February

The shortest month is the longest of the year. February, the last stage of the winter triathalon, is a test of endurance. With our heads down, we push forward, tapping into whatever energy reserves we can find to finish out the season.

Like soup gone cold, the joy has dissipated from winter. We are no longer entranced by falling snow, crackling fires, or waking to hoarfrost on the trees. The days string along in sameness, and we glide through them like ghosts in a fog. We’re haunted by our own inertia and the resolutions we made only a month ago.

The sky looks bruised. Our spirits rise and fall with the mercury. When it rains, we catch a heady whiff of damp earth and greenness surfacing. The bulbs next to the sidewalk push forward their promises. The trees bud with shy expectation. The fields are models of patience, biding their time.

I consider all of this as I wearily climb the stone steps to my house and put my key in the door. Beyond the gray, the chill, the fog, is something worth waiting for.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

February 7, 2006

Tom Cruise isn't the Only Guy in the Closet

All right you guys, I know you’re out there.

It’s time we had a talk.

Mike on the Bottom is convinced he’s the only man that reads V-Grrrl. But I know he’s not alone. The rest of y’all are just huddled in the closet, too nervous to leave a comment and be outed as a V-Grrrl-reading, pizza-eating, free- thinking, beer-drinking, non-stinking Man of the World.

All these many months, I’ve been talking, you’ve been listening, and I so appreciate that. But I also know you have things to say, and I want to hear from you. Y’all, I never intended for my comment section to look like a junior high dance with the grrrls in the middle of the floor and the guys lurking in the dim light on the fringes.

Men, it’s time for you to join the party!  Create an online identity or use your real name. Don't be strong and silent. Boldly go where you’ve never gone before--this week resolve to click and comment! 

More on this topic from  Mike on the Bottom:

Ironic: I'm the Fly in Your Chardonnay

It’s 8 p.m. on Saturday and I’m putting our 4-year-old, Robbie, and our 2-year-old, Jay, to bed.

“Can you tell us a SpongeBob story, Daddy?” Jay pleads. “Can you tell us a SpongeBob story? Can you tell us a SpongeBob story, PLEAAASE?!”

“Um, OK,” I say.

“Daddy, DON’T tell the story!” a tuckered-out Robbie yells. “It’s 8 o’clock in the MORNING!”

And as I’m writing this, less than an hour later, our cat Fiona is trying to pry my hands off the keyboard.

Anyway, Robbie’s comment got me thinking about V-Grrrl and whether we even HAVE a reader who’s a guy? A gay male? A pre-operative transsexual, maybe?

I know the name of the blog is V-Grrrl in the Middle, but if it was called “ARRR the Pirate Boy,” I’m sure there would be some female readers.

Part of it is probably the same male insecurity that keeps guys from listening to the music of Jewel and Fiona Apple. I’m fans of both. Fiona the Cat is named after Fiona Apple, the music artist, who’s one of the best interviews I’ve ever had, and one of the nicest, most thoughtful people I’ve ever talked to. And we have another cat named Jewel, for the same reason. (As Jewel says, “My hands are small, I know/but they’re not yours, they are my own/they’re not yours but they are my own/And I am never broken.”)

And I guess part of it is that guys simply don’t read—unless it’s about sports.

So here’s a sports story that I hope will attract some male readers to V-Grrrl.

Years ago, I covered the Washington Redskins, so I know this story first-hand.

Kicker Mark Moseley used to ride to games with defensive lineman Dave Butz, a huge, scary-looking guy who was actually one of the kindest people on the team.

Butz, however, thought it was good luck to run over already dead animals on the road on the way to the game. This became a pretty big psychological deal for Dave.

Before one particularly big game, Mark didn’t want to take any chances on roadkill-luck-of-the-draw.

So Moseley found a dead squirrel. He put it in his freezer and froze it solid. Then he propped the petrified squirrel up on its hind legs on the route to RFK Stadium.

When Butz saw the squirrel, he smiled—and ran over it.

The Redskins won.

Writing for V-Grrrl’s all-grrrl audience, I feel very much like that frozen squirrel.

Michael Zitz Beckham, aka Mike on the Bottom, is a journalist, baseball coach, and FOVG (friend of V-Grrrl). She doesn’t want him to be the frozen squirrel on the road to success. 

Mike, a former music critic, introduced V-Grrrl to Jewel’s music years ago when he wrote about it. Here’s an adaptation of Jewel’s song Hands:

"These hands are small, I know, yeah/But I claim them for my own/I’ll help you bear your loads, yeah/We are never broken.”

February 6, 2006 

Overheard at My House

They Might Sell More

10-year-old son who has appropropriated V-Grrrl's sheepskin and merino wool slippers:

“I don’t know why they call them Uggs. They ought to call them Aahs.”

The Sad Truth

8-year-old-daughter, responding to a birthday card V-Grrrl received that joked about the effects of gravity on women’s rear ends:

“Well, once you grow up, then it’s time to grow down—and out!”

Maybe They Take Baths In It

In Belgium, utility meters are only read once a year. Residents receive a monthly utility bill that estimates what they might be using, and then later receive what is known as the annual catch-up bill, which is based on their actual usage.

V-Grrrl, who lives in fear of the catch-up bill, says to E-Man:

“S told me they  just received a 3,000 euro ($4,000) catch up bill!!!”

Little E-Grrrl exclaims, “You’re kidding! They sure use a lot of ketchup.”

February 3, 2006

Totally Bitchin'

Thanks to Shirl Grrrl for sharing this gem.  Let me tell y'all, the timing is perfect. Don't you dare not click the link--and be sure to come back and comment!  http://www.badgirl1.com/PMS.htm

And if you can't get enough on the topic, read this classic from the V-Grrrl archives.

Bidding Adieu to my Expat Fat

I’m sitting on ten extra pounds as I write this from the big, black chair that serves as mission control for my virtual life in front of the computer.

Ten pounds.

That’s quite a cushion. That’s more than one roll over the waistband. That’s enough to make my jeans scream and my zippers groan. That Botticelli belly lurking under my sweater is not a work of art—it’s my expat fat.

Expat in every sense of the word.

I call it expat fat because it’s living in a place where it doesn’t really belong, It doesn’t fit the traditional geography of my body, and while my body has allowed it here for an extended visit, it has overstayed its welcome.

The expat fat was not with me when I stumbled through customs at Zaventem in a jet-lagged daze and began a new life in Belgium. I first made its acquaintance a bit later, when I spent nearly eight weeks restaurant hopping while waiting to settle into a proper home with a fully equipped kitchen. During that time, the expat fat began to join me at meals, like a side order of frites or a tasty little pastry.

But while it would be easy to blame Belgian cuisine for my sins of the flesh, the majority of the damage to my figure was achieved after we moved into our house near Brussels.

That’s the point where life should have started to feel “normal” but didn’t. I felt more than a little lost. The kitchen offered comfort and a warm chair by the radiator when the spring rains drenched the windows and the grey clouds roiled moodily overhead. With my days suddenly emptied of nearly all that was familiar, there was an enormous emotional hunger that begged to be fed.

Like birds in a nest, my needs were perched in my heart with open mouths: I felt vulnerable, agog at the new world I’d been thrust into, unsure whether I would ever be able to fly here, and whether I would successfully navigate this foreign landscape.

And so to quiet the squawks of fear and loneliness, I developed the bad habit of dropping tidbits into my mouth all day long. Looking for a bit of comfort, I turned to the wrong source. Food for the body was not food for the soul, and it was my soul that needed feeding.

And so over time, my tendency to grab a handful of this or a bit of that while standing in the kitchen created the expat fat. But the expat fat has not been good company. Because of it, I am not only a stranger in a strange land but a stranger in my own body. My own clothes don’t recognize me anymore.

Granted, I’m not terribly overweight. I can’t claim the expat fat is ruining my life. It’s just that I’ve gone from being like a lovely Windsor chair with a sturdy frame and vertical lines to being more like a padded recliner—fuller, rounder, not so pretty. We all know the Windsor chair will last a lifetime while the upholstered chair in all its soft padded glory will soon sag and fray. The recliner has got to go.

So I’m preparing to bid adieu to the expat fat. Its one year residency permit is about to expire in March. Its visa will not be renewed.

I don’t feel badly about putting it out. I’m sure there’s another pair of slim hips coming through the gates at Zaventem ready to give it a new home.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

February 1, 2006

End of the Bath Time Blues

The year before we moved to Belgium, we completely renovated the master bath in our home. The trigger for the remodeling project had been our loathing of tile.

Yes, while the use of ceramic tile is considered a bathroom upgrade in America and is standard here in Belgium, I hated it. I didn’t like to keep the grout clean, and my husband was tired of repairing it, sealing it, and messing with the troublesome seam between the bottom of the shower and its walls.

So we decided to rip out the tile in the shower and replace it with a one-piece, seam-free fiberglass unit that would be easy to clean and maintain. No big deal, right? Well, not until we discovered the only way to deliver a unit like that into our bathroom was to open up a wall. That’s when the whole project got kicked up a few notches.

Once you decide to put a big hole in the wall, you may as well take a good long look at the rest of your bathroom fixtures and see what else needs replacing. In our case, we decided to tear out everything—why go halfway?

After years of grappling with chronic back pain, I was ready for a tub with jets. I hit the home improvement stores in search of the right one. Once in the store, I actually climbed into the display models to see how they fit my body. I didn’t care if I looked absurd sitting in a tub in a store, I’d waited all my life for a good tub and by God, I wasn’t going to let a false sense of propriety stand in the way of finding it!

The Jacuzzi I selected had 10 separate jets, four of them aimed at my back. It was a source of pure joy for me. Every night I found my bliss in a tubful of bubbling warm water in a steamy bathroom.

In a house overtaken by kids and pets and their accompanying messes, the remodeled bathroom was a little corner of pristine beauty and the center of my world. The rest of the house might look like a disaster area, but our bathroom was always spotless. And then I had to leave it all behind.

When we moved to Belgium, we initially lived in a small apartment, and every night I pined for my Jacuzzi like a teenager separated from her first love. Not only did I no longer have a luxury tub, but I had to share the bare bones apartment bathroom with my children who polluted it with wet washrags, damp towels, toothpaste globs, and dirty underwear and socks.

When we started searching for a house to rent, I knew it was unlikely I’d ever find one with a Jacuzzi, but I told my husband I absolutely had to have a decent tub and bath—preferably in a room all to myself.

Imagine my delight when we found a house with ample bathrooms, including one in the attic that I immediately fell in love with. Tucked under the eaves with knotty-pine paneling, it was cozy and had a decent-sized tub, a sink set into a corner, and just enough room for my beloved bath cabinet. As soon as we moved in, I lugged my favorite things up the stairs and carefully arranged all my scented lotions, bath products, and makeup for easy access. I nicknamed this small bathroom retreat “Grrrl World” and told my children they were forbidden to set foot in it.

That night, ready at long last for a hot bath, I attempted to run hot water into the tub. It ran and ran and ran and the water went from orange to murky, cold to lukewarm. It never got hot, was often just tepid, and frequently discolored. I was crushed. I HAD to have a bath. I even tried heating water on the stove to fill the tub but this was a futile effort.

So the landlady was informed of the issue and a plumber called but diagnosing the exact nature of the problem proved elusive. We didn’t have any truly hot water on the third floor and limited hot water on the second. The plumber, as all plumbers are, was overworked and in demand. He did good work, but it took weeks, sometimes months to make an appointment with him. When he did manage to fit us into his schedule, adjustments were made, valves checked out, settings changed, but the problem persisted. There was a second tub in the house, but no hot water to fill it with.

I resigned myself to sharing a single TILE shower stall with my entire family. I was embarrassed at how much this bothered me. Upstairs in the attic, the only time I entered Grrrl World was to put on my makeup. The sink and tub grew dusty. I turned off the radiator in there. I’d given up hope.

And then last week, the plumber returned yet again to replace corroded pipes and further investigate the hot water situation. He stumbled on the cause of the problem by accident and finally, after ten months of waiting, I had hot water in Grrrl World!

The tub was scrubbed, the bath products unearthed. There were several false starts as the pipes hiccupped calc and sediment into the tub and turned the water orange or a nasty yellow. I had to drain the tub twice and clean it yet again.

Finally at 10 o’clock that night, I got the bath I’ve been dying for since last spring. When the church bells rang on the hour, I was sure they were chiming for me.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

Best Grrrls in the World

Today is my birthday, and on Saturday, January 20 my Grrrl friends back home in Virginia had a party for me. Heather hosted at her cozy place at the end of the cul-de-sac and about ten of my best buds rocked her house. They transformed Heather’s kitchen bar into a smorgasabord, pulled out the fiesta plates, and partied on without me.

They ate Better-than-Sex cake in Virginia while I had to settle for just plain sex in Belgium. Am I a bad, bad woman for wanting to have my sex and eat cake too? Yeah, I thought so. Excuse me while I chat with my conscience. (“Don’t be a greedy Grrrl, Miss V. Some people didn’t have sex OR cake last weekend. Think of the less fortuante, hon, your mom would want you to do that. And quit writing about sex. You know E-Man hates when you do that.”)

Before sending out party invitations, Heather had me make a “wish list,” and the party guests showed up with items for a birthday care package. At the party, they all sprawled on the living room floor, not because they were under the influence of Jan’s favorite beverages but so they could wrap the pile of items that had been carried through Heather’s door that night.

I noticed from the video they sent that Michelle and Beth supervised the wrapping from the sofa—maybe they were the designated drunks and were not permitted to even SIT on the floor with scissors. Looks can be deceiving. Beth is a wild, wild woman underneath her calm exterior. I suspect she, Lisa, and Eileen go barhopping in Central Park on Saturday nights when they’re supposed to be out doing the mom thing, buying school supplies and groceries at the Wal-Mart Supercenter. I know your secrets, y’all. Word gets around.

Now Joanna would never go bar hopping, but keep her out of the casinos, OK? She's a math whiz and loves to play with probability. And don’t believe her stories about what happened when she was in Las Vegas. (What Joanna, you say NOTHING happened when you were in Las Vegas? Hey, don't ruin a good story! Cultivate an air of mystery.) Anne managed to slip in and out of the party and not be videotaped telling dirty jokes, but Anne, I heard you dropped in, and I know you missed the cake. Thanks for coming, Grrrl friend. Sorry you missed the party.

Despite her protests, Joanna survived being videotaped. Stephanie displayed her wrapping prowess as well as a great new haircut (too cute, Steph!). Somebody bought BLT dip, and that spinach dip in the big soft bread shell. Michelle brought the ham and swiss dip, there was brie, and other wonderful things to make crackers (and people) happy.

(“I used fat-free cream cheese, y’all, so don’t worry--there are no calories in my ball….Did I just say there are no calories in my ball?” Yeah, Janis, you just did. I love no-calorie balls! Wish I was there!)

My big dork moment: I couldn’t stop myself from waving at my computer monitor while the video played. I wanted to holla-back Grrrls. (And by the way y’all sing well—love that “cha-cha-cha” at the end.)

When I saw Heather’s three-year-old daughter bolt for the Better-than-Sex cake when they finished singing Happy Birthday, I hoped she wouldn’t share how good it was with her Sunday school teacher the next morning. (“I want to thank Jesus for the  sex at my house party last night! It was the best ever!”)

Even after this rowdy crowd kept her kids awake past their bedtimes, Heather managed to box up all the packages and haul the big box to the post office on Monday. In a miracle of the APO shipping system, it arrived in our mail on FRIDAY, and the E-Man staggered up the steps with it.

I was as giddy as my 8-year-old daughter--squealing and hopping around, wanting to open the box right away but forcing myself to wait until Sunday when I would be celebrating my birthday with my family.

And so after consuming tea sandwiches made by the kids (with Virginia ham we found in a Belgian store) and two slices of traditional English sponge cake with cream and jam filling, I settled down on the floor with the big box and started unwrapping all the presents. There were fuzzy sleep socks, boxes of tea, stuff to buff my nails, a Mary Kay set, Jergens Natural Glow lotion, a fabulous knit scarf in an auburn brown shade that matches my hair and eyes, note cards, rubber stamping and scrapbooking supplies (including a stamp of the Eiffel Tower and a set of travel phrases—how cool!), books (including two by David Sedaris—cha-cha-cha), a big scrapbook with extra pages for my European post card collection, a wall calendar, candy, and drink mixes.

I was blown away by my Grrrl Friends thoughtfulness and generosity and the way they had reached halfway around the world to send their love and good wishes to me on my birthday. Getting old has never been more fun. They are SIMPLY THE BEST. Applaud, Internet, applaud. These Grrrls deserve it—and more.

And so today I salute the Home Grrrls--this blog’s for you! Some day I hope instead of Grrrl’s Night Out in the neighborhood you will have Grrrl’s Night Way-the-Hell-Out in Belgium. Y’all could get a group rate on travel. Jan, we have good beer here and French wine. The rest of y’all can come for the chocolate. We’ll have a ball (fat- and calorie-free, of course!)

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

January 30, 2006

Male Insensitivity: It's Genetically Ingrained

by Mike on the Bottom

 My wife Lisa's 41st birthday is Saturday.

 She related this story today about an exchange with our 2-year-old son Jay and her mother, Ella: 

This morning at breakfast Ella said to Jay "Ask Mommy what kind of birthday cake she wants."

So Lisa whispered in Jay's ear, "Chocolate."

Jay looked across the room at his grandmother and said "A baseball cake."

Lisa whispered, "No Jay, Mommy wants a CHOCOLATE cake."

Jay, straight-faced, looked at his grandmother and said, "Mommy wants a baseball cake for her birthday."

Lisa chuckled and said "No Jay, that's not what Mommy said". At that point, Jay started to smirk.

One last time, Lisa leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Mommy wants a CHOCOLATE cake!"

At this Jay tilted his head back, let out a big belly laugh and yelled "Mommy wants a BASEBALL cake for her birthday!"

Lisa said maybe she'll have to get a chocolate baseball cake....

Mike on the Bottom, aka Michael Zitz Beckham, is a journalist, smart-ass, and semi-pro baseball coach. It appears Jay is a lot like Dad.

Copyright 2006 Michael Zitz Beckham. All rights reserved.

Oops, she did it again!

Oops, she did it again! Melanhead has tagged me!   And so to honor her request, here is the “Four Things About Me” meme:

Four Jobs I Have Had 

• Residence Hall receptionist
• Sales clerk in a shoe store
• Journalist/photographer
• Research associate for an environmental consulting firm

Four Movies I Watch Again and Again

I don’t really watch movies again and again, but I’ve seen these more than once:

• Bridget Jones Diary
• Love Actually
• There’s Something About Mary
• When Harry Met Sally

Four Places I Have Lived

• Long Island, NY
• Rockbridge County, Virginia
• Fredericksburg, Virginia
• McAlester, Oklahoma

Four TV Shows I Watch

Here’s a little known V-Grrrl fact:  I don’t watch TV. Yeah, I'm a freak.

After I graduated from high school, I went more than 20 years without owning a TV. It seemed there was always a better use for $500 (or more) so we never bought one.  In 2002, we inherited a small TV from E’s dad and use it to watch DVDs. No cable, no TiVo, no satellite, no network broadcasts. My kids didn't have access to TV until they were school-age and are only permitted to watch it on weekends. I'm a bad, bad woman, people.

Confession: I have seen Friends on DVD and love that show. Just purchased all ten seasons on DVD for E-Man and I's birthdays, which are next week.

Four Favorite Books

• A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving
• The True and Outstanding Adventures of the Hunt Sisters by Elizabeth Robinson
• I Don’t Know How She Does It by Allison Pearson
• Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith by Anne Lamott

Four Places I’ve Vacationed

• York Harbor, Maine
• Duck, NC
• New York City
• Paris

Four Websites I Read Every Day

(I read about 15 blogs, but keep in mind, some of my favorite bloggers don’t update every day.)

• Soul Gardening
• Come to Find Out
• CNN
• For Better or For Worse comic strip

Four Favorite Foods

• Dark chocolate truffles
• Fried eggs, bacon, toast
• Fresh apples and apple desserts
• Potatoes (baked, fried, mashed, any way!)

Four People I’m Going to Tag 

• Shirl Grrrl
• Granola Grrrl
• Katie Cowhorns
• Erni Jo

And now, the rest of the story.....how I met Mike on the Bottom

I “met” Mike through his work as a reporter at a mid-sized daily newspaper. He wrote a weekly column for the life style section. It was a twisted combination of humor and satire. Saucy, witty, and off-beat, Mike had a unique take on life in our Virginia town.

I’d been reading it for years when his paper began publishing the writer’s e-mail addresses and inviting comments. Mike had written a column about a transvestite beauty pageant held at a local university. I sent him a note telling him the local district attorney had once participated in the pageant back in the 80s. I figured this would give him a good laugh.

I was pleasantly surprised when he wrote back—and so began our virtual friendship. We exchanged e-mails regularly, discussing local topics, national politics, music, and things that made us laugh. If there was something quirky on the Web, Mike would be the first to forward it to me. We occasionally discussed serious topics or shared personal stories, but mostly we just bantered back and forth.

And we both battled depression. There was a dark thread running through our humorous exchanges. Sometimes I think we laughed to keep from crying. In 2002, Mike wrote an article on depression, interviewing experts on the topic and sharing his personal experience getting treatment. The article, part of the newspaper’s larger series on suicide, received a strong response, generating loads of positive letters and phone calls and a witty response from Mike. The series later won a press award.

Mike’s openness in discussing depression and its treatment helped me reach a point where I could admit I needed help. I’d been experiencing episodes of depression since my teens, and as I got older, the episodes seemed to come more frequently and last longer. I’d always felt I had my life under control. I’d successfully dealt with some serious losses, and yet my depression robbed me of the confidence, energy, and physical and emotional resources I needed to seek treatment.

Acknowledging that this was a problem—no, an illness--that I couldn’t conquer on my own was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I was swallowed by an enormous sense of inertia and failure. It took everything I had to pick up the phone and call a doctor.

After a physical exam and blood tests ruled out other ailments, I began taking a very low dose of an antidepressant and responded to it almost immediately. The medication’s side effects (sleeplessness, dry mouth, headaches) dissipated in the first two weeks, and I felt like my best and truest self. It wasn’t until I began to recover that I realized just how much joy my depression had drained from my life. That was three years ago, and while my depression is chronic, it’s under control—and for that blessing, I’m intensely grateful.