Dedicated to N., Overworked Surgeon

When last we left our hero, he was still in a doctor’s coat, face mask, and nasty latex gloves, confined to a windowless room with bright lights, nervous patients, and assistants waiting for a weekend.

He wonders what day it is--and where he is. Tyson's? Richmond ? Alexandria ? Norfolk ? Maybe he's home asleep and dreaming about work. No, no, no, that can’t be right. He's at work and dreaming about home.

He tries to recall what he had for breakfast. He tries to recall where he WAS for breakfast. Or was lunch his last meal? He's not sure. And what's that thing called that comes between last patient of the day and first patient call-back in the evening--the one he eats in the car while driving north, no south, no north, on I-95? Sometimes they serve it on a plane too. It's the one you're supposed to eat with your family. At least they do on television. Whatever.

But the eating thing is important--he learned that in medical school. That was first year--right? Or was that second year? Oh well. His pants are hanging on his hipbones. He's glad the white coat covers it. Makes mental note: eat next meal, make it healthy, whenever and wherever it comes. Also, tighten belt.

He vaguely recalls buying a mattress a while back. He was with what’s-her-name, the brunette with the big brown eyes, the girl who shares his mattress--oh God, that's right, she's the one he exchanged wedding rings with, back in, when was that? Winter? Spring? A year ago? Less? Hmmmm. It was another windowless room. Another long day. But no latex gloves because she put the ring on his finger—he remembers that. Just can't place the date, month, season, whatever. Damn, he has to ask the receptionist about it so he can get it into his Palm Pilot and have the receptionist send roses to that girl, what's-her-name, ummmm, the really, really great one, can't believe the name is slipping away. Oh yeah--Lisa. Lisa, that's it. Lisa the Mattress Shopper. Lisa the Mattress Sharer. Lisa his Wife.

He has GOT to remember to talk to her more often. Must remember to roll over and see if she's still on the mattress—they did deliver that mattress right? Or does he crash on the old mattress? Or the sofa? Is Lisa mad at him? Whatever. He can check the shower stall for Lisa’s shampoo, and see if that closet on the other side of the bedroom still has her clothes in it.

Soon. He'll get to it. He's sure of it. One of these days he'll find his way home and sleep off the stupor he's in. And if he's lucky, he'll get a whole day off. Any day. Wherever. Whenever. Whatever. Windows or not. Food optional. Mattress mandatory. Hope Lisa will share it.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 4,  2005

Christmas in November

Most of the leaves are still on the trees here. We haven’t had a frost. And I’m trying to complete my Christmas shopping, wrapping, and mailing. Go ahead, gag if you want to.

I’ve always been one of those people who shops early, mostly because no matter how fabulous the sales, I can’t bear to go to a department store in December and be crushed by the surly crowds.

I would officially begin my Christmas shopping every year in mid-July when Hallmark launches its line of Keepsake Ornaments. The July holiday extravaganza was on my calendar a month in advance, and I’d happily step out of Virginia ’s summer heat into the icy air conditioning and seasonal music that accompanied the big Hallmark sale. I’d been shopping there for years, and I knew the owners and employees by name. I’d have my first homemade sugar cookie in more than half a year, load up my basket, hand over my charge card, and carry my big honking bags of ornaments to the car—the first packages to be sequestered in the trunk and brought into the house under cover of darkness.

In the coming months, I’d hit Wal-Mart, Target, and the mall early in the morning when they were virtually empty. I’d milk the Labor Day, Columbus Day, and Veteran’s Day sales for all they were worth. And by Thanksgiving, everything would be purchased and ready to mail. This let me spend December decorating my home and going to parades, concerts, and holiday gatherings and avoiding the Bah-Humbug Retail Rodeo.

But this year is different. In mid-July, I dutifully sat at my desk, went to Hallmark.com, pushed my mouse, and ordered my ornaments. No music, no candles, no familiar faces, no beautifully decorated designer Christmas trees, no sugar cookies made by the store owner’s elderly mother, no fun freebies at the checkout. It was a virtual experience in every sense of the word. Disappointing.

I’ve repeated the process in the past few months, pointing and clicking across the Web, hunting for gifts. It’s convenient but boring. No fun. No great deals. And I’m having a hard time finding the right gifts for some folks.

Why not shop the Belgian stores? Well, for one, I don’t’ know where to start. There are very few big stores, mostly small shops and I have no clue where to find the types of things I’m looking for. The small shops are expensive and the sales tax here is 24 percent. If they had truly original items, it would be worthwhile, but much of what they carry is the same as you’d find in any American store, so there’s no incentive to buy it locally.

Plus, I don’t have a car and have to get to the shops by bus or Metro and carry my purchases home. I just bought an LL Bean rolling duffle bag to help me with this task but shopping this way is a drag—literally. I’m pulling my purchases behind me as I go from store to store and the duffle can’t get too heavy or I’ll hurt myself lifting it onto the bus. Plus, shoes and clothing here are sized using a completely different system: Does Emily wear a 130 or a 140? Should I get those slippers in size 39? What’s the return policy at the store? You get the picture.

The final insult to my holiday shopping—I need to get everything mailed well BEFORE Thanksgiving this year. Because we use the military postal service, all our packages are transported from Europe to the U.S. by the armed services and then plugged into the U.S. postal service when they arrive there. During peak mailing times, it can take weeks for items to reach their recipients. So I either have to mail very early to make sure items arrive in time or risk that they won’t get there until January. So no, I can’t wait to see what’s offered at the big outdoor holiday markets next month—it will be too late. Sigh.

It’s enough to make a Grrrl say Bah-Humbug—in early November.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 3, 2005

V-Grrrl Gets Personal

Reading about Katie Cowhorns’ and Granola Grrrl’s experiences with Internet dating and the hidden messages in personal profiles made me wonder what I’d say about myself and what I value in a partner if I were posting a personal ad at this stage in my life. This proved to be my toughest writing assignment in weeks. The results of my exercise:

Very white female without tan lines seeking single man, with or without tan lines.  Need not like kids but must like mine. Sense of humor critical, hair optional but preferred. Must be into fitness but not sports, spiritual but not a scripture-quoter, clean but not too neat, responsible but not uptight, empathetic but not wimpy, kind of traditional but not patriarchal, smart but not a smart ass, a thinker who takes life but not himself seriously. Must be familiar with the over-40 female psyche and able to navigate amid fluctuating estrogen levels. Must know when to advance, retreat and surrender. Ability to discuss books, movies, and politics necessary. Ability to make me laugh richly rewarded. No whiners or TV junkies allowed. Those who can’t/won’t do housework should not reply.

As for me, I’m a tea-drinking, Web-writing, mid-sized, middle-aged chick, who can be smart, funny, and a little lazy. Not a morning person. Not exactly a night person either. I haven’t figured out what kind of person I am. Idealistic and cynical, sometimes in the same sentence. Cheerful and moody, often in the same minute. Theoretically committed to embracing change but finding it hard to make change happen. Spiritual and religious in fits and starts. In shape from the waist down and flabby from the waist up. Brown eyes, thick curly hair. I shed like a Lab but I’m not a dog. Done with having babies, into raising kids. Bored with sports but interested in health and fitness. Trying to age gracefully but still covering my gray. Into all things cozy. Unimpressed by most things shiny. Practical.  I'm amused by pop culture, treasure my friendships,  and have a weakness for sweaters and books. OK, OK--I admit it--I also have a lot of purses.

(Yeah, I know. Who would answer this? I think I have the only interested party on long-term lease...Better not let the E-Man read this. He may decide I'm not his type.)

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 2, 2005

The Politics of Napping

Most days, I need to take a nap just to make it through. And being an American, this fills me with shame. You can do anything in America, the land of opportunity, but don’t you dare sleep in the middle of the day!

Every time I kick back in a recliner or curl up on my cranberry-colored sofa, I’m wracked with guilt. A chorus of historical voices looks at me in dismay. The Puritans despise my flabby work ethic, the early colonists wonder about my sense of adventure, the frontier settlers see I lack a can-do spirit, the 20^th century modernists cite me as an example of why America is falling behind, the post-modern workaholics shake their heads and list all the activities on their agendas that supplant sleep. As I hunker down in my gray sweatshirt and navy knit pants, I hear the collective voices of American capitalism sneering at me in disdain.

How vile! How slovenly! When I collapse on the sofa, I am not consuming a product or service. I should be trudging through stores, charging my purchases, eating lunch out, burning gas while stuck in traffic, and dreaming of a bigger car to haul my stuff in and a larger house to accommodate it all. And not only have I failed as a consumer, I’ve failed at producing anything of value. I’m personally responsible for slowing down the economy! I annoy all the hyperactive, slack-faced Americans who measure their worth in sleeplessness, cell phone activity, volume of e-mail, and hours spent multi-tasking.

Yes, I’ve let my country down. I’m an ambassador of lethargy and malaise. Let’s face it, there’s nothing more un-American than valuing silence and doing nothing or indulging in nature’s narcotic: sleep. So I keep my secret vice under cover, shall we say, as I pull a fleece throw up to my chin and draw the curtains during daylight hours. I listen to the clock tick on the mantel until everything fades to black. Ahhhh. Inner voices are silenced, my body is content, and I’ll wake up and deny it all happened as soon as I’m asked, “What did you do today?”

©2005 by Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 1, 2005

By Popular Demand: The Spider Story

In honor of Halloween, I'm sharing my creepy spider story. Apologies to those who have already heard it or seen dramatic re-enactments at parties.

Not too long ago, in a faraway place called Virginia, there lived a Grrrl who did not think she suffered from arachnophobia........

It was a summer morning, and I was getting ready to take a walk with my Favorite Boy to see tadpoles in a deep puddle in the neighborhood. I went out to the garage to put on my sneakers, and as I reached in to pull up the tongue of the shoe, I felt a sharp prick on my hand. Ouch! Thinking there was a burr in the sneaker, I put my hand BACK INTO THE SNEAKER and felt a quick sting on my knuckle. As I was pondering what was in my shoe, out walked the biggest friggin' SPIDER EVER! I could actually see him swivel his head around and gaze at me with his creepy eyes. He walked TOWARD me with a swagger, as if daring me to squish his ENORMOUS body.

Did I unleash my inner Bitch and promptly make that spider two dimensional? No. Instead I screamed like I have never screamed before. This was not a shriek of surprise, this was a primal reaction. I only stopped screaming long enought to take my next breath and scream some more. And if the screaming wasn't bad enough, I actually did the hysterical woman dance, jumping up and down and flapping my hands like a frustrated toddler. And I started to cry. It was not my proudest moment.

The E-Man rushed out to the garage and asked me what was wrong. I pointed to the SPIDER, still defiantly holding its ground in spite of my hysterics. "That son of a bitch bit me--twice!!!!!" And I start sobbing uncontrollably. In my defense, this was not long after my BIG CAR ACCIDENT and before the meds, so let's consider I was a little on EDGE.

The E-Man, seeing me completely out of control, leads me to the bathroom to run cold water over the bites. He asks, "Are they extremely painful?"

I screech--"Nooooo. Noooo. I'm just FREAKED OUT! I AM COMPLETELY FREAKKKKKKKKED OUUUUUT!"

And that's when the E-Man calls 911, afraid I'm having some wild reaction to the spider bites. And then I'm mortified because "THIS IS NOT AN EMERGENCY. THIS A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN!" I'm sure I'm going to be committed.

The EMTs don't take me away. They don't condescendingly tell me to calm down and get a grip. They don't offer me a cozy straitjacket and a little white pill. They admit the spider, now captured in a jar for identification, is HUGE. They make Spiderman jokes and don't make me feel like a jerk, even though, well, I feel like a jerk anyway. They even make me laugh a little. After they tell me to ice the bites down and watch for a reaction, they leave.

I tell E-Man, "I'm going to the chiropractor now [for my post accident therapy], and I want you to bomb the garage while I'm gone. I want every mother f--king spider in that space to wish it had never been born. I want a pesticide residue to kill everything with more than two legs for MONTHS."

And you know, he carried out the HIT for me. And I never loved him more than when I parked the car in the garage hours later and saw NO SIGNS OF INSECT LIFE. He even vacuumed up the webs, egg sacs, and spider poop throughout the garage and stuck the crevice attachment into every shoe in case there were any holdouts.

It was one of the nicest things he ever did for me. And if St. Francis of Assisi, witnessing this vengeful act of insecticide, signed the order sending us straight to hell that day, well, OK. At least I'd be spending eternity with my favorite exterminator. 

Unless, of course, he's  granted amnesty. Afterall,  he took the biggest meanest, sassiest spider of all, the one that BIT HIS WIFE TWICE , and set it free in the backyard to be fruitful and multiply.

 And to think I thought he loved me....

© 2005 by Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 29, 2005

Something to Protest About

Everytime I see a protest, even an unpopular one, I smile and think “Democracy in action!” Thank God for protestors. Even the ones who stop traffic and delay us. They’re trying to get our attention. Let’s at least listen for a few minutes and consider their issues. And more importantly, let’s consider what issues we’re willing to raise our voice to address.

I’m thinking about protests because I just got an alert from the American Embassy about upcoming protests in downtown Brussels. Approximately 70,000 members of the Socialist, Christian, and Liberal unions are marching to express their displeasure with proposed changes in retirement benefits. While they’re marching from one major rail station to another in the city, a much smaller protest consisting of 300 Congolese will take place, highlighting the lack of human rights for women in the Congo.

Many years ago, the Congo was a Belgian colony, and King Leopold committed untold atrocities in his quest to maximize the resources in that African country for the benefit of Belgium’s citizens. My husband’s grandmother was quick to settle in the Congo, happily leaving behind Brussels and the social constraints women of her century faced. She was ambitious, and in the Congo she was free to run a number of successful enterprises. But eventually the trampled Congolese rose up in a bloody fight for independence. My husband, Eric, a Belgian citizen born in the Congo, lost his father in what some said was a suspicious plane crash in the aftermath of the revolution. His grandmother lost everything.

His mother remarried, to an American working for the Embassy, and Eric soon left the Congo and his Belgian citizenship and relatives behind, living in Algiers, Greece, and Turkey before settling in the U.S. as a teenager.

And here we are, thirty years later, living in Belgium. The Congolese, once exploited by the king of Belgium, are now abused by their own. And the Belgian workers, with one of the highest standards of living in all of Europe, are irate because there will be a delay in collecting their generous retirement benefits. If the government has its way, retirement age will bump up to 60. (I think it’s 58 now.)

There are 70,000 people willing to spend a day protesting the age at which one can collect retirement benefits and only 300 souls willing to fill a street to protest the treatment of the estimated 40,000+ women who have been raped during the six year civil war in the Congo (figures from Amnesty International). The BBC reports that these women are emotionally and physically traumatized, exposed to or infected with HIV, rejected by their husbands and families as being “unclean,” denied medical care and justice, and often burdened with caring for the children conceived in violence.

Many were abducted from their homes and held for days, even weeks, being raped repeatedly. Some are as young as 12. Some, after being raped for hours, drag themselves down the road to get medical care for their serious injuries—and encounter more men who rape them all over again. Many are mutilated as well.

In America, as in Belgium, we’re quick to holler or sue if someone threatens our piece of the national pie, the American Dream. Show me an American who isn’t willing to stand up and explain what they’re entitled to, and I’ll show you a dead American.

But what we’re “entitled” to is getting to be ridiculous. I read on CNN that Congress is in heated debate over a broadcasting law change that will eliminate analog TV signals at the end of 2006, meaning owners of older TV sets will have to purchase a $100 converter to continue to get network TV. Keep in mind that according to MSNBC, 85 percent of Americans receive their TV signals by cable or satellite and will be unaffected by the switch from analog to digital broadcasting in 2006. Still, this “issue” that affects 15 percent or less of the U.S. population has many Congressmen red in the face as they declare the INJUSTICE of this proposed change and ask how the government is going to fund all those signal converters that people MUST have in order to meet the American standard of living which means freedom and TVs for ALL. We all know it’s impossible to expect those affected by this change to SAVE $100 over the next 14 MONTHS and upgrade their OWN precious TVs. You can see this is a BIG CRISIS worthy of tuning in to C-Span. Maybe this will be just what Bush needs—he can bring all the soldiers home from Iraq under the guise that they’re needed here to install signal converters in the homes of underprivileged Americans that own multiple analog TVs!

OK, let’s face it, we all know the Congressman's rants really have nothing to do with the poor and their TVs, it has to do with the business interests of those manufacturing expensive digital TVs, the interest of others in re-developing those abandoned analog channels, and of course the business interests of the broadcasters, their advertisers and the power of their political action committees. After all, what will politicians do if they can’t reach that 15 percent of the population with cleverly produced ads of half-truths and lies? Those political ads can determine which politicians get to plant or keep their porky asses in the leather chairs on Capitol Hill. Can we risk losing access to the 15 percent who may base all their decisions on what they see on TV? Maybe the rest of us can—the pols can’t.

So today in America, the difference between the haves and the have-nots boils down to the value of your TV and your ability to watch Desperate Housewives and Monday Night Football in 2007. This is what our politicians are fighting for. In Belgium, it’s about when you get to stop working and enjoy a comfortable retirement. And in the Congo, a handful of women are risking their lives to ensure that others will one day be able to live without suffering multiple gang rapes, and that today’s victims will have access to medical care to deal with their injuries.

Does the injustice of all this make you want to scream? To hang your head and weep? To hit the streets yourself and protest? It should. Our hearts should curl up with shame over some of the things that preoccupy us and incite our outrage. We should all ask ourselves what’s worth fighting for—and then fight the GOOD fight wherever and whenever we can.

© 2005 by Veronica McCabe Deschambault

October 28, 2005

Heart in Two Places

So strange to have my heart in two places. I was checking the Brussels weather today and then clicked over to see the forecast at home in King George and suddenly felt so divided, longing for home yet glad to be here in Europe.

It’s getting much colder at night in Virginia now, though sometimes the day time highs are about the same as here in Belgium. I visualize my old neighborhood, the kids in hooded sweatshirts at the bus stop in the morning, their hands jammed in their pockets, their breath turning white in the brisk air.

The fall colors are probably just past their peak. The acorns are rattling off the oak tree in our back yard and clattering onto the roof and the back deck. The gutters are undoubtedly stuffed with leaves, the backyard afloat in them. I’m sure there’s a hint of wood smoke in the air at night.

I miss gazing out my kitchen window and taking it all in, especially the flutter of falling sweet gum leaves and the forlorn rattle of the brown pin oaks’, many of which will cling to the tree until the spring. The persimmons are ripe, I’m sure. I used to be able to spy them on the tree from the big window in Emily’s room, but maybe by now the white pines that rim the yard are blocking the view. They grow so fast.

The swing set has only the wind for company. I remember how the children used to rake leaves into a heap at the bottom of the slide and gleefully plow through them. And every fall, I’d stand my September “babies” in front of the garden gate and take their picture, watching them rise higher against the fence line each year. I miss the bright-colored mums Eric planted each fall by the front sidewalk and the big round pumpkins we’d post like sentries at the door.

We used to buy them at Westmoreland Berry Farm, relishing the fall foliage as we trekked out farther into the Northern Neck, the drive as satisfying as the destination. We went there at least once in the fall—buying pumpkins and plants, going on hayrides, letting the children climb on the hay bales. The kids would order hotdogs and ice cream from the kitchen while Eric and I relished the BBQ sandwiches and hot cider.

One October we took a horse-drawn wagon ride around the farm at night and saw the full moon rise over the Rappahannock River and spill silvery shadows onto the fields. They had a bonfire that night, and the kids’ faces glowed as they roasted marshmallows. We always saw people we knew. And last year Emily’s best friend, Hannah, celebrated her birthday at the farm.

Fall is different here. Yes, a few homes have mums but I rarely spot a pumpkin on a doorstep. I don’t have any sense of there being a harvest celebration or holiday. I’m wondering if children will appear on my doorstep in costumes on Halloween night or if that’s strictly an American custom. At home, I planned for 50 kids, and each year there would only be a few pieces of candy left in the trick-or-treat bowl when I switched off the porch light at night’s end.

Living here has made me realize how important holidays and traditions are to the psyche and how difficult it is to preserve them away from home. I didn’t realize until I left the U.S. how much the communal sharing of holidays matters. Sure, you can reproduce some traditions from the U.S. in Belgium, but the fact that everyone else in the community isn’t sharing the holiday greatly diminishes its appeal. It’s not just putting your own Halloween decorations out, it’s seeing that others have done the same thing. It’s the collective experience of looking forward to something, sharing the excitement with strangers. The holiday store displays, even the grocery sales (and crowds) all made the U.S. celebrations bigger and better.

Sure, this year we had a cookout on Fourth of July and attended a festival hosted by the U.S. Army here. The crowd seemed sparse and knowing that everyone else in the country was working and there would be no fireworks or parades to applaud dampened my spirits. Even Labor Day felt strange. In the U.S. it marked the official end of summer, one last hurrah, one last cookout, one last trip to the beach—a complex mix of jubilation and melancholy. Here it was just another weekend.

I couldn’t bear the thought of celebrating Thanksgiving in Belgium, so far from family and our homes and the long lines of grocery carts loaded with canned pumpkin, apples, cranberries, turkeys, potatoes, green beans, and sweet potatoes. I decided I’d rather not celebrate at all than cook a huge dinner for four on a day undistinguished from all the rest across Belgium. No, we’re going to take that holiday and transform it into a European adventure. On Thanksgiving morning we’re having croissants and coffee and catching a high-speed train to Paris. We’ll spend five days in the city of heavenly lights—and skip the traditional American feast.

Maybe I’ll roast a turkey for Christmas, and we’ll count our blessings then. Just knowing my Belgian neighbors are gathered with their families around a table doing the same thing will give me one more thing to be grateful for.

© 2005 by Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 27, 2005

Meet Granola Grrrl

Granola Grrrl is a gnarly branch on V-Grrrl’s twisted family tree. She is a yoga-practicing, peace-loving, yogurt-eating single mom. She likes simplicity but recognizes that getting to “simple” is a complex process. She’s on her way to Enlightenment but she’s got three boys in tow so it could take a while. Slide on your Birkenstocks and join her on the journey.  Here are several favorite Granola Grrrl essays. 

SuperHeroes, Unite!

File this under the TMI category (Too Much Information), but I have some SuperGirl thong underwear. I like them a lot and I wear them when I’m feeling particularly sassy. Sometimes I feel like a poser, just pretending to be super anything. But thinking about it over the last couple days, I realized that motherhood has turned me into a SuperHero!

I multitask like nobody’s business. I can keep track of who likes what kind of jelly on their peanut butter sandwiches. I am amazed at my productivity, now, post-children, given 20 minutes of uninterrupted time (meaning not having to stop every 2 minutes to referee a quarrel or check to make sure that everyone is suitably occupied).

I have wowed stunned onlookers, my Jedi-like Mom Reflexes saving countless fragile objects mid-flight, out of the corner of my eye, on their way to becoming shadows and tiny fragments of their former fragile selves.

But what I find most entertaining, in a lame-party-tricks kind of way, is my ability to tell, merely by listening, exactly what is happening across the house. I can distinguish between different types of flatware by the sound they make banging on either the floor or another utensil (which I can usually also identify). Knives, spoons and forks sound different. Anything that sounds like glass is an automatic and immediate investigation, although I can also tell by the sound of the glass (even if it hasn’t been broken yet), whether it’s a lost cause. Water sounds different falling into the sink or tub than falling on the floor. I can tell how full the sink or tub is too. Orange juice sounds different from water. So does pee.

I know what different cries mean (didn’t we learn that when they were babies?); I know which ones will grow louder as the crier runs toward me. I can tell by the speed of the steps and the quality of the voice whether or not he will enter my airspace pursued by another child who is so furious he’s running in Stealth Mode, but not under Mom Radar. INCOMIIIIIING!

Moms are naturally just Supers (to be fair, I know some SuperDads too). We always manage to get everyone where they need to be, mostly on time, with important documents in hand (such as homework and/or the checkbook). We get everyone through the day, with minimal injury to ourselves or them. We make sure they’re fed (although sometimes I think they might move a little more slowly if I didn’t feed them so often ). And we do all this in addition to making sure they have clean laundry and a periodic bath.

So where do I fit my secret identity? Do I have one? Who am I when I’m not a SuperGrrrl? I think it’s all me. The work I do, the work I want to do, my yoga, my knitting, my reading... being a SuperMom is a part of it, but not separate from it.

And the truth is, it takes a village to make me Super. I have a team of specially trained colleagues, each contributing his/her own special skill. Sometimes we’re more like Mystery Men—a bunch of aspiring SuperHeroes struggling to figure out the best way to use our special talents. Sometimes we get it, sometimes we f—it up. Sounds like parenthood to me.

Just call me SuperGrrrl. And be grateful I didn’t put in a picture of my underwear.

© 2005 by Melanie Faulkenbury. All rights reserved.

More Confessions of Granola-Grrrl

I guess it’s better to get the confession over with at the beginning, so I can move on, right? Here it is, my dirt, my shame: If given the opportunity (and about $15K), I would go for elective surgery. In a heartbeat.

See, the problem is that someone my size and build cannot gestate and nurse twins (7+ lbs each) and ever expect her body to go back the way it was. I am back to my usual weight, but going from about 125 to about 190 and back, in a mere 12-18 months, sort of did a permanent number on my poor belly. They call it “twin skin”. It’s just sort of sitting there. Imagine the tummy of a 70-year-old woman. On a 33-year-old. Unfair? Definitely. My stomach just sort of hangs in a most unappealing way. As I describe it, my stretch marks have stretch marks. There is literally not enough good skin left to pull it all back together.

I envy and admire the bikini moms at the pool every summer. I want to wear low-rise jeans and not worry about my belly sneaking out to peek at passersby. I have worked hard to get fit and toned up again. I am doing a yoga-Pilates class this time. My abs are more kick-ass than ever, and my tummy is actually flat again. I don’t think it’s ever been like this. But no one can tell because it’s hiding under all that extra skin. Take it off! Take it all off!

And of course, when one discusses elective surgery, there’s always the notorious boob job. I just want my breasts back. I don’t have to have huge knockers. Just fix them a little so they don’t, well, look like a 70-year-old woman owns them. So maybe I won’t have to roll them up and tuck them into my bra by the time I’m 35. I thought I would just have them put back the way they used to be. Sort of small, but I like that. Then I remembered that I had as hard a time buying bras then as I do now, so maybe I’d just ask the doctor to enhance them enough to make bra shopping bearable (is that possible?)

I’m horrified at the very thought that I’d even consider such a vain idea. Why not just accept and love the body I have? Because I’m only 33. And suddenly single. It’s extremely hard to feel attractive and desirable in this body. I know that the man who would find me attractive really wouldn’t care. But I do.

I love my children, and I am very proud of my body for being able to easily carry, birth and nurse big, healthy babies; I’m a little disappointed at its ability to recover. Right now, I am starting a new phase of my life. I’m moving on in motherhood, and I love it. I am not an old woman. I still like sex. A lot. I’ve spent a long time learning how to do it right. And I’d like to have sex, for once, without worrying about what my body looks like.

Like Will Smith in “Men in Black” said, there’s “old and busted” and “new hotness”. I know I can never be “new hotness” again, but for Pete’s sake, I am certainly not ready to be “old and busted!”

One of the great things about living in Plano is that there are plastic surgeons everywhere. Ads in the haughty city magazine are about 2/3 plastic surgery clinics (the other 1/3 are cosmetic dentistry—go figure).

So screw holistic philosophy! Screw acceptance! Sign me up for the knife!

© 2005 by Melanie Faulkenbury. All rights reserved.

The Precariousness of Being Granola Grrrl

This story starts out in an all-natural way, and that’s good and becomes important later. PMS, after all, is all-natural, isn’t it? So I shouldn’t feel bad about what happens next.

I was restlessly hungry for at least two days. I imagined myself eating a variety of foods, but none of them tasted right in my mind. For me, PMS food consumption is based on way more factors than most people think. The food has to satisfy certain criteria, dependent on my mood or my hormones or some force of nature yet to be indentified.

I might need something sweet, salty, or sour. It might have to be soft, chewy, or crunchy. Any combination of those qualities. Note that “healthy” is not on that list.

After 2 days of trying out different foods on my mind’s tongue, I imagined cake. Chocolate cake. The little flavor beast in my mind perked up and gave a mew of interest. So I hauled out my cookbooks, and found a recipe for Hot Fudge Sundae Cake. One of my favorites. Decadent. Chocolatey. Substantial. NOT “healthy”. At all. Sure, I could have used whole wheat flour, but it’s just not the same. So I made it in all it’s un-natural, unhealthy glory. It was everything I hoped and expected it to be.

But now I’m afraid the Nature Task Force will be at my door to revoke my Granola Status. A posse of big, unshaven, butch women in peasant skirts and braless tank tops, barefoot with long braids in their hair.

In my defense, I’ll argue that I used organic milk, flour and sugar, and only the teensiest bit of oil; I used my Crock Pot instead of wasting energy by heating the whole oven but I doubt they will be swayed. I’ll plead that it was for my children, and that will only makes matters worse.

They’ll raid my closet and confiscate my Birkenstocks, declaring me unfit to wear them any longer. In a final plea of desperation, I’ll wail that it was Nature’s Curse that caused my lapse in judgment. A flicker of emotion will cross the women’s faces, they’ll exchange knowing looks, and the leader will push my Birkis into my arms and growl, “Don’t let it happen again,” and whisper conspiratorially, “Can I get that recipe? You said you used organic ingredients, right?”

Recipe follows:

HOT FUDGE SUNDAE CAKE (Crock Pot)

1 c. flour

½ c. sugar

2 T. cocoa powder

2 t. baking powder

½ t. salt

½ c. milk

2 T. oil

1 t. vanilla

½ c. chopped nuts

¾ c. packed brown sugar

¼ c. cocoa powder

1 ½ c. hot water

Spray inside of slow cooker with cooking spray. Mix flour, sugar, cocoa, baking powder and salt in a bowl. Stir in milk, oil, vanilla until smooth. Stir in nuts. Spread batter evenly in slow cooker.

Mix brown sugar, and ¼ c. cocoa in small bowl. Stir in hot water until smooth (it will be very watery). Pour evenly over batter in slow cooker.

Cover and cook on high for 2- 2 ½ hours, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Turn off the slow cooker and let cake stand uncovered for 30-40 minutes to cool slightly before serving.

Note: I use a 3 ½ qt Crock Pot. The larger ones may be able to take a double recipe. Vanilla ice cream is a must. Try Ben & Jerry’s (hormone-free, you know) to keep the Nature Task Force at bay. ; )

© 2005 by Melanie Faulkenbury. All rights reserved.

Profundity Abounding

Who knows where or when insightful moments might hit us? I wish I did, because I’d certainly seek them out more often. Wouldn’t it be great if there was a bus stop labeled “Enlightenment”? I bet the fare is cheaper than we think.

Today, just for kicks, I decide to seek out a labyrinth I’d read about on the Richland College campus. It was built by students, as a community-building project. I hadn’t planned to visit it while I had kids with me, but it sort of works out that way this morning. I briefly explain to them the purpose of the labyrinth, that it is to be walked mindfully and quietly (anyone see the folly in explaining this to 8- and 5-year-olds?), to the center, then back out again.

Of course, Matt wants to make a race to the center, and is somewhat befuddled by the circuitous route he finds himself on. He skips over some of the bricks and grass that mark the gravel path, and finds himself hopelessly lost. I tell him to walk with me, and explain again that we are doing this in a mindful way, so as not to get lost.

Then I explain a little more about it. About how the labyrinth is sort of like our lives. How we can sometimes see the center, even when it seems that the path is taking us farther from it. How there is only one path, and no dead ends. And how, when we skip over important barriers , instead of patiently moving on and working around them, we can get really lost. He waits ‘til I am done talking, and then says “Ohhhhhh!”

We keep walking, sometimes in silence, with him stepping on my heels, and sometimes chattering and dragging me by the hand and making “Bat turns, Mom!” around the corners. At first, I think to protest; isn’t it supposed to be solemn and mindful? A spiritual experience? Then I realized that it is. If that’s what life is about, then the labyrinth is just like my life. Sometimes with all my kids stepping on my heels, sometimes with a couple of them finding their own way (successfully!), sometimes with them dragging me at terrifying speeds around the corners, and sometimes with me alone in my own thoughts and uncomfortably far from the center.

I imagine that every trip into and out of the labyrinth will lead me to a new center and back out again with new insight. Come to think of it, I guess I can take a bus to Enlightenment.

© 2005 by Melanie Faulkenbury. All rights reserved.

Overheard at My House

Squeamish 8-year-old daughter

“I wish someone had told me before that nails are made from dead cells. I never would have chewed them!”

10-year-old son to chatty 8-year-old sister

“You’re like a radio that I can’t turn OFF!”

Kitchen conversation between Oscar and Felix

E-Man , sighing while picking three slimy macaroni and cheese noodles off the table: “These kids have no concept of clean whatsoever!”

V-Grrrl, who often doesn’t remove the breakfast dishes from the table until right before she serves dinner: “I’m sure YOU never made a mess when you were a kid.”

E-Man: “Of course I didn’t! I don’t remember doing any of this.”

V-Grrrl: “I know, I know, I’m sure you were PERFECT.”

E-Man: “I was. Ask my Mom!”

V-Grrrl: “Babe, your mom survived raising three boys and made it to old age by forgetting most of your childhood. Consider yourself lucky.”

You Did What?!

“Mama! Guess what?! We swept all the leaves off the sidewalk down the street and put ‘em in a big, big trash bag and carried them home!”

“Why?!”

“Well we used them to decorate the yard. We spread them all over so it will look more autumn-y!”

School Picture

“I look a little funny. I mean I smiled a happy smile, but my hair was in a bad mood.”

Sex, Celebrity, and the Single Panda

WASHINGTON —Freedom, as Janis Joplin observed, sometimes ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.

I believe “just another word for nothin’ left to lose,” was the way Janis defined it.

I found myself thinking about Janis’ lyric when I spoke to my friend Colleen O’Brien of PETA in Norfolk , Va. about the Giant Panda cub at the Smithsonian National Zoo.

The 3-month-old cub is currently the rock star of the animal kingdom, attracting a mob of panda paparazzi to a press conference to announce the choice of his name in an online vote. This, even though there was never any plan for the baby panda to appear and despite the fact that he actually snoozed through the big event in the privacy of his den.

National Zoo Director John Berry announced the name Tai Shan (pronounced tie-SHON), which means “peaceful mountain” in Chinese, was selected.

“You can bet they would never choose a name like ‘Freedom,’ because that’s one thing this poor cub will never see,” PETA’s O’Brien, a real panda-party-pooper, told me.

“The pandas who are born in captivity have no hope of ever being to the wild because they aren’t able to learn survival skills,” she said.

She pointed out that the National Zoo had paid the People’s Republic of China $10 million to “rent” the panda cub’s parents for 10 years.

“There has been a great deal of concern that China’s ‘rent-a-panda’ program is doing more harm than good because the focus has shifted from habitat preservation to producing captive-born cubs who can be loaned out to zoos for millions of dollars,” O’Brien told me. “In some cases, pandas are actually being removed from the wild for this purpose.”

Keep in mind please, that I am sympathetic to PETA and agree with many of the organization’s ideas. I even have an ambition of donning a cow suit for PETA some day to harass Ronald McDonald.

But I found myself thinking that little Tai Shan doesn’t have it all that bad.

I had to leave my warm comfortable bed at 4:30 a.m. and sit in gridlocked traffic for three hours to get to Washington in time for his naming ceremony. Meanwhile, he slept in till noon .

I also found myself thinking that, while I would be “free” if my wife kicked me out of the house, my own survival skills in the wild have never been anything to brag about. And that, since I’d have about $5 a week left after alimony and child support, I’d probably find myself sleeping in a cardboard box atop a heating grate somewhere.

At least Tai Shan has a fur coat.

Think for a moment about the panda “plight” in captivity. Adored by not millions, but billions, they laze around, having their picture taken, and are fed well. They don’t have to commute. Their “work” is having sex. And when they do their “job,” it’s treated with such fanfare you’d think they’d found a cure for cancer.

Outside of captivity, in their natural environment, they do about as well as I do in mine. Which means they live on the moral equivalent of free beer nuts they scrounge at bars, can’t even read the paper or watch cable in their den because they keep forgetting to pay the electric bill, and rarely get any action.

So here’s Tai Shan’s fat, furry, little captive behind sitting in a million-dollar home built for him at the zoo by Fujifilm, with Katie Couric and Soledad O’Brien oohing and aahing over him—and PETA’s saying we should feel sorry for him.

This is one case where repression is warm and fuzzy, and the idea of freedom leaves me cold.

The writer is a journalist, baseball coach, and FOVG (Friend of V-Grrrl). She loves his wicked sense of humor, ability to throw a curve ball at readers, spin stories until they hum, and play left field. His writing on V-Grrrl in the Middle is archived under Mike on the Bottom.