8 posts tagged “harlot's sauce”
Happy New Year, Everyone! Today I have some significant news to share.
On December 17, 2009, in the very early hours of the morning, I nearly bled to death. I’m afraid I’m serious ─ by the time I was admitted into hospital from the emergency room, I was down to about a quarter of the amount of blood needed to sustain life.
The irony of this situation is that I was under a doctor’s care at the time, and that’s one of the reasons that I’m going public with this today. The second reason is because since I have been off Facebook, my blogs, and other social networking sites, I’ve been getting emails from ‘fans’ asking questions such as: “Are you in rehab? You can tell me! My brother was in rehab last year at this time.” and “Did you have Demi-Moore-head-to-toe-plastic-surgery? Please post pics!”
I was inclined to let these strangers think what they would, but I’ve also been receiving messages of genuine concern, and those are why I’ve decided to write about this very personal experience publicly.
As boring as this probably makes me, a drug habit and/or a craving to own gravity-defying boobies had nothing to do with my absence from the internet. What actually happened was that on November 9, I had what should have been routine uterine fibroid surgery. I wanted to keep the knowledge of that fact limited to my family and closer circle of friends, because to me there is nothing more cringe-worthy than people announcing these things on their Facebook status updates: Jack is …”getting out of jail this week!” Jane…”’s a husband is a lousy cheat!” Patricia…”had a fibroid the size of a baseball removed from her uterus.”
Yuck.
So, I didn’t announce it, (until now) and only made vague references to “not feeling well”, and even those mentions were only because I’d missed some social and business events. However, the “not feeling well” stretched on and on, and when I questioned my doctor, he went from voicing some concern to being brusquely irritated, “You must be patient. You’re not a patient person.”
And that’s where he got me. I’ve heard that more than once. Even my own husband seconded it. So, I tried to be patient. And, as it turns out, I can be patient. Actually, I was so patient, I nearly died of it.
I’m sorry, I still squeamish about writing the specifics, but suffice it to say that I was bleeding, but in such an unusual pattern that it didn’t raise any alarm bells with the doctor. To be fair to him, the symptoms were atypical. Coupled with this detail was my enormous energy level that was only somewhat depleted by the anemia that was increasing weekly. In fact, the day before I was driven to the Emergency Room by my panicked husband, I attended a business meeting, then went to the market, and ended the day with a walk on the treadmill at my gym!
So, I can’t completely blame the doctor and others around me for missing the signs. But I do blame myself. For the reason that I knew something was wrong, and yet, I allowed myself to be talked out of that gut feeling, because an authority figure’s opinion on that was different than mine. I allowed my criticism of myself for my renowned lack of patience to cow me into accepting advice I knew I shouldn’t have accepted.
This really galls me. In the aftermath of a surgery from which I was not even remotely recovered after six weeks, followed by near-death in which I could literally feel ‘things shutting down’ on the way to the ER, a frantic blood transfusion of six units of blood, a second surgery to correct the problem that was causing the internal bleeding, and a stay in hospital that was like a Saturday Night Live skit (they actually woke me up at 2 a.m. after this ordeal to weigh me), and now looking at another few weeks before I’m able to resume all my normal activities, that one fact that I conceded precedence is what still disturbs me most about this experience. Because if I hadn’t, if I’d trusted myself, none of it would’ve occurred.
Usually, I am confident, capable, and secure in myself. In my writings, especially my political ones, I’m constantly stating how we must all think for ourselves, not cling to an ideology or allow some rhetorical speaker to do our thinking for us. And yet, it took this illness to discover that on some levels, I am still trying to be that ‘good little girl’ who is liked by everyone. Given the right circumstances, press the right buttons, and I will still defer to the instincts of others rather than my own. This was a more shocking realization than the ER doc’s words, “Wow- your blood counts are dangerously low. Lucky for you, you’re so fit. You wouldn’t have made it here otherwise.”
And now, because I’ve been so sick for so long (close to two months, now) I have to work twice as hard just to get back to that fitness level I worked so hard to attain in the first place. I also left the hospital with a cough that makes me sound like a TB victim, due to the second surgery temporarily diminishing my lungs capacity, and am short of breath just walking up a flight of stairs. I have to drink a horrid iron potion that tastes like rotted prunes and old coffee grinds. My skin feels like sandpaper, and I have been warned by my hairdresser that some of my hair might fall out due to the trauma. Pitiful, right? You bet. And stupid, too.
But I did learn some lessons, and oh, boy ─ they were big ones. And I think they might be important enough to share:
First is that this year has been an amazing year for me, and not just because it was almost my last one. I didn’t know when I first published my book that there would be a number of people who’d dislike me as a result. Never thought of that aspect of it, but there it was. So that was a lesson, if not learned for the first time, reiterated: Your true friends are the ones who stick with you not only when times are bad, but also when times for you are really, really good. A sad thing to realize, but an important thing.
On the plus side, there were yet a far greater number of people who were tremendously pleased for me and supportive of my first book. Friends I hadn’t seen in years contacted me to offer sincere congratulations, and new people I met through my writing groups, blogs, etc., were equally enthusiastic and complimentary. I feel truly blessed by this. I’ve always thought that the media overhypes the evil of humankind, and now that the average person has his/her own way of communicating globally through the internet, I find that this is true ─ humanity is mostly good, not mostly bad. It’s a shame that we only get reports about the bad from our mainstream news sources. This was a terrific thing to discover.
I also understood from being ill, that my husband and children, to borrow a phrase from Sally Field, “really do like me”. My son slept at hospital with me the first night I was there, and my husband, whose idea of cooking is to make a sandwich, delivered hot, homemade meals to my bedside every night once I got home. And then there were my friends who rallied ─ Thanksgiving dinner, two Christmas dinners, flowers, get well cards, and phone calls. Messages on Facebook and emails from my colleagues, new friends and former pupils, (who feel like nieces and nephews to me) all meant so, so much.
I’ve always valued my friends and my family, but I admit it was wonderful seeing the tangible proof that they value me, too. It was one more reason to get well, so that I could appreciate and enjoy them all the more.
But the biggest lesson I learned is from now on, with no worries about how others will feel, I’m going to embrace my impatience, rather than try to change it. It’s full speed ahead for me, now and always, because I’m made that way. And never again will I not trust myself. Never again will I feel intimidated by others’ opinions, be they valid or not. And when I find myself wavering from this resolution, I’m going to remember the bruises on my arms from IV needles, the feeling weak and dizzy, the crying as the questions ran around in my head as to why I wasn’t recovering, and all the other momentous experiences of this illness now burned in my memory. They all happened because I still haven’t completely shaken the “Good-Girls-Don’t-Make-a-Fuss Syndrome.” Screw that. From now on, I AM MAKING A FUSS. And it will be your choice to like me for it or not, however you please.
I challenge everyone reading this to do the same. If we do one thing differently this year, let’s embrace ourselves, even with all our faults. I don’t mean ‘be a sociopath and proud’. I mean that while not deliberately causing harm to others, let’s acknowledge that we will make mistakes, that we are not perfect, but we are still worthwhile human beings who have something to offer our friends, our family, and the world. Let’s acknowledge that we can and should have faith in our own selves, even with those imperfections. If we start with that attitude, the year ahead will open us to new encounters. Since we’ll feel more confident, we won’t be afraid when one of our beliefs is challenged, because if we learn that that belief is wrong, it will make us feel empowered, not weakened. We’ll have the courage to fail, not feeling that we are “failures”, but rather human beings on a journey to ever-increasing knowledge. And while none of this will necessarily make the year ahead be filled with all the health, happiness and success we all wish each other every January 1, it will certainly help it be filled with less anxiety and self-doubt.
So, look out 2010 ─
here we come!
P.S- As is the case due to VOX software problems, anyone who would like to leave a comment, can do so on my Facebook page, or on my Word Press blog. The links are: http://www.facebook.com/#/patriciaVdavis?ref=profile
and http://patriciavolonakisdavis.wordpress.com/2010/01/01/2009-the-year-that-ended-dangerously/ I'm very sorry about this continued inconvenience.Main reason I rarely post her anymore. Happy New Year, Everyone. I wish you all a wonderful year!
Once upon a time, a man died and went up to Heaven, where Saint Peter was waiting for him at the Holy Gates.
“I’m very sorry,” said Saint Pete, “but I can’t let you in.”
The man was shocked and very disappointed. “Why not, Saint Peter?” he asked. “Wasn’t I a good man on Earth?”
“You were a very good man, indeed,” replied Saint Pete.“But here’s what your problem was – you could not stop yourself from telling other people how to lead their lives. If they were making a mistake of some kind, you felt compelled to point it out to them.”
Once again, the man was shocked by Saint Peter’s words. “But I don’t understand, Saint Peter. Why was this a bad thing? I was just trying to help them. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do on Earth - help people?”
“Not in this instance,” replied Saint Peter sternly. “You never learned to mind your own business. And for that reason, I’m afraid you’ll have to go to Hell.”
The man pleaded with Saint Pete. “Please, Saint Peter, I didn’t mean any harm. I was just trying to help, that’s all. I didn’t know I was doing a bad thing. Please, please, give me another chance?”
Saint Peter looked at the man and could see that he honestly hadn’t meant any harm. Because that was so, he thought that perhaps he might bend the rules…just this once. However, before he did, he would test the man’s sincerity. Unbeknownst to the man, of course.
“All right,” decided Saint Pete. “I’ll go to the Higher Ups and see what I can do. In the meantime, you wait in that room over there. Just go in, and close the door behind you.”
The room to which the man had been directed was large and empty, save for a bench. As directed, he closed the door as he went in, and sat on the bench, waiting for his verdict. And as he sat, he noticed there was a narrow, open archway which led to an anteroom at the far side, opposite to where he was sitting.
As he was pondering what might be in the anteroom, the door he’d closed opened, and an angel came in. He was carrying a very tall ladder.
“Hello,” said the angel. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. Do you mind if I come through? I’ve just got to take this ladder and leave it in that anteroom over there.”
“Please, go right ahead,” said the man. “You don’t need my permission.”
And then, an odd thing happened. The man watched as the angel walked across the room towards the anteroom, turned his ladder horizontally in his arms, and attempted to walk through the narrow archway with it. Naturally, he was unable to get through, as the ladder held horizontally was now much too wide.
The man observed with incredulity as the angel made attempt after attempt to get through the archway while holding the ladder thusly. Each time, the ends of the ladder banged against the wall on either side of the opening, propelling the angel backwards, and making quite a mess of the walls it kept hitting, in the process.
Naturally, after about fifteen minutes of this, the angel was winded and perspiring.
“Whew!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t realize this was going to be so difficult.”
The man couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you serious?” he blurted. “If you want to get through, hold the damn ladder vertically!”
The angel shook his head and looked at the man regretfully. “My friend," he said, “this ladder’s not damned, but you are.”
And the next thing the man knew, he was in Hell.
_______________________
I can’t remember how old I was when my father told
me the story above, but I was still young enough that
my questions were only just starting to become
annoying to him. Those questions were on every
subject from “Why do you support the war in Vietnam?”
to “Why don’t you ever do anything to stop all the
terrible things going on in this house?”
Since he couldn’t seem to come up with any reasonable
answers for me, the parable above was an attempt to
stave off the inevitable, which was that my
questioning of him would eventually go
from annoying to unbearable… for both of us.
Even my response to this story was not what he’d
hoped. He thought I’d feel forewarned that my quixotic
nature was taking me closer to Hades every day. But
ironically, all it prompted was another litany of
questions: “What kind of angel is stupid enough to
behave like a human?” and “What kind of God would
send a man to Hell for questioning human stupidity?”
It wasn’t until many, many years later that I recognized
that my father had a point, though perhaps not in the
way he’d believed. Anyone at all, with an average
human intelligence, understands very well which
way one needs to hold a ladder in order to get it
through a narrow archway. But pretending that he
doesn’t, he accomplishes one thing – he can tell himself
he tried to get through with everything he had and
just couldn’t succeed.
The fact is, he doesn’t want to succeed. He says
he has to get through a door and deposit a ladder in
an anteroom, but he doesn’t truly want to.
He just wants to pretend to himself and everyone
else, that he really, really tried.
And because this is actually what he wants – that
illusion of the attempt of a completion of a 'task', which is
another word for a ‘change’ – rather than the actual
change – he doesn’t want anyone to point out to him
that his ‘attempt’ is in actuality no attempt at all.
He doesn’t need anyone getting in the way of
his self-deception. Like my father, it will more
than irritate him, because by pointing it out, making him aware that you are aware that he’s lying to himself, you will make him hate himself and, as a result, (especially if your own attempts at change are real, and your desire to help him is motivated out of genuine caring, rather than smug superiority) – he will hate you, too.
A fast way to hell, indeed.
Remember that the next time you
(metaphorically) observe an intelligent adult holding a ladder horizontally, trying to get through an archway.
Say nothing. Wish him “good luck,” and get out of his way.
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I'm sorry I can't answer comments here. They are not possible to answer due to a software glitch on my page, which has now even begun to affect the appearance of my blogs. It's degenerative, I swear.And very irritating.
If you'd like to leave me a message, please visit patriciavolonakisdavis.wordpress.com. Thank you very much.
Kzinti and Baria - thank you for your comments over at my wordpress blog. They meant a lot. I miss you.
I have been receiving a lot of emails from readers ever since my book, Harlot's Sauce, was published. The emails have ranged from "good book, but change the cover" (more than one person has said that, and finally the publisher has listened, but more about that later...) to an outpouring of admiration and assignations to me of wisdom and expertise, as in, "You're SO wise when it comes to relationships. I wish I were more like you."
And this feels... weird. Because, first of all, a letter filled with adoration received from a person who doesn't know me is, to paraphrase Amy Alkon, a bit like having a stranger come up to you and give you a foot massage- it feels good, maybe even a little exciting, but at the same time, it's unnerving. It's too intimate, too fast. And I haven't really earned that intimacy with some of the people who write to me. If anyone who doesn't know me wants to trust me on anything, trust me on this- no one should be wishing to be more like me.
And the part about me being wise? Ha ha. That's funny. The only thing I'm an expert on- a REAL expert - is FAILED relationships. I have failed so many times at love- whether it's romantic, sexual, filial, maternal, daughterly, or comradely, that I guess those who send me emails are right- I probably could predict for anyone when they're headed for tragedy in any of those relationships. But only because I've BEEN there- in a big way. So let's say then that not only do I have that Ph.d in Patrichism, I have also earned my DFR- Doctorate in Failed Relationships. I'm an expert, alright - at breaking my own heart.
My first serious romantic relationship was with a man who used me and my naive virginity, along with my marked lack of self-confidence as his beard for sexual picadilloes I will never repeat, unless they are tortured out of me. I followed that up by worshiping at an altar I created for a man who for decades, considered my dedication to him his 'money card'. He withdrew on that card, and withdrew, and withdrew, with no re-investment, until finally there was no balance left to extract.
During that same time, I had a 'best friend' to whom I was also devoted, and she dropped me not too long after I finally dropped this man. That hurt almost more than the failure of my romantic relationships did, when it finally dawned on me that we'd been 'friends' only because my psyche was in worse shape than hers, and my discontent made her feel better about her own.
And there is so much more, with father and mother and siblings and an extended family group on one side that was less a 'family' and more a 'coven', blood-sworn in their dedication to dysfunction and maliciousness. A cult which cannot admit people who try to be, or are, happy or whole, because somehow that slackens their dark, powerful clutch on one another. I'm talking about the kind of people Anthony Hopkins in some film would warn you to stay away from, unless you were covered in garlic and Crosses.
I developed a terror of getting too close to people generated by all of the above. Why? It was pure self-protection - I only had so much blood in my veins and I'd let those I cared about suck on it for way too long.
As a result of that fear, I screwed up yet again, and almost lost the one man who truly loves me, who is my best friend, as well as my husband and lover. Fear was never going to allow me to make the honest and true friends I do have now, if it hadn't have been for the intervention of some seed of good sense that managed somehow to grow into the great, sturdy tree it's become inside me, despite the soil deprived of minerals in which it's had to blossom. Or maybe it grew because of that, who knows?
And this is me- the real me, without the cleverly written descriptions of my life that make you laugh, the anecdotes which on some days are so tricky to get down on paper - after all, how easy is it, really, to find 'the funny side' of your own foolishness and pain?
Why am I confessing all of this now, and in this unusually maudlin way? Simple. I want you to know who exactly it is you're writing to, asking for advice, and venerating for her 'wisdom.' I want you to know that sometimes the only way to become wise, is to make your own mistakes and live through the agony of them, so that the lesson sticks.
Remember this the next time you come across someone who sounds like an 'expert.' Because they may have become experts the same way I have - not through success after success, but through disaster.
And you know what? It's not nearly as bad as one might think, to learn to be wise that way.
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Note: As is necessary these days due to VOX malfunctions, if you would like to leave a comment about this post, please go to http://patriciavolonakisdavis.wordpress.com
For those who don’t know him, please let me introduce my VOX neighbor, Tommy Hames.
Tom and I disagree on almost every current issue, I’ve noticed. And when we disagree politically, socially, economically and spiritually, well…I won’t sugarcoat this ─ I think he’s wrong. Dead wrong. And I think that I’m right. And my guess would be Tom thinks I’m wrong, dead wrong (can you imagine?) and he’s right.
And yet, it’s a funny thing…I still like Tom. And he likes me. Based on replies to my posts, comments he’s made on his, I know he thinks about my perspective, even if he will never agree with me. And I do the same about his.
In fact, sometimes, at dinner, I will tell my husband some of the things about which Tom and I disagree, and my husband almost always says I’m right and Tom is wrong. (He’d be a madman not to, wouldn’t he? After all, Tom doesn’t cook dinner for him.)
But, my husband and I talk about what Tom thinks and writes. And not once have we ever thought that Tom didn’t have a right to his beliefs, or perspectives. Not once have I ever thought him a person unworthy of my regard. Not once have I ever called Tom a bad name.
“What about Tom?” you might ask. Since he’s so wrong, he must get angry at me for being so right, right?
Wrong.
In fact, the one and only time Tom displayed public annoyance over something I wrote on my blog was because it personally involved him.
That one time, Tom was right and I was…well…wrong. And I apologized.
But guess what? Tom felt I didn’t have to apologize, and also felt I had a right to my thoughts. And then, he forgave me and forgot about it. Gracious and right, that was Tom, all in one day.
It was a bit hard to swallow.
Nonetheless, though I didn’t enjoy the taste of crow, I am so glad Tom disagrees with me and I with him, because he makes me think. He helps me remember that there are many sides to an issue, and that just as it’s happened in the past, someone will come along with a fact - a perspective- a news flash- that just might make me revisit my stance. Or at least, understand another stance more.
(Oh- it’s happened and I’m not ashamed to admit it.)
The fact that Tom and I are often diametrically opposed also teaches me to deal with my frustration over those oppositions in the same way that Tom does- with civility.
Here’s another thing. We’re friends. Yes indeed, Tom and I have become friends.
Here are some of the things Tom has done to show his friendship that in fact, some others who agree with me have not:
1) He has sent me emails congratulating me on the success of my book. He not only ‘friended’ my book fan page on Facebook, he got his daughter to do it, also.( Who also sent me a very nice note.)
2) He has asked my advice on his writing (which is very good, by the way) and thanked me for all of my help.
3) He compliments often on my work and thanks me for my friendship.
So from these, I also learned that just because someone disagrees with me, it doesn’t mean s/he can’t be my friend and wish me well, and just because someone does agree with me, it doesn’t necessarily mean s/he will be my friend or wishes me well.
Yeah- Tom and I are very odd, apparently, because we don’t hate each other’s guts and say disgusting things to each other. Because we believe that we live in a country where it is our constitutional right to disagree, and where that very disagreement keeps a balance against the zealots and fanatics on either side of Tom’s perspective and mine.
And, because, despite the fact that we disagree, we share a love for ourselves, that spreads out to our fellow human beings.
And that, I think, is the root of it. People who hate and spread that hate, whether they are on the right side of any issue (mine, of course) or the wrong side of an issue, hate themselves first. Their reason for vehement, violent and nasty disagreement is not really fueled by frustration, but by a terrible fear that they are not respected, or worthy of respect.
Do I sound smug about all this? Well, maybe that's because I am. And a little disturbed, too, by some of the things I've been reading in my VOX neighborhood lately.
So thanks, Tom, for respecting yourself enough that you don’t have to be mean to me when you’re always wrong and I’m always right. You and the family should come over for a barbecue at our place sometime.
You do eat meat, of course, Tom – right?
“By the way, if anyone here is in advertising or marketing, kill yourself. …No really, there's no rationalization for what you do, and you are Satan's little helpers, OK? Kill yourselves, seriously.”
----Bill Hicks
I’m going to admit something here that is probably going to disappoint a lot of men and surprise a number of more sensible women:
I love Valentine’s Day.
I love the schmaltzy cards, the cakes that are shaped like hearts and covered in pink icing, I love wearing the colour red to commemorate. Even though I know it’s all a marketing plot to terrify men and stage-manage women into spending money most of us can ill-afford these days, I still love it. I love it, even though I know very well that every man in a relationship, including my husband, probably hates it.
Because men cannot win on Valentine’s Day. They can never think like females, and so, no matter what they come up with ─ what gift, what card, what outing, they’ll never be able to live up to the icon of Prince Charming that both sexes have been deluded by since babyhood.
Prince Charming harms all monogamous romantic relationships, and is one of the main reasons why couples come to believe that, “the thrill is gone” after a number of years together. It’s not that the couple’s expectations of ‘romance’ are too ‘high,’ it’s that those expectations have always been a dysfunctional mess. And for that we can thank fairytales.
Let’s examine the Prince and women as they are portrayed in fairytales, which were one of the first literary selling tools of imbalance between the sexes, right after the Bible:
In Cinderella, there are five women. Three are greedy and malicious, and one is brutalized and downtrodden. The only one of the five (the fairy godmother) with any power that did not become hers by hooking a man, has been desexualized into an old, physically unattractive woman. Little boys and girls reading this fairytale are taught that a true man is a rescuer, and that the most desirable woman is the one who is meekest and has the smallest feet. (Standards of popularity that sure leave me out.)
In Snow White, what attracts the Prince is not only a ‘beautiful’ woman, but the ‘most beautiful’, according to a spiteful mirror, whose exacting qualifications mimic Mr. Blackwell’s.
But, it’s in Sleepy Beauty that PC’s choice for female partner is most disturbing. It borders on pedophilia. What the hell kind of marriage will he have with a sixteen-year-old virgin whose done nothing more than live with three maiden aunties, and then fall asleep?
No woman with any real spine, spirit, depth, or passion, truly wants to be any of these three gals. And yet, her image of ‘the perfect man, the perfect marriage,’ is equally skewered by these stories.
Fact: Even a loving, responsible husband or lover isn’t always going to be able to get his woman out of the sh*t of her own making. Nope ─ there will be times when he’s just as clueless about what to do to fix things as his woman is.
Nor is any heterosexual male, unless he’s narcissistic, self-absorbed, and totally shallow, always going to wear the perfect ‘Prince Charming’ ensemble. (Except if he’s from Rome, of course.) Instead, he will almost always pick his favourite, though far less glamourous ‘suit of mail’ when he and his princess go out on Valentine’s Day ─ and that will always be the one that doesn’t pinch around the crotch.
Fact: No self-respecting, modern female wants to get married before she does anything else, just so she can be “safe”. Nope ─ she’s going to want to get out there in the world and try stuff out, including other men, so she can learn who she is, and therefore which Prince she wants, before she settles down with him.
Nor is she going to wait with infinite patience while her lover tries to figure out on his own the best way to get inside the castle. Instead, she’s going to shout directions to him, whether he wants to hear them or doesn’t. And that goes for any ‘castle’ he’s trying to storm, including hers, by the way.
Any couple that adheres to the quaintly toxic notions fed to us in fairytales is going to be unhappy with their relationship, and unhappy with themselves. This stuff is cute once in a while, but it shouldn’t last forever, unless you live in a polygamist religious sect, and want to blend in.
So, for this Valentine’s Day, I say let’s see if we can, like in any good fairytale, transform the Prince and Princesses and release them from the parameters of their bond. Genuine, healthy romance can always be found, even in a long term relationship, if one knows where to look.
For example, does your husband:
• warm your side of the bed with his body, while you are still brushing your teeth?
• say, “Cellulite? That’s not cellulite, that’s just an adorable, little dimple?”
• ignore the endless opportunities he has to point out to you how horrifically bi-polar and boorish almost every member of your family is?
• love your biological children (his stepchildren) as his own, even when they are being so obnoxious you can’t bear them, yourself?
• consider making love to you one of the finest things in life, and commit to memory every little thing that turns you on?
• escort you someplace you know he really doesn’t want to go, and then tell you graciously that he enjoyed himself?
• believe in and support your dream, whatever it is, as much as you do?
Or, does your wife:
• do all the birthday/holiday shopping for the entire, extended family, because she knows that just the thought of doing it yourself, makes your stomach turn with anxiety?
• say, “You’re absolutely right, dear; I completely agree with you,” in a calm, believable tone, because she knows you’re upset, and can’t help that what you’re saying is completely asinine?
• try to make sure that all your favourite foods are in the house, even when you forget you’re running low on them yourself?
• leave you alone when you simply “don’t want to talk about it,” even when it’s killing her to know what “it” is?
• appreciate every gift you give her, even the ones you worry are not ‘perfect’?
• consider making love to you one of the finest things in life, and commit to memory every little thing that turns you on?
• believe in and support your dream, whatever it is, as much as you do?
If this list looks familiar to you, or you can make a list similar to it of your own, then you are part of a very romantic affair. Prince Charming and his Princesses cannot compete with what you and your partner have.
Enjoy your Valentine’s Day.
Sleepy Hollow, Northern California. “What a perfect place for a writer to live,” I thought, when I moved here almost five years ago. And I did get a lot of writing done, when I wasn’t in my garden, that is.
Our house is surrounded by woods and high hills, with a seasonal creek dancing along the right edge of our property, lined by a sentinel of three giant rocks. “We’re butt up against nature here,” is what my husband likes to say.
When I saw it, apart from thinking about the quaint name of the area and of its street names, like “Van Winkle Drive,” and “Ichabod Lane,” I also imagined that I could, at long last, have a garden. Having lived all my life in small flats in a city or by the sea, I’d made do with potted flowers on my windowsills and balconies. Now I had almost a full acre of dirt to plant and I couldn’t wait to get started.
Testing the soil, mapping the sunny and shady areas of the ground, I bought containers and containers of colourful blooms and planted them with enthusiasm and care. I toiled in that garden daily, my nails turning jagged and brown as I dug in eggshells and coffee grinds to fertilize the earth, picked off caterpillars and crinkled dead stems from each plant, watered and weeded carefully and methodically. Week after week, month after month I worked, until my garden was rich and full and I could revel in the vibrancy of it.
Then the deer came. Dozens of them, grown and small, with antlers and without; they came down from the rise of trees behind our house. To someone who’d never seen them up close before, they looked splendid, graceful and gentle. A gift from nature, a blessing, even.
Until I woke up one morning and wandered out into my garden to discover it no longer existed. I could see only the remnants of it left by a savage marauder who thought every blossom, every leaf I’d lovingly attended, was nothing more than dinner salad. The deer had eaten their way through bougainvillea, geraniums, lobelia, impatiens, petunias, pansies, azalea bushes, rose bushes, and when nothing else was left, even ivy vines. I stood in horrified dismay looking down at the concrete and the grass where scattered specks of green, blue, red, pink, purple, and yellow, which had once been my beloved, beautiful flowers, lay strewn and still, as though they’d tried to run and escape from a terrible siege, but had perished in their efforts, anyway.
The deer became my enemy then, and my war with them was on. Armed with powdered blood meal, deer netting, and a foul smelling spray made of garlic and eggs, I attacked. They retreated for a while. Then I woke up one morning again to discover that during the night, the hungry deer had somehow managed to nibbled under the netting. They’d also concluded that both powdered blood meal and rotten egg/garlic spray made delightful salad dressings. My flowers were murdered a second time. Not only did this make me cry, it made me furious.
My husband could not understand my perspective. Growing up on a farm and living in rural areas all his life, he’d shared space with various wild animals since he’d been born. To him, the presence of deer in our garden had the same feeling about it you get when you shrug on an old coat. It wasn’t necessarily attractive, but it felt familiar and comfortable. But in just the way I splashed delightedly into the sea in Greece while he stood there shivering and thinking of sharks; or slid easily between passengers on a New York City subway while he thought of pickpockets, the deer were as alien to me as those experiences were to him. Somehow, he'd missed that.
“Why not just plant things they won’t eat?” he asked pragmatically, not even trying to hide his impatience with me.
“What, you mean lavender?” I replied, sardonically, not even trying to hide my annoyance with him.
To me, just having purple buds in the garden looked dull. Judging by the preponderance of lavender and oleander in the area, everyone else had surrendered to the deer. But I wouldn’t. I didn’t even like oleander, although the fact that it was poisonous and that the deer just might get hungry enough to eat it, was an entertaining thought by that time.
My focus on the deer and their activities in our garden became a bone of contention between my husband and me. Now I’d graduated to running outdoors whenever I saw one, to clap my hands at it and “shoo” it away, spraying them with the hose when I was out watering in my garden, hovering by the windows whenever I heard any suspicious rustling outside, and even throwing small pebbles at their feet so they’d flee. But though they’d scramble away, they’d only come back again when they knew I wasn’t looking. Those devils.
And when I’d complain that they’d managed to foil me again, my husband would say, “It’s not personal, dammit. Stop planting deer food and they won’t come.”
I despised the deer for not being discouraged by my efforts to thwart them, and I was hurt and irritated with my husband for not knowing what was at stake for me.
Then, two years ago, on Father’s Day, I was out in my garden and heard a strange bleating sound, just up the hill behind the house on the other side of the creek. As I began to walk across our lawn towards the creek to investigate, a doe stepped out from behind a tree on the hill where she’d been hiding, and looked down at me in a way I’d never seen a deer look. Her ears and head were actually bent foward in an aggressive position and she was staring directly at me. A head-on stare was an unusual pose for a deer, as they ordinarily looked out at me from the sides of their eyes. Not only that, but she was making a peculiar, snorting sound I’d never heard a deer make, either. It was as though she were growling a warning. I stopped still and looked up at her as the bleating continued, much closer this time. That’s when I realised: She was guarding her fawn. The cry I was hearing was the sound of her newborn. I stepped back and nodded. A mother looking out for her baby. Fair enough. I wasn’t about to chase them, that was for sure.
But as I stepped back, the doe did an odd thing. She began to sway on her feet. Then, in the most ungraceful way I’d ever seen a deer move, she seemed to stagger across the hill, directly across from where I stood on the lawn, and away from her baby. She stumbled dizzily, and then ---God help me--- her knees gave way and she collapsed. I gasped in shock as she began sliding down the hill towards me, unable to stop her fall. I knew any moment she would come tumbling over the retaining wall and onto the lawn where I stood.
It was a pile of logs gathered at the base of the fence that prevented her complete tumble over the wall. Now, as I watched in horror, she was lying on her side, thrashing, her legs tangled up in logs, desperately trying, but unable to get her footing back on the hill. After a few moments, she sank down and gave up. Laying her head back on the dirt she twisted around, and from her lying position, feebly but determinedly, she lifted her back head up and looked at me.
She wore that startled look one always sees on a deer. The look of prey that knows they are prey. You might think she was fearing for herself in her look, afraid of me, because she knew I’d always chased her kind away.
No. ... There was something else… I felt something else in that look. It was the look of one mother to another. It went straight through my heart as surely as if she’d spoken to me. And, as though I were reading that mother’s look from my spirit instead of my brain, I looked back at her, too, directly into her eyes, and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll find your baby. I promise. And I promise she won’t be harmed.”
She held my look as though she were listening and understanding my words, my English words, which I’d said out loud to an animal, a wild creature that couldn’t speak. Then with one weak nod, she lay her head back one final time, looked up at the sky and... I saw her die. Hoping I was wrong in everything I was witnessing, I stayed to see if she might move. But as I stayed and watched her, those brown doe eyes slowly filmed over white. For sure, she was gone.
I turned and ran into the house, calling for my husband. He was on the phone with Tim, one of our sons, who’d called to wish him a “Happy Father’s Day.” He asked Tim to hold on a moment as he listened to my agitated words. Then he said into the phone, “Tim, I’ll have to let you go. We’ve got another deer emergency.”
And with that smart aleck remark, my husband followed me as I pointed out to where the doe lay, and then to where I knew I’d heard her fawn.
That remark to our son about ‘another’ deer emergency hadn’t done it, but what he said next did. “She’s not dead. She’s probably just resting. And I’m fairly certain there is no fawn.”
I turned on him. “I may not have been raised on a farm, but I’m not an idiot, “I snapped. “That deer is as dead as you can get, and her fawn is over there, on the other side of our creek.”
He could tell I meant business then, so with sigh, he climbed up over the retaining wall and gingerly approached that poor doe. Peering at her, he confirmed what I knew. “Yeah. She’s gone, alright.” Then standing he turned to me and asked, “Where did you hear the fawn?” When I pointed in the direction again, he said, “We’ll have to approach very quietly, or we might scare it.”
I followed him across the creek. I couldn’t see anything, but a moment later, he lifted his arm and whispered, “there.”
Sure enough, sitting comfortably in a bed of leaves, her front legs crossed, looking directly at us, with curiosity and no fear whatsoever, was the tiniest fawn I’d ever seen.
My husband’s tone was very different now. “Listen, if that doe died after giving birth, she probably was too old or too sick to survive it. That might mean she wasn’t able to feed this little thing, either. And that’s not good. If Animal Services can’t get any milk into her, she won’t make it.”
I was beside myself at those words. I’d made a promise and I was already trying to figure out, if my husband’s verdict were true, how I, a woman who’d spent the last three years chasing deer from her garden, was going to save this one.
Animal Services estimation was not so bleak, however. It took two of their vans to our home --- one for the live animal and one for the dead --- but they determined that the fawn would survive. She’d been fed one last time by her mother, and in fact still had a belly full of milk. She’d be cared for, then released when she was able to survive on her own. She’d probably live to eat my flowers another day.
As for her mother, I watched the man from Animal Services gently close her eyes. Then he and my husband wrapped her in a sheet and carried her down the hill into the back of the second waiting transport van. I watched as it drove away.
I am not a Hindu. But, the Anahata is the fourth primary chakra according to Hindi Yogic and Tantric traditions. It symbolises the consciousness of love, empathy, selflessness and devotion. On the psychic level, this centre of force inspires the human being to love, be compassionate, altruistic, devoted and to accept the things that happen in a divine way.
And wouldn’t you know it? The animal it is represented by is the deer.
I am not a Hindu, I'll say again. But I know what I felt and I know what I experienced. That mother doe and I communicated that day. And by our bond of motherhood, we became more than two different species on opposites sides of an issue. We became more than predator and prey. With her dying breath, she looked at me, her enemy, and saw something in me that was like her. She knew she could ask me for help with the one thing left for her here to take care of, her one last, most precious thing.
I didn’t let her down.
My garden is very different now. I keep one giant pot of red geraniums up high on a porch where no animals can reach, as a reminder that beauty can never excuse arrogance. Now my yard is flooded with lavender.
And you know, it smells wonderful. What’s even more wonderful is seeing the deer there. We’re at peace with each other now.
I wish it were that easy to make peace within our species.
banner of Three Goddesses by Thalia Took
Anomalistic, Tropical, Sidereal, Eclipse, Gregorian.
Those are five different systems for calculating a complete year. Huh. Just one more thing I learned somewhere along the way that I’d completely forgotten until now. Oh, well. I hope you’ll have a delightful year as it goes along, no matter which method you use for counting it out.
Here it is Day Six of 2008 and I’ve already experienced in it a fantastic holiday with Hubs, which was immediately followed by freezing winds, a rain deluge and a power outage that lasted 36 hours and will probably occur again, as the storms here worsen. Just an aside for those who might be interested - we residents of California are plagued by a utility monopoly, Pacific Gas and Electric Company, whose upper management is as greedy and inept as the government of any third world country. I mean it. PG&E merits a post in itself. And if I wrote it, it would be riddled with disgust. Anyway, with such opposing experiences of fun and frustration only five days in, it makes me wonder what kind of a year I’ll be having in its entirety.
2007 for me personally, was a year of adventure in many ways. One thing about it that I liked in particular was discovering VOX. My neighbourhood here is terrific and growing better by the day. Apart from all the intriguing things my neighbours posted and talked about, they even helped me with the development of my new novel. (For those who don’t know what I’m talking about and might like to, you’re welcome to have a look at this previous post. )
The responses I received to my questions were unique and thought-provoking. From the bottom of my heart, I thank everyone who took the time to write to me. Some neighbours even wrote whole entries of their answers on their own blogs. (You can see these, too, if you like. I have links to them at the end of this post.) As a result of everything that was written, I was able to flesh out the motivations of my main characters, three of whom happen to be ghosts.
Yeah, that’s right - I’ve gone from zany, sometimes sarcastic non-fiction, to frivolous fiction. After spending three gruelling years on a memoir, Harlot’s Sauce, which is now - at last - in its last editing stage and should (fingers crossed, touch wood,) be published sometime early this year, I decided to write something light-hearted and fun.
And believe it or not, something happened this past October that made me wonder if I should consider the possibility that perhaps…just maybe, mind…ghosts, or spirits, or whatever you want to call them, really do exist. And if they do exist, they surely exist on the Queen Mary, a ship which is now docked permanently in Long Beach, California and is used as an historic hotel and museum. What I didn’t know when I booked the Queen Mary, was that it's known for its ‘speculative spectre’ population. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.)
I stayed on the Queen Mary for several days when I attended the California Women’s Conference. I’d been given the exciting task of taking production notes for the film crew of the convention and was very focussed on doing a good job. And when I’m focussed on work, I tell you, I am not thinking about anything else. Especially not the paranormal. But I received this assignment last minute and there were no other hotels available near the Long Beach Convention Centre. My main concern about the ship was that they didn’t have readily-accessible cell phone or internet service. And considering that I was in Long Beach to work, that was my worry, not whether or not there was a ghost in my cabin.
Nonetheless, I think there was. Some unusual events took place in my cabin while my mind was on work emails and cell phone reception. Like some of my things ending up in places I hadn’t left them. For example, my reading glasses. I’m sure I left them right next to my contact lens case on the vanity, not on my pillow. I know that seems like nothing more than a busy woman being forgetful, but you know, I’m very organised when I work. And when I moved my specs back, wondering how they got on my pillow, but still not thinking ‘ghosts’ nor even ‘intruder,’ they somehow were moved right back onto my pillow again within five minutes.
Now, those who read my blog know that peri-menopause and all the symptoms thereof, figure big time in my life these days. So at first, I thought this was all just me being hormonally-challenged and absent-minded as a result.
Until I heard the giggle. In my cabin. It sounded like a child’s giggle, perhaps a little girl. And that’s when it occurred to me that there might,…just might, be a spirit and a playful one at that, on board.
Well, after leaving the ship and doing some research on its history, it does turn out that there is- allegedly- a little girl haunting that ship. More research and interviews with several historians and, though I can’t believe I’m writing this- a ghost hunter - taught me all about her. She is, supposedly, one of several dozen ghosts who make their presence known aboard the Queen Mary.
Now, you are an intelligent group, so you can dismiss this as nonsense if you like. I wouldn’t blame you. However, being a writer, I just couldn’t let this go. I thought and thought about it:
If ghosts exist, why do they exist? Is it the shop-worn “unfinished business” explanation? I'm thinking, hasn’t everyone got unfinished business when they die? And if that is the explanation, it would have to be exceptional unfinished business, wouldn’t it, to keep someone hanging around after they’re dead? I mean, when they’ve got other worlds waiting, that we’ve been told at least, have more to offer a spirit whose flesh-and-blood body is no longer useable?
From all this contemplation and research, came a plot, which features four women, (all corporeal) who meet three ghosts. The ghosts seek out these women individually to help them solve a problem each has which is keeping them on this plane, rather than ‘moving on.’ By helping the ghosts, the women solve their own conflicts. I know, I know - this is a very ordinary plot, which is why I had to make my ghosts and other main characters extra-ordinary.
And that’s where my VOX neighbours came in. I asked questions about ghosts and unresolved lost love relationships, etc., and got sad, funny, thoughtful and amazing answers. One neighbour even has photos of ghosts to show me, she says. And another gentleman, Paxton, whose posts are always worthy of note, provided a matchless answer regarding a father-son relationship that gave me the sole motivation for one of my ghosts remaining behind. This ghost is here because he has to get a message to his son, before his son, who is already elderly, dies. Paxton gave me the idea for this motivation when he wrote, “My parents divorced when I was eight, and my father never made any attempt to stay in contact with me. He died of a heart attack when I was 19. It seems a shame, and something I feel some small guilt over, though intellectually I know very well that it was his responsibility, being the adult, to be a father to me, not mine to be a child to him.”
As a parent, this guilty feeling Paxton described tore at me. And I, too, had felt undeserved guilt regarding my own parents when I was a child. So then, what would a loving father do if he realised that by his death, he'd abandoned and inadvertently fostered unwarranted self-reproach in his son? The answer to me was that he would try to somehow get a message of love and approval to his child. However, those who know spirit lore know that ghosts are confined to the areas of their death, therefore, my ghost, who dies on a battleship, can only rely on a living person finding his still alive son and delivering his message. A message which is written in a sixty-year-old diary hidden on board.
The live woman to whom the ghost appears to help him deliver his message, has unresolved issues with her grown son, too. So, you see, they share a bond. The motivation for her actions and decisions came with the help of other answers I received from other neighbours.
The other live characters are all derived from women I’ve had the privilege of knowing in my own life. However, one female in the story is solely her own inspiration. I’ve based my character, Cynthia, on Mrs. Peel, a feisty, Brazilian woman who lives in the UK and writes on VOX. Despite her many challenges, which she candidly shares with all of us, she takes the time to reflect on other neighbours’ lives and has a well of compassion, love and humour that I find remarkable for someone who has so much heartache to bear in her own life. She openly admits she is financially-challenged and suffers from ill-health. Other than offering her friendship and a sympathetic ear, I cannot help her with these trials in real life. But on paper I can. So for my satisfaction and hers, the Cynthia in my story is, to use two clichés, “healthy as a horse and filthy rich.” She has also all the other marvellous qualities of her real counterpart - she’s warm, intelligent and fun-loving. Her actions in the story move events along to some madcap conclusions.
And I think that’s all I’m going to write about my new story. It’s on hold anyway, as I finished up the editing for Harlot’s Sauce in the next weeks. Writing for a living, rather than a pastime brings with it accountability. I have a contractual obligation to deliver my memoir in the best shape possible. So that’s what I’ll be working on these first few weeks of 2008. I have to put this new project aside for now, though I am very excited about all my characters who have come alive for me thanks to everyone who helped me. I’ve listed and linked my neighbours here to thank them again:
Absatou
Althea Romeo-Mark
Becky
ButterflyBaby
Crowseer
Foxsydee
Giuseppina
Grrrace
Icarus
Iniysa
IrishLuckyLass
Laurie
Lightchaser
London Yankee
Paxton
And thank you also to Michelle Solange who created the beautiful new banner for my VOX blog.
Happy, healthy .prosperous 2008 to all. Let this be the year all conflicts in the world end. It’s something to hope for, at least and better than the usual New Year resolutions…
Image of Father Time by http://www.embellishments.us/images/mystical
Thanks to VOX, I’ve been having some very interesting philosophical, social and religious discussions with some of my new “netpals” from Australia. Their perspectives got me thinking about something I wrote in my memoir, Harlot’s Sauce, which has just been completed and which is being shopped around to publishers as we speak. So for this week’s blog I’m taking an excerpt on religion from that memoir and dedicated it to my new Aussie friends, most especially to one very deep thinker, Snowy.
I expect an extra drink from that still of yours for this one, Snowy. ; )
On Organised Religion
I was raised Catholic, as were many people I knew growing up. But, I had a few friends who were Protestant and then there was my friend, Margie, who was Jewish. When we were in high school, just for fun, we’d tag along to each other’s worship services occasionally. Even though Margie married a Catholic later on, ( another intriguing story, that) she was overwhelmed when she first walked into my Catholic church as a teenager. The depiction of Jesus nailed to a Cross terrified her and the smell of the benediction incense nearly gave her an asthma attack.
Despite that, Margie wasn’t as affected by Catholic services as much as I was affected the first time I attended Protestant services. Having attending Catholic services all my life, the Protestant Church seemed too... well…comfy. The service too upbeat and brief, there was nothing daunting about the altar and there was no forbidding priest looking down from a godly height.
In fact, the officiator, who was actually smiling from the ground-level pulpit at the people attending worship, was allowed to be black or even female, I was told. I also thought the parishioners’ role was too easy. They didn’t have to kiss the hands of priests, nor kneel in supplication when he started his wailing. (Which in this church, he never did.) After all this cheerfulness in church, I just didn’t feel browbeaten, as I was supposed to, after I’d left. Therefore, Protestant church couldn’t truly be church…could it? Not to me, at least. I was a “first-generation American” and our priests were from the 'old school.'
If you don’t know what it means to be a “first-generation American,” you’ll probably never understand the wide gap there was between those of us whose parents or grandparents had immigrated from other countries and those whose ancestors had been in the United States since the Constitution was signed. There are many differences between us, believe me, but they’re especially evident in our religions. Things might be different today, but when I was growing up, we first-generation ethnic groups had much more grinding religions than our more assimilated counterparts. As children, these religions kept us awake nights, terrified, our thoughts circling furiously. As adults, some of us became crushed followers or bitter atheists. Others tried intensive psychotherapy, but it didn’t help. Our spiritual educations were like deep moles in our skin. They were impossible to remove and could go bad at any moment.
Don’t misunderstand. I believe all religions based on the teachings of Abraham, Mohammed, Christ, or whomever else you’re partial to, started out as marvellous ideas. But here’s what I think happened:
One fateful day, Satan said to his minions, “I’ve just had a thought that might make this religion stuff work for me.”
With that, he went out and hired:
Tony Blair’s tailor
Sylvio Berlusconi’s plastic surgeon
The British Council
The U.S. Senate
The O.J. Simpson trial jury
Michael Moore’s film editors
Three tenured high school teachers
Six class valedictorians
Nine widowed old ladies who’d never had orgasms
Twelve zealots in pursuit of a cause, but who wanted to wear fur and eat meat and hadn’t read Orwell
He hit the jackpot when he signed on these last three:
Rupert Murdoch, Karl Rove and Bud Selig
Together, these dynamic disciples, whom I’ll name, “The Revelation Delegation," brainstormed a business plan, which re-scripted all the religions of the globe. Somehow, (here my theory needs more research,) they sold us the revised versions, through which we learned:
a) to memorize lists of sins, degrees of sin and the punishments for them.
b) which foods are “clean” and which foods are “dirty.”
c) that our babies are born permeated with vice and in order to purge them, we must pierce, peel, oil, splash, dunk, paint, decorate or bind them.
d) anything that’s too much fun or feels too good will send us to hell. (“Bingo Night” is okay, though.)
e) if we don’t do what they tell us with our hair, beards and head gear, our souls will stay soiled forever.
f) that shame, remorse, hunger, pain, abstention, untreated illness and Irritable Bowel Syndrome, are all virtues.
g) Good people follow our religion. Bad people don’t. We should try to change the bad people’s minds and make them be good, but if we can’t, it’s better for them if we torment or kill them.
h) Last and most essential, that when all benevolent religious leaders of the world stated, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” they did not mean, to quote from Bill and Ted, “Be excellent to each other” and “party on, dudes.” What they actually meant was, “Do It unto others before they Do It unto you.”
---------------
And, that’s just a portion of what I’ve learned about organised religion. If you’d like to read more about this, go to www.harlotssauce.com and click on the Writings Excerpts Page. There you can read all about another aspect of certain religions, a thing some of us have never even heard of, but many of us know know well. It's called, “The Evil Eye.”
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