It ain't easy being me

by Mike on the Bottom

As Rodney Dangerfield liked to say, it ain't easy bein' me.

Like the late, great, Rodney, I've battled depression my whole life.

One of the things that led to my becoming friends with V-Grrrl is that the two of us have this in common. It can obviously be a burden, but it can also be a blessing in terms of insight and empathy

Because of this, I'm always looking for things that can help me--and help others afflicted with this disease. And it is a disease.

It may seem silly, but one thing that has helped me the past few years is the uplifting television series "Smallville."

 The show has connected strongly with teens and twenty-somethings suffering from depression because of the way it portrays young Clark Kent as an isolated figure who feels he can never be 'normal.' 

I had the opportunity to speak with Christopher Reeve about this not long before his death. Reeve, who played Kent and Superman in films, was proud of "Smallville" for that reason and was happy he had been able to make an appearance on the series toward the end of his life.

So I strongly recommend "Smallville" for those who even have periodic brushes with depression--and for those readers who have children with the disease. 

I also recommended the first soundtrack from the series, which is available at stores and as a download to iPod from iTunes. 

Especially inspiring is the Five for Fighting alternative rock song "Superman."

Artist: Five For Fighting Lyrics
	Song: Superman Lyrics MP3 Downloads Click here to send Five For Fighting polyphonic ringtone to your cell phone.
	I can't stand to fly I'm not that naive I'm just out to find The better part of me I'm more than a bird...I'm more than a plane More than some pretty face beside a train It's not easy to be me Wish that I could cry Fall upon my knees Find a way to lie About a home I'll never see It may sound absurd...but don't be naive Even heroes have the right to bleed I may be disturbed...but won't you concede Even heroes have the right to dream It's not easy to be me Up, up and away...away from me It's all right...you can all sleep sound tonight I'm not crazy...or anything... I can't stand to fly I'm not that naive Men weren't meant to ride With clouds between their knees I'm only a man in a silly red sheet Digging for kryptonite on this one way street Only a man in a funny red sheet Looking for special things inside of me Inside of me Inside of me Yeah, inside me Inside of me I'm only a man In a funny red sheet I'm only a man Looking for a dream I'm only a man In a funny red sheet And it's not easy, hmmm, hmmm, hmmm... Its not easy to be me

Michael Zitz Beckham, aka Mike on the Bottom, is not normal, and this is why he's a FOVG (Friend of V-Grrrl).

My Grrrl

My little E-Grrrl looks like a princess—platinum blond hair, big blue eyes, porcelain skin and an abiding fondness for all things pink. However, lurking behind her delicate coloring and sweet disposition is a world-class klutz.. E-Grrrl moves with all the grace of a moth circling a light. She’s forever clipping things with her shoulders, tripping over cracks in the sidewalk, and stepping on toes. She’s a disaster at the dinner table, dropping food, staining her clothes, and overturning her drink. I’m confident she will be voted “Most Likely to Spill Champagne on her Wedding Day” when she graduates from college.

This is why when the school nurse called this morning, I recognized her voice immediately. We’ve spoken many times before. She has treated E-Grrrl at least a dozen times for bumps, bruises, and scrapes (including an incident where E-Grrrl poked herself in the eye on the playground). Interspersed with all the genuine complaints over injuries, headaches, and sore throats, have been a slew of others of a more dubious nature.

Let’s not call E-Grrrl a hypochondriac, let’s just say she’s in tune with her body and finds every irregularity fascinating. The nurse has listened patiently on many occasions as E-Grrrl has described her concern over a gushy feeling in her stomach, a pain in her chest, an achy leg, an itchy arm, or—my favorite—a case of dandruff.

So when I heard the nurse’s voice on the phone this morning, I didn’t know what to expect. Was E-Grrrl sick, injured, or just missing mom, a condition that often results in the rapid onset of mysterious physical symptoms?

The nurse explained that E-Grrrl wasn’t injured, but had backed into a shelf in her classroom, caught her pants on it, and tore a big hole  right in the seat. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Good lord, that’s my Grrrl!

The nurse had scrounged up a pair of shrunken sweatpants for little E to wear but they only came down to her calves. I could imagine my girly-girl’s mortification. First she mooned her classmates, and then she was forced to wear some icky cast-offs that looked like Capri pants gone wrong. Did I mention that E left the house this morning wearing a pair of black Ugg clogs with yellow socks? You get the picture.

I knew this was a fashion emergency, and there wasn’t a moment to lose. I practically ran to catch the next bus with a pair of E-Grrrl’s pants gripped tightly in my hand. My mission: to save her from cold legs and school-wide humiliation at lunch and afternoon recess.

When I arrived at the school and beckoned E-Grrrl out of her classroom, she looked up at me with her big blue eyes and said, “Oh Mama, I knew you’d come!”

Of course, I would. That sweet thing wearing the short, short turquoise sweatpants and the clunky suede clogs—that’s my Grrrl. And me and the school nurse, we’re on her team—in sickness and in health.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault

January 24, 2006

Like Mother, Like Son

Last night the E-Man and I watched “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.” For those not familiar with the movie, it traces the lives of four 17-year-old girlfriends during one unforgettable summer. It’s a classic coming-of-age story, well done and well acted. It’s also a three-hankie tearjerker, something I wasn’t expecting.

I cried and cried and cried.

I normally avoid movies like this because the tears don’t stop for me when the credits roll and the lights come on. No, sad movies, even those that end on a positive note, unearth every grief and loss I’ve ever suffered and all the fears I won’t consciously entertain. Such movies can leave me totally undone.

I remember seeing “Beaches” in college and coming unglued. I cried for hours afterwards because it reminded me of my sister, who died young. The melodrama of the movie evoked so many emotions in me, and I couldn’t sleep at all afterwards and was too broken up the next morning to attend classes. When I watched a movie on C.S. Lewis’s late marriage and his wife’s early death (“Shadowlands”), my funk and my tears lasted all weekend. I felt hopeless and angry and torn to shreds. It was brutal.

I’ve never seen “Saving Private Ryan” or “Braveheart.” I walked out of “Gladiator” during the first five minutes, and generally find war movies of any sort insufferable, no matter how well done they are.

I was not one of those people who queued up to see the “Passion of Christ.” I have a hard enough time listening to the church readings on Good Friday. I don’t need a more graphic representation of the crucifixion to make it real for me.

My 10-year-old son, A, is much the same way. For years the only movies he would watch starred Winnie-the-Pooh, and even some of those were too scary for him when he was younger. He hated most Disney movies (“They’re all so mean, Mom”) and was particularly upset by any storylines that put animals in danger or showed them getting hurt (Forget “The Incredible Journey” or "Ice Age").

Unlike most boys his age, he’s never seen action thrillers like “The Incredibles,” “Harry Potter,” “Spiderman,” and the Star Wars Trilogy. He prefers watching movies at home rather than going to the theater because the big screen at the cinema magnifies the story and the emotions for him and it can be too much. Like me, the experience for him doesn’t end when the TV is shut off, and in his case, even a mildly scary film will trigger insomnia for days.

Last night after “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants” put me through the emotional wringer, I desperately wanted to hold my kids. I wandered into my daughter’s bedroom and kissed the sleeping E-Grrrl twice, and then grabbed a fistful of Kleenex and crawled into bed with my son.  I'd laid down with him countless nights to help him ease off to sleep. I knew he’d understand that I needed the sound of his breath and the scent of his hair coloring the darkness in order to let my grief go. 

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

January 23, 2006

Person-of-the-week?

I'm not worthy!  I'm not worthy!  And yet Melanhead has selected me as her Person of the Week.  Check out www.melanhead.com for my exclusive online profile.

Love, blue stars and little white lies

By Mike on the Bottom

Sometimes practicality isn’t the best thing in life.
 
Our youngest, 2-year-old Jay, ran to me today when I came home from work for lunch. He had a tiny blue star in his hand. He took the sticky little star placed it on my pants leg, just below my knee.
Then he ran to get another. And another. And another.

Finally, he stuck one on my shirt, near my heart, like a badge of honor.

And he said, “I love you, Daddy.”

Twenty minutes later, as I headed back to work, my wife Lisa said, “Did you know you have stars on your clothes?”

“Jay put them there,” I said.

She quickly picked them off, saying “These could ruin your clothes. They have glue on the back.”

When I got home tonight, Jay looked disappointed and said, “Where are your stars, Daddy?”

“Mommy took them off,” I said.

“Couldn’t you have said the wind blew them off?” Lisa said with a horrified chuckle.

“If I knew how, I would have sewn them on permanently,” I said.

Michael Zitz Beckham, aka Mike on the Bottom,  is a journalist, father of two boys, and a FOVG (Friend of V-Grrrl).     He’s a sensitive guy but doesn’t mind being treated as a sex object.  Lisa, his wife, is a jewelry designer. Check out her work at www.daisybright.com.

©2006 Michael Zitz Beckham.

Hard Times with Hard Water

Living in Belgium, it’s easy to find yourself and your home becoming fossilized. Once you’re introduced to Belgian water, your life hardens around you.

Shower stalls and tubs wears dusty coats of white. The kettle gets crusty and refuses to whistle. Stainless steel sinks are stainless no more. The shower head gets the plumbing version of kidney stones and output suffers. The faucets turn into geological formations. You can scrub all you want but you will never achieve a spotless house.

Even armed with vats of salt and gallons of vinegar, the calc invasion continues to gain ground at home. I suspect the reason there are so many old homes standing in Belgium is that hundreds of years of calc deposits are holding them together.

By far the hardest place for me to deal with hard water is in the laundry room. Back when I was a teenager and a budding feminist, I took offense at the plethora of advertisements on TV portraying neurotic women obsessed with the state of their husbands’ shirt collars and their children’s t-shirts and jeans. “Who cares?” I wanted to shout. Why should women be so preoccupied by laundry?

Older and wiser, I now know women (and men) are preoccupied with laundry not by choice but by necessity. As a mother of two with an athletic and active husband, I do a lot of laundry and see a lot of stains. Being the one who stays at home, I get to spend hours of quality time with the hamper, washer, and dryer. In America I fancied myself to be a laundry goddess who could restore the most hopelessly soiled clothing to its former state. When my children were younger, they would proudly tell their peers in pre-school, “My mom is very good at laundry.” (I’ll be sure to add that to my CV.)

But here in Belgium, laundry is a disappointing endeavor. I’ve lost rank in my laundry exploits because the soaps don’t lather vigorously and the insidious calc invades every fabric. Oh sure, the clothes may technically be clean but they are forever calced. UGH!

This is a blot on my record of laundry victories. My sparkling whites have been reduced to a shade of gray that matches the Belgian sky. Our tired-looking t-shirts and undergarments are absolutely depressing to pull on each morning. Life in our closets and dresser drawers is dingy and comfortless.

My sumptuous towels and cozy cotton knits emerge from the dryer slightly crispy. My husband’s “wrinkle-free” shirts are never wrinkle-free because the calc won’t let the fabric relax and release its rumples. Armed with Calgon and its deadly Power Balls, I valiantly descend the stairs daily and do battle with the evil forces attacking my clothes and my reputation as a laundry guru, and day after day, I emerge from the dark basement, stiff and defeated, as grim and exhausted as the laundry heaped in the basket.

But, as a proud American, I soldier on against threats to domestic happiness. I’m convinced a breakthrough is imminent in the war on hard water, and the calc insurgency will be defeated. Gray skies and hard times be damned, a brighter, whiter day is coming. Soon. Soon. But not soon enough.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

Canterbury Tales Part II—The Cathedral, The Romans, The Shops

In Canterbury, the bus parked on the edge of the town’s center in an area that was cluttered with litter and seedy-looking buildings. This was the official “coach” (bus) parking lot and I was surprised that the area wasn’t more attractive, seeing as it was a major point of entry for tourists visiting the area. No matter. A paved path followed an attractive canal into the city’s heart and in minutes we’d left the ugly urban scenery behind us and were surrounded by city cottages with lace curtains, lovely little shops, and winding sidewalks and alleys.

No matter where you are in Canterbury, Canterbury Cathedral is visible, its ancient spires rising above the town and blessing it. Established in 597 A.D. by St. Augustine, the first bishop of Canterbury, the cathedral was built on what had been a Roman place of worship before the birth of Christ. Most of the current building dates to the 12^th and 13^th centuries.

The architecture is stunning and ancient—the cathedral and its grounds telling the complex story of the rise and fall of the Catholic and Anglican churches and the political turmoil and wars that framed their histories. That the cathedral has stood firm as the sociopolitical climate has churned around it for thousands of years encourages me. Faith can stand as the world falls apart. Faith can rise from the ashes of destruction. Faith can change your view.

The Cathedral at Canterbury is associated with eight saints—Augustine, Theodore, Odo, Dunstan, Alphelge, Anselm, Thomas, and Edmund, all former Archbishops of Canterbury. The current archbishop, Rowan Williams, is 104^th in the line of succession—and the world leader of the Anglican church that I belong to as an Episcopalian.

Those who have studied English history and literature know that Canterbury’s most famous saint is the martyr Thomas Becket, who was slain on the cathedral floor for asserting the right of the church to be independent of the wishes of the monarchy. Geoffrey Chaucer’s famous “Canterbury Tales” are told by pilgrims, traveling to Canterbury to visit the shrine of Thomas à Becket. Today, a large candle burns at the site of his slaying on the stone floor.

Kings, saints, and knights are interred in the crypt, military heroes from hundreds of years of British history remembered with plaques and memorials, ancient tattered battle flags flown, and portions of the armor of Edward the Black Prince displayed—surviving from the 11^th century.

In the town itself, you can see large portions of the original city walls and gatehouses and just as you’re reeling with the medieval history of this place, you can enter a museum under the city and see Roman artifacts (tools, pottery, swords, nails, fasteners, hairclips, jewelry) that were unearthed in the Canterbury area and predate the birth of Christ. The museum includes a preserved archeological dig that reveals the foundation and floors of a Roman home, including the original ornate mosaics that show the wealth of the home’s owner. Displays describe Roman heating and plumbing systems, markets, diet, clothing, and the history of the cities that rose and fell on the site before Canterbury became established. Amazing. I’m not into history, but even I was seduced by all the history that was under my feet.

Upstairs from the Roman museum the modern streets of Canterbury pulsed with shoppers. The weather was fine—slightly overcast, not too cold and not rainy—which constitutes a good day in England in January! The stores were full of bargains and we wandered into shop after shop but didn’t bring much home. I bought tea, a porcelain cup, and a tea tidy. I searched in vain for impressive English woolens. I swooned in the Crabtree and Evelyn store but resisted the temptation to buy Jojoba oil soaps since I received a collection of other high-end soaps for Christmas. I poked about in pottery and gift shops and lingered in English-language bookstores, a real treat. We had fish and chips for lunch and stopped for tea and cake in the afternoon.

It was the first time in almost a year I was operating in a place where I could speak the language, read the signs and menus, and approach interactions with the natives with full confidence. The rolling hills reminded me of the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia and though I was exhausted and eager for home by day’s end, I was enthralled with England and eager to go back. Spring break. I’ll be there. The travel guides have already been checked out the library.

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

January 18, 2006

Canterbury Tales Part I: Getting There

Last Saturday, the alarm went off before 5 a.m. so we could drag ourselves out the door, catch a bus at 5:40 a.m. and grab an early ferry leaving from Calais, France, taking us to Dover, England. We were on our way to Canterbury.

Books, water bottles, snacks. We had it all packed up the night before. I slept most of the way to Calais, waking in time to join the other travelers queued up at immigration to fill out forms and present passports and Belgian ID cards before boarding the ferry and being allowed into the UK.

The guy checking our passports and paperwork asked us casually what we were planning to see in Canterbury. The perky E-Man says, “Everything!” and I can’t resist adding, “Actually, we heard there’s a Starbucks in Canterbury and we’re going to England for the coffee!” (Ha, ha, ha! Aren’t we a witty bunch!)

The immigration guy didn’t laugh. He didn’t really smile. So I said in a more serious tone, “We’ll visit the cathedral, of course....”

“Won’t take all day to do that. Canterbury is a small place…” His voice trails off. I thought his response was strange but didn’t have a chance to reply as he declared, “Next!”

It wasn’t until I was back on the bus that I realized what an ass I’d been. When he asked what we were going to do in Canterbury, he wasn’t making friendly conversation, he was asking an official “immigration” question. Good grief, no wonder he gave us a cold eye and long look when popped off with flippant answers!

It was still dark when we got onto the ferry, the newest member of the fleet from SeaFrance. Modern and colorful, it had seven levels and was decorated in bright colors. Nearly everything was lime green, tomato red, purple or white. The eye-popping interior eliminated the need for caffeine—well almost.

We went upstairs to the cafeteria to grab some breakfast and were standing in line when the engines were started. The floor, the walls, everything around us started vibrating. The stacks of dishes, glasses, and bottled drinks all rattled and shook as if we were caught in an earthquake. It was quite unnerving—I could feel the vibrations resonating in my bones.

The cafeteria offered a traditional French breakfast of yogurt, croissant, and coffee as well as a traditional English breakfast of what appeared to American eyes to be nearly raw sunny side up eggs, undercooked bacon, and grayish sausage. Altogether now: Yum! We sided with the French on this one. Bon appetit!

As we ate breakfast, seated in lime green upholstered chairs in a room with red walls, we saw the sun rising over the water, always a memorable scene no matter where you are in the world. I moved to the outside decks briefly, watching the quality of light on the water change as the sun peeked above the horizon and then floated slowly into full view.

Adjacent to the cafeteria was a Kid’s Play Zone, a big play room with padded walls and equipment as well as a TV. Ah, to have one of these at home. I think we’d enjoy the padded walls as much as A and E-Grrrl did. They parked themselves there for most of the trip. What can I say, you can take your kids across the water but you can’t make them look at it!

On the floor below us was a collection of stores, selling duty-free chocolates, fragrances, designer makeup, and typical drugstore-type items. The ferry was so large, it was easy to forget I was on a boat. When the floor would pitch suddenly beneath my feet, my stomach would lurch and I’d be embarrassed to be staggering around like a drunk.

About an hour after we boarded, the famed white cliffs of Dover came into view on the horizon of the English Channel. Once again I stepped out onto the deck to enjoy the view. The cliffs, which seemed bright white at a distance, became beige and then tan as we moved closer to Dover and then finally docked, with Dover castle high above us.

As the bus rolled through the countryside for the 30-minute ride to Canterbury, I drank in the scenery—rolling green hills, brick and stone farmhouses, and sheep everywhere. It looked remarkably like Virginia, and I felt a tug at my heartstrings, a deep desire to get out of the bus and hike the hills and inhale the earthy smell of the fields. Not today. Today belonged to the city. The countryside would have to wait for another trip.

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

January 17, 2006

Lesson Learned: Even Grownups Shouldn't Put Foreign Objects in Their Noses

A heart-warming holiday memory provided by V-Grrrl’s Big Brother (6 foot 3 inches tall and old as a rock.)

Time flies and placing events correctly on the timeline of life gets harder and harder...but I’ll give it a try. I’m recalling a Christmas that occurred when I was in Junior High at Burrs Lane School in the 1960s in New York.

Because as kids we didn’t have any spending money, my mom would often order little gifts for us to wrap up and give to her and my dad on Christmas. They would come in from mail-order places like Spencer’s Gifts, Walter Drake, or Lillian Vernon. Inexpensive things like the bamboo back-scratcher that stayed around for years, easily reaching that elusive spot between the shoulder blades.

This particular year, an equally practical gift was in the works...a nose hair trimmer. It was a real beauty of a device...a chrome-plated cylinder with pronounced serrations at one end and a small knurled knob at the other. Probably no more than 2 inches in length and about the diameter of a pencil it appeared to be a well thought out solution to unsightly nasal hair.

Dad, being a good sport, thought so too. Carefully, and without even a glance toward the instructions, he inserted the serrated end of the trimmer into one of his nostrils, engaging an unknown number of unwanted hairs. Then, with all of our upturned heads watching in suspense, he deftly spun the little knurled knob.

They say that everyone remembers where they were when President Kennedy was shot or the World Trade Center attacked. I remember that Christmas morning scene the same way. Dad was standing near the entrance to the living room facing into the living room in our direction so that, following this demonstration of the nose hair trimmer, all of us could congratulate my sister Mary Jane on such a fine choice of a gift. Eager anticipation soon turned to horror when Dad suddenly gasped and made a funny squeaking noise like an animal caught in a trap.

His pale blue eyes got really big and instantly filled with tears. The ugly truth was that the quality of the nose hair trimmer ended with the chrome plating. The rotary blade inside the cylinder did not fit snugly...in fact it was very loose so that when Dad spun the little knurled knob, instead of being severed, the hairs spun with the blade. Now, nose hairs hopelessly entangled in the mechanism, and in great pain (tears rolling down his cheeks), he sought help from my mother.

Mom, hearing the commotion, met him in the hallway leading to the kitchen and took the scene in: the bulging eyes, the tears on his face, the chrome-plated nose hair trimmer hanging from his nostril, and Dad doing his best not to sneeze. “What happened?” she kept repeating. All Dad could do was make little grunting sounds and point toward his nose. “Oh for crying out loud” we heard her say. And just as Mom and Dad never aired their disagreements in front of us, so too was the removal of the chrome-plated nose hair trimmer. It was one of those secret moments that spouses share.

Before long, Dad was back in the living room, red-eyed but none the worse for the experience. The nose hair trimmer no longer dangled from his nostril. We kids all noticed that although the device had inflicted terrible suffering, it had been effective! The treated nostril was utterly devoid of hair. Its twin, however, still had an unsightly clump.

Somehow, none of us could bring ourselves to suggest that Dad “do the other side.”

Flying My Freak Flag on Friday

Because I’m tired. Because I’ve got kids coming over later today. Because the hamper is overflowing. Because I still haven’t taken down my Christmas tree. Because I have to spend the morning in Brussels getting my back worked on. And because John (http://johnsthing.blogspot.com/) tagged me, I’m taking the easy way out on the blog today and doing “Five Weird Things About Me.”

1. I’ve never studied numerology but believe in the power of numbers to manifest meaning and connections in life. Specifically, I see patterns in important dates in my life. For example, I believe the number 3 has significance in my life. My mom was born on Jan. 3 and I was born on Jan 30. My children were born on Sept. 3 and Sept. 30—nine months from my mom and I’s birthdates and of course, 9, the numeric representation of September,  is the product of 3 x 3. As I mentioned, my birthday is Jan. 30—it also the date my sister died AND the date my son was conceived. I could go on and on along these lines…. I liked my old phone number in the States a lot.  I felt it was a GOOD number. I'd be willing to pay to get it back when we return to the U.S.

2. I hate to make phone calls. I don’t know why. I have to overcome tremendous resistance to pick up the phone and call anyone. Talking on the phone is fine, making the phone call is not. Hate it.

3. When I was pregnant for the first time, I had a physical reaction to the color mauve. Every time I saw it, it made me nauseous. It was very popular at the time and hard to avoid. I managed not to hurl at the mall, surrounded by racks of mauve everything. Bleah. Still don't like mauve.

4. I like to eat crackers spread with butter. Saltines and Triscuits are best. It seems like a white trash snack, which is probably why I always eat it in secret.

5. All my life, I’ve refused to join sororities, women’s clubs, women’s church groups, and women’s service organizations, but I love getting together with my Grrrl friends for Grrrls Night Out! I guess I'm not a "joiner," I'm a "gatherer."  Or maybe I'm just a freak. Whatever.

Go ahead,  make a comment,  share your weirdness, confess your secret habits. It’s Friday, we all need to lighten up!