sugar in there too. I have a cheaper homemade recipe for you. Take 1 mulit-vitamin, swallow it with one glass of tap water, and then chase it with a sugar cube.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I embrace the American art of processed food wholeheartedly. I like additives in my food. I won’t need to be embalmed when I die. I have consumed so much Saccharin, Aspartame, and Sucralose in my 42 years that I am pre-preserved for the big sleep. I am pretty sure it has more to do with why I don’t have wrinkles than my genetic makeup. I am a huge fan of Easy Cheese, Velveeta and Miracle Whip. I believe that snacks like Twinkies deserve their own food group on the pyramid. I wish they would put MSG back in my Chinese take-out. I hoarded the red M&Ms when they were carcinogen coated. I took offense to vegetarians trying to mess with my McDonald’s French Fries and their delicious added ingredient of beef extract. However, I have to draw the line with the new craze of putting trace amounts of additives in my food with an eye to making me “healthy”. If and when I decide to get healthy, I’ll add broccoli to my Velveeta when I pop it in the microwave.
Why, Ms. Curtis of all people, you ask. Because thanks to Jamie Lee and Dannon, there is more talk of bowel movements in my home than is necessary or healthy. Dave has developed an irrational fear of all yogurt based products. He is concerned, and not without good reason, that I might slip him an Activia just to be spiteful. Jamie Lee might be rubbing her belly and touting it as the Latin multisyllabic Bifidus Regularis , but let’s face it, Dannon is, essentially, putting laxatives in their yogurt. They say it’s there to help you “stay regular”, but so too was the infamous chocolate Ex-Lax in the brownies we all made a batch of in junior high school. The commercials for Fiber One’s version have a customer binging on the yogurt in the store with everyone looking uncomfortable when the reality of her situation dawns on them. Coming from a long line of binge eaters, I have good reason to flinch. Perhaps, it’s not as frightening as the time my mother spent 3 days in a fugue state after eating the entire pan of hash brownies, but it means that with my predisposition to eat the entire box or bag of whatever snack is on hand, I have to stay on my toes. As a nation have we so easily forgotten Olestra? The side effects of binging on the Wow potato chips were so bad the FDA had to get Frito Lay to put warning labels on their packaging. Anything that offers “oily anal leakage” as a side effect should be treated with the respect and dread it deserves and shouldn’t be considered a value add for breakfast foods.
Rather than encouraging us to eat fresh fruits, the fine folks at Coca Cola have decided to save us the effort of masticating and have kindly added Vitamin E to their Cherry 7-Up with Antioxidants. I am pretty sure that the benefits of the trace amounts of vitamins in the soda are going to be negated by the sugar in the regular soda and the Aspartame in the diet version. It’s not just the 7-Up line either. Coca Cola seems to be spiking their Diet Coke brand with a derivative of Vita-Vegemin as well. Have you looked at the label of Glaceau’s Vitamin Water? It’s not just vitamins and water like their advertising implies there’s a couple of cellulite ripples worth of sugar in there too. I have a cheaper homemade recipe for you. Take 1 mulit-vitamin, swallow it with one glass of tap water, and then chase it with a sugar cube.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I embrace the American art of processed food wholeheartedly. I like additives in my food. I won’t need to be embalmed when I die. I have consumed so much Saccharin, Aspartame, and Sucralose in my 42 years that I am pre-preserved for the big sleep. I am pretty sure it has more to do with why I don’t have wrinkles than my genetic makeup. I am a huge fan of Easy Cheese, Velveeta and Miracle Whip. I believe that snacks like Twinkies deserve their own food group on the pyramid. I wish they would put MSG back in my Chinese take-out. I hoarded the red M&Ms when they were carcinogen coated. I took offense to vegetarians trying to mess with my McDonald’s French Fries and their delicious added ingredient of beef extract. However, I have to draw the line with the new craze of putting trace amounts of additives in my food with an eye to making me “healthy”. If and when I decide to get healthy, I’ll add broccoli to my Velveeta when I pop it in the microwave.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
History Repeats Itself, First As Tragedy, Second As Farce.
I regularly tease my sister Helen that she is reaping the rewards of her own youthful adventures by having to raise her teenage girls. And while she may be suffering a kind of karmic blow-back, she can take some solace in knowing that she's got their number and has a better idea of what they are going to do next than our mother did.
Yet, I feel sorry for my nieces for they will never truly know the joys of teenage rebellion. Parrish's daughters, the eldest of my nieces, spent their formative teen years in the backwoods of Santa Cruz, amongst a tribe of vegan new age warriors, dope smoking hippies and commune escapees. You can't rebel in a place built and inhabited by iconoclasts and social outcasts. It is pointless, and goes unnoticed by the town folk. My younger nieces, however, live in the same small town where we grew up, and they will face many of the same issues my sisters and I faced over 25 years ago.
They will try to rebel for that is the nature of being an American teenager. But they will always be thwarted because there is really nothing they can do, no outfit so outrageous, no stunt they can pull, that their mother or aunts have not already perfected, and in some cases invented. The ironic truth is that rather than defy their parents, they will be forced to emulate them - and where, pray tell, is the rebellion in that?
They can try to affect the rebel look, but that won't get them very far. Most of their adult female relatives have something pierced and sport tattoos, so that's a dud. Fashion forward? Nope, fashion backward. Today they pay a professional to put streaks of fun colors in their hair while I was getting demerits at Marlborough in 8th grade for using food color and spray-on dye to effect that chic "punk" look in contrast to my pastel colored uniforms. They are paying top dollar for jeans with the tears already put in them by Third World child laborers. Mine were made in America, as I had to do it myself. Black nail polish? Lots of eyeliner? Come on, can you get more 80's?
They can sport the look, but they don't have to do the social heavy lifting that comes with true rebellion. There's no sedition when you don't have to bear the mocking and the stares that come with really being a rule breaker. I was the one wearing men’s boxers to school who got pantsed in the Quad at SAMOHI in 10th grade by Kirk, Spencer and Todd to see if I was wearing boy's briefs as well. Now they sell boxer style shorts for women bearing designer names other than Fruit of the Loom. Their skin-tight straight legged jeans are made of stretchable fabrics. So they will not know the humiliation of having to have Parrish's boyfriend Nick hold my stomach flat while his buddy Eric zipped me into my Levis before I left for a party. By the time I had graduated high school I had worn every trendy outfit from Rockabilly to Mod to New Ro to Punk to early Grunge. All of which are back in fashion, or on the horizon. Had I saved them my clothes my nieces would be the envy of every girl in school, not to mention a few vintage clothing dealers.
Kids today may think they are on the cutting edge with their sexy photos on their My Space pages. Please. I got my first nude photo from Chris for Christmas in 9th grade, and he used a public photo booth at the Promenade Mall instead of a cell phone camera in the privacy of his bedroom. That was risk taking behavior! Sexting? Seriously? We spent hours crafting intricately folded, multi-colored, handwritten notes filled with all kinds of lusty language. Personally, I can never run for public office for fear of the notes I wrote in junior high school surfacing before a senate sub-committee on obscenity.
Sneaking around with boys? So not worth it. We were the last generation to have teenage sex where the only life altering worry from not using condoms was the risk of teenage pregnancy. Now, not only will they find that sex with teenage boys is lousy, susceptible to a myriad of diseases, but they are bound to get busted. While my boyfriend Andy's mom was too naive to check his closet and find me hiding there one fine suburban Saturday morning after sneaking in and spending the night, that'll be the first place my sister will check on her surprise inspections of their bedrooms. Tell their mom they are staying the night at a friend's house? Please! My sister refined that ploy in her youth, so she will know to call the parents, several times, and make it impossible to sneak out or will catch them in a flat out lie. Not to mention the handy GPS unit in their rarely parted with cell phones that will always give away their whereabouts.
Out and about doing something they shouldn't? Destined to be caught in the act, if not by their mother, then definitely by their grandmother. When my sister Parrish and I tried to hitchhike home from a party on Pt. Dume one night, who do you think was driving the first car to pull up to our outstretched thumbs on the PCH? Mom. When Jim (who was drunk) and I (who was tripping on acid) were making a half-hearted and feeble attempt to make out in the backseat of the Buick station wagon, who do you think opened the back of the car and caught us half-dressed, horrifying him and bumming my trip? Mom. There's no escaping the maternal instinct for bad behavior and it is even worse when the instinct is well informed by experience.
Drugs? Again, pointless. Unlike their grandmother back in the 80's, their mom knows the difference between the smell of dope and the smell of incense. D'oh! The powers-that-be have long since closed the drug drive-thrus of Venice that my girlfriend Julie and I frequented back in the day; so the kids in Malibu today are forced to buy their drugs from the local dealers, who are either people we went to high school with or are the same people we bought from in high school. Either way, it will get back to their mother before they can crack open the dime bag. Small towns suck when you're a kid.
And while I don't wish my sister many a sleepless night in the coming years, she will have to forgive me when I laugh and am less sympathetic than she would wish to her laments about the shenanigans of her teenage daughters, but it's like watching re-runs of M*A*S*H, the antics and angst are still pretty damn entertaining 25 years later, even with a cast change.
Yet, I feel sorry for my nieces for they will never truly know the joys of teenage rebellion. Parrish's daughters, the eldest of my nieces, spent their formative teen years in the backwoods of Santa Cruz, amongst a tribe of vegan new age warriors, dope smoking hippies and commune escapees. You can't rebel in a place built and inhabited by iconoclasts and social outcasts. It is pointless, and goes unnoticed by the town folk. My younger nieces, however, live in the same small town where we grew up, and they will face many of the same issues my sisters and I faced over 25 years ago.
They will try to rebel for that is the nature of being an American teenager. But they will always be thwarted because there is really nothing they can do, no outfit so outrageous, no stunt they can pull, that their mother or aunts have not already perfected, and in some cases invented. The ironic truth is that rather than defy their parents, they will be forced to emulate them - and where, pray tell, is the rebellion in that?
They can try to affect the rebel look, but that won't get them very far. Most of their adult female relatives have something pierced and sport tattoos, so that's a dud. Fashion forward? Nope, fashion backward. Today they pay a professional to put streaks of fun colors in their hair while I was getting demerits at Marlborough in 8th grade for using food color and spray-on dye to effect that chic "punk" look in contrast to my pastel colored uniforms. They are paying top dollar for jeans with the tears already put in them by Third World child laborers. Mine were made in America, as I had to do it myself. Black nail polish? Lots of eyeliner? Come on, can you get more 80's?
They can sport the look, but they don't have to do the social heavy lifting that comes with true rebellion. There's no sedition when you don't have to bear the mocking and the stares that come with really being a rule breaker. I was the one wearing men’s boxers to school who got pantsed in the Quad at SAMOHI in 10th grade by Kirk, Spencer and Todd to see if I was wearing boy's briefs as well. Now they sell boxer style shorts for women bearing designer names other than Fruit of the Loom. Their skin-tight straight legged jeans are made of stretchable fabrics. So they will not know the humiliation of having to have Parrish's boyfriend Nick hold my stomach flat while his buddy Eric zipped me into my Levis before I left for a party. By the time I had graduated high school I had worn every trendy outfit from Rockabilly to Mod to New Ro to Punk to early Grunge. All of which are back in fashion, or on the horizon. Had I saved them my clothes my nieces would be the envy of every girl in school, not to mention a few vintage clothing dealers.
Kids today may think they are on the cutting edge with their sexy photos on their My Space pages. Please. I got my first nude photo from Chris for Christmas in 9th grade, and he used a public photo booth at the Promenade Mall instead of a cell phone camera in the privacy of his bedroom. That was risk taking behavior! Sexting? Seriously? We spent hours crafting intricately folded, multi-colored, handwritten notes filled with all kinds of lusty language. Personally, I can never run for public office for fear of the notes I wrote in junior high school surfacing before a senate sub-committee on obscenity.
Sneaking around with boys? So not worth it. We were the last generation to have teenage sex where the only life altering worry from not using condoms was the risk of teenage pregnancy. Now, not only will they find that sex with teenage boys is lousy, susceptible to a myriad of diseases, but they are bound to get busted. While my boyfriend Andy's mom was too naive to check his closet and find me hiding there one fine suburban Saturday morning after sneaking in and spending the night, that'll be the first place my sister will check on her surprise inspections of their bedrooms. Tell their mom they are staying the night at a friend's house? Please! My sister refined that ploy in her youth, so she will know to call the parents, several times, and make it impossible to sneak out or will catch them in a flat out lie. Not to mention the handy GPS unit in their rarely parted with cell phones that will always give away their whereabouts.
Out and about doing something they shouldn't? Destined to be caught in the act, if not by their mother, then definitely by their grandmother. When my sister Parrish and I tried to hitchhike home from a party on Pt. Dume one night, who do you think was driving the first car to pull up to our outstretched thumbs on the PCH? Mom. When Jim (who was drunk) and I (who was tripping on acid) were making a half-hearted and feeble attempt to make out in the backseat of the Buick station wagon, who do you think opened the back of the car and caught us half-dressed, horrifying him and bumming my trip? Mom. There's no escaping the maternal instinct for bad behavior and it is even worse when the instinct is well informed by experience.
Drugs? Again, pointless. Unlike their grandmother back in the 80's, their mom knows the difference between the smell of dope and the smell of incense. D'oh! The powers-that-be have long since closed the drug drive-thrus of Venice that my girlfriend Julie and I frequented back in the day; so the kids in Malibu today are forced to buy their drugs from the local dealers, who are either people we went to high school with or are the same people we bought from in high school. Either way, it will get back to their mother before they can crack open the dime bag. Small towns suck when you're a kid.
And while I don't wish my sister many a sleepless night in the coming years, she will have to forgive me when I laugh and am less sympathetic than she would wish to her laments about the shenanigans of her teenage daughters, but it's like watching re-runs of M*A*S*H, the antics and angst are still pretty damn entertaining 25 years later, even with a cast change.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Little Ms. 2%
I know that it's not terribly PC of me to say that I hate the anorexic looking personal trainer I see every day at my gym, but I do. It is a disease and I should be sympathetic. But I am not. I resent her. I have no proof that she is anorexic, but I do not have any proof she actually eats either. By my learned eye she is, at least, a size 00, as she is too tall to shop in the children's department. Moreover, because she does nothing but exercise, I would say she has no more than 2% body fat. I take offense that my gym has hired her. Personal trainers, to my way of thinking, should be inspirational looking. They should exude health and their state of physical fitness should be attainable without laxatives, 4-hour daily workouts, and calf implants. Ms. 2% only inspires me to figure out ways to force feed her.
Now, while I resent Ms. 2%, I also envy her. Not for her lack of body fat, but for the sheer force of will it must take to forgo food and spend that much time in the gym. I am too inherently lazy, and cook far too well, to ever be plagued by that kind of will power. I trudge to the gym 5-6 times a week. I do my cardio on the TreadClimber. Maybe not at the intensity of someone with motivation, but I put the geriatrics in their place. I do my sit-ups but do not really know where my core is, and am not really sure the Spectrum Club is the place I want to get in touch with it. Sometimes I do weights, but I steer clear of the area when there are profusely sweating men who grunt with each rep. They distract me from my audio book and listening to those stories is the only thing that gets me through the three sets of 10. However, I do not do yoga, it is too slow and makes me angry - not to mention I do not like men in tights or bike shorts. I have yet to understand why Pilates should cost $50 a session, and I will go to my grave without ever having done Tae-Bo or Zumba. I have not always been so lackadaisical about my fitness regime. In college, I ran 5 miles a day and helped run the campus gym. I could press 300lbs with my calves and would brow beat sit-ups out of the complaining males in my classes. I have even walked a marathon in Alaska.
I have bouts of self-loathing or whims of self-improvement that inspire me to tackle one fad diet or another. I was on my first diet in 6th grade. In high school, I tried everything from Dexatrim to amphetamines and cocaine to The Cambridge Liquid Diet to a 500-calorie a-day diet combined with injections of impregnated cow's urine (Thanks Mom). In the 80's dear old Jenny Craig, who I have visited from time to time over the years, helped me find my way into a size 4; in the 90's I attended Weight Watchers meetings, and before my wedding, I choked down Nutra-System. I have eaten low fat, no fat, low carbs, and no carbs. Thanks to Dr. Atkins I spent a few blissful months eating nothing but bacon and cheese and one tragic dose of Xenical (Thanks again Mom).
I gave up any notion that I would someday be a supermodel when, at the age of 11, the famed Nina Blanchard informed me that I was never going to be tall enough for the runway. A cruel reality check for a young girl, and I have oft wondered what a difference 2 inches could have made in my life. Probably none, as I said I am lazy and I do not take direction well. I am also not built like a model. I am neither tiny nor waif-like. I am broad shouldered, so much so that my Jr. High beau, Jim, nicknamed me Mac because of my similarity to an 18-wheeler. I am an ample 38D. Even in my brief stint as a size 4, I was a 36D. In my youth, my aunt was inspired to get implants because as a pre-teen I had a bigger rack than she did. I remember buying a dress for my friend Suzanne's wedding that was a 12 because it fit my shoulders, but had to be taken in to fit my temporarily tiny waist. My own wedding dress was a disaster. First off, bridal sizing is designed to put even the thinnest of brides in their place. It almost seems a test of your commitment to put on a wedding dress and head down the aisle. Whatever size you think you wear, add 2 sizes. The uppity sales girl at Vera Wang kindly ordered me a size 16 which they insisted was necessary because of my bust. I would still like to slap the sales girl upside the head for that. Mind you, she was wrong. My dress arrived so disastrously proportioned that it took several alterations to make it passable. A small vindication.
Sizing in itself is something with which I take issue. There is no universal standard for sizing. The Europeans try to stay consistent to their metric measurements, but their numbers make me unhappy. In my youth, size 4 was small and size 16 was somewhere you did not want to go. These numbers are ingrained in my psyche. What do they expect me to do with size 38? Even XS-XL are not universal. I have bought my size 6 mother French sweaters in XL that I cannot get my forearm into. However, I can deal with my inability to convert to the metric system better than I can deal with the advent of vanity sizing. I dealt, not well, but nonetheless dealt with the arrival of size 2, and its little sister size 0. However, I draw the line at size 00. That is just plain offensive to those of us on the other end of the double-digit spectrum. On a recent trip to the mall with my husband, I took great offense to a sign on store offering what it called "Plus Size Fashions" for ladies size 12 and up. Suddenly my moderately overweight body, my Average American size 12 figure is now a freakin' PLUS SIZE? It was only Dave's firm grip on my forearm that kept me from vandalizing the storefront, but not from muttering obscenities.
For this affront, someone has to absorb my wrath. For me that person is Ms. 2%. And for 2009 I resolve to spend most of my time at the gym this spring concocting schemes by which to meet out suitable punishment. That should keep me distracted through my three sets of 10.
Now, while I resent Ms. 2%, I also envy her. Not for her lack of body fat, but for the sheer force of will it must take to forgo food and spend that much time in the gym. I am too inherently lazy, and cook far too well, to ever be plagued by that kind of will power. I trudge to the gym 5-6 times a week. I do my cardio on the TreadClimber. Maybe not at the intensity of someone with motivation, but I put the geriatrics in their place. I do my sit-ups but do not really know where my core is, and am not really sure the Spectrum Club is the place I want to get in touch with it. Sometimes I do weights, but I steer clear of the area when there are profusely sweating men who grunt with each rep. They distract me from my audio book and listening to those stories is the only thing that gets me through the three sets of 10. However, I do not do yoga, it is too slow and makes me angry - not to mention I do not like men in tights or bike shorts. I have yet to understand why Pilates should cost $50 a session, and I will go to my grave without ever having done Tae-Bo or Zumba. I have not always been so lackadaisical about my fitness regime. In college, I ran 5 miles a day and helped run the campus gym. I could press 300lbs with my calves and would brow beat sit-ups out of the complaining males in my classes. I have even walked a marathon in Alaska.
I have bouts of self-loathing or whims of self-improvement that inspire me to tackle one fad diet or another. I was on my first diet in 6th grade. In high school, I tried everything from Dexatrim to amphetamines and cocaine to The Cambridge Liquid Diet to a 500-calorie a-day diet combined with injections of impregnated cow's urine (Thanks Mom). In the 80's dear old Jenny Craig, who I have visited from time to time over the years, helped me find my way into a size 4; in the 90's I attended Weight Watchers meetings, and before my wedding, I choked down Nutra-System. I have eaten low fat, no fat, low carbs, and no carbs. Thanks to Dr. Atkins I spent a few blissful months eating nothing but bacon and cheese and one tragic dose of Xenical (Thanks again Mom).
I gave up any notion that I would someday be a supermodel when, at the age of 11, the famed Nina Blanchard informed me that I was never going to be tall enough for the runway. A cruel reality check for a young girl, and I have oft wondered what a difference 2 inches could have made in my life. Probably none, as I said I am lazy and I do not take direction well. I am also not built like a model. I am neither tiny nor waif-like. I am broad shouldered, so much so that my Jr. High beau, Jim, nicknamed me Mac because of my similarity to an 18-wheeler. I am an ample 38D. Even in my brief stint as a size 4, I was a 36D. In my youth, my aunt was inspired to get implants because as a pre-teen I had a bigger rack than she did. I remember buying a dress for my friend Suzanne's wedding that was a 12 because it fit my shoulders, but had to be taken in to fit my temporarily tiny waist. My own wedding dress was a disaster. First off, bridal sizing is designed to put even the thinnest of brides in their place. It almost seems a test of your commitment to put on a wedding dress and head down the aisle. Whatever size you think you wear, add 2 sizes. The uppity sales girl at Vera Wang kindly ordered me a size 16 which they insisted was necessary because of my bust. I would still like to slap the sales girl upside the head for that. Mind you, she was wrong. My dress arrived so disastrously proportioned that it took several alterations to make it passable. A small vindication.
Sizing in itself is something with which I take issue. There is no universal standard for sizing. The Europeans try to stay consistent to their metric measurements, but their numbers make me unhappy. In my youth, size 4 was small and size 16 was somewhere you did not want to go. These numbers are ingrained in my psyche. What do they expect me to do with size 38? Even XS-XL are not universal. I have bought my size 6 mother French sweaters in XL that I cannot get my forearm into. However, I can deal with my inability to convert to the metric system better than I can deal with the advent of vanity sizing. I dealt, not well, but nonetheless dealt with the arrival of size 2, and its little sister size 0. However, I draw the line at size 00. That is just plain offensive to those of us on the other end of the double-digit spectrum. On a recent trip to the mall with my husband, I took great offense to a sign on store offering what it called "Plus Size Fashions" for ladies size 12 and up. Suddenly my moderately overweight body, my Average American size 12 figure is now a freakin' PLUS SIZE? It was only Dave's firm grip on my forearm that kept me from vandalizing the storefront, but not from muttering obscenities.
For this affront, someone has to absorb my wrath. For me that person is Ms. 2%. And for 2009 I resolve to spend most of my time at the gym this spring concocting schemes by which to meet out suitable punishment. That should keep me distracted through my three sets of 10.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)