Family Secrets

Granola Grrrl recently confessed that despite her affinity for all things natural, holistic, and simple, she’d have plastic surgery in a second to tidy up the mess left behind by having twins and a 10-pound baby. She feels a bit marsupial now, with a pouch on her midsection and her boobs pointing down. And being newly single, she’s more than a little put out by this.

I generously offered to donate some stomach fat to fill her pouch with. This would make it nice and smooth and create a cozy gut for her boobs to rest on—no sagging! We’re blood relatives—I’m sure we’re fat compatible! (Surprisingly, she hasn’t e-mailed me back concerning my innovative solution to our respective tummy troubles.)

While Granola Grrl has been pondering the mental hypocrisy of  loving all things natural and yet reviling her saggy skin, stretchmarks, and pendulous boobs, I’ve reassured her that she isn’t as screwed up as she thinks. Our family has a proud history of pairing organic values with materialism and vanity. She's just another gnarly branch on our naturally weird family tree.

Consider my sister, a sales rep for various lines of health foods and supplements. She’s been eating sprouts and beans for as long as I can remember and washing supplements down with various green drinks. She hasn’t been to a medical doctor in years because modern medicine is a sham, except for the dermatologists who can prescribe those chemical cocktails to remove her wrinkles and sun damage. Now those are REAL doctors.

My sister spends her days talking to people about their diet and health woes, expounding on the benefits of the products she sells, and advising customers with medical problems on alternative medical treatments. You’d imagine her to be natural and wholesome, living close to the earth, growing her own herbs and vegetables, and gathering her family around a big pine table every night for vegetarian meals. You would be SO WRONG.

My sister is perfectly coiffed, thoroughly made up with dramatic dark eyeliner and red lipstick, designer clothes, and professionally manicured nails. She’s been on QVC. She drives a Cadillac and lives in a million dollar home. She doesn’t have a laid back bone in her body. She works non-stop, her cell phone glued to her ear 24/7. She doesn’t own a pair of jeans, never takes vacations, drinks a lot of coffee, and eats standing up. She’s a remarkable business woman--and a vain granola.

And then there’s my other sister, who also works in alternative medicine. She has one of those geriatric days-of-the-week pill sorters to keep all her vitamins and supplements straight. She assists in the office of a leading health guru who helped pioneer the concept of eating a restricted diet based on your blood type. All day, every day, my sister inserts hoses into people’s butts to irrigate and cleanse their toxic colons. Ooh yeah. Don’t you think she loves her work! And this same sister, who eats organic food and has a squeaky clean large intestine, has had a nose job, a tummy tuck, and liposuction.

So as you can see, our family motto is not "You can't fool Mother Nature."

We recognize that sometimes the family DNA arrives in a brown paper package, and DAMN, we are not going to sign for it. Hon, we want that DNA tastefully gift-wrapped and tied with a perfect bow—we deserve the best! Sure, we may eat hormone-free yogurt and malformed pesticide-free apples with spots, but personally WE will not be blemished, wrinkled, hormone-free hags! No way. That’s just not RIGHT. It’s not part of OUR natural order.

I’ll freely admit I’m less organic than the rest of them. I actually serve vile boxed macaroni and cheese to my children once in a while and even eat a hot dog or two in the summer time. I don’t take vitamins regularly. I’d never want a surgeon to reshape my Italian nose, boost my toy breasts (they can’t sag!), or suction down the stomach that tends to rise like bread dough over the top of my low-rise jeans.

But I’m not without vanity. I know that sooner or later I’m going to be writing a check to a medical professional and getting rid of the spider veins that have been crawling across my legs since I was a teen.

 "ZAP! WHACK! Wither and die, suckers! That doctor has got a laser and a hypodermic needle of saline solution—your days of spinning ugly purple webs on my legs are over!"

And when it's all done and the enemy veins have been eradicated, I’m going to sit outside in a sweet pair of organic cotton shorts, have a mixed green salad, and feel like a natural woman. Maybe my sisters will join me at the table.  We'll be looking so fine, we'll call a photographer for a family portrait.

 "Everyone say cheese!"

 (Lowfat, organic, and hormone-free, of course.)

© 2005 by Veronica McCabe Deschambault

October 21, 2005

Nothing but Gray Skies

Since the last week in August, we’ve had the most incredible weather—sunny and bright.

But the honeymoon is over. Today I woke up and it was so dark and overcast that the streetlights were still on at 7:45 a.m. when I walked the kids to the bus stop. I just checked the long-term forecast online and saw an unending stream of gray clouds and rain icons stretching through the next ten days.

This week I pulled out my Columbia parka to get me through the chilly mornings, but unfortunately I wasn’t wearing it on Monday when the school bus failed to show up. We ended up standing at the bus stop for nearly an hour because the school had assured us that there would only be a 20 minute delay. I was clad in a turtleneck and sweatshirt and the temperature was 41 degrees. By the time a neighbor decided to drive the kids to school, my back was as cold and lifeless as a frozen turkey.

I took off on a brisk walk thinking that would warm me up, rev up my circulation, and soften the knots along my spine. Instead, after an hour of walking, I felt my back working its way into spasms. Mounting the stairs leading up to the house, I felt a jolt of pain with each step.

I thought of my chiropractor’s warnings not to let my back get cold, that the change of seasons would be hard on my joints. I grabbed a Therma-Care wrap and stuck it on my low back, which was so tight I couldn’t bend over to untie my shoes. The heat worked wonders—better than any drug. Twelve hours after I put the patch on, it was still warm and I couldn’t believe how much better I felt. I never wanted to take it off.

Tonight as I was checking the weather and saw nothing but gray skies in the forecast, I noticed a button for an “Aches and Pains” index on Weather.com. Honestly, I thought it was a joke. I clicked on it, and OMG, it’s for real. It displayed the weather for Brussels along with a numerical rating predicting the likelihood of joint pain based on temperature, humidity, wind, and atmospheric pressure changes. I wanted to laugh but the truth is I’m fascinated.

The index doesn’t indicate I have much to worry about this weekend, but you can bet I’ll be paying attention next Monday when the pain forecast hits 10. Will my back obey the laws of computer-generated risk analysis and lay me low or will it be just another day with scoliosis?

Stay tuned!

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 19, 2005

Expatriate Blues

Culture shock takes many forms but no where does it hit harder than in the house we’re living in while abroad.

This should be the place where I retreat from the foreignness of the world outside and revel in all that is comfortable and familiar to me. Step into my house in Belgium and you’d wonder why I don’t love it. It’s bigger than the one we have at home and rich in architectural detail with heavy doors,  iron hinges and door latches, exposed brick walls and ceiling beams, knotty pine paneling, abundant windows, a curving staircase, the red tile roof, and ceramic tile floors. It oozes cozy European country charm. But there's more than meets the eye. Consider:

This is a five-bedroom house with exactly ONE closet—in the foyer. One of the attic bedrooms has become a walk-in closet crammed with boxes of clothes, shoes, toys, toiletries, linens, and office supplies. This is actually OK because it's not really suitable to serve as  a bedroom since it is tucked under steep eaves, lit by a single 40 watt bulb, and has only one outlet plug-in, which brings me to…

The kitchen--which has just three outlet plugs. Only indispensable appliances like the toaster, coffee maker, electric kettle, microwave, and lamp are worthy of getting plugged in, and still we play musical outlets. Something is always left out. The crock pot, countertop grill, and mixer are commiserating because they’ve lost priority and been relegated to the basement. They shouldn’t feel bad, because even though the vacuum cleaner is occupying prime real estate in the house’s only closet, it still doesn’t get plugged in often because…

It sometimes throws a circuit breaker—probably because we’re American energy gluttons who have dared to upgrade to 60 watt bulbs in the ceiling fixtures, which we rationalize is OK since we’re conserving water (against our will, of course). You see,  in this big house valued at about $550,000 we have….

One shower and never enough hot water, despite paying about  $400 a month in utilities. Every night I face the same dilemma--wash my hair OR shave my legs—I can’t do both. And besides not having hot water….

The bathroom doesn’t have a fan, a heater, or a vanity, so it’s cold, cluttered, AND prone to mildew and …

While there are two tubs located elsewhere in the house, we can’t use either one because  sediment accumulates in the pipes and they’re so clogged with mineral deposits from the unbelievably hard water here that if you dare to fill a tub, the water will be both rust- colored and tepid. Don’t count on retreating from the bathroom to the kitchen for comfort because…

You’ll undoubtedly be in the way of any other family member lingering there. Seduced by its big window and charming tile backsplash, I didn’t notice its retarded layout . One of the lower cabinets open into the side of the dishwasher and the upper cabinets are hung so high that even though I’m 5 foot 7 inches, I struggle to reach the contents. And so I have to keep a step stool on hand, which is always in the way, along with the piles of recyclables which that are the result of having to sort our trash into SEVEN different categories, which can only legally be disposed of in government-mandated color-coded bags which cost more than a $1 each. And as long as we're talking about  environmentalism, let's discuss….

My energy-efficient European fridge and oven which have less than two-thirds of the capacity I’m accustomed to. They will never accommodate a Thanksgiving turkey or even enough food and beverage to host a proper party, which means I may have to wait indefinitely to celebrate….

How thankful we are to be living in this beautiful house in Belgium, even though we miss the abundant outlets, lighting, storage, hot water, and cheap utilities at home.  : )

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 19, 2005

The Shallow Life

Back when I was in college and had illusions about the size and value of my intellect, I secretly sneered at people that read People magazine. I assumed everyone with an appetite for celebrity gossip and melodrama was a bit dim. I preferred the serious world of the Atlantic Monthly and New Yorker balanced by an occasional issue of Rolling Stone or Glamour to read over spring break. Yet whenever I found myself stuck in a waiting room, I picked up People and got my trashy journalism fix. Oh sure, I was too smart to buy such magazines but not too good to read them.

But once I became a mother, everything changed. By the time I embraced parenthood, I’d lost my sister and my own parents, and every emotion was heightened and raw. Submerging myself exclusively in literary books, serious movies, or the natural and manmade disasters on the news left me feeling weepy and defeated. Every hopeless story reminded me once again how vulnerable we are and how I couldn’t protect my children (or myself) from heartache or worse.

And this is when I began to understand the allure of the Shallow Life. Consuming celebrity gossip and fashion articles is a retreat to a world where the biggest worries are weight gain and being seen in last season’s shoes. The carefully polished and packaged worlds presented in these magazines are a thousand miles away from the reality of my own heart and home. And that’s a good thing in every sense. I don’t want to live in those scripted and styled worlds, but an occasional visit is worth the $4 cover price.

Embracing the world’s suffering may have made me a more compassionate person, but InStyle magazine helps me emerge from a gray fog and get on with life. When you can’t answer life’s big question (“Why am I here?”), it’s comforting to dwell on a smaller one (“Now that I’m here, what will I wear?”). Pop culture is like a cold fizzy drink on a hot day--needed refreshment when reality gets too hot to handle. Go ahead and watch The Apprentice or laugh at a Ben Stiller movie—it beats having your heart broken on CNN.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 18, 2005

October

Saturday evening I broke away from the kitchen after dinner and took a long walk, stepping out onto the sidewalk and kicking through the drifted leaves along the curb. I pause under a fiery Japanese maple and gaze up through its branches. The sky is clear and the air is cooling, the dipping temperature quietly heralding the end of the day. As I head down a dirt lane that winds between fields and forest, I notice the farmers are still on their tractors, harvesting sugar beets and potatoes. The fresh turned earth smells sharp and salty like the sea, and I pull in a deep breath and linger over the complex scent of life.

Further down the lane, someone is burning leaves, a sweet and acrid smell that fills me with an odd mix of joy and melancholy, triggering memories I can feel but can’t name. Here the road is lined with neat rows of towering elms. Their leaves set sail with the evening breeze and coast to a gentle landfall , decorating the dusty road with layers of yellow, green and brown. I tip my face up time and time again to watch them fall, but still I’m startled when one lands under my collar like a spastic moth banging into my face.

When I turn to head back toward home, I discover the full moon rising in front of me as the sun is setting behind me. Windows in the distance reflect the days’ fiery end as the butter-colored moon summons the night. A field of yellow flowers glows in the day’s last light.

Every fiber of me sings with contentment as the leaves dance and the trees lean into the lane like eager spectators at a parade. I draw in the sweet, smoky, damp smell in the air and watch my breath become visible with each exhale. Caught between the setting sun and rising moon, the deepening sky and drowsy forests and fields, I feel the season shifting gears. With gratitude I gather up the harvest of my happiness and turn toward home, my hands full of blessings, jammed in my pockets.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 17, 2005

Everybody Knows This is Nowhere

I must look like a native, and an approachable one at that, because I’m constantly getting asked for directions. People stop me on the street, pull over their cars to the sidewalk, or even accost me at the bus stop begging to know how to get somewhere. Of course, I’m assuming they’re asking me for directions. Since they’re normally speaking a foreign language, they could be politely telling me my fly is open, I have toilet paper stuck to the seat of my pants, or they think Dubya is an ignorant gun-toting cowboy, Dick Cheney should wipe that smirk off his face, and Condoleeza Rice has an evil eye. Who knows?

I always smile politely and say, “Desolé, je ne sais pas” (Sorry, I don’t know) or “Desolé. Je ne parle pas francais” (Sorry. I don’t speak French) or “Parlez-vous anglais?” in cases where I’m addressed in Dutch or German. (I’ve only successfully given directions once here, in French at that, and I was SO proud I’m going to add it to my resume's list of accomplishments.)

While my standard excuse for not helping lost souls is that I don’t speak their language, the REAL reason I can’t give directions is I don’t know how to go anywhere. Sure, I can sometimes tell you what bus to take or how to use the Metro, but when it comes to driving, I’m clueless to street names, geography, and what’s located where.

Part of the problem is that street names change every few blocks as the streets enter and exit French or Dutch speaking areas of Belgium and switch names, languages or both. Nothing is laid out on a grid here, the smaller roads are hundreds of years old and meander, and many intersections are unmarked. When there are street signs, they’re small and mounted on the side of a building. You can read them quite well as you approach on foot but forget being able to see them while cruising along in the car or spinning around a traffic circle with natives crowding you on all sides. On the highway, critical signs are often buried in the thick foliage shading the road's shoulder. You see your exit number in a blur of green leaves as you watch your chance at arriving somewhere on time disappear on the horizon. But while all this is true, the root of my problem goes deeper. Unlike my husband, I'm a spatial retard. 

The E-Man has been undeterred by the lack of street signs because he’s a human GPS who navigates by landmarks, geography, and an inexplicable sense of direction. The man is a living atlas—I affectionately call him Mappy. He can get you anywhere. He’ll tell you if the road goes up a hill before you have to turn, how many traffic lights are between you and your destination, and the shape and color of the building on the corner there. He can sniff out a shortcut faster than a starving rat in a maze. The man always gets his cheese.

He’s amazingly patient in dealing with me, his spatially challenged wife. This is not because he’s morally superior (OK, so maybe he IS) but because he needs me for my verbal memory. He may remember routes but he can’t remember names. I kid you not, when we applied for a marriage certificate, he didn’t know his mother’s middle or maiden names. (“Give me a break! I always called her Mom!”) I’ve rescued him from many a social embarrassment by supplying names for faces and places he should know.

I’d like to think our marriage has survived because we complement each other, but the real secret to our success may be less romantic: I can’t leave because I’d be lost without him and he can’t file for divorce because he can’t remember my name.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 14, 2005

The 20-Year Itch

Every 20 years we reinvent ourselves. Think about it. In the first 20 years, we grow up and get ready to separate from our parents. In our second twenty years, we leave home and struggle to build a career, a family, a network of friends, a place in a community, a spiritual center. We work to acquire the requisite creature comforts and accessories. We “settle down.”

And then comes 40, and we wonder exactly what we’ve settled into and what we’ve settled for. We itch to remodel all that we’ve built—and with critical eyes and the tools we’ve accumulated, we begin the hard and messy work of correcting our mistakes. Do we just need a fresh coat of paint or do the walls have to come down? How much of the work can we do ourselves? What can we afford? It can be exhilarating, empowering, and liberating—and sad, scary, and unnerving. Like adolescents we may be angst-filled, self-consciousness and uncertain but we also have an edgy confidence and determination. The renovations begin.

Our first 20 years as an adult have given us the wisdom and the courage to gradually shed all that is bringing us down. With a sharp eye we examine our marriages, our careers, our lifestyles, our spirituality and begin to consider what to keep and what to leave behind. We bring in the big green dumpster and pack it with the grief, guilt, and mistakes we want to bury. We take the black balloons from our birthday party and let them go. We crane our necks and watch them disappear into a bright blue sky.

We remodel our lives inside and out. We clean out the closets of our hearts and homes, redecorate and repurpose each room. We part with those things we were too sentimental to let go of years before—the baby blankets and sleepers, the school papers, the letters, the souvenirs from lost loves and old adventures. We vow to carry who and what we love in our souls and not pack it away in cluttered closets, attics, and basements.

We finally have the chutzpah to retreat from empty jobs. Back to school for master’s degrees or into entry level jobs in new fields. A transportation specialist becomes a middle school teacher. An art historian becomes a guidance counselor. A biologist becomes an accountant. An office manager becomes a social worker. An econ major becomes a doctor. A physical therapist becomes a masseuse. A nurse earns a marketing degree. Incomes rise and drop as self-doubt yields to determination. We applaud each graduation. We eat cake.

But not all the changes that come are ones we want to celebrate. Life after 40 is also a time to mourn. Cheerful children become difficult adolescents, grown children leave home and accumulate adult problems, the ghosts of the babies we can’t have haunt us. The marriage we thought was forever isn’t, the faith we’ve always embraced doesn't makes sense, our parents are less a source of strength than a source of worry. The medical tests are numerous and scary, we’ve attended quite a few funerals, we’ve buried a lot of hope.

We carry it all—the longing, the joy, the fears, and the losses—and we move forward with varying degrees of certainty but lots of persistence. We’ve come this far, we’ve borne this much, we’ve earned our laugh and frown lines, and we’re ready for the curtain to rise again. Let the critics say what they want--we’re writing the script, designing the set, and producing the show. I’m going to call mine, “The 20-Year Itch.” This is the Second Act.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 13, 2005

V-Grrrl in Black Leather

With the cool days of fall upon us, I’ve been able to unearth my favorite boots from the back of the closet. Sleek and black, with impossibly long pointy toes and short pointy heels, these boots walk the fine line between evil and elegant, silly and sexy. The E-Man calls them Grinch shoes. The children think they were made by elves. I rather like to think they’re what the Wicked Witch of the West would wear on a hot date. Love them or hate them, these boots demand an opinion.

They’re Isaac Mizrahi’s and sport a lovely long seam down the center of the vamps, highlighting all their slender, sharp-toed glory. The impossible tips invite admiration and fear. Ooh baby, they’re sexy—but make a wrong move and they’ll land in a spot of the anatomy that can readily receive them. Likewise the spike heels are low enough to keep me steady on my feet and narrow enough to elicit a gasp. Stopping just above my  ankle, my boots are topped with a line of fine decorative stitching and an improbably small and sweet bow, like a coy smile that can be interpreted a dozen different ways.

Having these boots in my closet is like having a race car parked in the garage. When I slide these boots on, I think two things: fast and sharp. Most of my shoes are station wagons—sturdy, practical, and oh so to the right. But not my Isaac’s. No, no, no. When I pull them out of their hot pink and orange box and slide their zippers up, my heart hits the accelerator, and pulls into the passing lane. Out of my way, world. These boots are made for V-Grrrl. 

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 12, 2005

Sunday Breakfast

The E-Man has many excellent qualities, but high on the list of things I love is his ability to make kick-ass eggs. His scrambled eggs are fluffy and not dry. His omelets are lightly browned and oozing cheddar cheese, his fried eggs have viscous yolks and tender whites. If he could make biscuits too, I’d be pointing my feet and curling my toes like Meg Ryan in the diner scene of “When Harry Met Sally.”

But then again, if he could make golden brown biscuits with a slightly salty buttery crust and soft but not doughy middle, he’d probably be Martha Stewart’s Boy-Toy instead of my Main Squeeze. Then I’d be left alone with a cold bowl of cereal while he lived a tidy and tasteful existence somewhere in Connecticut or New York , tending tulips, pruning hedges, mowing grass, feeding apples to the horses, sleeping on clean, pressed sheets.

Women like me (the Oscars of the world) fear the Marthas of the world—that devastating combination of brains, looks, and domestic prowess. Lock her up and she only gets stronger. Like a Superhero in a comic book, Martha is larger than life. If she absconded with my husband, I guess I could accept it as long as he sent generous checks drawn from Martha’s account and cooked the kids and I breakfast on weekends.

Martha may be a billionaire tycoon, but I can negotiate a fair deal. In Grrrrl World, Sunday breakfast trumps all, and surely Martha would see a 6-1 split on the E-Man working in her favor. I’m a (mostly) good Grrrl and generous as well. As long as I get my eggs, I’ll let HER iron his shirts and sheets and sprinkle them with lavender water. She couldn’t resist an offer like that. I know what makes a Martha point her toes and say “Ah!”

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 11, 2005

A Dream Come True

You remember John and Lorena Bobbitt.
Cute couple. Nasty breakup.
Last week a British documentary crew came to Manassas , Va., to do a film on the Bobbitt case. I covered the 1994 trials of John and Lorena for a Virginia newspaper, so the documentary-makers asked me to participate.
I helped them find Lorena, who, after disappearing from the public eye, finally found a nice guy, lives with him in a comfortable home in Loudoun County , Va. , and—best of all as far as she’s concerned—has a beautiful 3-week-old daughter.
John, who, trying to cash in on his 15 minutes of fame while he could, went on to do a porno flick and work at the Bunny Ranch brothel in Nevada, also has a new baby—and is getting divorced. He’s been arrested seven times in the last 10 years.
You may not remember that, three days before John and Lorena’s first wedding anniversary, he pressured her into having an abortion. When she sank into the depths of depression, he consoled her by telling her she’d never be a good mother, anyway.
This was before his extramarital affairs, before he got fired from at least half a dozen jobs, before he used her credit card to buy a satellite-TV dish and other luxuries while she was supporting him on her $17,000 a year salary (including overtime) as a manicurist. And it was before the (alleged) assaults.
You probably do remember what happened during the wee hours one morning in June of 1993.

Lorena testified that John came home at 3 a.m. and raped her. John didn’t remember that, but testified that he often fell asleep during sex with his wife, and even slept through the whole thing sometimes. So anything was possible.

Anyway, Lorena snapped.

So did John’s penis.

Off.

Then it was sewn back on.

The filmmakers wanted me to take them to the apartment building where John and Lorena lived, just outside Manassas, and talk about what happened there.

They wanted me to take them to the field adjacent to the neighborhood 7-Eleven and recount how Lorena drove away that night in shock. And to tell how, when she realized she still had John’s penis in her hand, flipped it out the car window into the field.

The last part of this assignment genuinely excited me.

I really, really wanted to point to the curb in the documentary and say, “This is where the penis landed. It bounced several times, then took a short hop underneath this bush. Lorena does not have a good arm. She’s more a second baseman-type than a shortstop.”

I had visions of burning DVDs of the documentary and passing on my play-by-play of Lorena’s great throw to my children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Much to my disappointment, I didn’t get to do that.

Remnants of Hurricane Rita caused it to rain so hard in Manassas last weekend that the crew moved my segment indoors.

My shot at seeming cool to my descendants disappeared.

Here’s what I told the documentarians:
Lorena came to America from Venezuela in search of the American dream. For her, that was a house with a white picket fence, a dog, a cat, a man who loved her and a baby to love.
John, too, was looking for his own version of the American dream—a porn film with his name on it.

The dream came true for both of them.

Is this a great country, or what?

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 work with V-Grrrl in the Middle is archived in Mike on the Bottom.