ByJane Shall Go On....

So here's my quandry: what shall I do with this here little blog called ByJane? There are great things happening over at MidLifeBloggers, only some of which are apparent right now (yes, that means that there are other great things in the wings). And, true, it has become a more or less fulltime venture. But still, shall I just abandon ByJane? I've been dithering and cogitating about that for some time now. At first I thought: yes. Then I thought: no. And then I thought: is there a middle way?

I think there is, and this is it. I'm going to post on ByJane, mostly short stuff, and cross-post it on MidLifeBloggers. It won't be a Headliner--unless, that is, I find something of unusual note to say--but it will have its own little area on the main page. I'm going to call it--are you ready for this--ByJane. Creative, no? Thus, those of you who consider yourselves too young for MidLifeBloggers don't have to forego my wit and wisdom. And I still have venue for dispensing my pearls, rather than casting them (over my left shoulder) to the swine.

A No-Calorie Cupcake, that's actually good for you

I want you to close your eyes, sit back and go to that place in your mind where all is well with the world.

There?

Yet?

Okay, now I want you to imagine in front of you a red devil's food cupcake. It's moist and chocolatey and red (but not in a way that will stain your teeth, tongue, or fingers). The frosting is a pillowy dollop of marshmallow cream with the sweetest little curl at the top. Can't you just imagine burrowing your tongue into the cream? Can't you just imagine the frosting melting in your mouth (but not in a way that will add any calories to your daily intake)?

Can you taste it?

Yet?

Okay, that's all that you get for today, but if you want to create your own virtual cupcake AND maybe win an Electrolux Washer and Dryer set, here's the details:

In the spirit of Valentine's Day, Electrolux has teamed up with one of America's favorite moms, Kelly Ripa, to spread a little love via a charitable social media campaign. On the Electrolux Web site, you can create and send a unique virtual cupcake to friends and family during February. For every cupcake sent, Electrolux will donate $1 to the Ovarian Cancer Research Fund (OCRF) as part of their half million dollar commitment to help support this worthy cause. Which means each virtual cupcake will go a long way.

What's more, everyone who logs on and sends a cupcake will be entered for a chance to win the newest front-load Washer & Dryer (an estimated $3,600 value) from Electrolux, the appliance brand used throughout fine homes in Europe for 80 years.

Tell 'em Kelly sent you--and Jane, courtesy of MomCentral.

Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah!

Yeah, I know I have been MIA not to mention absent from my blog and not publishing a word's worth of wit (whatever that means!) on ByJane. So sue me...

Maybe four years is long enough to run a blog?

Maybe I'm more engaged with MidLifeBloggers.

Maybe I'm tired of using my life, my every itch and inkling, as fodder for blogging.

Whatever--deal with it. Or not. As you please.

(All 25 of you...)

Why I Will Never Weigh Less

This should be subtitled: Ya Want Me Thin or Ya Want Me Happy?

I have just come back from a Sugar Run. This is when I get in my car and go! anywhere! there's! sweetstuff! I knew I had to do this when I read an email about MidLifeBloggers and didn't give a shit that I didn't care at all to find out what the sender was talking about. "Hold all discussion about logo colors. I have to get a cupcake."

But first, Molly and I had to get her some food. That dog is going to eat me out of house and home, as my mother used to say (and I didn't understand what it meant then either, hello Chris Martin).

But first I had to go to Michael's to get me a gem or two to fiddle with. And in Michael's, I met with a Very Large Woman who was insidiously insistent on jumping the queue. When I called her on it the first time, she got all humble "Sorry sorry sorry..." she said in what I think was a West Indian accent. And then she preceded to sprint for the next open cash register. Do I have to describe to you my wrath and chagrin and how I arrived at the cash register just a beat after she did and waved my goods over her head for the clerk to take. But the clerk was cowering and yelling for help and obviously wasn't going to Do The Right Thing And Instill Public Decorum. So I flung myself over to the next cash register and stopped myself from hissing a multitude of Ugly American comments.

Still seething, I got into my car, turned the key in the ignition, and--nada. So I jumped out, put Molly on a leash and we walked WALKED all the way down to the pet store. She was hyper as hell which manifests itself as Whirling Dervish act. This, as you might imagine, did not help my mood. I dragged her around the store--actually, she dragged me, more or less--and finally we WALKED all the way back to where the car was parked.

And it still wouldn't start.

So I called D, because when my car won't start I like to remind him that it's his fault I bought it. He told me to call AAA. I called AAA and the operator was just tellling me that there were no tow trucks available but he'd put an order in--. And my car started. Just like that. Obviously some sympatico thing between the AAA vibes and--whatever.

I drove straight to Starbucks because I was lusting after a cupcake. But when I got there, they had those Almond Pecan Cookie things that I'm addicted to. What To Do? What To Do? What To Do?

It was a tough afternoon, guys, so I bought both cupcake and cookie.

There is now a smile on my face (and a crumb on my chest...).

Another Account of Cleaning Woes and Wonders

I do not have to tell you again that I will do anything to avoid cleaning. Do I? Do I? No, I thought not. So when I tell you that I have found something that helps me achieve that end, you must believe me. But if you don't, I'm humble enough to offer photographic evidence. To wit, Exhibit One: my stove top in its natural state
Am I embarrassed at the schmutz (not to mention spaghetti sauce) that sullies this fine stove? Clearly I am not the woman who wipes up after every spill--or even every day. Yes, I'm embarrassed, but I'm shaming myself for your benefit. Normally in such a state, I would soak the racks in soapy water and scrub the hell out of the cooktop with my bare hands.

But not this time. This time I, thanks to MomCentral, had in hand Green Works Wipes. They are natural, biodegradable cleaning wipes, all of which sounds good, but frankly, I've found the natural stuff in the cleaning department to be a little less than efficacious, if you know what I mean. So I questioned the power of these wipes to do the heavy duty job my housekeeping requires. And now I offer Exhibit Two:The rag at the bottom of the frame is the single Green Works cleaning wipe that I used. To clean the entire stovetop. All four burners. And the racks.

T'was a miracle, I tell you. I didn't even work up a sweat...or grease my elbow. I merely wiped and the schmutz (and spaghetti sauce) came off, as is evident in Exhibit Three:

Do I recommend these? You bet I do.

Day Somethingorother of Jane's Wondrous Training Sessions

Thus far, I have had two training sessions. The first, when I completed the now-famous 18 minute mile, was a week ago. The second was this past Saturday. T'was a three miler. THREE MILES?! WTF!!!!

Here's the awful truth I'm learning about myself: I'm a quitter. When the going gets tough, I'm like out the door licketysplit. In my current [woeful] condition, that happens at about the 10 yard line. Or maybe, the twenty--I never have been good at judging distances. I hit this wall--you've heard of The Wall you hit when you're doing endurance stuff? Well, the wall I hit says, "Waaah, no way...this is hard....I can't...oh woe...." The first week, when it was Just A Mile (!), there were lots of cheerleaders along the route with signs and thumbs up and, jeeze, I couldn't cop out in front of all of them, could I? On Saturday, however, it was just me. Me and the dust kicked up by the herd of my fellow runner/walkers who were way, way, way way way ahead of me. I thought about taking a short cut--who would know?--but I didn't. I didn't because it seems grotesque, not to mention shameful, because, really, who was I cheating but myself? I guess I must have an iota of character left.

When I got home, I checked the training schedule. Oh. We were supposed to be doing these training sessions on our own during the week. Oh.

So today, I laced up my new running shoes (which look like U-boats, I'm afraid) and did another three miles. By myself. Yes, I did. Then I came home and died.....

TTES

...and that has nothing to do with 'tough' or 'tits' or anything else you're thinking. It is an acronym--aren't we all all about acronyms these days--for Training To End Stroke. Catchy, no?
Other major fundraising groups sponsor marathons; the American Stroke Association trains you to run/walk one.

So how is it that this particular group landed such a die-hard marathoner as moi? Well, you know that ruptured cerebral aneurysm I had six years ago? That was, medically speaking, a stroke. I didn't accept it at the time. When someone somewhere in the bowels of Cedars Sinai Hospital who was doing yet another something to me, dared to call me a stroke victim, "Hell no," I shot back. "I've had a Ruptured Cerebral Aneurysm."

"Yeah," said technician answered. "Same thing."

I didn't argue out loud because, well, for one, I had a multitude of tubes and stuff poking in and out of various natural and man-made orifices. But in my mind--which never stopped working, thank you very much--I thought, No way. Strokes are what old people have, and I'm not old.

So why now am I willing to cop to it? For one, it is six years later and I have matured (although I'm still not old!). But also, well, also it just seemed time for me to train for something.

I am, as I've always made clear, a complete doofus when it comes to things physical. I don't swim because going in a pool makes one wet. I don't play sports, because they make one sweat. And I don't do exercise, because it's just so damned tedious.

Ten, twenty years ago, this was funny. Today, it's pathetic. So in a last gasp effort to master my recalcitrant body, I have signed on to Walk A Marathon in May. I shall be collecting pledges (which means I shall be hitting everyone up). I shall be out in the elements between now and then training. And I shall here be monitoring my every effort.

And won't that be a kick in the pants for those who enjoy watching others suffer....

January 20 plus 365

Let's not let the feeling end...that sense of hope and togetherness, of being able to achieve what we must simply because we are willing to work for it.

Let's try to keep our cynicism at bay. Let's rip up the bumper stickers that say, "He with the most toys wins...." Let's tune out Celebrity Apprentice because Donald Trump's philosophy is so antithetical to the way of life we all are wanting.

Let's get our joy, instead, not from the money in our banks (what money? what banks?) but from our families, our kids, our friends, our pets (who are family and friends!). Let's remember that life is very short and there are no awards given at the end, so if we don't enjoy the ride, that's all there is.

Go look at the story of the DC 24 kids, a group of children from Chicago, who were sent to the inauguation by The McCormick Foundation, a nonprofit organization committed to strengthening our free, democratic society by investing in children, communities and country. Read what going meant to these kids; share what going or watching meant to you and yours.

Play it forward. Keep the feeling going. Remember why.....

Some Thoughts On Inauguration Day

I got up early this morning, very early, and watched much of the ceremony sans contacts, coffee, and toothpaste. Also sans hairbrush, bra, and shoes. Attractive? Yes, but I didn't want to miss a moment. I stood when the crowd stood and cheered when they cheered and, yes, cried when they cried. In the aftermath, I keep hearing how 'you had to be there to truly appreciate it.' Not having been there, I thought I truly appreciated what I had. Perhaps it's an indication that I really am a loner. When I thought of the missed camaraderie of watching this monumental event with my fellow citizens, I mostly appreciated not being annoyed by the vagaries of their responses.

I loved seeing Cheney reduced to being pushing along behind the others in his wheel chair. It seemed so very symbolic to me. In the past, whenever I see him on TV, I want to get me a big blunderbuss and blast through the TV at him. I steeled myself for feeling that today as well when the Evil Doer (the real Evil Doer) came trundling along looking nothing if not pathetic. Is that mean of me? Maybe. But I blame him for almost all the ills of the past eight years, and I hope in some way that he suffers for what he has wrought.

I didn't like the First Lady's outfit today. It's just a taste thing: I'm not real big on lace. And I don't think I cared for the ball gown. I'm not real big on one shoulder dresses. Again, it's just a taste thing.

I can't stop watching the coverage. I can't believe it's actually true, that this man actually became president just barely two years beyond his introduction to the national political scene. I wasn't an early Obama follower, I must admit. For one, I so wanted Hillary to go the distance. But, too, I just didn't believe all the hype surrounding Obama. When people would gush, I'd think "Yeah, yeah...and you thought George W. was such a swell fellow too." The problem was that sixteen years of vicious street fighting between the GOP and the Dems had crushed my belief in the intelligence and sanity of my fellow citizens. They seemed only able to hear who screamed the loudest or the foulest or, even, the first. I didn't see their fervor over Obama as anything different. And because I had been disappointed so often in the past, I suppose I was reluctant to allow myself to fall under his spell. So I didn't pay attention to his speeches and, truthfully, I thought I might vote for McCain. But then Obama got the nomination and Hillary made the speech pointing out the disparity between what her supporters believed and what McCain stood for. I started to listen a little. Then McCain chose Sarah Palin as his running mate and the Republican convention was nothing if not the same old nasty bullshit as usual. I started to listen to Obama a lot. And now I see that he truly is the only person for the job--and I can't believe my fellow citizens regained their intelligence and sanity sufficient to vote him into office. It isn't that I expect Obama to work any miracles; it's that there's a We, The People back on the job.

Emma Thompson's First Blog Post--Talking About Last Chance Harvey

"Dear Fellow Females,

I've been asked to offer a blog on my new film, ‘Last Chance Harvey' -- which, as a computer illiterate, I get confused with ‘snog' (British slang for kissing) and ‘shog' (Shakespearian word used by Pistol in Henry V meaning ‘leave') neither of which -- I realise-- is the correct interpretation.

But it is a comment, or view, I think, that you want, and here it is:

I shall turn 50 this year, which is not without its odd emotions and has got me thinking about being, well, old. I don't mean decrepit, I mean not infantile, no longer so attached to things, no longer so concerned about what others think, no longer so anxious to prove myself -- you may know the sort of thing I mean. It was rather a treat, therefore, to play what is-- in a way-- my first modern romantic lead in a film that is more romantic than comic (although it has very funny moments and is underscored with irony and subtle humour throughout) where I was not required to be stunningly attractive or in despair or in need of rescue, but simply an ordinary woman in her forties living a rather stale-looking life as best she can.

Along comes this rather brash American (Dustin) and he blows a great hole in her defenses (don't you think we all build them for various stages in life and then FORGET TO DISMANTLE THEM when the danger is past or the trauma has been lived through?). So what you are watching is a sudden flood of real communication (how rare is that?), the sort of communication that shifts the emotional tectonic plates and provokes seismic movement in the soul.

Again, it's rare to watch this on the screen because you need to be a little thoughtful and not require explosions of the literal kind to keep you interested. I'd guess that's a fair description of us.

If you see the picture, and I hope you will because I love it very much and am moved by it every time I see it, you'll notice I am decidedly unglamorous and at least size 16. I really wanted to look like a "normal" woman, I mean in terms of body size.

Actresses seem to be getting tinier and tinier and I do wonder how we think we can present really powerful women, matriarchs and the like, when we seem to insist upon having such attenuated physiques.

So Kate is solid - probably worries a bit about her muffin-top (mine is more like a desk-top these days if you must know) but can't find the energy to worry enough to go to the gym and can't find the time either.

She's a real sort of person, someone I could relate to entirely and I hope you enjoy her. If you do, tell your friends because the more we can get films like this well distributed the more films we can make about (for want of a better epithet) real women as opposed to (let's face it) pretend ones.

Warmest wishes to you all for 2009...From Emma Thompson, a first time blogger at fifty"

Last Chance Harvey is finally wending it’s way to the secondary, tertiary, and--what's the word for fourth class markets? I got the chance to see it at a screening last week (thank you, Women & Film). I took a friend, and she absolutely loved it. So much that happened to the characters in the film resonated with her, so she could say no ill.

I, on the other hand, am a harder sell. When I had to give a response to the production company, I said, "What's not to love about a film that stars Emma Thompson and Dustin Hoffman?" And that's true. They are sublime actors who bring their characters, warts and all, to life. But for all that, Last Chance Harvey is a romantic comedy that pretty much follows the formula for the genre. As realistic as Thompson and Hoffman make their characters, the overall effect of the film is, for me, hampered by the predictability of the action. Cabs are always available, plot points are always clearly made and the only suspense I felt when the couple missed their grand meeting with each other was whether the filmmakers had cribbed the plot line from An Affair To Remember. There is, then, a dissonance between the quality of the acting and the quality of the script.

But, as my friend might tell you, that's just the snobby, arrogant film critic in me coming out. The egalitarian feminist in me says: go see it this weekend (remember, that's when the box office numbers have the most weight) and make up your own mind. These days what with the economy as it is and the price of movie tickets (and popcorn...and soda--my God!), my final critique of a film is: was it worth the money? Yes, definitely--and, really, then some. Because formula be damned, this film has Dustin Hoffman and Emma Thompson, the fifty year old actress, filmmaker, and--oh-- first time blogger.

Cross-posted to MidLifeBloggers

Heppy New Year (which is better than Hippy New Year)

Everyone I've read today is doing retrospective posts. They are fine pieces of writing, florid at times (and at times, not) that offer substantial summing up of 2008 (and at times, don't).

Don't worry: I have no such offering here.

I'm not one for looking back--or for that matter, forward. It's enough for me to concentrate on just what is right now. How absolutely, awfully, disgustingly Zen of me. Not to mention only true for this precise moment.

So at this precise moment, I'm feeling quite content with my lot in life, such as is it, ta dum ta dum. Here's what I'm liking, at this precise moment:

1. I FINALLY found the absolutely perfect template for MidLifeBloggers. It is installed--sort of. That means, that not all parts of it are operational, but they will be soon if not sooner.

2. This, the finding and installing of the template, is an excellent thing because until I did, I was ready to shitcan the entire site. IT WOULD NOT DO WHAT I WANTED IT TO. Not to mention that IT WAS STARTING TO BORE ME. And if it bored me, its mama, just imagine what it was doing to the rest of the world. But the thing was, I just didn't care. Because I COULD NOT GET THE SITE TO DO WHAT I WANTED IT TO. But now I can and, ergo, we're in business again. Sans orange...or as one of our regulars said, "so you've folded the orange tent." Yes, I have.

3. I'm feeling at peace with who I am, for the first time in I don't know when. How long this will last, I'm not sure. Just mark that on December 31st, 2008, I liked me.

4. Here's a pitcher of Julie, Max, and Brit on the boat fishing. Notice the life jackets, please. Julie and Mark (the photographer) are nothing if not perfect parents.

It's Boxing Day in Britain

You may believe the folklore that that's the day the Brits give their help their Christmas presents. That may have been true, oh a million years ago, or maybe even now for a Very Small Number of Brits who have 'help.' For the rest of the country, though, Boxing Day is when you have a hangover from the excesses of Christmas Day. Here's what I recall of Christmas Days when I lived in England.*

Hamish and I were visiting our friends, Bunny and Ray, somewhere in the northern reaches of England. I can't remember the actual city, but it had to be one where there was a rep company, because Ray, like Hamish, was an actor. And Bunny, like me, was a wife who worked. I've arrived on Christmas Eve, because I had to ply my secretarial trade that day. My boss, the porcine Mr. Platt, in his best fatherly fashion, had dragged me and my huge sacks full of Christmas gifts in a taxi to the train station. Mr. Platt was porky; he was also a Republican; and he was also very kind.

When the train chugged it's way north, I drank coffee and ate a stale British Rail cheese sandwich. The former was poured from two pots, one containing coffee and the other hot milk, at a great height, say 2 feet or so, by the porter. Without spilling a drop--quite a feat. The latter was, as were all British sandwiches then (and now?) composed of a single slice of cheese between two buttered slices of white bread. Yum. If you were lucky, there wasn't any green on the bread.

When the train pulled into the station, Hamish and Ray and Bunny were waiting for me. Or maybe it was just Hamish and Ray. Or perhaps just Hamish. I can't remember because, frankly, the coffee was the last non-alcoholic beverage I drank for the next 36 hours. Each of us had laid in a store of our Christmas drink. I don't remember what the others had, but mine was a pitcher of gin martinis, light on the vermouth, kept chilling the refrigerator. We drank. We ate. We watched endless variety shows on TV. And we drank some more, and the next day, Boxing Day, we had to drink again, because without Hair of the Dog, none of us could put one foot in front of the other.

The cast of characters changed over the six or so Christmases I spent in England, but the activities never did. We drank, we ate, we watched bad TV, and on Boxing Day we recovered.

*Which was, admittedly, some time ago, so maybe they have become more civilized since then.

Happy Anniversary to Me

Actually I'm a day late--and some might say, a dollar short--because yesterday, December 13, was the fourth anniversary of ByJane. That first post was on LiveJournal and my avatar was a photo of Molly that I can't even find now. I had great expectations for the blog; two years later, I was somewhat chastened. Not to mention disappointed. And at times pissed off. But I persevered and here's what I was promising on December 13, 2006. I was a tad ambitious, perhaps, and--as has been my wont before--promised more than I provided. Still, some 645+ published posts down the road, I'm proud of what I've wrought: it's been me up-close, sometimes uncomfortable and sometimes goofy. But that's me...by Jane.

Still Futzing with the Template

Can you tell? Probably not, unless you're refreshing frequently. Or were hovering over ByJane about 6:30 this morning. But that would be 9:30 East coast time, so maybe you were. Or maybe I'm delusional.

Yes, I got out of bed in what is to me the wee small hours to futz with my template. I cannot help myself. It makes me feel like I'm achieving things. It gives me a purpose in life, a something to do NOW, IMMEDIATELY. Because I know that the reason my stats are so puny is that my blog is more than relatively unattractive. It has nothing to do with what or when I post, I'm sure of that, because my words--they're always pearls, right? So I'm convinced that there is a blog design that will suddenly--hail all and eureka!--cause the heavens to part and the multitudes to reign (or is that rain?) down on ByJane. Complete with winning comments.

Yeah.

Right.

Oh yes, you wanted to see my hair. Okay:Here I am shorn.

And off I go, to futz again.

Merry Ho Ho Ho--and a Bah to you too...

Don't know what you get your honey for Christmas? Don't be looking here for any ideas.

It's not that I don't love the holidays. I do I do! I love tinsel and glitter and the smell of [real] pine (the fake stuff, not so much). I just got back from the supermarket and my nose is twitching because I spent a full five minutes with it buried in the evergreen wreath display. I didn't buy anything; I just soaked up smells.

I love wrapping gifts, making like Martha with the matching paper and ribbon. See--this is from a couple of years ago:
This year, though, I'm eschewing all attempts at gift-giving jollity. I refuse to participate in that Times are Tough so Look Happy That I Bought You Toilet Paper--and stuck a fuckin' bow on it. I will not indulge in an orgy of fake bling exchanges. If I can't trade the real stuff with my nearest and dearest--well, then I won't.

I come from a family mired in giftgiving bullshit. Did I say that nicely enough? My sister, bless her little heart, loves to give presents and she will give them to you whether you want them or not. I'm not sure why she loves to give presents. What's the exchange there for her? It's not that she treasures hunting for the perfect gift, because more often than not, unless she's been given a list (which her kids learned to do when they could barely write), she will give something that she likes without a thought that you would not be caught dead in it. And it's not that she's found that perfect something for you on vacation last year and tucked it away till the holidays. If she did, she can't find it. And if she can find it, she is pleased to tell you she can't remember what it is. This is, one might say, passive-aggressive gift giving honed to a fine art.

Consequently and as a result as well--I tend to view gift giving as a chore that causeth me to break out in hives. If I were, that is, a hive-y sort of person; which I'm not (although I do have a few sneezing type allergies). Thus, this year I am declaring that The Economy Is Too Bad for me to even consider gifting others (you like gifting as a verb? how about toileting as a verb?). And next year? Perhaps I'll still be recovering from this year.

News bulletin: I had just about put the period on that last sentence when my doorbell did ring and who should appear but a friend bearing a frothy golden beribboned package. Well, shit--.

Win A Book To Curl Up With on Christmas Eve

Here's the bookand here's part of the back jacket copy:

Gracefully capturing the strange alchemy of people and places, Kaya McLaren's story of redemption and rediscovery will inspire readers to find the magic and power in every day shared with the people they love.

Here's what you have to do to win it:

1. Write in a comment why you want to win it. Why should you, of all my millions of readers, be the one to curl up with Church of the Dog? Make me laugh; make me cry; make me want to spend the postage to send it to you in time for Christmas Eve.

That's all. Nothing magical. Just a comment. From you--to me....

I'm Housecleaning, dum de dum

Not in my house, dummy. Here, on my blog. It's coming up to the anniversary of ByJane and I thought--ya know, Jane, this blog looks like shit. So I'm sweeping with new brooms and swabbing the decks and whatever else I get the notion to do.

Meanwhile, Liz over at Inventing My Life tapped me for a meme. At first I thought--oooooooooooooohhh nooooooooooo. But when I read her responses, they were so interesting, I got inspired (I think there are too many clauses for one sentence there, but whatever...). So, here's the program:
1) Link to your tagger and list all these rules in your blog.
2) Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3) Tag 7 people at the end of your post by including links to their blogs.
4) Let them know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

Random Weird Facts:
1. I invest all objects, living and not, with feelings. Today at the drugstore, I picked up a small poinsettia that had been knocked over. I had the same feeling doing it as I would have picking up a small child that had been knocked over. More, maybe, because the small child would probably have others to care about it, but the small poinsettia? Who does it have but me?

2. I stay up late and I sleep late. That embarrasses me because I know I live in a world of early risers. I'm working on accepting that these are my natural rhythms. So shut up if you're judgmental.

3. I DO NOT LIKE TO CLEAN. Have I mentioned this before? Only ninety million times. I just never got the cleaning gene...what can I say? So shut up if you're judgmental--or don't come over...or prepare to listen to my endless excuses.

4. I would give up my talent at writing if I had an equally good singing voice. I don't. But I do so love to sing. But you would not love to listen to me.

5. I am lactose-intolerant but every night I have a glass of milk when I'm reading in bed. I can, because I live alone. Maybe I live alone because I can and do. Ya think?

6. My feelings get hurt so fast it would make your head spin. My mother kept trying to get me to get a "thicker skin." All I got was an ability to look and sound like I don't give a shit, when inside I'm dying.

7. I'd rather laugh than anything else. The most important A#1 thing about a friend to me is--sense of humor. If you ain't got one, we're not gonna get along.

Seven People I've Tagged:
1. Margaret at Nanny Goats In Panties
2. Fran at Merlot Mom
3. Shani at Rat Phooey
4. Karen at MidLife's A Trip
5. Susan at StonyRiver Farm
6. KJ at Nana Diaries
7. Ellen at Girl's Garden of Menopause

Whew! Am I done yet?

"Hurry Down Sunshine" - Making Sense of Senselessness

There is no hard and fast test for mental illness. The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-IV), which is the bible of the mental health field, can do no more than categorize the propensity for certain symptoms as being probably indicative of certain conditions. If the fellow down the street has at least two of the following—delusions, hallucinations, odd speech, odd behavior, or seems emotionless—chances are he may be schizophrenic. Or maybe not.

This is what makes mental illness such a will ‘o’ the wisp within the medical profession. And what makes it so frightening to those of us who view it from near or from afar. Michael Greenberg, a widely published writer who lives in New York, has had the near and up front view. When his daughter, Sally, was fifteen, she, seemingly without warning, suffered a psychotic break, or as Greenberg puts it, she was “struck mad.” The official diagnosis ultimately was bipolar disorder, manic depression as it used to be known. Hurry Down Sunshine is Greenberg’s retelling of that break. It is unique in that it focuses not on Sally so much as on her family, on what mental illness looks like from the other side of the dinner table.

That this memoir is well-written goes without saying; Greenberg’s publications include the Times Literary Supplement, The Village Voice, and The Threepenny Review. What fascinated me about it, however, were not the stylistic qualities nor the psychiatric specifics. Rather, this memoir brought front and center the ways and means in which we all will go to avoid reality. Even when mania is blaring in our faces, there is a human propensity for explaining it away.

How we do that is, it seems to me, a function of our cultural biases. One of the courses I had to take when I was doing my Master’s in Psychology was called “Human Diversity.” There I learned that our ideas of what psychological health and illness are vary from community to community. This is fascinating when we’re talking about the ways in which non-Western cultures name mental illness. In Southeast Asia, for example, there is a condition called koro, in which the sufferer believes his penis is shrinking and disappearing into his stomach. In Mexico, they have susto, a soul loss disorder caused by a sudden shock. So crucial is understanding the cultural vagaries of mental illness that the DSM-IV lists these other such culturally specific mental illnesses as diagnostically important.

However, what Hurry Down Sunshine reveals is the cultural biases within the Western world. How we approach—and deny—mental illness is a function of our particular world view. How important is it to us that behavior be consistent and explainable? Is there a god or a spirit or a something-else-inside that guides us? What guilts follow us through our life and how do we assuage them? These are all things that affect how we—and Sally’s family—view her breakdown.

The Greenbergs are, in the main, of that particular genre of New Yorkers who are intellectual, spiritual, and burdened with questions about the meaning of meaning. Woody Allen has done the type very well, but Hurry Down Sunshine is real life, not film script and as such, it begs to be taken seriously. Thus Sally’s mother smuggling a homeopathic remedy called “Skullcap” into the locked psych ward and measuring drops of it into her daughter’s mouth is not some out-of-touch New Age weirdo, no matter how easy it would be to explain her away as such. Rather, she is a tortured mother who only has her own belief systems to draw on to help her daughter. And Greenberg himself, who has, by his own admission, “a high intolerance for aberrance”—was this what enabled him to miss his daughter’s impending psychosis, or is it what gave him the grit to remain with her throughout her ordeal?

That I had these and other such thoughts as I was reading Hurry Down Sunshine is testament to how adept Greenberg is at drawing the reader into the their world. We all, characters in the memoir and reader, are constantly asking: why did this happen? Who was at fault? How can we avoid it in the future? What Greenberg has so ably portrayed and evoked is our intense discomfort with mental illness. When faced with it, we are driven to explain, to blame, to conjure cures and might-have-beens. What we’re driven to do, actually, is to make sense of senselessness. An impossible task, that, but one we all face at one time or another, even if it’s just with the babbling fellow we see down the street.

Hurry Down Sunshine
A Memoir
By Michael Greenberg
Published by Other Press
September 2008;$22.00US; 978-1-59051-191-6

Thanksgiving 2008

Everyone seems to be doing Gratitude Posts this Thanksgiving, so what the hell--I'll give it a shot.

I'm grateful for the post-modern broken home where being together as a family is still on everyone's agenda.
The boys and their father....

The daughters-in-law, who may look serious at the moment I took this, but it was a break in the non-stop laughter and talk.

And the mother-in-law in the mirror.











The granddaughter building a magnificent gingerbread house with Aunt Julie...








Oh, and the pecan pie (among others...)

Of Hair and Other Such Man-Made Disasters...

This is not the first time I have written of such subjects. See here and here, if you will. My quest for a decent haircut NOW THAT I LIVE IN ELK GROVE has taken me on another journey. This time I went to a stylist recommended by two friends of mine. I like their haircuts. They touted this stylist as one who is au courant, not to mention up to the minute on the latest hair tricks and styling whatnots. They also said her salon was a bit...well, I didn't really hear what they said. I was so taken with an au courant stylist within a five mile radius. Not to mention one who charges $35 a cut.

The salon: took me a while to find it. Kept driving by it because it is in the back of some huge government building where they pass out visas to barely legal aliens, or some such thing. When I finally found it--and it was in the back, down a long lonely corridor--I passed two women on their way out. They had perms. Those kind of perms that makes one's hair frizz and kink and resemble rusty brillo pads. But I persevered, because I trust my friends and they both swore by this stylist.

And they were right. She is absolutely au courant, having just taken a class in texturing from some Hollywood bigwig. She textured the absolute shit out of my hair. I thought texturing was the new word for layering. But I think they use the word texture because whatever they're doing to your hair gives it a really weird texture. In the normal course of events, I have really thick hair. It's very shiny, healthy, and is a point of pride being my crowning glory and all that. Here's what it looked like in high school--okay, the face is different, but the hair, really the hair is pretty much the same, with the added bonus of a streak of silver.
I no longer have this hair. I, who used to be the envy of all thin-haired girls, now seem to have thin hair myself. I have been textured into near baldness. My ponytail droops, a hundred hairs shy of its former self. And now way could I wear my hair down; there are no more thick waves to flip up at the ends. Well, there is on one side, but the other, near baldness. My glorious silver streak has been textured into salt and pepper. When I get up in the morning and see myself as I brush my teeth, I'm scared. I look like a hag. Frizzy and frizzled and thinning and--oh woe. Oh woe. I've already cut the back myself. Grabbed two handfuls of hair and chopped of an inch or so. It is marginally better. By a very slim margin.

When I spent that six weeks in the hospital after having a cerebral aneurysm, my hair showed the consequence of all the drugs and disaster. This time, I didn't have to spend six weeks in the hospital to get a similar look. And I only paid $35.

Yet again and still forever, I am twisting my hair up, shoving a clip in it and thinking--oh, well, who was I wanting to impress?