Monday Reruns: "Get Glasses, Alice!"

(original post-date: December 15, 2010)

Back in the ‘80’s, when I lived in New York, there was a television commercial that came on quite frequently. The protagonist – a yuppy’ish, urban woman – kept running into things. And so her friends kept imploring, “Get glasses, Alice!”

Needless to say, the ad was for a glasses-making outfit.

It might have been LensCrafters. In fact, I think it was. (And who knew, by the way, that they’d make such bank – 25 or so years later – when a certain perky pitbull from Alaska took center stage at a certain convention, but… that’s another story.)

Lately, I’ve been remembering the ad. I’ve been hearing someone whisper into my ear: “Get glasses, Alice!”

I am desperately in need of a visit to the eye doctor. (So desperate in fact that my audio-hallucinations allow someone to call me “Alice.”)

But it’s not that I don’t already have glasses…

I have three pairs.

From front to back, they are: the reading and beading glasses, for those activities that take place about 9-12 inches from my eyes; the computer glasses (which I am wearing now) – recommended for a 17-inch or so distance; and the movie and driving glasses, which I’ve lately worn on occasion when watching TV in my living room.

So, yes, I have glasses, but it may be time to make the leap.

I love it that what were once “trifocals” are now called “progressives.” That is, dare I say, progressive.

And while I am also of that ilk (progressive, I mean), I dread the next step.

The last time I was at the eye doctor (which was more than a year ago), I asked if it were time to “go there.”

He didn’t think so. “As long as you go through part of your day without glasses, then it isn’t time.” Because, as he explained, once you wear progressives, you’re committed to wearing glasses. All the time.

So that’s my dilemma. When I’m not reading or beading; when I’m not at the computer; when I’m not driving or watching a movie… I am generally not wearing glasses. And so: I don’t think of myself as a person who wears glasses.

But then… there are times when I look very closely at a shelf in my bathroom.

YIKES!

Maybe I need bathroom glasses, I think.

Or, there are those occasions when I’m meeting with a new client for the first time, and because my purse isn’t all that big, I’ve not brought along the various glasses. The driving pair is in the car, but otherwise, I am free of corrective lenses… I ask my new client for a business card, and she hands it to me. I then look at it, and I hope that those blurry lines I am looking at include an email address and a telephone number.

Of course, if the meeting’s going particularly well (and they usually do), I can just make a joke as I stretch out my arm so as to view the card.

But… even that move is getting dicey. So I wonder… should I shop for a purse large enough to carry all my glasses or should I see if any stores sell arm extenders – in which case, I suppose, I’d still need a larger purse.

I guess the best next step is to schedule an appointment with my eye doctor…

Actually, I’d like to see him again.

We always enjoy talking about current events and so forth.

We respect each other’s views.

Which is to say, we share a vision.

Which is to say… he’s delightfully progressive.

Accolades ad Nauseum

Several years ago, my most tenured Los Angeles friend was questioned by her daughter, who was probably in the third grade at the time.

“Mom?” her daughter began, “Why don’t you put that sticker on your bumper? The one about my getting A’s in school?”

My friend was quick to respond.

“The car’s a lease,” she said. “I can’t.”

But even if my friend’s car had not been a lease, I know she would have resisted advertising her daughter’s academic achievement. And I don’t blame her. There are way too many accolades and rites of passage for kids these days, and bumper stickers are just the tip of the iceberg.

… I don’t have kids, but I also don’t live under a rock, and so I am aware of how things have developed over the years.

These days, kids seem to graduate from everything. Everything.

And those who participate in sports get trophies and certificates simply because they participated.

While it’s true that winning isn’t everything (after all, as the saying goes, it’s “how you play the game”), I don’t think losers should get trophies. Rather, they should be proud of their efforts, and they should be inspired to do better. They should be inspired so that, next time, maybe they will get a trophy.

… A year before my very first graduation (the one from prep school), I won the Intermediate Division of a horse show. My tangibles? A beautiful small sterling platter and a long, three-tiered ribbon. I was so proud of that win, and I loved holding that shiny platter and streaming ribbon as I rode out of the ring.

I wonder what that same event would look like today? Would everyone get a platter and long ribbon? Would I have no way to distinguish my achievement from that of the others who – on that particular day – simply had not performed as well as I had?

I don’t think I would enjoy that very much.

In fact, I believe it would probably squelch any desire I had to excel.

What’s the point of competition if no one really gets to feel as if they’ve won?

What’s the point of competition if it doesn’t inspire one to do better next time?

… I don’t know about what we’re teaching our kids. I don’t know if it’s a good idea for their little microcosm of society to provide them with tangible rewards for adequate performance. I don’t think a trophy is an appropriate accolade for simply showing up.

Given the current employment situation, the handwriting is on the wall. The adult world is becoming increasingly cut-throat, and it is unlikely that it will become less competitive in the years and decades ahead. Will your son expect that showing up is all he needs to do? Will your daughter expect a bonus simply because her colleague got one?

… My Child is an Honor Roll Student at Wilson Middle School, the bumper sticker says.

Cool. And if your child earned that status, even better.

But I don’t think you should invest too much in bragging.

I’m guessing, too, that 20 years from now, you’ll not want to drive around with a bumper sticker that says, My Adult Child is Living in My Basement with All His Trophies.

If that happens, though? If your grown-up kid shows up with such a decal and suggests you put it on the car? Just do what my friend did. Tell him that the car’s a lease.

(And don’t worry if it’s a lie. There’s probably a certificate for that, too!)

Monday Reruns: Charisma 101

(original post-date: December 8, 2010)

I attended prep school for three years, starting as a sophomore. And within just a week or two of that boarding school experience, I was aware of a student in my class whose energy was engaging.

Julie, who hailed from Alabama, was loud and fun and inviting.

You wanted to be her friend.

I got to know her during that year, and although I don’t remember specific times together when we were sophomores, I know we had a lot of laughs. I remember, too, that I always felt special in her company.

During the summer before our junior year, Julie sent me a letter. (This was back in the days of the pony express.) Having ended the previous year without a roommate lined up, she realized she was in the random sampling. She didn’t want to be placed with just anyone, so she wondered if we could room together.

When I received that letter, I was beyond flattered.

To have this remarkable person want to share a room with me?

Of course!

So, Julie and I were roommates junior year. And we had a lot of good times. But there also were challenges. We were at such different stages of growth.

Senior year, Julie and I no longer roomed together, but we continued to bond. In fact, it was that year that we discovered a common repertoire … One day, we both happened to be sitting in “the Smoker” (i.e., the senior hall lounge with ashtrays), and we were watching the film version of Gyspy on television. Until that moment, neither of us knew that the other had grown up with the lyrics.

But once we learned of that common knowledge, I scored the vinyl from my parent’s collection (Funny Girl, too), and Julie and I sung along at the top of our lungs, absolutely annoying anyone within earshot.

Everything’s coming up roses…

Don’t rain on my parade…

Boy, did we belt!

I can’t recall how well we kept in touch after graduation. I do remember getting an invitation to her wedding breakfast. And a few years after that, there was the 10th year reunion in Virginia.

I enjoyed seeing Julie at the reunion, but I also appreciated that we were living in different worlds and that our paths may never again cross. She had married a doctor and settled in Mississippi, where she would ultimately fill her days raising a daughter and doing remarkable work on behalf of charities in her community.

I was still (at the time of our 10th reunion) living wildly in New York. Settling did not then seem an option for me. (In some ways, it still doesn’t.)

…Three weeks ago, I sent out one of my occasional email blasts. When I do this, it is to alert people to recent blog postings, and I send it to fairly much everyone in my email address book. Julie has always been included in that list, as has been Kate (my veni vidi vici buddy from our prep school Latin class).

Just a few hours after that recent blast, I got an email from Kate. She shared with me that my missive had made her nostalgic, and so she decided she’d like to touch base with Julie. (She, too, had neither seen nor spoken to Julie in ages.) Since Kate was at work and didn’t have her address book handy, she decided to do a quick Google search to see if she could get Julie’s phone number online.

But what she got was an obituary.

Julie died in October.

… Since learning the news of the brain tumor that was diagnosed 14 months before Julie’s death, many of us who went to school together have reached out to each other.

By phone. By email. By Facebook. Whatever works.

And through the internet, we have gained access to written memorials from people who knew her years after we did.

It has been heartening to absorb their testimonials, and to recognize – in this woman they describe – the girl we all knew.

… In the 25 years that have passed since I last saw or spoke to Julie, I’ve been blessed to know – and to become close to – a small handful of people who possess what I call charisma. And when I think of someone with charisma, I think of this: you just feel so damned special to be in their company.

There’s something about them…

Something they quietly pass along to you...

A gift of joy, laughter, wisdom.

A generosity of spirit.

A magnetic inclusiveness.

That was Julie.

My introduction to charisma.

I will always be touched by her life.

Doctors, Pharmaceuticals, and Why I'm Leery

A few weeks ago, I heard a television promo that was meant to be alarming. It was regarding the next “Dr.Oz” episode, and it featured a voice-over that could have brought a person out of a coma: THE INSOMNIA CRISIS, it began. And then: WHY DO WE HAVE IT?

(Loud promos, maybe? Just sayin’.)

Seriously, though, I could answer that “insomnia question,” and perhaps I will in another post. But right now, I want to talk about doctors.

I do not think that they are God.

Not even when they come with the name of OZ.

In fact, I think when a doctor’s name is “OZ,” it’s a little creepy.

In fact, I should tell you (and Oprah) that I avoid doctors whenever possible.

I also turn off the radio when there’s a story about some current epidemic and its manifestations.

I figure, if I don’t know the manifestations, then I won’t exhibit any.

I figure, I’m best off not harboring fear.

And in my opinion, doctors – and pharmaceuticals – primarily exist to fill us with fear.

…Okay, okay, I admit it. I have an issue with doctors (and pharmaceuticals).

Let me tell you why.

When I was a junior in prep school, my mother still took me to the man who had been my pediatrician. Nothing wrong with that scenario. It made sense to all of us.

Problem was, though, said pediatrician was weight-obsessed. He had charts on his walls, and he seemed to worship them.

At the time, I was probably about 15 pounds over what his chart recommended for someone my age and height. And, in his eyes, this made me “fat.”

Never mind the fact that I was built strong and could maneuver a 1200-pound horse over a course of 3-foot jumps. No… I was “fat.”

So, said doctor prescribed a pill – new on the market. It seemed a miracle drug.

Mom agreed to the prescription, and so off we went.

Off we went, into a semester when I would quickly drop a great deal of weight but not remember what I learned in class. Off we went, into a semester when this drug – this drug that was constructed to “tell my brain” that it wasn’t hungry – would prevent me from eating. Off we went, and several months later (after I’d stopped taking the drug), I developed unusually swollen ankles that caught the attention of a nurse on staff at my prep school.

And so off I went, to the prep school’s doctor…

The prep school’s doctor ran a few tests, and then, he called my mom.

When he made that call, he had probably assumed that she knew I’d been sent to him that day. (She didn’t.)

“We’ve ruled out heart failure!” he told her, over the phone.

“Great,” she said, completely at a loss. “On whom?”

The prep school doc filled her in, and once he had clarified to Mom that he’d run some tests on me, he also let her know that he wanted to put me in the hospital for a day or two. For more tests.

And so, to the hospital I went.

I was a senior at that point. I’d just turned 17.

I don’t remember the tests or the details.

I do, though, remember the bottom line.

Prep school doc found the test results inconclusive, and so – because he had to draw a conclusion, I suppose, he decided that I was “carrying around too much weight.”

And so he prescribed more diet pills…

Seriously?

Okay, my first point: doctors who are working with minors should NEVER be allowed to prescribe diet pills. Ever. Diet is behavior, which is therefore wed to psychology, and while psychotropic drugs have their place, individuals should always and first be encouraged and empowered to change their behavior without drugs. Moreover, a drug that instructs the brain to tell the body it isn't hungry is inherently disrespectful of that brain.

I think that’s what pisses me off most about the whole pharmaceutical franchise. It is the lack of respect. It is the drug companies saying, “You don’t have the capacity to change who you are, but WE do. We can change you! We can help you!”

Powerlessness is not a prescription I want to fill, thank you very much.

Okay, my second point: that drug that my pediatrician put me on when I was 16? That drug – that drug that was oh-so-new to the market – was Pondimin, which turned out to be the fatal half of Phen-Fen.

The fatal half.

I’m lucky to be alive.

I still have a photograph taken of me from the summer I stopped taking Pondimin. Never have I looked so swollen, from head to toe.

And I was only 16 at the time.

I’ll reiterate what I said before: doctors should not be permitted to give “diet drugs” to minors. Ever.

I know, I know, the obesity epidemic is intense these days among children and adolescents.

But still: it’s not about drugs. It’s about behavior and paying attention.

That is our charge.

Change our behavior and pay attention.

I’m not saying that all pharmaceuticals are bad and no one should take them. But: if it is in our power to make the changes that otherwise inspire a drug prescription, then we should.

And if we don’t?

Then incompetent doctors and profit-seeking pharmaceutical companies will continue to have all the power.

Haven't they had enough already?

Monday Reruns: Pat and Vanna: Saints in the Making?

(original post-date: December 1, 2010)

When I was at my mom’s in Virginia recently, we got into an evening routine. We’d have supper at about 6:30, and after a brief time of eating, followed by my cleaning up a bit, we’d settle back in front of the television, just in time for the game hour: Wheel of Fortune at 7:00 and Jeopardy thereafter.

While I’ll admit that this is not a routine I would get into here in L.A., I also am not averse to indulging. I particularly didn’t mind indulging in Wheel. I am a consummate “word person,” and I also am competitive. So I enjoyed racing my mother to the puzzle solutions. We didn’t keep score, but I’d guess that each of us beat out the other a handful of times.

And I must say, too, that while I was working to solve the puzzles, I took notice of something else. Maybe this is just a reflection of the current economy and the challenges I face on a monthly basis, but here’s what I’m thinking: Pat Sajak and Vanna White have got to be laughing all the way to the bank.

I mean, come on, think about it. They’ve both been at this for well over 20 years. Undoubtedly, they each get seven figures a year (and I’m guessing that, certainly for Pat, “1” is not the first number).

And what is it they do?

Pat introduces people. And, working with a bit of information on a notecard, he adds a few ad-libs. Then, during the course of the half-hour show, he throws in more ad-libs, such as:

“Oh, the wheel is really not working with you.”

“Don’t anyone breathe!”

“That was a tough break.”

“You want to try to solve?”

“Sorry, but you’re going to have to pass me that Wild Card, too.”

As for Vanna, boy, does she have a gig. Until the show has come to a close, she doesn’t even have to say anything! She just walks to the lit-up letter, and she touches it. (As if her touch, and only hers, will make the “M” appear.)

Now, I don’t mean to be putting down either of them. Personally, I find Pat charming. As for Vanna, I could never do what she does. (Unless they’d let me do it in clogs.)

So, here’s what I’m wondering: how did Pat and Vanna get to be so lucky? What did they do? Was it something in a past life? Have their spirits been around since time immemorial and did they just keep coming back and overcoming incredible odds. Did they suffer adversity in past lives, fighting off some horrible evil through truth and justice? Were they heroic figures who came to the rescue, saving entire communities from some threatening plague?

And if this is how far they’ve come, what’s next for them? Will their spirits return, or is a game-show gig the end of the line?

I don’t know.

Strange, the hands that get dealt.

… Back in the late 80’s, when my then-husband and I were living in Brooklyn, I was poking around my neighborhood Christmas bazaar, looking for potential stocking stuffers. I immediately glommed onto a cassette tape of Vanna Speaks, the letter-turner’s autobiography. (She was in her late 20’s at the time, and for some reason, she had been compelled to record a memoir.) I handed over the two or three dollars and knew I had a stocking stuffer.

On Christmas Eve, I decided the Vanna tape would go to my father, and the next morning, as we opened our stockings in Mom and Dad’s bedroom, he seemed quite amused by the novelty item (though he hadn’t a clue which Santa had delivered the amusement).

Later that day, after we had gathered around the tree and unwrapped presents, we had some unplanned time before the afternoon’s leg of lamb. Dad went upstairs and returned to the living room a few minutes later. He was carrying his portable cassette player.

He also brought with him the recorded Vanna memoir.

Silently, he placed the cassette player on the coffee table and loaded the tape. Then, as we all looked curiously at each other (but did not otherwise make a sound), he hit the Play button and took a seat.

Within minutes, we were listening to Vanna tell her own story.

Within minutes after that, we were all doubled over, laughing.

We decided the memoir should have a different title. And we came up with this: Who Gives A Shit?

… Okay, I’ll admit, that was really rude of us. We should not have laughed at Vanna. She’s had her life and she’s had her difficulties, and well, we just really shouldn’t laugh so hard.

But, boy, I sure would like to understand the karma of it all. I’d love to know why Vanna sits pretty on some serious bank while I wonder about next month’s bills.

Hmm… maybe we should have listened beyond Chapter One.

Monday Reruns: It's A Thursday in November - Enjoy it!

(original post-date: November 24, 2010)

Last night, I spoke on the phone with a dear friend of mine who keeps following me around the country.

That’s a joke, by the way… the reference to being followed. It just happens our paths have crossed in three states. Diane and I knew each other at prep school in Virginia (when she and my sister were good friends). Our lives intersected again in New York. And in 1998, eight years after I had made the cross-country trip with my then-husband, Diane moved to L.A. If she weren’t an actress, I might feel as if I were being stalked, but I know better than that. Anyway…

When we spoke on the phone last night, Diane talked about her decision to spend Thanksgiving alone, and she also shared how a former co-worker had responded to her plans. He was aghast, apparently. He couldn’t believe she was planning to spend Thanksgiving alone.

And what that tells me is that this friend of hers would feel like a loser if he spent Thanksgiving alone.

It’s interesting how people respond to the days when society and tradition tell us we should be with others.

I shared with Diane a story I’m sure I had already shared with her. But, I haven’t shared it with you, so here goes:

When I was living in New York, I enjoyed a variety of Thanksgivings. And one year, I decided not to make any plans. When I woke up that morning, I recognized the day as time off. And quite spontaneously, I got into major cleaning mode.

I scrubbed this, dusted that, and vacuumed all over the place. And between those chores, I dealt with loads (and I mean, loads!) of laundry.

My apartment was on the 4th floor, while the laundry room, which had all of two machines, was in the basement. So I was in the elevator quite a lot that day.

The rides amused me. Every time I went down or came back up, I shared the small moving cubicle with several others, and I didn’t glean a good mood from any of them. Whether they were coming or going, their energies seemed the same: what a hassle; what an obligation; why are you wearing that; I hated sitting next to so-and-so; it’s your fault we were late; why did you say that to my uncle; I know I’ve forgotten something; we should have gone to a movie; I bet we won’t get a cab; I ate too much …

And there I was, in the middle of it all. Whether I was carrying a dirty load to the basement or a clean load back up to the 4th floor, I kept getting the same impression: Of all the people in this elevator, I am having the best day!

Have a good Thanksgiving… whatever your plans.

[2011 post-script: I'm taking a short holiday break from posting. Will return next week with a Monday rerun and a fresh post on Thursday. Happy Thanksgiving!]

Impermanence

Lately, I’ve been feeling a lack of drive. I don’t want to write anything new. I don’t want to pull out the beads and make a necklace or bracelet. And beyond that… well, I sure as hell don’t want to clean the dust that’s gathered between the curtain folds.

I also don’t want to organize the mess inside those drawers in the desk.

…or those drawers in the kitchen.

…or that drawer in the bedside table.

I don’t want to! I just don't!

Were I thirty years younger, this situation would probably throw me into an existential crisis.

Were I thirty years younger, I’d think that I had no motivation whatsoever.

I’d view myself a loser with no future.

I’d see myself as lazy and useless.

I might even crawl into a hole for a while.

… Actually, crawling into a hole for a while doesn’t seem like such a bad idea, and maybe that’s what I’ve been doing. And maybe that’s okay. And maybe it’s okay because I know: I do have motivation. I am not a loser. … Nor am I lazy or useless.

Maybe I just need some downtime.

I am so glad I’m not in my 20’s anymore. I’ve had three decades since then to learn of my capacity to produce and create. I’ve had three decades to learn that life is a series of personal phases. I’ve learned that we should never judge ourselves by any one individual phase.

I’ve also learned that this perspective holds true for the world around us…

When my sister and her husband made the decision, in late 2008, to move from Scotland to Virginia and so to be closer to our mom, there were lures for them (or at least, for my sister) at the Virginia end. Primarily, there was the theatre community with which we had been raised. That community – The Oak Grove – was founded by an amazing couple named Fletcher and Margaret Collins. And “the Grove” – a summer theatre under the stars – had been a hub of creative and intellectual talent for decades.

When Martha and I were kids, we accompanied Mom and Dad to rehearsals and performances. One of our parents' earliest ventures as actors in the company was in Shaw’s You Never Can Tell. While watching rehearsals, Martha and I both developed instance crushes on Francis Collins, one of their fellow castmates. Then a goofy late teen with amazing musical talent, Francis – who is one of Fletch and Margaret’s sons – is now the head of the NIH.

And a decade later, the musical accompaniment at Grove cast parties was regularly provided by Robin and Linda Williams, who had recently settled into the Valley. If you listen regularly to A Prairie Home Companion, then you will have heard of them. Robin and Linda are old friends of Garrison Keillor and regularly perform with him.

So that was the Grove back in the day, and then there is the Grove now…

When Martha returned to Virginia in 2008, she’d no doubt sung the praises of the Grove to her British husband. And so, they anxiously approached the theatre’s upcoming summer season.

A few months later, Martha shared with me her extreme disappointment.

“It’s just not the same anymore!” she said, despondent.

My capacity to relate was remarkably fresh.

“I know,” I replied, answering from my quiet apartment.

Because of what I had been through in my L.A. building – because I had experienced the ultimate in love-between-neighbors and then had been left with a more typical renter’s scenario – I could empathize with her response to the Grove.

“It was an era,” I told her, thinking of both the Grove and my building. “What we experienced? Just an era. And it’s over.”

… Were I thirty years younger, I might not have seen it for that.

Were I thirty years younger, I might have seen the change as something that was wrong with me.

Were I thirty years younger, I might have felt that I needed to fix it in some way, and I would have wasted my time trying.

… We can’t change eras. They are environmental phenomena, and they happen whether we are there or not. As to phases (such as the one I am going through now), they are absolutely personal. But, like eras, they are also absolutely temporary.

Nothing lasts forever.

Neither the good nor the bad.

Neither the productive nor the non-.

Neither the group activity nor the solitude.

Everything is temporary.