Neil Interviews V-Grrrl--World Exclusive!

I'm proud to have inspired Neil to launch The Great Interview Experiment, a project that has bloggers interviewing each other and posting the results. I was fortunate enough to have Neil himself interview me. (Kiss my grits, Wendy!)

I've been reading Neil for about two and a half years now. I knew him when he only had a handful of commenters, y'all, before he built his harem community of female readers and a following of men who liked his thought-provoking posts about sex everyday life, sex marriage, career, sex American culture, sex therapy, blogging, sex and politics. He also writes about the Olive Garden, his mother, Abba, restaurant coupons, his hometown of Queens ,  and life with his wife Sophia, who may or may not be a midget and may or may not remain his wife. 

Did I mention he graduated from a fancy schmancy Ivy League university AND prestigious film school? I bet you already guessed that based on his blog's intellectual subject matter and high-brow attitude.

Proof that Neil reads V-Grrrl and wears women's panties. He's so embarassing.

Neil is a New Yorker living in LA and one of the most entertaining and original bloggers on the planet. He's been a V-Grrrl in the Middle reader for years now, and I'm thrilled to post his interview with me:

Neil: I've been reading your blog for a long time, and I recently went back to read you first posts. Your blog started out more an exploration of being an expat -- an American in Belgium . More recently, your writing has become personal, even emotional, and less focused on your surroundings. Was this a creative choice form or has something happened in your life during this past year to change something in you?

V-Grrrl: It wasn't a creative choice as much as it was an evolution. When I first became an expat, the changes in my life were all encompassing, and I was focused on dissecting and analyzing everything that was different. After a while, Belgium became home and life felt more ordinary. Being an expat became a smaller part of my identity and less a topic of my writing.

Another reason my writing has become more personal is that over time I've become more comfortable in sharing my emotions and my life on my blog. It makes for more powerful writing. I try to keep my posts authentic, even if it means revealing things I'm not proud of. That takes courage and was stressful at first, but then as the gap between my "public persona" and my private self narrowed, I felt better, more confident in myself and less afraid of what others would think. It's been liberating to share the good, the bad, and the ugly with my readers, to share my humanity with them.

Finally, I think midlife is an introspective time. So much is going on in my life right now as my marriage matures, my kids grow up, and I take stock of my choices and the relationships I have. For me, it's a time of reckoning, and the emotion of that comes through in my writing.

Neil: You are moving as I write this. Are you moving back to America for good? Why are you moving? What will you miss most about Belgium ? The pissing boy fountain? What will you miss the least? Are you nervous about the move? Or happy about the change?

V-Grrrl: Our plan was always to stay in Belgium for three years, though we did consider staying longer. There are practical considerations driving our decision to return now, things related to my husband's career and also the children's education. I love Europe but want my children to launch into the world from America. As a "trailing spouse," I haven't had a work visa or permit or an opportunity to get one here. I'm not ready to retire yet--another reason to head home to America.

Will we stay in America for good? I hope not. My husband and I talk about coming back to Europe as soon as we launch the kids into the world, and I definitely plan to come back and visit friends and family.

What will I miss most about Belgium ? My friends, E's Belgian family, the beautiful architecure, the way it's green year round, the enormous number of parks, and the Belgian sky, which is moody and dramatic. Believe it or not, despite the prevalence of gray skies and horizontal rain, I like the climate here. I have fantasies about moving to the Pacific Northwest now that I've lived in Belgium .

What will I miss least? The howling wind and the crazy drivers.

As for being nervous about the move--yes I am. When you become an expat, you dwell in a space between your native country and your new country. Expats call that "the third culture." I know I'll never feel fully at home in America again, even though it's "home." The surface of my life looks unchanged but I feel profoundly different. How do I settle this "new person" into my old life? Where does she fit?

Neil: How has living in Europe changed you?

V-Grrrl: When you leave your country behind, you truly start over. Life is stripped of its social infrastructure, family ties, community and cultural touchpoints, EVERYTHING. I shed all my "labels" and everyone's expectations. It was terrifying and liberating at the same time. Disconcerting and grounding. For the first time ever, I devoted significant portions of my time to my personal writing and creative pursuits, including art. Living and traveling in Europe , surrounded by people from different cultures and backgrounds, has been amazing and wonderful and so enriching. I'm more open minded, more liberal. Living in a country where I don't speak the language, where new experiences are a daily occurrence, has also given me confidence in my ability to handle myself.

Neil: I didn't know much about your artistic talent until all of a sudden, you started posting your artwork more frequently. Were you always creating artwork and just being shy about showing it, or is this scrapbooking, etc. a new endeavor? Where would you like to take it?

V-Grrrl: I never took art in high school, but in my last year of university, I took studio art, art history, photography, and a beginning graphic design class. I absolutely loved all four classes and regretted that I was graduating and couldn't pursue more art studies. My dilemma since then has been that I've felt like an artist without a medium. I have a good eye for art and a creative sensibility but lack traditional art skills like painting and sketching. I've always gone to galleries and museums and bought art, and I enrolled my children in private art lessons, but I never did anything artistic or crafty until I moved to Belgium .

My friend Sherry introduced me to rubber stamping and cardmaking, crafts I never thought I'd like but came to love. That fed a growing interest in mixed media art, in collage. Last August, one of my readers sent me a book on art journaling, and that inspired me to dare to claim myself as a mixed media artist. I began an art journal and started posting my pages on the blog. As for where I want to head with it--well I want to advance my skills and use of media. I want to continue to art journal and maybe grow into making pieces for display.

Neil: Can I get personal for a second. I've always pictured you as a classy woman, interested in raising her children with strong morals. So, I was surprised at first that, of all my readers, you seemed to always enjoy my sex gags. After awhile I began to notice that your writing is very sensual itself, not overtly sexual, but filled with sights and sounds. Are you aware of these two parts of your personality -- the upscale expat Christian mother AND the lusty sensualist? Do these two distinct personalities ever get you in trouble, like checking out the Reverend's butt?

V-Grrrl: Ah Neil, you know me so well! I am VERY aware of these two parts of my personality; the dichotomy keeps life interesting. My closest friends appreciate "V the Christian Mum" and "V the Lusty Sensualist" in equal measure. I can't say the same for everyone else.

Does it create problems for me? ALL the time. I have to watch how I present myself because not everyone is accepting of my warped sensibilities. My husband doesn't appreciate sexual humor, innuendo, or comments AT ALL, and it's a rough spot between us. He exhibits a lot of forbearance. And me? Must.Bite.My.Tongue.

Once someone accusingly said, "Doesn't the fact that you're a wife and mother mean anything to you?" The question was meant as a reproach for the "inappropriate" nature of some of my comments. All I could think was, "Hmmm, being a wife involves a lot of sex and I became a mother as a result of that. So where are the great chasms separating marriage, motherhood, and sex?"

I have a great sense of humor; I laugh often and laugh loudly. Sex is a very funny business--I can't stop myself from being a bit "naughty" (as Di likes to say). But hey, I appreciate all kinds of humor.

For the record though: I never check out clergy butts, OK? My clergy read this blog, and I just want to make it clear, I'm NOT that kind of grrrl. I am, however, prone to moments of irreverence, the kind of grrrl who hears the Christmas carol Silent Night and thinks, "This will be the LAST silent night of Mary's life. She's got a boy child now. She and Jesus will both be crying in the morning. Wah! Wah! Wah! No more peace on earth for her."

Neil: Is there something that you bought in Europe that is very precious to you that you are shipping very carefully home?

V-Grrrl: I bought fifteen pieces of framed art and some pottery from Italy , Holland, and Poland . My favorite? A small piece of Modigliani pottery I bought in Rome . I wanted to hand carry it in my suitcase because I didn't want to ship it and be separated from it for eight weeks. I practically kissed it goodbye. (Di loaned me a movie on Modigliani over the weekend, and I'm going to watch it this week.)

Neil: Did you stop working full time when you had your kids? I know you worked as a journalist. What are your plans now as the kids get older? Are you secretly writing a steamy novel?

V-Grrrl: I worked as a news reporter years ago, but right before I had children, I was working as an editor for a small publishing firm. After my son was born, I began working part-time from home as a public relations writer and strategist. It was an ideal situation. I worked through an agency on a project-by-project basis for various corporate clients. I wrote Web copy, marketing materials, advertising sections, white papers, and articles. I did a lot of ghostwriting for executives.

I have a mass communications degree, and I think I'm well suited for PR work. I plan to return to it in the U.S. I'm also considering pursuing some freelance writing gigs. Not a fiction grrrl. No steamy novels in me, but I do like to write poetry and essays.

Neil: You met your husband at 17? Did you get married early?

V-Grrrl: I had one serious boyfriend before I met my husband E the summer between my junior and senior years of high school. E was a college senior, five years older than me--attentive, romantic, warm, sexy, considerate. He just kept getting better the longer we dated. I was engaged at 18, and I married E when I was barely 20, during spring break of my second year of college.

I have regrets about some of the choices I made in my 20s, but I don't regret marrying him. We've made a good life together for almost 26 years now. Sure, there are times when we question whether we're meant to stay together; we have different temperaments and sensibilities, but we've persevered.

Neil: Through your blog, I met Di (at least virtually). She takes such wonderful photos of you. How do you know her?

V-Grrrl: Di is from New Zealand and lives in Belgium . I began blogging about the same time she did and we read each other casually for about a year. In the fall of 2006, she sent me an e-mail and told me she was going to launch a photography business and was trying to build a portfolio--would my family mind being photographed? I'd seen her work on her blog and jumped at the opportunity to "model" for her.

I met Di for the first time during that photography session, and I offered to use my PR experience to create a marketing plan and help her with her Web site. Our friendship grew out of that collaboration, and we're very close now. There's an intensity to our bond that I cherish. Our affection for each other shows in her photographs of me--I'm always smiling and have a certain radiance. She brings out the best in me while accepting the wobbly bits. : )

Neil: Where does most of your family live -- like aunts, uncles, etc. Have you missed a close extended family while out of the country.

V-Grrrl: Most of my extended family is based in NY but my siblings are scattered down the East Coast from Maine to Georgia . I rarely see my extended family, and even when I lived in the States, I often went years without seeing some of my siblings. My parents died 16 years ago, so my siblings and I don't have a central place to gather or parents holding us together anymore. The demands of family and career limited our ability to travel. Most of my nieces and nephews are grown now, and I have more than a dozen great nieces and nephews. Even though we all get along fine, my family is not that close, so living overseas hasn't been that big an issue for me.

Neil: Who are your kids like the most? You? Your husband? No one?

V-Grrrl: My children bear little physical resemblance to me. I have brown eyes and curly dark hair and my kids are very fair, blue-eyed blondes with straight hair like their dad. Thankfully, neither of them got my nose! My son's hands are exactly my hands, and he has some of my temperament--a bit of melancholy with a sly sense of humor. He's reserved. He has his father's mechanical intuition and shares my love of science. My daughter got the best of me and my husband in both her aptitudes and character. She's got the prime DNA in the family.

Neil: I notice you like poetry. Is there one poet that really speaks to you?

V-Grrrl: It changes based on where I am in life and in spirit. I used to be devoted to Emily Dickinson , but lately Mark Strand and Billy Collins have been speaking to me.

Neil: Next week is your birthday. You recently wrote a beautiful post about the passing time. Your son even shaved for the first time. I know that time seems to be speeding up for me as I get older. Do you feel the same?

V-Grrrl: My sister was diagnosed with cancer when I was 16 and she died young, on my 20th birthday. I've always been very aware of the transient quality of my life. I live with a clock ticking in the background, and it gives me a certain intensity and point of view. I have to be sure that the things I spend time on matter to me and that the people I love know that I love them. I have low tolerance for BS. I like to savor my experiences. I'm all about process and less about product. I can't stand to rush around or stuff my schedule full of activities. I don't confuse being busy with living a meaningful life. I refuse to sacrifice my time to the American idea of productivity.

Neil: Are you taking cholesterol medicine yet? For me, getting old is when you have to think before you eat a slice of pizza.

V-Grrrl: I was a vegetarian, distance runner, and vitamin popper in my 20s, and health conscious through my 30s. I always exercised and did the right thing. Around the time I turned 40, I developed an idiopathic cardiac problem. God has such a sense of humor. Last time it was checked, my cholesterol was only 155, my blood pressure was that of a 14-year-old, and yet my life includes regular visits to a cardiologist and daily medication. Sometimes my heart fatigues me, and I have to plop on the sofa. It's humbling.

Neil: Are you a good cook? What does everyone ooh and aah over when you make it?

V-Grrrl: I wouldn't call myself a "good cook" because I reserve that label for people who put far more time and effort into cooking than I do. When I bake, I bake from scratch, and I like to make soups. I love garlic. Di thinks everything I cook for her is fabulous. My husband always thanks me for preparing meals. My kids? They're not so impressed and complain a lot. I hate preparing food for my family. I guess that makes me a bad mother.

Neil: You say that you sometimes get prone to depression. I notice a lot of bloggers have this problem. Do you think writers/artists are more prone to depression than more "normal" folk? What snaps you out of your moods?

V-Grrrl: I've dealt with episodes of depression since I was a teenager. At first it was seasonal. As I aged, the episodes got longer, the remission shorter, and the recovery from them was less than complete. I was losing ground. I was encouraged by a friend to get medical treatment about five years ago and it changed my life. Really, it saved my life.

While I do think artists/writers are more empathetic and sensitive to life than others, I don't think they're necessarily more prone to depression; they just express their angst more openly.

What snaps me out of it? I need medication keep my depression under control. Music helps me shift moods, and getting outdoors and taking long walks lift my spirits. The love of family and friends keeps me plugging along through the dark moments, and anyone who makes me laugh out loud is part of my depression cure.

Neil: and lastly... I just had to ask this --
If I asked for a photo of you in a bathing suit , would you send it to me?

V-Grrrl: If Di took the photo, I just might, not because I look great in a bathing suit but because I accept the body I have now better than the one that used to rock a bikini. Watch the mail, Neil. You never know what it will bring. : )

January 28, 2008

Stop this train

"So scared of getting older, I'm only good at being young." John Mayer

As recent posts have hinted, sometimes “life in the middle” is tinged with angst and inspires more than a little soul searching. My 19-year-old self is trapped in my 45-year-old body. Often I am truly mystified to discover I’ve reached a point in life where conversations with friends regularly include talk about sending kids to college, grandchildren, chronic health problems, elderly or deceased parents, and retirement plans.

When did that happen? When did we cease to be the young upstarts, the rising professionals, the parents of preschoolers, the ones with Big Plans? When did we become the ones that are starting to get in the way of the next generation?

More and more I have a sense of losing my place, of running out of time, of missed opportunities. I wonder where I’m heading, I question where I’ve been.

I never wanted to be one of those annoying women who obsess over age and beauty. I never wanted to be one of those people who gives up on her dreams because she believes she’s too old to achieve them. I never wanted to become a living fossil, stuck in a moment that has long passed. I never wanted to sit on the sidelines and pass my ambitions onto my children like a baton I can no longer carry to the finish line.

But sometimes I catch glimpses of THAT woman in the mirror and I shudder.

About a month ago, after developing some symptoms, I checked a book out of the library on menopause. It sat on my desk for weeks like a bill I wasn’t ready to pay. I finally made a cup of tea, took it to the kitchen table, and sat down and started reading.

I was looking for a motherly guide to The Change. I was looking for a reassuring voice. I was desperate for someone to pat my hand and tell me the best is yet to come, Grrrl! Menopause is nature’s way of saying kick the kids out of the nest and get on with your life. It’s not that bad--soldier on and be all that you can be!

Instead I got a scientific treatise on the upcoming demise of my womanhood. I didn’t want to hear about thinning hair and diminished sexual response, sagging skin and shrinking sex organs, fragile bones and easy weight gain, increased risks for heart disease and mental fuzziness. I felt so compromised, so diminished. Why did I get a book on menopause written by a MAN?

To add insult to injury, the book had a chapter on how to dress to enhance your self esteem. Of course it presumes that you KNOW your beauty has faded and so you had better work harder to keep your place in society. I was furious! The implicit message was that if you wrap sh*t in pretty enough paper, you won’t notice the smell. I wanted to slap the author.

There should have been a pocket on the back cover with a razor blade in it so the reader could slit her wrists once the author had succeeded in convincing her that if she’s reading a book on menopause, her life is over anyway.

“Now, now dear, why not make the world a better place and throw yourself on the burning pyre of your youth?”

Why didn’t they just title the book “Menopause: Nature’s Way of Saying You’re Obsolete”? That was the message I was getting.

It upset me so much that I started to cry, then I berated myself for crying like some basket case from Girl Interrupted, and then I mustered an ironic smile when I realized I was probably emotionally jagged because I was suffering from both perimenopausal insomnia AND premenstrual hormones, caught in a hormonal vise of doom. What had I become? Who was this crazed moody woman?

What a way to be “V-Grrrl in the Middle,” I thought. I wasn’t sure Zoloft or margaritas could help me crawl out of that crevice. I felt stuck in the dark, wedged between fear and regret.

The day after the Menopausal Meltdown, I was out and about with E, tracking down a notary to help us with the paperwork related to the purchase of our new house in Virginia. We were walking all over the enormous compound where E works. I didn’t feel well at all, had taken medication, was chilled by the damp rain, and was moving slowly.

E, on the other hand, was doing what he always does: zipping through life in fifth gear. (When John Mayer sings, “You live your life with your hand on the horn,” I always think of E, wanting people to get out of his way, single mindedly focused only on arriving at his destination.)

On a good day, I struggle to keep up with him. On a bad day, I don’t even try, figuring that at some point he’ll notice I’m not with him anymore, and he’ll stop and wait. That day I kept falling behind, and E was struggling to adjust his pace to mine.

Finally he said to me, his voice tinged with humor that didn’t quite mask his frustration, “I cannot physically walk slowly enough to stay with you. I don’t know HOW to walk that slowly.”

I stopped and looked at him: “If you had a bleeding uterus and felt like someone with two clenched fists was wringing out your guts, you’d know exactly how to walk this slowly. Maybe even slower--because men have such a low tolerance for pain. I’d be leaving YOU behind.”

Ouch. Yeah, I said that. Be glad I wasn’t carrying a hammer or I'd be writing this from prison.

Later when E-Grrrl and A commented that I was grumpy, I sat them both down.

“Listen, we’ve done lots of talking in the last few months about how you’re at an age when your body is producing hormones that will make you look and feel different.

“I’m at an age now where I’m on the other end of that process. Your body is gearing up hormone production and my body is in the process of shutting it down. Sometimes all the changes put me on edge. I know I have to work on NOT being cranky, but I just want y’all to try to be patient with me, and I promise to try to be patient with you while we go through these changes together.”

They looked relieved and a bit proud that I’d shared a Big Adult Truth with them.

Clearly they didn't see the fear on my face.

September 17, 2007

Free Hug Friday

I know this has been around and back multiple times, but the video never ever fails to move me, and the music is just perfect. I've enjoyed my share of Free Hugs here in  Europe and one day hope to be standing somewhere with a sign giving them out.  Until then, let this serve as a virtual hug and warm fuzzy from me to you:

http://www.freehugscampaign.org/

June 22, 2007

A tale of tadpoles, frogs, and paperwork

(Note from school)

Dear Parents,

WE HAVE FROGS!!! (So, of course, now we have to get rid of frogs....)

If your child would like to take home some tadpoles, please give your permission to have them bring some home tomorrow after school. You may either bring in a container and take them, or send a small container with your child to take home on the bus. Please review some rules with your child: do NOT take the frogs out of the container, do NOT throw frog water on anyone on the bus, do NOT take the container out of your backpack on the bus, do NOT drop the container, give the container to your parent as soon as you walk through the door at home. That should cover it. :-)

Please e-mail me if your family would like some!!!

Thanks in advance,

Mrs. Elementary School Teacher

(Witty Mom #1 replies)

Wow! Frogs on the bus... now that sounds like an exciting Friday.

P.S. Do the frogs need a bus pass?

(V-Grrrl jumps into conversation and copies all recipients)

Dear Witty Mom #1,

We're so glad you brought this to our attention!

Paperwork must be filed in triplicate with Mr. Transportation Guy three days in advance. Ms. School Secretary may or may not have the proper forms, and they may or may not be readable due to copy toner insufficiencies and office budget shortfalls.

Ms. School Nurse has informed us that an Amphibian Certificate of Health must be attached to the Request for Waiver of Normal Bus Protocols, and the frogs must have indicated they will not hold the school district responsible for any injuries or emotional trauma that occurs during transit.

Children whose parents do not permit them to take frogs home will be offered Grief Counseling by certified professionals. Written permission to receive said counseling must be in today and be signed by BOTH parents.

Parents refusing to let frogs into their home are required to attend Amphibian Sensitivity Training to deal with their issues and prejudices. It's not easy being green

Sincerely,

V-Grrrl

(Mrs. Elementary School Teacher responds)

LOL.

I think V-Grrrl should get all of the leftover frogs. Who's with me on that issue???

Mrs. Elementary School Teacher

(V-Grrrl responds)

Let the record show that Chez V-Grrrl has taken in ALL of Ms. D's frogs, ALL of Mr. C's, and ALL of Mr. S's.

According to regional school protocols and European Union conservation guidelines, Chez V has hit its quota and cannot host anymore amphibians.

Sorry Mrs. Elementary School Teacher. You should have filed your Request for Amphibian Relocation earlier.

Have a nice weekend. Think Green.

V-Grrrl

May 18, 2007

Birthday joys and sorrows

Tuesday was my 45th birthday and I'd be lying if I said I didn't face it with some trepidation. It is always a day laden with emotion for me. Fortunately, I'm blessed with friends and family who remind me of all I have to celebrate in life, and I had a great day. The following post was originally a newspaper feature I wrote 10 years ago for The Free Lance-Star in Fredericksburg, Virginia. It was honored with an award from Virginia Press Women and remains one of my favorite pieces of writing.

I was born on a snowy day in January. My father loved to tell the story. A volunteer fireman, he was fighting a fire in the bitter cold the night before I was born.

As he stood in the eerie glow of the blaze, he was comforted by the thought of my pregnant mother cozy in the bed of their home. The image warmed him and gave him hope.

Shortly after he made it home and slipped his weary body into bed, my mother delivered the news he didn’t want to hear: “Honey, it’s time.”

In the darkness before dawn, they set off for the hospital in a raging winter storm. My father’s Ford could barely navigate the icy roads as it slid on the hills and turns. It was hard to tell if my mother was gasping from pain or fear or both.

Despite the drama, they made it to the hospital and a short time later I arrived: red-faced, red-haired, and crying.

January 30, 1962.

My sister immortalized the date. On my 13^th birthday, she gave me a 14-karat-gold oval locket, engraved on the front with two hearts and on the back with my name and the date.

It was an elegant and expensive gift for an awkward adolescent more at home in jeans and hiking boots than skirts and sweaters. I felt unworthy of it and yet secretly treasured my sister’s vision of me. Fourteen years my senior, she was also my godmother, tied to me by blood, spirit, and sacrament.

She would never fully comprehend the significance of her gift and of the date on the locket. Only seven years later, she died of cancer on my birthday.

January 30, 1982.

That evening my stricken family gathered in a circle around the kitchen table and ate my birthday cake in silence. Perhaps we were all thinking the same thing: “Heaven’s gate swings both ways.”

Each moment in eternity sees souls ascending and souls descending in a sacred dance. It seemed surreal to celebrate my birth and experience my sister’s death on the same day.

Three days later, I had plenty of time to reflect on the bittersweet nature of life’s rhythms as my mother, father and I battled a fierce winter storm on the way back from Louise’s funeral.

Were we sighing from pain or fear or both as we struggled home in the gray winter twilight?

A decade later, I buried my father in July and my mother in September of the same year. As fall turned into winter, my world grew smaller and darker, sadder and colder. I faced my first birthday without my parents with dread.

January 30, 1993.

My father wasn’t there to tell the dramatic story of my arrival. My mother would not bake a cake or sign a sentimental card. My sister had been dead for 11 long years. That birthday I felt so alone in the world: red-faced, red-eyed, and swollen with grief.

I clung to my gold locket as a talisman, a souvenir of the golden circle of my family. Two hearts—my mother and father, my sister and me—and the date that changed all our lives. January 30. My reminder that on any day, heaven’s gate swings both ways.

Two years later, my husband and I were ready to start our own family. I conferred with my doctor and was surprised when I calculated the optimum date for conception.

January 30, 1995.

It was snowing that night. I was wearing my gold locket and my mother’s wedding ring. Whiteness glimmered outside our frosted bedroom window, and in the heavens beyond the clouds, a gate silently swung open….

It’s been 45 years since my story began. During these long winter nights when wind and snow and memories press against the darkened windows, I cherish the company of my first born, my son, conceived 12 years ago on the date that Louise had carved in gold: January 30. A day of destiny.

January 31, 2007

Copyright 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault and V-Grrrl in the Middle. All rights reserved.

A bad taste in my mouth

Somewhere in the recesses of my subconscious someone planted a positive association with goat cheese, which is why I bought some this weekend at a church fundraiser.

I happily parted with my euros for the neat little tub of soft spreadable white cheese seasoned with bright green chives. I imagined gently swirling it on whole wheat crackers and eating it with the vegetable soup I’d made the day before.

E looked at me and said, “Ummm, I don’t like goat cheese.”

“Really?” I’m genuinely surprised.

“Yeah, it’s got a wild taste to it.”

I shrug my shoulders, undeterred. It looks so fresh and so delicious.

Oh, Gentle Readers, I was so, so wrong.

Later in the day, when I spread the goat cheese on a Triscuit, the initial splash of flavor was salty, creamy, and oniony—and then a millisecond later--WHAM! My tastebuds were bitch-slapped by the WILD THANG. Gah! Get that out of my mouth!

That cheese tasted like a petting zoo smells in the summer time—think musky, sweaty, goat balls.

"Bleah! Bleah! Bleah!" I bleated.

I was overwhelmed with an urge to wash my hands, brush my teeth, and pop an Altoid all at the same time.

I wished I could shake the taste off my tongue but it clung like Velcro to the fringe on a scarf.

The taste vividly brought back unpleasant memories of my brother’s brief foray into goat keeping and life on the farm with Fritz the Stinky He Goat. Once as I was approaching the house, Fritz wrapped his front legs around me and tried to mount me.

Y’all, I was about 13 when I  lost my innocence in the traumatic attempted goat rape. With Fritz butting his head into my back, I understood for the first time where the term “horny” came from and why lascivious men were called “old goats.”

And the origin of goat cheese?

I don’t even want to think about it.

January 28, 2007

Copyright 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault and V-Grrrl in the Middle. All rights reserved.

Tonight they sleep with the fishes

To the Tupperware container with tomato stains: I can’t bear to look at you anymore. You’re nasty and I want you out of my kitchen. Maybe I’m shallow, but looks matter. Don’t tell me I’ll recognize how much I need you when you’re gone. I don’t want to hear it. You’re an overpriced piece of suburban luxury plastic, but tonight you'll be hanging out with the recyclables. Bye-bye-bye!

To the ten single socks that have been in the bottom of the laundry basket for at least a month: What’s up? Where the hell are your mates? Were they sucked into another dimension? Victims of amnesia? Living a secret life in a drawer on the wrong side of the dresser? Sent packing because of holes in the fabric of their lives? Guess what? I no longer care! I am so tired of trying to find your partners and encouraging you to stick with your mates that I’m sending you on a singles cruise. Wait here in the nice brown bag. Pick up is at the curb. Have a nice trip.

To the eight different shades of brown eyeshadow in my cosmetics drawer: You look like lovely neutral shades of café au lait, milk chocolate, bronze, cinnamon, maple, and honey—but I've seen your true colors. You’re all secretly shades of  orange and coral! Really! And you know what? You’re going on vacation with the socks. Y'all belong somewhere tropical.

To the five different shades of berry lipstick: I don’t know what brought us together, but things are just not working out. You can go ahead and tell your friends that I left you for a tube of cheap Chapstick but really, Hon, I’m serious about the irreconcilable differences. You suck the life out of my face and make me look like a vampire. We’re just wrong for each other.

To the Mary Kay shower gel, the Bath and Body Works lotion, the Infusium shampoo and conditioner, and the Avon hair mask: We’ve been sharing a bathroom forever, but somehow we never seem to really click. I keep thinking things will get better between us, that we’ll spend quality time together, but the truth is I ignore you day in and day out. Don’t be upset. It’s not you—it’s me. It's time we quit analyzing our relationship and move on.

January 11, 2007

Copyright 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault and V-Grrrl in the Middle. All rights reserved. www.v-grrrl.com

Confessions of a Middle-Aged White Grrrl

Over the weekend, Neil took offense when I referred to him as a hot middle-aged guy WITH hair. He informed me he is not middle-aged because he plans to live to 110. So by Neil’s standard, Rick the Middle-Aged White Guy, is indeed middle-aged, but Neil, exact age unknown, is not.

So where does that leave me? V-Grrrl in the Middle!

Back when I started this blog, I wrote an introduction that said I was old enough to be Mrs. Robinson and young enough to be a geezer’s trophy wife, but Neil has me thinking otherwise.

At the end of the month, I turn forty f***ing five, and you know, not only do I not feel (or look) like Mrs. Robinson, but I’m also past the point of being a trophy wife. I can’t produce a flat stomach OR a trophy baby without serious medical intervention.

Back in Virginia, I used to go walking during the winter at a mall near my children’s school. It opened up early in the morning just for walkers looking to escape bad weather, and the first day I showed up I noticed it was mostly populated by Medicare patients with personal cardiologists. This sounds grim but it had unexpected benefits for me.

Let's face it, a 40-year-old mother of two at a typical fitness facility is surrounded by Barbies in sports bras and short shorts who make her feel flabby and inadequate.  Walking at the mall with the blue-haired ladies and liver-spotted men, I got to play the role of super fit, sweet young thing.

At least that was the case until I too acquired a cardiologist and enough gray hair to break out the L’Oreal. Hmmm, maybe the gulf between me and the “old people” at the mall wasn’t as wide as I thought.

Once my cardiologist started me on beta blockers and compromised my stamina, some of those “old ladies” began leaving me in the dust as I ambled breathlessly past Macy’s in my Nikes. Damn! This is not RIGHT! Could I muster the strength to catch up with those wenches before we hit the Victoria’s Secret or would I have to cut corners in front of the JC Penney and gain an advantage on the inside curve around the big planter? The drama of it all. 

Mamatulip, throwing up over the prospect of turning 30, doesn’t yet know that you’re not OLD until you’re run over by a woman wearing pristine Easy Spirit sneakers and a fanny pack carrying photos of her grandchildren.

If I hadn’t been so humiliated, I would have chased that old chick down and asked her who HER cardiologist was—and did she know the name of a physical therapist who was good with knees?

Oy.

As I wrote to Rick recently, those of us with sharpening wits and softening middles need to stick together: Old age could hit us at any time.

January 8, 2007

Copyright 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault and V-Grrrl in the Middle. www.v-grrrl.com

The legacy of Thanksgiving 1981

It’s been 25 years.

Twenty-five years since I stood up in the small church I attended in Fredericksburg and told the members of the congregation I needed a ride to New Jersey for Thanksgiving.

My sister Louise was dying of cancer, but I don’t think I told them that. I was 19 years old, in my second year of college, and I wasn’t ready to speak that truth out loud. Still, what my mind couldn’t say, my heart knew.

When my mother told me my sister wasn’t up for the trip to Virginia for Thanksgiving, I vowed to find a way to be with her instead. And thus even though I was the shy type, I stood and placed my need in front of everyone in the church. After the service, two or three people offered to help me.

I’m ashamed I don’t remember the name of the family that turned out to be the answer to my prayers, but I have never forgotten their kindness. They packed me and my suitcase into their overcrowded car for the trip north, wedged in the back with their two children. They were warm and welcoming but blessed me by not asking too many questions.

My sister Louise lived in Ridgewood, New Jersey, and her husband agreed to meet me at Paramus Mall and drive me back to their house. It was dark when I got to the mall, and in the days before cell phones, I had to find a pay phone to use to call him. It was late, and I was nervous.

When Jim showed up, he loaded my bag into the car and tried to brief me on Louise’s condition but nothing, absolutely nothing, prepared me for what I saw when I got to the house.

My sister looked like she’d stepped out of a concentration camp, her skin gray, her face skeletal and misshapen, her head covered with tufts of fine hair that she usually hid under a wig. She was on the final leg of a horrific journey.

About three years earlier, doctors had discovered a large, malignant tumor nesting in her sinuses, threatening to encroach on her eyes and brain. They’d operated on it by accessing her sinuses through the roof of her mouth. In that initial surgery, she not only lost most of the tumor, she also lost an eye, half her top teeth, and part of her palate.

My dark-haired, dark-eyed sister, the one who looked a lot like Marlo Thomas, wore an eye patch and a dental prosthetic afterwards. Because of nerve damage to her face, she worried about drooling, but even with one eye and a slightly crooked smile, she was still beautiful--and fun-loving enough to dress as a pirate on Halloween.

But when I saw her in the fall of 1981, every last shred of her beauty and health was gone. She was in the process of going deaf, the vision in her remaining eye was very blurry, and the eye itself didn’t sit right in the socket. Her forehead was lumpy, and I could almost smell the decay the cancer was causing. She could still walk and get around a bit, but she could never get or stay comfortable for long. At that point I think the cancer was moving into her spine.

I was devastated by her condition and unprepared for what would be the longest long weekend of my life. I didn’t know what to do or what to say or how to celebrate Thanksgiving with my dying sister. I only knew I had to be there, though I felt I wasn’t much use.

I was too young to know the rituals of the sick, too shell-shocked to rise to the occasion. Mercifully the years have erased most of the memories, though the ones that remain haunt me.

I remember collapsing in tears in a stairwell and sobbing because Louise was in a lot of pain and had begged me to get Jim, and I couldn’t find him.

Unbeknownst to me, her house had a finished basement and Jim had an office tucked down in a remote corner of it. When I didn’t find him in the main living areas, I assumed he was gone, and I went to pieces in the face of her agony and my helplessness. I didn’t know what to do; I was afraid to go upstairs and tell her he was gone. When he popped up a short while later and told me he’d been in his office in the basement, I felt foolish but relieved.

The Saturday night after Thanksgiving, I remember sitting with Louise in her den watching the movie Miracle on 34^th Street. The blue glow of the TV screen illuminated her face, and when I glanced over at her in the dark, I saw a single tear making its way down her cheek from her eye.

Was she crying for herself, for her husband, for me? How could we carry on with the knowledge that despite endless prayers, there wasn’t going to be any miracle in Ridgewood, New Jersey, that holiday season?

I left on Sunday, quietly shutting the door behind me. Standing outside her Dutch colonial house with the stone sidewalks and wood shutters and ivy climbing the chimney, I thought of all the pain and horror hiding behind those charming walls, and I was secretly relieved I could step outside of it.

Sitting in the back of the taxi that would take me to meet my ride home to Virginia, I pondered how the meter could put a price on time and distance.

That was the last time I saw her.

I rode back to school in silence, cradling my anguish, wondering how I could possibly set foot back on campus and spend time with people whose greatest concern was getting through finals and finding a date for New Year’s Eve. I thought about E and our upcoming wedding and wondered how I could embrace all the good things in my life while she lost everything.

As with most life-changing experiences, the legacy is in the questions, not the answers. I carry them with me like a smooth stone in my pocket, worrying them with my fingers: Do I appreciate what I have? Am I grateful for each day in the world? Am I compassionate in the face of suffering? Am I truly thankful for the gift of health?

Are you?

November 16, 2006

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved. www.v-grrrl.com.

I love you but....

Earlier this week, Shirley sent me an e-mail forward that included notable entries from a Washington Post competition. According the forward, the Post asked readers to submit two-line poems that began with a romantic line but ended with a distinctly non-romantic one.

Before you sample the entries, here’s one I wrote:

Your eyes so sparkly, your hair so red

Is that the sun shining through your head?

Here are some received by The Washington Post:

Love may be beautiful, love may be bliss,

But I only slept with you, because I was pissed.

I thought that I could love no other

Until, that is, I met your brother.

Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and so are you.

But the roses are wilting, the violets are dead, the sugar bowl's empty and so is your head.

Kind, intelligent, loving and hot.

This describes everything you are not.

I love your smile, your face, and your eyes.

Damn, I'm good at telling lies!

My darling, my lover, my beautiful wife:

Marrying you really screwed up my life.

I see your face when I am dreaming.

That's why I always wake up screaming.

What inspired this amorous rhyme?

Two parts vodka, one part lime.

All right y’all, it’s Friday, and I want to see you bust a rhyme. Give me your best!

November 3, 2006