Every year, my family does Christmas in July. It used to be the joke that I love Christmas so much, I do it twice a year. Also, it's much easier to get people to come to your Christmas party when you're not competing for the very few available nights in December. But those aren't the reasons we celebrate it.
It's been a long time since I've done a formal invitation for this party - as far as I'm concerned, the joy of a party is in the relaxing, joking, playing and talking with friends. This year, I decided to use Facebook - I wanted to come up with something clever for the invitation (some years I manage to "redo" a carol or The Night Before Christmas). However, my brain wouldn't cooperate - so instead, I decided to share a Christmas Story. Not the one with Ralphie - nor, curiously enough, the one about the Nativity, nor the Yule. This story is about the origins of Christmas in July - at least the Touchton/Bartlett interpretation of it.
It is that special time of year, when, bored with cookouts and long days of "Mom, I don't know what to do", I honor my mother. She, too, grew weary of the usual summer pastimes (though, as summer weather is about 8 months a year in Georgia, she has far more room to complain than I do). This is her story.
The year was 1992. My CD player had broken. My mom, ever the planner, is the type to do Christmas shopping well in advance. She found the boombox that I wanted - and on an absolutely fantastic sale. She bought it, with the intention of giving it to me that December.
Mom has a lot of talents. Many skills. In the voice of Det. Greenely, "She's wicked smaaahhht." What she lacks, however, is anything that resembles patience when it comes to gift giving. It was July. She knew she wasn't going to last until December - but she didn't have anything for the rest of us (I'm the oldest of 4).
What if she got a little something for everyone? She talked about it at work, and her boss made a comment about how Gayfers (the swanky department store in town) does "Christmas in July". Hmmm.
She complained to my father that she was sick and sick and sick and tired of hot dogs and hamburgers. She wanted to do a turkey dinner. With all of the fixings. And so it was, the fridge got stocked with the appropriate foods.
She did not tell him about the rest of her plans.
When you live in the subtropics, your relationship with bugs is one to take seriously. In more temperate areas, having lots of bugs in your house a sign of, well, bad housekeeping shall we say? In the south, the roaches come by when you first move in, introduce themselves and offer a covered dish as a housewarming gift. Bugs are an icky but normal part of southern living.
Especially if you have, like we had, multiple pets. Of the dogs, cats, rabbits, turkeys (no, they weren't slaughtered for the occasion), ducks, geese...only the dogs were actually allowed in the house. (I feel there should be a way to work in the part about how we did actually have a pear tree, but no partridges). Dog baths, flea dips and still swatting those tiny black hopping flecks off your clothes...ahhh. I can't tell you how much I miss it. No, really, I CAN'T.
Mom sent us to bed early, and let us know that she would be spraying the carpets for fleas after we went to bed. Nothing says "stay in your rooms til dawn" like knowing the floor will poison you if you walk on it. So off we tromped to bed, thinking it was just another Saturday night. Once satisfied that we were all asleep (Dad included), she got up and decorated the house. She even sprayed "condensation" on the windows (that spray snow) to give the luster of "snowiness" to our view of outside.
The next morning, my father went out to make coffee. Upon returning, he asked her why she had turned the air conditioning down - the house was so cold, the windows were fogged. She sent him back out, and then back out again...(as it was before HIS coffee, he hadn't noticed the decorations).
Finally in on the joke, Dad woke Mena, and asked her to make coffee for him and Mom.
A few words about Mena, as a child. Sweet, spritely, cheerful. Always happy to do something for you...even at the ass crack of dawn. Also, she was in, say, 4th grade at this point - before all humans go grouchy haywire. So, while slightly annoyed that he managed to get all the way to our bedroom (we shared), but apparently couldn't make his own coffee - and maybe a little annoyed that he didn't ask me - she bounced out of bed.
She noticed the foggy windows. She went to the kitchen and made coffee. On the walk back to Mom and Dad's room, she saw it. The tree, the gifts, the blinking lights.
I just got off the phone with her (wanted to get the details).
MENA: And I thought to myself, HOLY SHIT. Only I was 10, so I didn't say "shit". I probably thought, OH MY GOSH.
ME: So, you were the one who figured it out? I couldn't remember...
MENA: Hell no. I was terrified I was going to fuck it all up again.
ME: Fuck it u- what?
Apparently, not two weeks before, Mena spilled the beans on Mom's anniversary gift. Dad was NOT pleased.
She delivered the coffee.
MOM: So, how's your morning?
MENA: Fine.
MOM: Did you notice anything out there? Any fleas?
MENA: Nope. Nothing.
MOM: Um...well, was there anything? It's okay, you can tell us -
MENA: THERE'S A CHRISTMAS TREE!!! AND PRESENTS!!!!! AND SNOW ON THE WINDOWS!!!!
By this time, Jack, Isaac and I had joined Mom, Dad and Mena.
We opened our presents, congratulated Mom on a fantastic prank (and of course thanking her for the gifts). I invited Sundance, and we had a lovely ""Christmas". Story over, right?
Well. There were all sorts of unexpected side effects. When Mom went back to work, she told her friends how it went - and people started talking about it. It finally reached the president of the college (I kid you not) who told her she should have called the newspaper and had someone take pictures.
Oh, and lots and lots and LOTS of people were miffed that they weren't invited. It was smoothed over with the assurance that no one was actually invited (Sundance was my doing), and by promising to throw another party next July.
That was 19 years ago.
The pomp and circumstance around this holiday has waxed and waned and waxed again over the years - though I admit I did not realize how important it had become until last year. I thought going to Georgia for Isaac and Shelly's wedding (the excitement, party, etc.) would be quite enough of an event for the boys - and decided to skip Christmas in July.
This was a mistake.
A certain 12 year old made it crystal clear that the true meaning of summer is found in Christmas in July, and there had better damned well be a tree and a turkey when we returned home. Not in so many words, of course. To show the boy in a better (and more accurate) light, he was heartbroken first - then pissed - then heartbroken again.
Last year, it was Christmas in August. Not quite in keeping with tradition, but what can ya do?
As for this year...
It's 90 degrees (Baby It's Hot Outside),
There's barely a breeze (Baby It's Hot Outside)...
Oh dear, I should probably stop now...
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Crikey's Sunrise Lesson
A little over two months ago, I was sad. Very, very sad. A dear friend of mine had just experienced a terrible loss and, though there was still a couple degrees of separation, it broke my heart.
Today, I am angry. There has been so much loss, lately. War, natural disasters. Loss of loved ones - relationships ending, lives ending. In the post "The Comings and the Goings", I touched on how it's all part of the great circle of Life - transition and all. Also about how, when it hits close to home, even the most philosophical among us want to "call bullshit".
There's a part of me that wishes cancer could be a corporeal being. So I could beat it with my bare hands and kill it. So I could put on a red dress, with sparkly red shoes and dance on its grave.
Today, I was angry. It's one of those magical moments in Life - when you're given the opportunity to see things a little differently.
Today is the Summer Solstice, Litha, in the Pagan community. Longest Day of the Year. I am sure that, for certain members of my family, that last description is way too accurate. However, for me, it brought some peace of mind.
I live pretty far up north. This means that, even on a regular day, the sun comes up really early. The "'O' stands for 'O my God it's early!'"-early.
By pure chance, this morning I woke at '0'430. The sun hadn't risen, but it was light outside. For years, I'd been trying to wake up early enough to watch the sun rise on the Summer Solstice...but...
Yeah. 430 sucks.
I got up and made coffee. Out of cream, I hopped into the car to zip to 7-11. Not willing to go even that mile and half without my tunes, clicked on my iPod.
The song "Hey Man (Now You're Really Living)" started. The first time I heard it was during the end credits for the movie Charlie Bartlett - and they kicked me in the head then. It has since become a bit more popular (Franklin and Bash is using it in their trailer commercial), which I like, though I hope it doesn't go the way of the Cranberries' "Dreams" - phenomenal song, but overused to the point of being overlooked, lyrically.
This is going to be one of my shorter posts - not because I don't have much to say, but because there's just no way to say it well. So I'll let them do the hard work...
Hey Man (Now You're Really Living), by The Eels
Do you know what it's like to fall on the floor,
Cry your guts out 'til you got no more?
Hey man, now you're really living.
Have you ever made love to a beautiful girl (guy),
Made you feel like it's not such a bad world (Life)?
Hey man, now you're really living.
Now you're really giving it everything
And you're really getting all you gave
Now you're really living what this Life is all about.
Well, I just saw the sun rise over the hill.
Never used to give me much of a thrill,
But, hey man, now I'm really living.
Do you know what it's like to care too much
'Bout someone that you're never gonna' get to touch?
Hey man, now you're really living.
Have you ever sat down in the fresh cut grass
Thought about the moment and when it will pass?
Hey man, now you're really living.
Now what would you say if I told you that
Everyone thinks you're a crazy old cat?
Hey man, now you're really living.
Naturally, there is a bunch of repetition (chorus, the first verse)...I didn't see much point in having you re-read most of that, though I do like how it underlines the point being made. The song ends with the lines that I always thought were the most promising, most important.
"I just saw the sun rise over the hill - never used to give me much of a thrill - but hey man, now I'm really living!!" (their emphasis)
For those of you who have been to my house, you understand when I say that there's not much point in watching the sunrise from my back deck. For those who've not done so - there is a big, BIG wall of trees blocking the view to the east. I thought I'd be up for the principle of being up when the sun was rising - it's the best I could do, right?
On the drive to 7-11, actually got to see the sunrise...to be specific, I can actually say that, as I drove, as I saw the horizon, the sun rose just in time, not only for me to see it, but to do so in perfect time for the line:
"I just saw the sun rise over the hill"
And, sunrises never did give me much of a thrill. Pretty, beautiful sometimes, but not thrilling.
Today, against all reason, the simplicity of a sunrise did lift my spirits. It made me think of lives well spent, well loved.
The sunrise can't bring back what or who has been lost, but it can remind us that Life is for living, for celebrating, for rejoicing in what we've been able to experience and the people who were (and are) on that ride with us.
By rising every day, no matter what, it isn't mocking our pain, or undervaluing it. It's carrying on for us. It's moving things along for us while we're too overwhelmed and grief stricken to think about anything else. It's there to tell us, when we are ready to get up and move again, it will still be there.
In the time it's taken me to write this, the boys have gotten out of bed. I love writing, but it's excruciatingly hard for me to write when there are people milling around me. For the past several paragraphs, Crikey has come out and interrupted me by kissing me every few minutes. Each time, my frustration increased.
Then I realized that, as usual, Crikey gets the point better than I do. While it's right and good to acknowledge loss and to work through it (each in our own way - writing for me), as he used to put it, "I gots utha things ta do"...and my allotted time for thinking "about the moment and when it will pass", has passed.
I'll part then by saying, Aunt Sheryl, while I'm happy that you're no longer suffering, I will miss you. More importantly, though, I'll think about you, and when I do, I'll think of what a great mother, grandmother and aunt you were (and are).
PS: here's the video. I just watched it for the first time this morning. Initially, I wasn't sure if it was the official video (despite the intro - it is You Tube, after all), but after viewing it, I didn't care. It's perfect. Even the ad, if you're made to watch it (it only came up once for me) fits.
http://youtu.be/Zy93099sR-w
Today, I am angry. There has been so much loss, lately. War, natural disasters. Loss of loved ones - relationships ending, lives ending. In the post "The Comings and the Goings", I touched on how it's all part of the great circle of Life - transition and all. Also about how, when it hits close to home, even the most philosophical among us want to "call bullshit".
There's a part of me that wishes cancer could be a corporeal being. So I could beat it with my bare hands and kill it. So I could put on a red dress, with sparkly red shoes and dance on its grave.
Today, I was angry. It's one of those magical moments in Life - when you're given the opportunity to see things a little differently.
Today is the Summer Solstice, Litha, in the Pagan community. Longest Day of the Year. I am sure that, for certain members of my family, that last description is way too accurate. However, for me, it brought some peace of mind.
I live pretty far up north. This means that, even on a regular day, the sun comes up really early. The "'O' stands for 'O my God it's early!'"-early.
By pure chance, this morning I woke at '0'430. The sun hadn't risen, but it was light outside. For years, I'd been trying to wake up early enough to watch the sun rise on the Summer Solstice...but...
Yeah. 430 sucks.
I got up and made coffee. Out of cream, I hopped into the car to zip to 7-11. Not willing to go even that mile and half without my tunes, clicked on my iPod.
The song "Hey Man (Now You're Really Living)" started. The first time I heard it was during the end credits for the movie Charlie Bartlett - and they kicked me in the head then. It has since become a bit more popular (Franklin and Bash is using it in their trailer commercial), which I like, though I hope it doesn't go the way of the Cranberries' "Dreams" - phenomenal song, but overused to the point of being overlooked, lyrically.
This is going to be one of my shorter posts - not because I don't have much to say, but because there's just no way to say it well. So I'll let them do the hard work...
Hey Man (Now You're Really Living), by The Eels
Do you know what it's like to fall on the floor,
Cry your guts out 'til you got no more?
Hey man, now you're really living.
Have you ever made love to a beautiful girl (guy),
Made you feel like it's not such a bad world (Life)?
Hey man, now you're really living.
Now you're really giving it everything
And you're really getting all you gave
Now you're really living what this Life is all about.
Well, I just saw the sun rise over the hill.
Never used to give me much of a thrill,
But, hey man, now I'm really living.
Do you know what it's like to care too much
'Bout someone that you're never gonna' get to touch?
Hey man, now you're really living.
Have you ever sat down in the fresh cut grass
Thought about the moment and when it will pass?
Hey man, now you're really living.
Now what would you say if I told you that
Everyone thinks you're a crazy old cat?
Hey man, now you're really living.
Naturally, there is a bunch of repetition (chorus, the first verse)...I didn't see much point in having you re-read most of that, though I do like how it underlines the point being made. The song ends with the lines that I always thought were the most promising, most important.
"I just saw the sun rise over the hill - never used to give me much of a thrill - but hey man, now I'm really living!!" (their emphasis)
For those of you who have been to my house, you understand when I say that there's not much point in watching the sunrise from my back deck. For those who've not done so - there is a big, BIG wall of trees blocking the view to the east. I thought I'd be up for the principle of being up when the sun was rising - it's the best I could do, right?
On the drive to 7-11, actually got to see the sunrise...to be specific, I can actually say that, as I drove, as I saw the horizon, the sun rose just in time, not only for me to see it, but to do so in perfect time for the line:
"I just saw the sun rise over the hill"
And, sunrises never did give me much of a thrill. Pretty, beautiful sometimes, but not thrilling.
Today, against all reason, the simplicity of a sunrise did lift my spirits. It made me think of lives well spent, well loved.
The sunrise can't bring back what or who has been lost, but it can remind us that Life is for living, for celebrating, for rejoicing in what we've been able to experience and the people who were (and are) on that ride with us.
By rising every day, no matter what, it isn't mocking our pain, or undervaluing it. It's carrying on for us. It's moving things along for us while we're too overwhelmed and grief stricken to think about anything else. It's there to tell us, when we are ready to get up and move again, it will still be there.
In the time it's taken me to write this, the boys have gotten out of bed. I love writing, but it's excruciatingly hard for me to write when there are people milling around me. For the past several paragraphs, Crikey has come out and interrupted me by kissing me every few minutes. Each time, my frustration increased.
Then I realized that, as usual, Crikey gets the point better than I do. While it's right and good to acknowledge loss and to work through it (each in our own way - writing for me), as he used to put it, "I gots utha things ta do"...and my allotted time for thinking "about the moment and when it will pass", has passed.
I'll part then by saying, Aunt Sheryl, while I'm happy that you're no longer suffering, I will miss you. More importantly, though, I'll think about you, and when I do, I'll think of what a great mother, grandmother and aunt you were (and are).
PS: here's the video. I just watched it for the first time this morning. Initially, I wasn't sure if it was the official video (despite the intro - it is You Tube, after all), but after viewing it, I didn't care. It's perfect. Even the ad, if you're made to watch it (it only came up once for me) fits.
http://youtu.be/Zy93099sR-w
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
So Women Are Like Cars? My Expansion On Fr. Murphy's Nudge Sunday
So, just like men are not the devil, women are not objects, car-like or otherwise. That's not where I'm going with this.
Back in Doesn't 'Diablo' Mean Devil, I rambled a bit about how men show affection and I admitted to not knowing too much about women. Well, women other than myself. I "get" myself pretty well and am, undoubtedly, a woman.
This is meant to be a companion to the above mentioned post - though I must warn you that I'm going to take what is probably an unexpected road with it. I no longer consider myself a religious person, per se, but I'm intensely interested in spirituality in any form (regardless of creed) and make my own development on those lines a priority in my life. That being said, though I no longer limit my spiritual resources to solely Catholic choices, I still think the Bible has a lot of great advice in it. There's one passage I love - one I used to hate. Most women still do. With this post, I hope to clean up it's bad name - especially since it's fantastic advice, when taken the right way. (clearing my throat)
Colossians 3:18-19
"18 Wives, submit yourselves to (or "obey", as I've always heard) your husbands, as is fitting in the Lord. 19 Husbands, love your wives and do not be harsh with them."
Hooo-boy. These days, them's fightin' words. But as is obvious in pretty much every corner of our reality - taken out of context, ANY Bible verse can be used as such. For me (as for, I am sure, many women) this verse used to make my blood pressure sky rocket - even as I looked it up via Google (true to my Catholic foundation, I'm very familiar with the Bible, but studied it for content, not chapter/verse memorization), my hands started shaking in rage when, instead of the simple location of it, the first dozen were titles about how God, the Church, Christianity (and on, and on) are either "keeping women down" (written by irate women), or how the above authorities are "showing women their rightful place" (written by smug men...and a few women, strangely enough). (okay, yes, my own prejudices are coming into play here)
All I wanted was the chapter/verse location. Sheesh. Hold on...
Ha HAH! My dear friend Jo just sent me the information...I've copied and pasted (of course, you've already read that part...)
Anyway. The seed for my current position on this matter was planted in my young adulthood by one of the most incredible priests in the world, Fr. Murphy (an honest to God, from-Ireland Irish priest). This man is Great. Even Marshall likes him.
It's Sunday morning. I'm at Mass with my family (for non-Catholics, "Mass" is Catholic for "Service"), and here comes That Reading.
I now live in an area where people seem to have many, MANY unfortunate run-ins with Catholicism. Not only is this a shame, but it's actually kind of funny for me - I grew up in the South, and down there the Catholics are actually considered pretty darn liberal. We dance, drink, have the Etch a Sketch Forgiveness System and with Vatican II, the Roman Catholic Church actually flat-out admitted that folks don't have to be Catholic (or Christian) to go to Heaven. Imagine my surprise when, moving here, every person I met, upon learning the flavor of my religious upbringing, expressed (intentionally complimentary) amazement that I wasn't a self-righteous bastard (humor on many levels there, I know).
But I digress.
That Reading.
In our (relatively) liberal parish, the squirming started. Husbands nudging their wives - wives dodging the nudges and giving their husbands looks that clearly spelled out "Remember that I'm the one who gives you sex. Tread carefully, mother fucker."
Well, that's how I read the faces. Knowing the wonderful, classy, kind women in that parish, I can assure you, they would never dream of such language in their thought bubbles, despite the liberties taken in my translation.
I honestly can't remember if Fr. Murphy's laugh was knowing or nervous. Clearing his throat for the homily (sermon):
"You know, I have always thought of this day as Nudge Sunday."
(I'm sure I don't have to point out that he too explained the nudging/dodging/dirty look description more tactfully than I just did)
His talk was brilliant in its simplicity. In fact, when he explained it, that verse just became plain old, common sense marriage advice. In summary: yes, it was a different time with different ideas about gender roles. However, despite those differences, men back then did still love women, so to paint every last Biblical-era man as a misogynistic jackass was more than a little unfair. So, let's take a walk on the wild side and allow that the English language is limited and there may be more to the story...
Ladies, you can tell your husband you love, respect, admire him...but if you don't back it up with actions, he ain't gonna' believe you. (essentially, "obey" means "prove with actions that you dig him", not "bring his slippers, pipe and smoking jacket to him when he rings a bell")
Hold on - wasn't that the main thrust of the Diablo post?
But what about the men? Love their wives? Don't be harsh? We give up control over our own lives and they're just told to love us?? Seriously?? That's IT?!?!?
Well, if "obey" can be interpreted differently, why not "love" and "harsh"? (heck, we all know love can be used to describe everything from affection for bunnies, beers and babies to sappy movies and a low tennis score)
And this is where the cars come in. Stay with me, ladies, I'm bringing it around.
When explaining things to women, you can use all the words you want. They will be interested, as long as what you say is interesting. Men, on the other hand (as I've mentioned before) just don't like the talking as much. So, when having this conversation with one of my favorite men, I used a metaphor that I thought would intrigue him.
"Women are like cars."
Head tilted, eyes a little squinty, he said "Okay, I'll admit - I'm interested."
Gentlemen, think about what the average car needs to run well. Drive safely, decent fuel, never let the tank get below a quarter full, regular oil changes, inspections, cleaning. If it starts making funny sounds, take whatever steps necessary to get everything back to functional. Finally, drive it appropriately - an SUV is going to guzzle fuel in city traffic and a cute little sedan is going to self destruct in a myriad of ways if you take it on bumpy, lumpy, unpaved back roads. Go ahead - crash into a few things, let the tank run dry, never change the oil, get it inspected or clean it out. Use a VW bug to tow a horse trailer and see how far that gets you. Not only will the car fall apart at the seams, the situation is going to smell really bad when it does. See what I mean?
He did.
Okay. What that has to do with Women: Think about what it takes to keep the average man and woman love relationship working well (which, by the by, isn't limited to romantic ones. Moms, daughters, sisters, skipping the sex stuff, this'll work with any woman you love - though you get into huge trouble if you try it with female friends - this is LOVE advice). Drive safely - no physical abuse. Decent fuel - give her attention, kindness, affection. As for the quarter tank? Don't make her go without the attention, kindness and affection for long periods of time (which may be the one that gets guys, especially really good guys, into the most trouble - fellas, read that one a few times). Oil changes? Let's have some fun with that and call it attention to keeping the sex life from getting stale. Inspections? Brother, you know you need to remember birthdays, anniversaries. Cleaning? Apologize if you fuck up. If you've been following the above advice, she'll accept the apology gracefully (unless she's evil - then ditch the bi -eh hem...her). Car's making noises? When she objects to what you ask of her, take the time to not only listen to but hear her concerns - and then address them appropriately.
Have to say, most of the above is no-brainer stuff. In all fairness, almost all of the men I know do their damnedest to treat their women that way.
But the connection to That Reading?
Let's assume (for the sake of argument) that you are in a relationship where the woman in question is open to the obedience idea. It's actually not as crazy as it sounds - most (good) women actually are. I mean, ladies, who among us doesn't try to keep the peace? Especially if our guy is so fucking awesome that he's really following through with all of the above?
So men. Stop for a moment and THINK ABOUT THE POWER YOU WIELD HERE.
IF you are in a relationship where you have the final word, that means you have an enormous amount of influence over the behavior of another human being. THINK about how profound that is. THINK about what it must take for her to trust you with that power.
"love your wives and do not be harsh with them."
This is not about chocolates and flowers. LOVE your woman - take the time to get to know what she loves, hates, fears. What makes her cry? Brings her joy, heartbreak, anxiety? And with that knowledge:
DO NOT BE HARSH WITH HER: With the awesome (as in awe-inspiring) gift she has given, you better be doing your damnedest to stay within the bounds of what she is comfortable/happy to do. Never, ever EVER abuse that power. Never, ever EVER use that power to force her to act against her will. Back to the car, don't expect that sexy sports car to be okay with back road deer season driving. If she loves you, trusts you so much that she is willing to give you the gift of obedience, BE WORTHY OF HER TRUST.
It's like Scripture is telling women, "Look, I know this sounds crazy, but you know you don't want to handle every little bit of existence - that's what division of work is all about. He's going to enjoy and excel at the decision stuff. You like him, right? What, you love him, too? Then he must be a good guy. Hey, if you disagree with what he wants you to do, then remember this: he loves you right back (both naturally, and I gave him the SMACKDOWN directive to do so). He genuinely wants you to be at peace with his wishes. If you mirror the kindness he shows you when you tell him that something upsets you, he will do everything in his power to respect your concerns and adjust his demands (don't worry, that was definitely included in his orders)."
And then Scripture turns to the men and says, "Okay, guys. I actually got her to agree to that. BUT, since she has the brains to identify potential problems, she is very much aware of how easily this could backfire on her, the children and your entire life together. DO NOT fuck this up by being an abusive jerk."
I have to say, to me, that seems pretty fair.
Oh, and it works really well.
Back in Doesn't 'Diablo' Mean Devil, I rambled a bit about how men show affection and I admitted to not knowing too much about women. Well, women other than myself. I "get" myself pretty well and am, undoubtedly, a woman.
This is meant to be a companion to the above mentioned post - though I must warn you that I'm going to take what is probably an unexpected road with it. I no longer consider myself a religious person, per se, but I'm intensely interested in spirituality in any form (regardless of creed) and make my own development on those lines a priority in my life. That being said, though I no longer limit my spiritual resources to solely Catholic choices, I still think the Bible has a lot of great advice in it. There's one passage I love - one I used to hate. Most women still do. With this post, I hope to clean up it's bad name - especially since it's fantastic advice, when taken the right way. (clearing my throat)
Colossians 3:18-19
"18 Wives, submit yourselves to (or "obey", as I've always heard) your husbands, as is fitting in the Lord. 19 Husbands, love your wives and do not be harsh with them."
Hooo-boy. These days, them's fightin' words. But as is obvious in pretty much every corner of our reality - taken out of context, ANY Bible verse can be used as such. For me (as for, I am sure, many women) this verse used to make my blood pressure sky rocket - even as I looked it up via Google (true to my Catholic foundation, I'm very familiar with the Bible, but studied it for content, not chapter/verse memorization), my hands started shaking in rage when, instead of the simple location of it, the first dozen were titles about how God, the Church, Christianity (and on, and on) are either "keeping women down" (written by irate women), or how the above authorities are "showing women their rightful place" (written by smug men...and a few women, strangely enough). (okay, yes, my own prejudices are coming into play here)
All I wanted was the chapter/verse location. Sheesh. Hold on...
Ha HAH! My dear friend Jo just sent me the information...I've copied and pasted (of course, you've already read that part...)
Anyway. The seed for my current position on this matter was planted in my young adulthood by one of the most incredible priests in the world, Fr. Murphy (an honest to God, from-Ireland Irish priest). This man is Great. Even Marshall likes him.
It's Sunday morning. I'm at Mass with my family (for non-Catholics, "Mass" is Catholic for "Service"), and here comes That Reading.
I now live in an area where people seem to have many, MANY unfortunate run-ins with Catholicism. Not only is this a shame, but it's actually kind of funny for me - I grew up in the South, and down there the Catholics are actually considered pretty darn liberal. We dance, drink, have the Etch a Sketch Forgiveness System and with Vatican II, the Roman Catholic Church actually flat-out admitted that folks don't have to be Catholic (or Christian) to go to Heaven. Imagine my surprise when, moving here, every person I met, upon learning the flavor of my religious upbringing, expressed (intentionally complimentary) amazement that I wasn't a self-righteous bastard (humor on many levels there, I know).
But I digress.
That Reading.
In our (relatively) liberal parish, the squirming started. Husbands nudging their wives - wives dodging the nudges and giving their husbands looks that clearly spelled out "Remember that I'm the one who gives you sex. Tread carefully, mother fucker."
Well, that's how I read the faces. Knowing the wonderful, classy, kind women in that parish, I can assure you, they would never dream of such language in their thought bubbles, despite the liberties taken in my translation.
I honestly can't remember if Fr. Murphy's laugh was knowing or nervous. Clearing his throat for the homily (sermon):
"You know, I have always thought of this day as Nudge Sunday."
(I'm sure I don't have to point out that he too explained the nudging/dodging/dirty look description more tactfully than I just did)
His talk was brilliant in its simplicity. In fact, when he explained it, that verse just became plain old, common sense marriage advice. In summary: yes, it was a different time with different ideas about gender roles. However, despite those differences, men back then did still love women, so to paint every last Biblical-era man as a misogynistic jackass was more than a little unfair. So, let's take a walk on the wild side and allow that the English language is limited and there may be more to the story...
Ladies, you can tell your husband you love, respect, admire him...but if you don't back it up with actions, he ain't gonna' believe you. (essentially, "obey" means "prove with actions that you dig him", not "bring his slippers, pipe and smoking jacket to him when he rings a bell")
Hold on - wasn't that the main thrust of the Diablo post?
But what about the men? Love their wives? Don't be harsh? We give up control over our own lives and they're just told to love us?? Seriously?? That's IT?!?!?
Well, if "obey" can be interpreted differently, why not "love" and "harsh"? (heck, we all know love can be used to describe everything from affection for bunnies, beers and babies to sappy movies and a low tennis score)
And this is where the cars come in. Stay with me, ladies, I'm bringing it around.
When explaining things to women, you can use all the words you want. They will be interested, as long as what you say is interesting. Men, on the other hand (as I've mentioned before) just don't like the talking as much. So, when having this conversation with one of my favorite men, I used a metaphor that I thought would intrigue him.
"Women are like cars."
Head tilted, eyes a little squinty, he said "Okay, I'll admit - I'm interested."
Gentlemen, think about what the average car needs to run well. Drive safely, decent fuel, never let the tank get below a quarter full, regular oil changes, inspections, cleaning. If it starts making funny sounds, take whatever steps necessary to get everything back to functional. Finally, drive it appropriately - an SUV is going to guzzle fuel in city traffic and a cute little sedan is going to self destruct in a myriad of ways if you take it on bumpy, lumpy, unpaved back roads. Go ahead - crash into a few things, let the tank run dry, never change the oil, get it inspected or clean it out. Use a VW bug to tow a horse trailer and see how far that gets you. Not only will the car fall apart at the seams, the situation is going to smell really bad when it does. See what I mean?
He did.
Okay. What that has to do with Women: Think about what it takes to keep the average man and woman love relationship working well (which, by the by, isn't limited to romantic ones. Moms, daughters, sisters, skipping the sex stuff, this'll work with any woman you love - though you get into huge trouble if you try it with female friends - this is LOVE advice). Drive safely - no physical abuse. Decent fuel - give her attention, kindness, affection. As for the quarter tank? Don't make her go without the attention, kindness and affection for long periods of time (which may be the one that gets guys, especially really good guys, into the most trouble - fellas, read that one a few times). Oil changes? Let's have some fun with that and call it attention to keeping the sex life from getting stale. Inspections? Brother, you know you need to remember birthdays, anniversaries. Cleaning? Apologize if you fuck up. If you've been following the above advice, she'll accept the apology gracefully (unless she's evil - then ditch the bi -eh hem...her). Car's making noises? When she objects to what you ask of her, take the time to not only listen to but hear her concerns - and then address them appropriately.
Have to say, most of the above is no-brainer stuff. In all fairness, almost all of the men I know do their damnedest to treat their women that way.
But the connection to That Reading?
Let's assume (for the sake of argument) that you are in a relationship where the woman in question is open to the obedience idea. It's actually not as crazy as it sounds - most (good) women actually are. I mean, ladies, who among us doesn't try to keep the peace? Especially if our guy is so fucking awesome that he's really following through with all of the above?
So men. Stop for a moment and THINK ABOUT THE POWER YOU WIELD HERE.
IF you are in a relationship where you have the final word, that means you have an enormous amount of influence over the behavior of another human being. THINK about how profound that is. THINK about what it must take for her to trust you with that power.
"love your wives and do not be harsh with them."
This is not about chocolates and flowers. LOVE your woman - take the time to get to know what she loves, hates, fears. What makes her cry? Brings her joy, heartbreak, anxiety? And with that knowledge:
DO NOT BE HARSH WITH HER: With the awesome (as in awe-inspiring) gift she has given, you better be doing your damnedest to stay within the bounds of what she is comfortable/happy to do. Never, ever EVER abuse that power. Never, ever EVER use that power to force her to act against her will. Back to the car, don't expect that sexy sports car to be okay with back road deer season driving. If she loves you, trusts you so much that she is willing to give you the gift of obedience, BE WORTHY OF HER TRUST.
It's like Scripture is telling women, "Look, I know this sounds crazy, but you know you don't want to handle every little bit of existence - that's what division of work is all about. He's going to enjoy and excel at the decision stuff. You like him, right? What, you love him, too? Then he must be a good guy. Hey, if you disagree with what he wants you to do, then remember this: he loves you right back (both naturally, and I gave him the SMACKDOWN directive to do so). He genuinely wants you to be at peace with his wishes. If you mirror the kindness he shows you when you tell him that something upsets you, he will do everything in his power to respect your concerns and adjust his demands (don't worry, that was definitely included in his orders)."
And then Scripture turns to the men and says, "Okay, guys. I actually got her to agree to that. BUT, since she has the brains to identify potential problems, she is very much aware of how easily this could backfire on her, the children and your entire life together. DO NOT fuck this up by being an abusive jerk."
I have to say, to me, that seems pretty fair.
Oh, and it works really well.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
A Long Overdue Thank You
According to my loved ones, when people first meet me, they recognize four things:
Initially: Someone feminine and soft looking (some even say pretty - and ain't that sweet?)
Once I open my mouth: Attitude - sometimes good, sometimes bad, but always honest and dripping with sarcasm.
After any kind of prolonged interaction: A Fucking Juggernaut - hope you like the show I'm running, 'cause the door's over there if you don't.
If they're still there after that: I'm an enormous fan of Nikki Sixx and his work.
As a mother, writer, Reader, decent astrologer and an ironic suburban housewife/soccer mom (I love that the suburbanite soccer mom is the part that bemuses me), folks find that last discovery both funny but unsurprising. Or maybe funny because, at least to them, it should be surprising?
Sixx just released a new book, titled This is Gonna Hurt. He is on a book tour and will be just a few hours south of me on May 6th (I considered naming this post ""She (Went) Down" on the 5th to Meet Sixx on the 6th", but that led to a few too many oral sex jokes "just what DID you do to get him to sign the book?" etc.. While my naughty sense of humor loved it, there was a problem...)
The jokes have been gentle, but numerous. All to the tune of my turning into some Beatlemania-esque crazed preteen, hastily escorted to the exits after accidentally cracking the man's ribs with a hug.
Because, obviously, I have such a crush on him, you see.
It hit me that, despite how I've gone on and on about his music, his writing, his strength, his efforts to help others...I haven't gotten any farther than the playful argument I had with Ms. J while we were still in high school:
"Yeah, 'cause that's a picture of his brain hanging on your wall."
Granted, when I was fourteen, I most certainly "loved" him as only a teenage girl can "love" a rock star. As an adult, can I appreciate that he was an exceptionally beautiful guy who has grown into an exponentially more attractive man? I most certainly can. (I have ADD/Asperger's - not parenting related, sleep deprivation induced blindness).
However: Right now, despite how well he's aged, he feels more like a long time, cherished friend. And:
Instead of swooning over his dreamyohmygodhe'ssohot-ness, I currently find his good looks to be, since they're causing this drama for me, a pain in my ass. (what the hell, dude? can't you just fucking age??? it would make my life way easier right now...)
He may have helped me make peace with the fact that I'm a warrior instead of a docile peace maker (though I only bring the smack to those doing harmful things). He may have been a sympathetic (if metaphoric) comrade in arms, helping me vent anger through listening to his music (rather than lashing out at loved ones). His work may have helped carry me through my son's autism diagnosis and through watching September 11th from a window instead of a TV.
But my affection for him is just because he's super cute. Okaaaaayyyyy....
Through his work, his art, his struggle, his life - and his willingness to display it all "for the whole world to see", Sixx has been a positive force in my life for a little over twenty years. I hesitate to say that I "love" him, since that word is shamelessly overused in our language. I love my kids. I love the beach. I love writing. Each is a different kind of love. See?
Instead, I'd really like to give him a hand on a bad day - to be able to say "don't worry, brutha - I'll take care of that for you". It would wonderful to be in a position to reciprocate at least a little of the support and peace of mind he's given me over the years. Acknowledging the enormous debt I owe him has nothing to do with his looks. "Loving" him for the difference he's made in my life (and the lives of those who deal with me) is, I think, very different from rock star lust. So there.
When I had the opportunity to meet Norman Reedus, the entire experience, from finding out to coming home after the event, lasted under four days. I found out about Sixx's book signing almost a full month in advance. Which means that rather than just excited, I now have time to entertain a great deal of terror.
Marshal says, "Megan, he is just a guy. I'm sure he puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like the rest of us."
No doubt Marshal's right. Problem is, I'm not scared of Sixx - I'm scared of the time limit.
This is a one shot opportunity to thank this man for all he's done for me, knowing that he actually gets the information. How do I fit it all in?
Harsh reality: I can't. Any attempt to do so will certainly result in the above described ejection. It would be amazing to know he remembered me...but as a girl with a heartfelt thank you, or as proof that even though he's been consciously trying to help others for the past several years, he's been making a huge damn difference in my life for over twenty. Or hell, even that I was the chick with the shock of pink hair and a thing for carnelian. Any of those would be great.
As a blubbering, inarticulate, emotionally short circuited fan getting dragged out? Not so much. That's the kind of memory that would inspire him to have his security team carry my picture.
Solution? Give him a handwritten letter expressing my personal thanks, a gift that will be (hopefully) helpful to him and be content that I've given back to him to the best of my ability.
Or I can try just a liiiiitle more...and hope he reads a blog entry if I post it to his wall...
POST SCRIPT: Upon reflection, I find it very, very funny that when dealing with the crazy trespasser scaring my kids (from the post, Neighbor on the (Pain in the) Backside,) I talked about WWMD (What Would Murdock Do?)...but ended up actually doing WICSSD (What I Could See Sixx Doing).
Initially: Someone feminine and soft looking (some even say pretty - and ain't that sweet?)
Once I open my mouth: Attitude - sometimes good, sometimes bad, but always honest and dripping with sarcasm.
After any kind of prolonged interaction: A Fucking Juggernaut - hope you like the show I'm running, 'cause the door's over there if you don't.
If they're still there after that: I'm an enormous fan of Nikki Sixx and his work.
As a mother, writer, Reader, decent astrologer and an ironic suburban housewife/soccer mom (I love that the suburbanite soccer mom is the part that bemuses me), folks find that last discovery both funny but unsurprising. Or maybe funny because, at least to them, it should be surprising?
Sixx just released a new book, titled This is Gonna Hurt. He is on a book tour and will be just a few hours south of me on May 6th (I considered naming this post ""She (Went) Down" on the 5th to Meet Sixx on the 6th", but that led to a few too many oral sex jokes "just what DID you do to get him to sign the book?" etc.. While my naughty sense of humor loved it, there was a problem...)
The jokes have been gentle, but numerous. All to the tune of my turning into some Beatlemania-esque crazed preteen, hastily escorted to the exits after accidentally cracking the man's ribs with a hug.
Because, obviously, I have such a crush on him, you see.
It hit me that, despite how I've gone on and on about his music, his writing, his strength, his efforts to help others...I haven't gotten any farther than the playful argument I had with Ms. J while we were still in high school:
"Yeah, 'cause that's a picture of his brain hanging on your wall."
Granted, when I was fourteen, I most certainly "loved" him as only a teenage girl can "love" a rock star. As an adult, can I appreciate that he was an exceptionally beautiful guy who has grown into an exponentially more attractive man? I most certainly can. (I have ADD/Asperger's - not parenting related, sleep deprivation induced blindness).
However: Right now, despite how well he's aged, he feels more like a long time, cherished friend. And:
Instead of swooning over his dreamyohmygodhe'ssohot-ness, I currently find his good looks to be, since they're causing this drama for me, a pain in my ass. (what the hell, dude? can't you just fucking age??? it would make my life way easier right now...)
He may have helped me make peace with the fact that I'm a warrior instead of a docile peace maker (though I only bring the smack to those doing harmful things). He may have been a sympathetic (if metaphoric) comrade in arms, helping me vent anger through listening to his music (rather than lashing out at loved ones). His work may have helped carry me through my son's autism diagnosis and through watching September 11th from a window instead of a TV.
But my affection for him is just because he's super cute. Okaaaaayyyyy....
Through his work, his art, his struggle, his life - and his willingness to display it all "for the whole world to see", Sixx has been a positive force in my life for a little over twenty years. I hesitate to say that I "love" him, since that word is shamelessly overused in our language. I love my kids. I love the beach. I love writing. Each is a different kind of love. See?
Instead, I'd really like to give him a hand on a bad day - to be able to say "don't worry, brutha - I'll take care of that for you". It would wonderful to be in a position to reciprocate at least a little of the support and peace of mind he's given me over the years. Acknowledging the enormous debt I owe him has nothing to do with his looks. "Loving" him for the difference he's made in my life (and the lives of those who deal with me) is, I think, very different from rock star lust. So there.
When I had the opportunity to meet Norman Reedus, the entire experience, from finding out to coming home after the event, lasted under four days. I found out about Sixx's book signing almost a full month in advance. Which means that rather than just excited, I now have time to entertain a great deal of terror.
Marshal says, "Megan, he is just a guy. I'm sure he puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like the rest of us."
No doubt Marshal's right. Problem is, I'm not scared of Sixx - I'm scared of the time limit.
This is a one shot opportunity to thank this man for all he's done for me, knowing that he actually gets the information. How do I fit it all in?
Harsh reality: I can't. Any attempt to do so will certainly result in the above described ejection. It would be amazing to know he remembered me...but as a girl with a heartfelt thank you, or as proof that even though he's been consciously trying to help others for the past several years, he's been making a huge damn difference in my life for over twenty. Or hell, even that I was the chick with the shock of pink hair and a thing for carnelian. Any of those would be great.
As a blubbering, inarticulate, emotionally short circuited fan getting dragged out? Not so much. That's the kind of memory that would inspire him to have his security team carry my picture.
Solution? Give him a handwritten letter expressing my personal thanks, a gift that will be (hopefully) helpful to him and be content that I've given back to him to the best of my ability.
Or I can try just a liiiiitle more...and hope he reads a blog entry if I post it to his wall...
POST SCRIPT: Upon reflection, I find it very, very funny that when dealing with the crazy trespasser scaring my kids (from the post, Neighbor on the (Pain in the) Backside,) I talked about WWMD (What Would Murdock Do?)...but ended up actually doing WICSSD (What I Could See Sixx Doing).
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The Comings and The Goings
I just read a book about housecleaning. Apparently, my Mopping Day issues are getting more pronounced... eh hem...
So. Housecleaning. According to the author, the most important thing a person can do to keep the energy of a home happy and healthy is to declare a kind of war upon clutter. This is so important, the first half of the book is, in one way or another, dedicated to it.
As she defines it, clutter is anything you don't absolutely love, absolutely use (often) or wouldn't pack and take with you were you to move. Using this as the guideline, go through the house and throw out or give away anything that doesn't fit in one of those three categories.
Interesting concept. I decided to start with the closet that has (among other things) all of our photos. Photo albums, photo boxes, plastic bins stuffed with those envelopes of prints. LOTS of pictures here. This also seemed to be the right time to go through and label who's who in each shot.
This was, for the most part, a very pleasant walk down my very own Memory Lane. However...
Unless you've lived a life free of any conflict, arguments, love, break ups, children or relationships...or if you did, but never photographed any of it...every once in a while, as you whip through piles, a picture will pop out and smack you.
Remember her? Remember him? God, it's been forever since we've spoken! I think that particular reaction is the old timer's version of "finding" unexpected people on Facebook. For me, over 90% of these pop ups were pleasant (at least). Every once in a while...
It hurts. Maybe because that person was an ass ("how the hell did that idiot end up in so many of my pictures?!?"). Maybe because the shot reminds you of a time you miss...a happier, simpler time. Maybe it represents mistakes you've made, or people you've hurt...people who've hurt you.
Mostly, for me, the ones that hurt were of The Goings.
I believe that people come into and go out of our lives for reasons. I used to call it the Towards Zero Effect. Towards Zero is a novel by Agatha Christie - its entire premise is how people dramatically affect reality every day, all the time - and only realize it occasionally. It may be something obvious, like stopping someone just as s/he was about to step out in front of a moving car (saving that person's life). Or, more often, it can be the kind of thing that you never even realize, like being in plain sight of someone who would have done something regrettable if thought unseen. That second one is tricky, since recognition of it relies on that person admitting to the act that would have been committed, but for your presence. However, I have no doubt it exists. The possibilities are endless, and I won't bore you with them.
Mostly, though, I think the Towards Zero Effect addresses The Comings and The Goings.
These are relationships and or situations that Come into your life and last only for as long as it takes them to complete their function - at which point they Go. A boyfriend that helps you realize that it's okay to be silly, or a girlfriend who introduces you to your future wife. Me, I once had a crazy, sadistic teacher who hated men (though went out of her way to get a job teaching at an all boys' school). She despised me for not hating them with her and tortured me every day for being, and I quote her words, "young and beautiful." It was a miserable time - but I learned some very important things from her. What's more, once the lessons were learned, she disappeared from my life - never to be seen or heard from again. As a Coming, she was insufferable. As a Going, I felt that pleasure that's not really pleasure - just the relief of the cessation of pain.
But there weren't any pictures of her.
I have moved around a lot in my life and have, as a result, a very scattered circle of friends. As computer savvy as I assure you I am not, Facebook, even in all of its Big Brother wonder, has been a God send for me. It has been a way of reclaiming (at least temporarily) many of the Goings that I actually miss.
Sometimes it's a genuine reboot of a friendship (yay!). More often, we exchange Life Summary Paragraphs...and that's it. How many of us have a bunch of those Facebook friends? Reconnect, swap summaries, go back to not speaking? Still, it's nice to have them there.
But then there are the other Goings. The ones whose departures were noted for the screaming, the crying, the insults, the unforgivable acts of back stabbing or just plain old asshole-y-ness. The ones that hurt.
And...since the reason it hurt was because the Relationship That Was was one based on actual affection, there are plenty of pictures.
The common sense way to deal with those pics is a simple heave-ho to the trashcan we go. Very cathartic, and I highly recommend it.
But what about the related pictures? Not of the Goings, but of their kids? The innocent bystanders who spent so much time with my children that the group's dynamic was less like friends and more like family? The ones that, despite mutual affection, I'll probably never see again, but in those pictures? There doesn't seem to be a common sense approach to that one.
But note that I said "probably". It is certainly possible that I could see them again. What about the last type of Goings? The ones who didn't leave by choice?
"Luminous beings are we. Not this crude matter." - Yoda
Obviously, I'm keeping the pictures of the loved ones who've passed. That's not the question. This one is about addressing the loss.
Death is, of course, just as natural a part of Life as Birth. Just how similar, though? We're all familiar with the description of near death experiences - going through a dark tunnel, into light, surrounded by loved ones... That does sound an awful lot like birth to me.
I read somewhere that when a baby is born, Heaven mourns for the loss of that soul. Not lost in the sense of being damned, or misguided...but lost to them. That soul has left their company to have a new existence in a new form. They know this; academically, they're happy for the soul. The separation still hurts.
On the other side, we're in the delivery room, waiting anxiously and excitedly for that soul to hurry up and arrive (having twice been the landlady of that dark tunnel, I'm here to tell you that "anxious" and "excited" don't even come CLOSE to how ready I was for that transition to be completed).
Buddhism teaches: a) all learning involves some degree of suffering and b) this is the only world where suffering exists. We come to this life to learn, to progress (and to repeat some grades if you want to throw in some reincarnation theory). When we're done learning, we're done suffering. When we've completed both, it's time to leave the world of suffering. And that's when we go.
This is all great in theory. It makes sense to me...academically, cognitively, I believe it, embrace it. But when it happens for someone you love, all of the cerebral logic falls way too short.
On April 9, 2011, Heaven got one of it's angels back. As sure as I am of the welcome party she received, as happy as I am for her that her suffering has ended...
The separation still hurts.
I can only assume that Faith is knowing that God appreciates who He's got there and that He had a damn good reason for calling her back so ridiculously early...
Because this is a Going that makes no sense to me.
So. Housecleaning. According to the author, the most important thing a person can do to keep the energy of a home happy and healthy is to declare a kind of war upon clutter. This is so important, the first half of the book is, in one way or another, dedicated to it.
As she defines it, clutter is anything you don't absolutely love, absolutely use (often) or wouldn't pack and take with you were you to move. Using this as the guideline, go through the house and throw out or give away anything that doesn't fit in one of those three categories.
Interesting concept. I decided to start with the closet that has (among other things) all of our photos. Photo albums, photo boxes, plastic bins stuffed with those envelopes of prints. LOTS of pictures here. This also seemed to be the right time to go through and label who's who in each shot.
This was, for the most part, a very pleasant walk down my very own Memory Lane. However...
Unless you've lived a life free of any conflict, arguments, love, break ups, children or relationships...or if you did, but never photographed any of it...every once in a while, as you whip through piles, a picture will pop out and smack you.
Remember her? Remember him? God, it's been forever since we've spoken! I think that particular reaction is the old timer's version of "finding" unexpected people on Facebook. For me, over 90% of these pop ups were pleasant (at least). Every once in a while...
It hurts. Maybe because that person was an ass ("how the hell did that idiot end up in so many of my pictures?!?"). Maybe because the shot reminds you of a time you miss...a happier, simpler time. Maybe it represents mistakes you've made, or people you've hurt...people who've hurt you.
Mostly, for me, the ones that hurt were of The Goings.
I believe that people come into and go out of our lives for reasons. I used to call it the Towards Zero Effect. Towards Zero is a novel by Agatha Christie - its entire premise is how people dramatically affect reality every day, all the time - and only realize it occasionally. It may be something obvious, like stopping someone just as s/he was about to step out in front of a moving car (saving that person's life). Or, more often, it can be the kind of thing that you never even realize, like being in plain sight of someone who would have done something regrettable if thought unseen. That second one is tricky, since recognition of it relies on that person admitting to the act that would have been committed, but for your presence. However, I have no doubt it exists. The possibilities are endless, and I won't bore you with them.
Mostly, though, I think the Towards Zero Effect addresses The Comings and The Goings.
These are relationships and or situations that Come into your life and last only for as long as it takes them to complete their function - at which point they Go. A boyfriend that helps you realize that it's okay to be silly, or a girlfriend who introduces you to your future wife. Me, I once had a crazy, sadistic teacher who hated men (though went out of her way to get a job teaching at an all boys' school). She despised me for not hating them with her and tortured me every day for being, and I quote her words, "young and beautiful." It was a miserable time - but I learned some very important things from her. What's more, once the lessons were learned, she disappeared from my life - never to be seen or heard from again. As a Coming, she was insufferable. As a Going, I felt that pleasure that's not really pleasure - just the relief of the cessation of pain.
But there weren't any pictures of her.
I have moved around a lot in my life and have, as a result, a very scattered circle of friends. As computer savvy as I assure you I am not, Facebook, even in all of its Big Brother wonder, has been a God send for me. It has been a way of reclaiming (at least temporarily) many of the Goings that I actually miss.
Sometimes it's a genuine reboot of a friendship (yay!). More often, we exchange Life Summary Paragraphs...and that's it. How many of us have a bunch of those Facebook friends? Reconnect, swap summaries, go back to not speaking? Still, it's nice to have them there.
But then there are the other Goings. The ones whose departures were noted for the screaming, the crying, the insults, the unforgivable acts of back stabbing or just plain old asshole-y-ness. The ones that hurt.
And...since the reason it hurt was because the Relationship That Was was one based on actual affection, there are plenty of pictures.
The common sense way to deal with those pics is a simple heave-ho to the trashcan we go. Very cathartic, and I highly recommend it.
But what about the related pictures? Not of the Goings, but of their kids? The innocent bystanders who spent so much time with my children that the group's dynamic was less like friends and more like family? The ones that, despite mutual affection, I'll probably never see again, but in those pictures? There doesn't seem to be a common sense approach to that one.
But note that I said "probably". It is certainly possible that I could see them again. What about the last type of Goings? The ones who didn't leave by choice?
"Luminous beings are we. Not this crude matter." - Yoda
Obviously, I'm keeping the pictures of the loved ones who've passed. That's not the question. This one is about addressing the loss.
Death is, of course, just as natural a part of Life as Birth. Just how similar, though? We're all familiar with the description of near death experiences - going through a dark tunnel, into light, surrounded by loved ones... That does sound an awful lot like birth to me.
I read somewhere that when a baby is born, Heaven mourns for the loss of that soul. Not lost in the sense of being damned, or misguided...but lost to them. That soul has left their company to have a new existence in a new form. They know this; academically, they're happy for the soul. The separation still hurts.
On the other side, we're in the delivery room, waiting anxiously and excitedly for that soul to hurry up and arrive (having twice been the landlady of that dark tunnel, I'm here to tell you that "anxious" and "excited" don't even come CLOSE to how ready I was for that transition to be completed).
Buddhism teaches: a) all learning involves some degree of suffering and b) this is the only world where suffering exists. We come to this life to learn, to progress (and to repeat some grades if you want to throw in some reincarnation theory). When we're done learning, we're done suffering. When we've completed both, it's time to leave the world of suffering. And that's when we go.
This is all great in theory. It makes sense to me...academically, cognitively, I believe it, embrace it. But when it happens for someone you love, all of the cerebral logic falls way too short.
On April 9, 2011, Heaven got one of it's angels back. As sure as I am of the welcome party she received, as happy as I am for her that her suffering has ended...
The separation still hurts.
I can only assume that Faith is knowing that God appreciates who He's got there and that He had a damn good reason for calling her back so ridiculously early...
Because this is a Going that makes no sense to me.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Part 4: So I Became a Wingman and She Had My Back
I turned around, and yes indeed, there he was.
Oooookay. Not to worry, I'm not going to go into some gooey girly gab fest about how dreamy he looked...lalalala....you've seen the movie? Yeah, he's that good looking in person. His hair's a little lighter (which makes that whole tattooing scene in ASD even funnier) - but that's it.
Now, I'm not one to stare...but my logic went like this:
He's beautiful. He chose a career that involves people looking at him. He chose to attend a party where he was (clearly) going to be the center of attention. He signed up for this.
Still, staring is rude. I can honestly say that it felt more like watching someone who's on a stage. Sure, you're not looking away...but not staring. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Eventually, when he was pulled onto stage, he talked about how he feels uncomfortable/shy in crowds. This only impressed me more since, like the rest of the guys, he was very friendly, enthusiastic about signing autographs, posing for pictures, even joking and talking with fans who lingered past their turns. He, like the rest of them, is a class act.
I watched him work his way through the dozens of people pressing in on him. There were no velvet ropes, bouncers blocking for him or anything. The guy's just hanging in the middle of a crowd. A very, very excited crowd.
And then a strange thing happened. He looked up and his eyes swept the room. He saw me and stopped. Now, when I say "we locked eyes" I don't mean to imply there was anything romantic or sexy about this. There wasn't. It would have been more polite, I know, to look away...but see above (re: my logic). So I kept looking back at him. I know it should have felt awkward...but it didn't. Ten solid seconds of eye contact doesn't sound like a lot, but it is. Try it now. Look at something for ten seconds. That's a long time, huh?
Again, not romantic or sexy. If anything, I think it's because I wasn't jumping, screaming, waving - I think I may have just seemed to him to be the only quiet spot in the room (ironic, I know). It just felt friendly. So I gave a quirky little smile and half shrugged in reference to the craziness in the room. He broke into a wide grin...looked for a couple more seconds, then went back to signing, posing, talking, laughing.
There was a part of me that decided that that was worth more than an autograph...or a picture...
Yeah, but I still wanted them.
About a half an hour goes by...there is one person ahead of me...that person is all done...
And the producer comes up behind him, apologizes to the rest of us, and pulls him onstage.
I won't say he wasn't entertaining on stage. Or that I didn't enjoy Troy's speech. Or laugh with everyone when Bob Marley did his routine (in real life, Det. Greenly is stand up comic Bob Marley). Ty Stone is a hell of a performer (he and his band do several of the songs in ASD). It was all fantastic.
But I was more than a little frustrated. I'm sure it sounds petty, but at that point, I was disappointed enough that I was in danger of being sad over the whole situation - it's one thing never to meet someone...quite another to almost meet the person and have it snatched out from under you.
Well, nothing is going to come from standing in one spot. I start walking around, and I spot Elle. She's talking to none other than Rocco. What's even more interesting is watching these girls (aged about 21-22) come up to him, giggling, with shots. As Elle backed off (as she later told me "I figured he'd spent a lot of time with me, I should back off"), he turned, did the shot with the girls, thanked them, gave them back the glass...and turned back to continue his conversation with Elle.
Working under the assumption that she'd probably kill me if I interrupted them, I set off to find Norman.
Elle and I finally hook back up. She's on Cloud 9 and I'm busy trying not to feel ungrateful. Having scoped the main floor of the club quite thoroughly, we decided to go to the lobby. Daniel DeSanto is at the bar, surrounded by girls buying him drinks. It would have been nice to meet him (etc.), but he looked awfully occupied.
I asked a couple of the women at the bar if anyone had seen Norman.
"Yeah, he's right outside..." (Wile E. Coyote cloud of dust in place of Elle and me)
There he is. Smoking a cigarette and speaking with a few folks. No pushing, lines, nothing. We walk over, wait our turn to speak, and I ask him if he'd sign (the Christmas presents I'd bought). He couldn't have been nicer.
ME: Would you mind taking a picture with me?
NORMAN: Sure!!!
Elle's got the camera, he goes to put his arm around my shoulder...
AND THE SAME PRODUCER GRABS HIM BY THE ARM.
PRODUCER: Sorry, he has to go.
ME: (my head whipping in his direction) SERIOUSLY?
I didn't yell it, I didn't even use what has been coined my Bitch Mommy Voice. Considering how I felt about the matter, I think he got off pretty easily. This time he and I made eye contact. Weighing his options, he said:
"Fine, you can walk in with us."
With Elle hot on my heels, camera at the ready, we were off.
I'm not a tall woman. However, my lack of height comes from my lack of torso, not legs. The producer did not count on this as he tried to lose me. Elle is not as tall as I am, and in heels. That woman has moves.
Now, if Norman had been trying to get away from me, I'd have backed off. In reality, Norman (whose left arm was in the producer's Death Grip) was being marched very quickly down the hall, the whole time trying to talk to me over his right shoulder.
The producer's first mistake was misjudging the length of my legs. His second one was thinking he'd be able to move the star of the movie quickly and unobtrusively through the Big. Crowded. Club.
They hit the throng and some girls latch onto Norman. I waited for them to finish, and there was my shot. We posed for the camera, shot taken...(finally)...
And the moment of truth.
Up to this point (from the moment I decided to attend the party to this second) I'd been worried, terrified that, if I did get to speak to him, I'd stick my foot in my mouth. Hard. I skipped over anything that could be construed as flirting (apparently, I'm a fairly good girl after all). Everything I'd come up with thus far had either been what every single other person has probably said to him, or stupid. But now?
What's that I'm under? Oh, it would be a gun. He could see that I was trying to say something, so he leaned in to listen.
So I said the first thing that came to mind. It was heartfelt, sure, but it didn't seem like much. He looked at me again...eye contact again... and with a really big smile said an earnest "Thank you!"
Then he was gone (this time his feet left the floor a bit when the producer yanked him away).
I turned to Elle, and said, "We can go - my night's not going to get any better than it is now." In order to get back to our car, we had to leave the party well before the trains stopped running. She said okay and then asked:
"What did you say to him?"
Crap. I thought it went pretty well. "Why?"
"Well, he was listening, then leaned in to listen closer, then he did this double take, then this huge smile..."
Okay, so I didn't screw it up.
We walked toward the door...and all of the sudden, I'm alone...I turn around...
Elle is about ten feet behind me, talking with Rocco. Who am I to rush her? Besides, I now had something other than my phone for him to sign. At a pause in the conversation, I ask him if he'd mind signing one more thing for me. Ever the gentleman, we walk over to the bar (so he'd have something to lean on). While he was doing this, I had an SBI (Scathingly Brilliant Idea).
I leaned toward him, and said "Excuse me?"
ROCCO: (turning) Yes?
ME: My girl over there, she has the most enormous crush on you. Buuuut, she's also wicked shy. Never in a million years would she ask, but she'd love it if you'd sign her chest. Do you mind?"
ROCCO: Sure! (glances over his shoulder) Which one?
(I specified)
ROCCO: (looks at me) She's pretty hot...
Elle maintains that, crush or no, she is also a good girl after all, since, when he walked over and moved her shirt, for that split second before she realized what, exactly, he was doing, she did freak out a little. But only for a second.
After that, she turned to me and said: "NOW we can leave!"
We kept a moderate amount of mature, level-headedness at the party. Once on the train, we became two teenage girls coming home from the Beatles playing Shea Stadium.
Oooookay. Not to worry, I'm not going to go into some gooey girly gab fest about how dreamy he looked...lalalala....you've seen the movie? Yeah, he's that good looking in person. His hair's a little lighter (which makes that whole tattooing scene in ASD even funnier) - but that's it.
Now, I'm not one to stare...but my logic went like this:
He's beautiful. He chose a career that involves people looking at him. He chose to attend a party where he was (clearly) going to be the center of attention. He signed up for this.
Still, staring is rude. I can honestly say that it felt more like watching someone who's on a stage. Sure, you're not looking away...but not staring. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Eventually, when he was pulled onto stage, he talked about how he feels uncomfortable/shy in crowds. This only impressed me more since, like the rest of the guys, he was very friendly, enthusiastic about signing autographs, posing for pictures, even joking and talking with fans who lingered past their turns. He, like the rest of them, is a class act.
I watched him work his way through the dozens of people pressing in on him. There were no velvet ropes, bouncers blocking for him or anything. The guy's just hanging in the middle of a crowd. A very, very excited crowd.
And then a strange thing happened. He looked up and his eyes swept the room. He saw me and stopped. Now, when I say "we locked eyes" I don't mean to imply there was anything romantic or sexy about this. There wasn't. It would have been more polite, I know, to look away...but see above (re: my logic). So I kept looking back at him. I know it should have felt awkward...but it didn't. Ten solid seconds of eye contact doesn't sound like a lot, but it is. Try it now. Look at something for ten seconds. That's a long time, huh?
Again, not romantic or sexy. If anything, I think it's because I wasn't jumping, screaming, waving - I think I may have just seemed to him to be the only quiet spot in the room (ironic, I know). It just felt friendly. So I gave a quirky little smile and half shrugged in reference to the craziness in the room. He broke into a wide grin...looked for a couple more seconds, then went back to signing, posing, talking, laughing.
There was a part of me that decided that that was worth more than an autograph...or a picture...
Yeah, but I still wanted them.
About a half an hour goes by...there is one person ahead of me...that person is all done...
And the producer comes up behind him, apologizes to the rest of us, and pulls him onstage.
I won't say he wasn't entertaining on stage. Or that I didn't enjoy Troy's speech. Or laugh with everyone when Bob Marley did his routine (in real life, Det. Greenly is stand up comic Bob Marley). Ty Stone is a hell of a performer (he and his band do several of the songs in ASD). It was all fantastic.
But I was more than a little frustrated. I'm sure it sounds petty, but at that point, I was disappointed enough that I was in danger of being sad over the whole situation - it's one thing never to meet someone...quite another to almost meet the person and have it snatched out from under you.
Well, nothing is going to come from standing in one spot. I start walking around, and I spot Elle. She's talking to none other than Rocco. What's even more interesting is watching these girls (aged about 21-22) come up to him, giggling, with shots. As Elle backed off (as she later told me "I figured he'd spent a lot of time with me, I should back off"), he turned, did the shot with the girls, thanked them, gave them back the glass...and turned back to continue his conversation with Elle.
Working under the assumption that she'd probably kill me if I interrupted them, I set off to find Norman.
Elle and I finally hook back up. She's on Cloud 9 and I'm busy trying not to feel ungrateful. Having scoped the main floor of the club quite thoroughly, we decided to go to the lobby. Daniel DeSanto is at the bar, surrounded by girls buying him drinks. It would have been nice to meet him (etc.), but he looked awfully occupied.
I asked a couple of the women at the bar if anyone had seen Norman.
"Yeah, he's right outside..." (Wile E. Coyote cloud of dust in place of Elle and me)
There he is. Smoking a cigarette and speaking with a few folks. No pushing, lines, nothing. We walk over, wait our turn to speak, and I ask him if he'd sign (the Christmas presents I'd bought). He couldn't have been nicer.
ME: Would you mind taking a picture with me?
NORMAN: Sure!!!
Elle's got the camera, he goes to put his arm around my shoulder...
AND THE SAME PRODUCER GRABS HIM BY THE ARM.
PRODUCER: Sorry, he has to go.
ME: (my head whipping in his direction) SERIOUSLY?
I didn't yell it, I didn't even use what has been coined my Bitch Mommy Voice. Considering how I felt about the matter, I think he got off pretty easily. This time he and I made eye contact. Weighing his options, he said:
"Fine, you can walk in with us."
With Elle hot on my heels, camera at the ready, we were off.
I'm not a tall woman. However, my lack of height comes from my lack of torso, not legs. The producer did not count on this as he tried to lose me. Elle is not as tall as I am, and in heels. That woman has moves.
Now, if Norman had been trying to get away from me, I'd have backed off. In reality, Norman (whose left arm was in the producer's Death Grip) was being marched very quickly down the hall, the whole time trying to talk to me over his right shoulder.
The producer's first mistake was misjudging the length of my legs. His second one was thinking he'd be able to move the star of the movie quickly and unobtrusively through the Big. Crowded. Club.
They hit the throng and some girls latch onto Norman. I waited for them to finish, and there was my shot. We posed for the camera, shot taken...(finally)...
And the moment of truth.
Up to this point (from the moment I decided to attend the party to this second) I'd been worried, terrified that, if I did get to speak to him, I'd stick my foot in my mouth. Hard. I skipped over anything that could be construed as flirting (apparently, I'm a fairly good girl after all). Everything I'd come up with thus far had either been what every single other person has probably said to him, or stupid. But now?
What's that I'm under? Oh, it would be a gun. He could see that I was trying to say something, so he leaned in to listen.
So I said the first thing that came to mind. It was heartfelt, sure, but it didn't seem like much. He looked at me again...eye contact again... and with a really big smile said an earnest "Thank you!"
Then he was gone (this time his feet left the floor a bit when the producer yanked him away).
I turned to Elle, and said, "We can go - my night's not going to get any better than it is now." In order to get back to our car, we had to leave the party well before the trains stopped running. She said okay and then asked:
"What did you say to him?"
Crap. I thought it went pretty well. "Why?"
"Well, he was listening, then leaned in to listen closer, then he did this double take, then this huge smile..."
Okay, so I didn't screw it up.
We walked toward the door...and all of the sudden, I'm alone...I turn around...
Elle is about ten feet behind me, talking with Rocco. Who am I to rush her? Besides, I now had something other than my phone for him to sign. At a pause in the conversation, I ask him if he'd mind signing one more thing for me. Ever the gentleman, we walk over to the bar (so he'd have something to lean on). While he was doing this, I had an SBI (Scathingly Brilliant Idea).
I leaned toward him, and said "Excuse me?"
ROCCO: (turning) Yes?
ME: My girl over there, she has the most enormous crush on you. Buuuut, she's also wicked shy. Never in a million years would she ask, but she'd love it if you'd sign her chest. Do you mind?"
ROCCO: Sure! (glances over his shoulder) Which one?
(I specified)
ROCCO: (looks at me) She's pretty hot...
Elle maintains that, crush or no, she is also a good girl after all, since, when he walked over and moved her shirt, for that split second before she realized what, exactly, he was doing, she did freak out a little. But only for a second.
After that, she turned to me and said: "NOW we can leave!"
We kept a moderate amount of mature, level-headedness at the party. Once on the train, we became two teenage girls coming home from the Beatles playing Shea Stadium.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Part 3: Rocco, T. Duffy and Bob, Oh My!!!
It's taken a while to get back to this (I site creepy neighbors and creepier writer's block. This has nothing, NOTHING I say, to do with procrastination).
I started this blog because I function well in a forum for monologuing (and because my sister and the OY department bullied me). I like to think that I can at least entertain (if not help) others by sharing amusing (and hopefully useful) observations and stories. One of the things that kept me away from finishing this little series was the concern that these entries would only be interesting to me...and a few others. Was I falling into the BBT? The Boring Blog Trap? Sigh.
Oral tradition is alive and well in my life. I come from a story telling family; over the years, I consistently make friends with story telling (or listening) people. However, unlike the other stories that get told (and retold, and retold) in my circles of friends, this one is only between Elle and me. While we never get tired of reliving this night, we seldom tell it anymore. Because it's something that happened to just us, it's the kind of story that's fun for everyone else to hear...once. Maaaaybe twice.
Since it doesn't get retold, it is in danger of losing details. Even as I prepared for this entry, as Elle and I got all excited about it, we discovered that she and I remembered (and forgot) different things about that night.
In conclusion: the reason I wanted to share this story is that I want a record of it.
So. After this (and it's conclusion) I promise not to make too many entries of this kind. That having been said...
As I mentioned before, we had no desire whatsoever to drive a car in Boston. Therefore, I GPSed our way to Alewife parking garage/train station while Elle watched All Saints Day on the shotgun side. It wasn't the best way to see it, but the sequel's villain would be at the party, and most (if not all) of the people attending will have seen it. Avoiding Spoiler Poisoning 101.
We parked, realized how suburbanite we've become (ticket purchasing has changed a LOT from the mid-90s, pre-everyone-using-plastic-for-everything days), amused an information desk person with our naivete, bought train tickets and got our happy asses on the train.
And this is the point where we started slipping down the slope. The slope of age. By the time we arrived at the club on Commonwealth Avenue, we were twitching and laughing and, literally, wide eyed as two teenagers. Folks who know me personally can attest I don't often go the the Giddy Place - but there I was.
"And to make a long story short (too late!) one by one (we) all arrived." - Tim Curry, as Wadsworth, Clue
Arrived, got inside, whatever.
Breezing through impromptu Christmas shopping at the concert kiosk-esque counter and making small talk with other fans...one woman (who apparently follows them around the country) casually mentioned that David Della Rocco's in the lobby. I'd like to pretend that we absorbed that information with cool detachment and politely found a way to saunter out to the lobby.
But we didn't. Again, teenage girls. To our credit, though we practically Harry Potter Apparated to the lobby, no squeally, squeaky, "omigodomigodomigod there he is!" nonsense came from us.
In the movies, Rocco is funny, loud and spends most of his time looking unkempt, unshowered and sweaty. In real life, he is still funny, but fairly soft spoken and quite clean. He graciously posed arm in arm for pictures, signed the back of my phone when I couldn't find a piece of paper (of ALL of the things not to bring???) and humored us with some friendly chit chat.
Well, humored me. I found out later that as I was getting my phone back from the person who took the picture, he had quietly asked Elle: "Would it be alright if we just stayed this way?"
Now, Elle may be a #3 - but that's only in her choice between Connor and Murph. Just as I had come primarily to meet Norman Reedus - she was there to meet David Della Rocco. She tells this part of the story with lots of happy, happy sound effects - but I was there, and can attest that, when I saw him discretely whispering to her, her response was pleased but dignified.
The next couple of hours went by in a bit of a blur, punctuated by moments of clarity. Specifically, when Troy's pen ran out of ink just as he was to give me an autograph, he put up his hands, said "WAIT HERE. I'LL BE RIGHT BACK", left, and actually DID work his way back through the (enormous) crowd to find me, and get back to taking pictures and signing things.
With Bob, my freaking camera wouldn't work - but he waited...and waited...and waited. Since there were so many people waiting to get their pictures/autographs, I felt badly and told him not to worry about it. He looked at me and said "Don't worry, sweethaaht" (love his Maine accent), "I'm not going anywhere, you just tell me when it stahts working." He turned, signed, posed, etc.,
Eventually, the camera got back in the game, but I figured it had been too long...he was busy...ah well...
(tap, tap, tap) "So is you're camera working yet?"
Which brings me to what is probably the most important thing I took from this evening.
When you read about celebrities, or see their pictures, or watch them in interviews - you, or at least I, wonder - "yeah, but are they nice in real life?" Troy Duffy, especially, has been painted with a very dirty brush as being an egomaniac, a jerk.
These men are honestly decent sorts. Bob didn't have to take the time to talk to me again, and if Troy is an egomaniac/jerk...I didn't see it.
Cynically, you could argue that Elle and I are women and, while not supermodels, still attractive. Maybe they were flirting. However. Those men took the time to sign and pose for everyone. They took just as much (obvious) enjoyment from hanging out with the men who were there to meet them as they did with the women (no matter how young, or scantily clad).
Yes, they're famous. Yes, they're adored. Yes, they have a fan base so rabid that, after 10 years a movie that went straight to video got a theater released sequel. But...
They genuinely know, understand and appreciate why they have all of that. You could see it in all of their faces - they really love their fans and were enjoying the opportunity to interact with us.
There I am, in the middle of a crowd, savoring this epiphany, when Elle gives me a tap, points over my shoulder and says, "There's your boy."
I started this blog because I function well in a forum for monologuing (and because my sister and the OY department bullied me). I like to think that I can at least entertain (if not help) others by sharing amusing (and hopefully useful) observations and stories. One of the things that kept me away from finishing this little series was the concern that these entries would only be interesting to me...and a few others. Was I falling into the BBT? The Boring Blog Trap? Sigh.
Oral tradition is alive and well in my life. I come from a story telling family; over the years, I consistently make friends with story telling (or listening) people. However, unlike the other stories that get told (and retold, and retold) in my circles of friends, this one is only between Elle and me. While we never get tired of reliving this night, we seldom tell it anymore. Because it's something that happened to just us, it's the kind of story that's fun for everyone else to hear...once. Maaaaybe twice.
Since it doesn't get retold, it is in danger of losing details. Even as I prepared for this entry, as Elle and I got all excited about it, we discovered that she and I remembered (and forgot) different things about that night.
In conclusion: the reason I wanted to share this story is that I want a record of it.
So. After this (and it's conclusion) I promise not to make too many entries of this kind. That having been said...
As I mentioned before, we had no desire whatsoever to drive a car in Boston. Therefore, I GPSed our way to Alewife parking garage/train station while Elle watched All Saints Day on the shotgun side. It wasn't the best way to see it, but the sequel's villain would be at the party, and most (if not all) of the people attending will have seen it. Avoiding Spoiler Poisoning 101.
We parked, realized how suburbanite we've become (ticket purchasing has changed a LOT from the mid-90s, pre-everyone-using-plastic-for-everything days), amused an information desk person with our naivete, bought train tickets and got our happy asses on the train.
And this is the point where we started slipping down the slope. The slope of age. By the time we arrived at the club on Commonwealth Avenue, we were twitching and laughing and, literally, wide eyed as two teenagers. Folks who know me personally can attest I don't often go the the Giddy Place - but there I was.
"And to make a long story short (too late!) one by one (we) all arrived." - Tim Curry, as Wadsworth, Clue
Arrived, got inside, whatever.
Breezing through impromptu Christmas shopping at the concert kiosk-esque counter and making small talk with other fans...one woman (who apparently follows them around the country) casually mentioned that David Della Rocco's in the lobby. I'd like to pretend that we absorbed that information with cool detachment and politely found a way to saunter out to the lobby.
But we didn't. Again, teenage girls. To our credit, though we practically Harry Potter Apparated to the lobby, no squeally, squeaky, "omigodomigodomigod there he is!" nonsense came from us.
In the movies, Rocco is funny, loud and spends most of his time looking unkempt, unshowered and sweaty. In real life, he is still funny, but fairly soft spoken and quite clean. He graciously posed arm in arm for pictures, signed the back of my phone when I couldn't find a piece of paper (of ALL of the things not to bring???) and humored us with some friendly chit chat.
Well, humored me. I found out later that as I was getting my phone back from the person who took the picture, he had quietly asked Elle: "Would it be alright if we just stayed this way?"
Now, Elle may be a #3 - but that's only in her choice between Connor and Murph. Just as I had come primarily to meet Norman Reedus - she was there to meet David Della Rocco. She tells this part of the story with lots of happy, happy sound effects - but I was there, and can attest that, when I saw him discretely whispering to her, her response was pleased but dignified.
The next couple of hours went by in a bit of a blur, punctuated by moments of clarity. Specifically, when Troy's pen ran out of ink just as he was to give me an autograph, he put up his hands, said "WAIT HERE. I'LL BE RIGHT BACK", left, and actually DID work his way back through the (enormous) crowd to find me, and get back to taking pictures and signing things.
With Bob, my freaking camera wouldn't work - but he waited...and waited...and waited. Since there were so many people waiting to get their pictures/autographs, I felt badly and told him not to worry about it. He looked at me and said "Don't worry, sweethaaht" (love his Maine accent), "I'm not going anywhere, you just tell me when it stahts working." He turned, signed, posed, etc.,
Eventually, the camera got back in the game, but I figured it had been too long...he was busy...ah well...
(tap, tap, tap) "So is you're camera working yet?"
Which brings me to what is probably the most important thing I took from this evening.
When you read about celebrities, or see their pictures, or watch them in interviews - you, or at least I, wonder - "yeah, but are they nice in real life?" Troy Duffy, especially, has been painted with a very dirty brush as being an egomaniac, a jerk.
These men are honestly decent sorts. Bob didn't have to take the time to talk to me again, and if Troy is an egomaniac/jerk...I didn't see it.
Cynically, you could argue that Elle and I are women and, while not supermodels, still attractive. Maybe they were flirting. However. Those men took the time to sign and pose for everyone. They took just as much (obvious) enjoyment from hanging out with the men who were there to meet them as they did with the women (no matter how young, or scantily clad).
Yes, they're famous. Yes, they're adored. Yes, they have a fan base so rabid that, after 10 years a movie that went straight to video got a theater released sequel. But...
They genuinely know, understand and appreciate why they have all of that. You could see it in all of their faces - they really love their fans and were enjoying the opportunity to interact with us.
There I am, in the middle of a crowd, savoring this epiphany, when Elle gives me a tap, points over my shoulder and says, "There's your boy."
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