I believe I have discovered a new addiction,and I feel it's important to bring it out into the public eye, raise funds, and discover a cure. The source of the problem? Chips.
For me, the word chip has become a "bad word" in the traditional sense, with all the negative connotations to which we are accustomed when combined with words of four letters. The simple chip represents all that is wrong with our society today, in fact.
I realize that a chip looks innocent enough, hiding inside a crackling bag with pictures of smiling people or fancy lettering, leading us by the nose and taste buds to the promised land. But it is a false promise, built on the shifting ground of fat cells and calories, all of which will come and live in your body forever.
Did you know that once a fat cell has formed, you will never get rid of it? It can deflate, but it will be there 30 years from now, waiting to puff out at the merest whiff of a chip passing your table on someone else's plate. Liposuction is the only cure, and that will only work if you never eat another piece of the manna. The moment you falter and surrender to your weakness, that fat cell comes roaring back, waylaying your thighs on the way to the beach.
Chips are a mean master, too. They insist on being eaten with a siren call that is nearly impossible to resist. They beckon you from your cupboard (or the grocery store - they are very loud, and I don't know about you, but they have me on speed dial, obviously,) lonely and waiting, promising nirvana, if only you will give in.
It's a false promise. Chips lie. It's a fact. The only pot of gold you are going to find at the end of that rainbow is the one you will fork over to the diet mavens who are promising to save you from yourself.
No, there is only one cure for the chip addiction to which I currently find myself enslaved. I have to take responsibility for myself and quit eating them. That's right, I need to go cold turkey. I have to stop believing the false promises, and look at the facts without being swayed by the satisfaction to my taste buds. Because what satisfies the taste buds is not nearly so enticing on the hips.
I am not merely dependent on chips. No, I have a full fledged addiction, one which has driven me to do things I would never have imagined from myself before this happened.
Like most addictions, it started innocently enough. Awhile back, I was actually so slender, it was a struggle to keep the pounds on. I was going through a very difficult time in my life, and when I am under stress, I generally lose all desire to eat. I was going through a divorce, and let me just share with you, that is the best diet you will ever find, although the source is probably not worth the outcome. Although that might depend on who you're married to, but that is your judgment call.
When I fell under a certain weight, I realized that I simply had to put on some pounds, however I could do it. That was when I discovered eating in bed.
I had never, in my whole life, been a bed eater. I hate sleeping on crumbs, and it just doesn't seem like a good idea. I should have gone with that, because I was right.
Eating in bed, while reading a good book, is heaven on earth. There is nothing like it, I promise you. The satisfaction of a salty, crunchy snack while consuming equally satisfying literature is the high point of my life, irreplaceable.
Sounds pretty innocent, right? I started with snack mix, something with caloric content, to put the pounds back on, and it worked. Then I realized that something with a few more calories would probably be even better, and again, I was correct. (I love to be right.) I definitely put on the pounds, slowly but surely building to my desired weight. And then past my desired weight, right into new pants territory, at which point, I became alarmed.
But of course, as every veteran dieter knows, by then, it was too late. I was already addicted, and there was no going back. It was no longer a choice, it was a compulsion, full blown and out of my control.
Now, I go to bed every night, resolved to awaken snack free, and a few ounces closer to my goal of ten pounds gone.
And every morning, I awaken, disgusted with myself and miserable, because I have once again fallen. It's demoralizing. It's frustrating. It's an addiction.
I will do anything for my chip fix, it seems. I lay down, satiated, requiring nothing more for the day, but within moments, I am ravenously in need of sustenance. I gradually move from wishful to frantic, ready to do anything to satisfy my urges. I am not sure why Eve fell for the apple, but if Satan showed up with chips, I'd be in serious trouble.
I have tried all kinds of strategies to stop myself. I have moved the chip supply from my bedside table to the dresser, thinking that having to get up out of my bed will slow me down. I can tell you that it takes exactly 3.2 seconds to accomplish that task.
I have tried leaving the chips in the kitchen, thinking that the risk of running into one of my offspring may discourage me. I have been known to grab it out of their hands on the way to their mouths, if it is the final chip in my bag which they are stealing out from under my need.
[Not to digress here, but today we are celebrating the day one of said offspring decided to grace the world with his presence, for which I am profoundly thankful. Life without my eldest child would be a lot less argumentative, it's true, but also a lot less interesting.]
I have tried measuring out a serving for myself, thinking that total denial is not working, but perhaps moderation is the place to begin. Nope. I just keep getting additional servings, because seriously, I ask you, who eats only eight chips at a time? Whoever came up with those serving sizes was clearly someone with an eating disorder.
I have tried to fool myself with baby carrots, thinking the satisfying crunch will trick my brain into thinking I've had a chip. No dice. My brain is smarter than that, and will not be fooled by an inferior impostor.
I have promised myself rewards for not eating a snack, and even managed to fall asleep without indulging my need. I have also been known to wake up in a sweat in the middle of the night (yes, I am 48, but they are not night sweats from menopause, I promise you,) and run to the kitchen to satisfy the urges that are then keeping me awake. I cannot fall back to sleep with the din of desire beating a message into my brain. I simply must have a chip, or I will never find peace again.
I have even, in desperation, tried not buying them, because surely they cannot call me from the grocery store a mile away. Wrong. They have my super secret cell phone number that I give out only to those who are most important to me, and they call me from the store shelf, crying and begging me to come and take them home with me.
As it turns out, I have overestimated my own abilities to control my baser urges. It is disheartening to realize that something so small and insignificant can rule my world. If that's not addiction, I don't know what is.
We are all victims of the chip manufacturers, and I think the time has come to unite and file a class action against them for selling a product that is inherently defective, resulting in addiction and subsequent weight gain over which its victim has no control. My son, Mr. Intellect, informed me the other night that Doritos, for example, actually are made to address all the various taste buds in your mouth, thus satisfying all your culinary urges at once.
What are we to do, I ask you, when the chips are designed to be irresistible? I say we hold the manufactures accountable for our inability to live without their chips, and make them pay for programs to help us deal with our addiction. We could slip it into the newly designed health care program being dreamed up by our government representatives, who, by the looks of things, share the same addiction for instant gratification without consequences that the rest of us do.
The next time you see someone who clearly does not need the additional caloric intake shoving a chip in their mouth, don't look down on them. They may be in the throws of an addiction, and it's stronger than they are. Instead, feel sorry for them, and don't get between them and the grocery store.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Global warming?
I have noticed something rather interesting and perverse recently, and am wondering if I am the only one who is confused about it. The issue at hand? Global warming.
It seems that in the last year or two, people in this country finally started listening and accepting that maybe, just possibly, global warming might not only be real, but we humans may have something to do with it.
Even our own government, well known for it's bureaucratic sluggishness, has finally sidled cautiously onto the bandwagon and acknowledged that perhaps we, one of the major consuming countries on earth, may have some responsibility to the rest of the world, not to mention future generations, to try to restrain the number of toxins we are spitting into the air on a continuous basis. By the time the US government admits to anything, it's been a fact for more years than I've been alive, generally speaking. So, apparently, global warming is a reality, and we will now throw billions of dollars into solving the problem, unless I miss my educated guess.
Just as everyone was jumping on the bandwagon, however, I have noticed the oddest thing. It seems to me that the climate is getting cooler. This is not just happening at the North Pole, where the melting of the ice cap is literally threatening the lives of the polar bears who depend on it. This is also occurring in Minnesota, where summer has been redefined as anything over 70 degrees Fahrenheit, and here in Kansas, where we now look at 90 as the new 100.
I had a conversation with a very unhappy relative recently, who, just two short years ago, purchased the cabin she has dreamed about owning her entire life. It is in central Minnesota, so the time frame in which you can really enjoy the lake, whose shoreline cost her roughly a mint, is already somewhat limited. If they can be in the water from late May through the end of August, they are having a great year.
Since they made this heady, and fairly spendy, decision to move forward with a cabin of their very own, global warming has suddenly gone cold. They have had a grand total of approximately five days over 85 since the day they closed on the mortgage. Now THAT is frustrating.
What, I ask the scientists who have been pushing global warming on us for the last umpteen years, is going on? Where is the devastating heat we have been warned about? Kansas is not only not becoming a desert, it is, in fact, wetter than it has ever been. The last two summers have seen us worrying about fungus on our bush and tree leaves from all the water falling from the sky. What, in heaven's name, is up with that?
I have noticed a rather fascinating phenomenon in the last few months, that seems to subtly confirm my sneaking suspicions that we have not heard the whole story, yet. The term, global warming, has suddenly been replaced in common usage among the experts with a new, and perhaps more accurate descriptive - climate change.
I, for one, am forced to wonder why they didn't use that term in the first place. We might have gotten to the table a whole lot sooner if only we had known that global warming was, in fact, the death of summer as we knew it.
Sort of makes you wonder about the wisdom of building that new outdoor baseball stadium in Minnesota. At this rate, they will be wearing down parkas and ear muffs to watch the boys of summer tossing lobs around the diamond.
I don't know that we have gotten into the 90's here in Kansas City more than a handful of times all summer long. I have been waiting to power wash my deck until things warm up, because it's a wet and cold occupation. I am still waiting. Now that August has arrived, it seems it's going to be an even longer wait, because we are hitting the end of the summer, and still no 100 degree days. This is depressing.
As far as I am concerned, the most important function of those 100 degree days is to provide us with contrast for when it will be zero degrees outside in January. If we never get to 100, then zero feels a whole lot colder and is even less welcome. Not, mind you, that I am ever thrilled about that to begin with. But at least, if we have nearly died of the heat all summer, there is some relief involved when you can once again step outside and breathe.
It seems, for the second summer in a row here in Kansas City, 100 is but a distant dream, and the new reality is that we had best make the most of the almost 90 degree days we are blessed with a handful of times each year. Historically, the hottest part of our year always seemed to be in mid-August, when the kids are forced back indoors against their will to learn about things that they don't care about, while outside, the swimming pools continued to beckon. So I will maintain some fragile hope for more heat yet this summer.
But I am definitely not holding my breath. At least, not until winter, when it's so cold outside it hurts to breathe.
Global warming? Bah humbug.
It seems that in the last year or two, people in this country finally started listening and accepting that maybe, just possibly, global warming might not only be real, but we humans may have something to do with it.
Even our own government, well known for it's bureaucratic sluggishness, has finally sidled cautiously onto the bandwagon and acknowledged that perhaps we, one of the major consuming countries on earth, may have some responsibility to the rest of the world, not to mention future generations, to try to restrain the number of toxins we are spitting into the air on a continuous basis. By the time the US government admits to anything, it's been a fact for more years than I've been alive, generally speaking. So, apparently, global warming is a reality, and we will now throw billions of dollars into solving the problem, unless I miss my educated guess.
Just as everyone was jumping on the bandwagon, however, I have noticed the oddest thing. It seems to me that the climate is getting cooler. This is not just happening at the North Pole, where the melting of the ice cap is literally threatening the lives of the polar bears who depend on it. This is also occurring in Minnesota, where summer has been redefined as anything over 70 degrees Fahrenheit, and here in Kansas, where we now look at 90 as the new 100.
I had a conversation with a very unhappy relative recently, who, just two short years ago, purchased the cabin she has dreamed about owning her entire life. It is in central Minnesota, so the time frame in which you can really enjoy the lake, whose shoreline cost her roughly a mint, is already somewhat limited. If they can be in the water from late May through the end of August, they are having a great year.
Since they made this heady, and fairly spendy, decision to move forward with a cabin of their very own, global warming has suddenly gone cold. They have had a grand total of approximately five days over 85 since the day they closed on the mortgage. Now THAT is frustrating.
What, I ask the scientists who have been pushing global warming on us for the last umpteen years, is going on? Where is the devastating heat we have been warned about? Kansas is not only not becoming a desert, it is, in fact, wetter than it has ever been. The last two summers have seen us worrying about fungus on our bush and tree leaves from all the water falling from the sky. What, in heaven's name, is up with that?
I have noticed a rather fascinating phenomenon in the last few months, that seems to subtly confirm my sneaking suspicions that we have not heard the whole story, yet. The term, global warming, has suddenly been replaced in common usage among the experts with a new, and perhaps more accurate descriptive - climate change.
I, for one, am forced to wonder why they didn't use that term in the first place. We might have gotten to the table a whole lot sooner if only we had known that global warming was, in fact, the death of summer as we knew it.
Sort of makes you wonder about the wisdom of building that new outdoor baseball stadium in Minnesota. At this rate, they will be wearing down parkas and ear muffs to watch the boys of summer tossing lobs around the diamond.
I don't know that we have gotten into the 90's here in Kansas City more than a handful of times all summer long. I have been waiting to power wash my deck until things warm up, because it's a wet and cold occupation. I am still waiting. Now that August has arrived, it seems it's going to be an even longer wait, because we are hitting the end of the summer, and still no 100 degree days. This is depressing.
As far as I am concerned, the most important function of those 100 degree days is to provide us with contrast for when it will be zero degrees outside in January. If we never get to 100, then zero feels a whole lot colder and is even less welcome. Not, mind you, that I am ever thrilled about that to begin with. But at least, if we have nearly died of the heat all summer, there is some relief involved when you can once again step outside and breathe.
It seems, for the second summer in a row here in Kansas City, 100 is but a distant dream, and the new reality is that we had best make the most of the almost 90 degree days we are blessed with a handful of times each year. Historically, the hottest part of our year always seemed to be in mid-August, when the kids are forced back indoors against their will to learn about things that they don't care about, while outside, the swimming pools continued to beckon. So I will maintain some fragile hope for more heat yet this summer.
But I am definitely not holding my breath. At least, not until winter, when it's so cold outside it hurts to breathe.
Global warming? Bah humbug.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Family reunions....
Last weekend we had the fun of seeing some of our extended family at what my kids fondly refer to as the annual family reunion. It is funny, because I never thought of it that way until they started calling it by that moniker.
To me, it's getting together with my aunts and uncles and cousins, just like we have done my whole life. But for my children, it's an occasion, something special and out of the ordinary, because we live a long ways from Minnesota, where they all live, and we don't get to see everyone very often.
I am incredibly blessed with a wonderful extended family, so it is always a happy time to get together and catch up on what everyone is up to. But these days, it has some bittersweet elements, as well, because it is a reminder that the Greatest Generation is rapidly aging, and won't be around forever.
This year, we were missing several of the aunts and uncles. They are getting too fragile to come out to the cabin that has been the spot for the annual get together for many years, and so they have been left behind. Although they weren't present physically, they were present in our hearts and minds. But it is not the same without them, and they were missed.
The shocking thing I realized, however, is that as they fall away from us, one by one, we are slowly but surely turning into the oldest generation in the family. Our parents, siblings and their spouses for 60 years and more, are the glue that holds us together, and binds us as part of the same family story.
The traditions of the past, which we have come to look forward to, will slowly fade away with our parents, I suspect, and by the time I am a grandmother, we won't be doing these family events any longer. There will be new events, no doubt, but the opportunity to see the extended relatives that I grew up with will be fewer and farther between, and soon, it will be at funerals that we renew our acquaintanceship, instead of the happy times when we can all enjoy the moment.
I was sitting inside the cabin, the area that was always reserved for The Adults, when I came to another correlated, and yet shocking, realization. I am now one of The Adults. This is separate and different from being an adult, with the responsiblities and obligations that entails. Anyone can be an adult, but you have to be something beyond to be one of the The Adults, with inside table privileges.
Within the family circle, being one of The Adults means you are a go to person, one of the people everyone else looks to for everything from towels and boat pulls to lunch and dinner. The children play in the water, no matter how cold it may be, while The Adults discuss the weighty issues of the day and observe that children appear to be incapable of feeling cold, since the water is a chilly 60 degrees and they are in it, anyway.
This year, I realized we actually splintered into three separate factions. The oldest adults were inside, sitting in the most comfortable chairs, stationed where they could see everything but not have to go far.
The youngest members of the family, torn from the water for a few minutes to sustain themselves with some yummy food, sat at the table nearest the door, ready to run back and play the moment they finished eating.
Then there was the middle group, surrounded by both our parents and our children. We all went out back and sat outside at a picnic table out of sight of the crowd. It was interesting how we stratified, a generational layer cake, delicious and fun and complex and comforting.
I am very fortunate, because my extended family is the best kind there is. They are warm and engaging and welcome anyone and everyone to the party. It is fun for my children to bring their friends along with them, because they know that person will be made welcome, and made to feel at home.
Too often, we hear of family dissension and relational discord. I am lucky to be part of a tree with many branches, carefully tended, and with no need to prune.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
A rose by any other name?
I am doing something this week to reverse the last 25 years of my life, and there is a delicious irony to it that I must share.
It is hard to believe, but 25 years ago, come July 21, I married the man I thought was a dream. As regular readers of my blog are aware, that decision did not pan out as well as I had hoped. [I am ever the optimist....]
But this is not about him, so I will leave it at that and not take any of the pot shots you are all waiting for, and which, in my opinion, he so richly deserves. (Okay, that was a teensy, weensy small sauce pan shot, I realize, but sometimes I just can't help myself.)
The best things to come from that ill fated union were my beloved children, who continue to surprise and delight me every day of my life. I cannot imagine what life would be without the two people to whom I have devoted so much of my time and attention over the last 24 years, and I don't really care to speculate on it, either. But I do know that when they came into my world, it changed for the better, and I would not be the person I am today without them.
A few other positive benefits resulted from that time in my life, which now feels like someone else's life, if you want to know the truth. I have a house I wouldn't have, I have a frilly little high maintenance dog that I adore, I have a lot of stuff that I probably don't need, but really like. I also live in Kansas City, which still surprises me. [For those who were born and raised here, I'm sorry to have to say this, but Kansas City is not exactly the apex of cool places to live for the rest of the country. Enough said.]
A few negative impacts have also resulted from that hasty and ill advised decision I made all those years ago when I was young and stupid. [I realize I have left myself wide open to the observation that the only thing that has changed is that I am now old and stupid. I leave it to your discretion. Personally, I think I've wised up a lot in the last five years, but I know I have a ways to go.]
The biggest negative impact is to my children's well being, which has been severely strained by going through a divorce. For all those who are fooling themselves out there, thinking that THEIR divorce will be different and the kids won't get hurt, let me just enlighten you.
Divorce is a quick trip to hell, and the road back is a lot longer than the slide in. You will survive, your kids will survive, but if you think it won't affect the rest of all your lives, you are kidding yourself. I did everything in my power to protect them and to help them, and they still got hurt. Divorce is painful, and it changes you forever, and there is no escaping that unfortunate reality.
However, there is a bright spot in all the agony. The nature of crisis is that it either splits a family apart, or brings them together. Most of the kids I know who have gone through a divorce find their siblings in a way that siblings in a stable family don't.
My kids have a strong, loving relationship completely outside of the one they have with me, and it is one which will serve them well for the rest of their lives, long after I am gone. That has been a goal of mine since I first learned that child number two was on the way, and it is something that I know they cherish. When my daughter calls her brother her best friend in the world, she means it, and it is a really special thing.
I have also forged a bond with each of my children because of our experiences during the divorce that we would not have had otherwise. We were always a team, of sorts, I think, but the divorce clarified and strengthened those bonds for us into a tight knit unit that I cannot imagine anything ever shattering. We have enough confidence in our relationships with each other that we have no fear to allow others in, and I swear I will be the world's best mother-in-law. Seriously. In fact, I am ready and waiting for the girl of my dreams to take over the care and maintenance of my son. [He is almost 24, tall, dark, and handsome, and VERY available, by the way.... Just sayin'.]
The delicious irony of this 25th anniversary is that on the 22nd of July this year, I am going back to my maiden name. I never actually lost it, it was always a part of my name, but now I am formally dropping the married name and going back to the last name that I was given the day my parents claimed me for their own.
My maiden name is one I wear with pride - my father's life long gift to me. It is a name that was conferred by my relationship to a man whose life was much too short, but lived very well, and it is a name I am lucky to call mine, as well. I am fortunate to wear my last name as a badge of honor, and I will do the best I can to enhance, and not diminish, that name, as I carry it forward.
I am also, in the process of changing my name, rectifying a wrong that has annoyed my mother for the last 40 some years - I am correcting my middle name to the one she always wanted me to have, and which, for some unexplainable reason, was not on my birth certificate. When pressed as to the reason she didn't just correct it after the fact, her answer is a simple shrug of the shoulders, and an "I don't know."
But after all she has done for me, the very least I can do for her is to make sure my name is the one she wanted me to have - Sarah Elizabeth, after two women in the Bible. There is a meaning to my name, one which resonates for her. Sarah and Elizabeth were two women who waited through all their childbearing years to have their beloved children, just as my own mother waited for me to come along. After much heartache and despair, I finally arrived on the scene, just as their children came as a surprise to them at the end of their childbearing days.
Ironically, taking on a new middle name has not been difficult at all. It has always felt like my name, more than the middle name I carried, and is comfortable and satisfying to me. I have never been fond of my first name, but with the addition of Elizabeth, suddenly, the name feels right. The kaleidoscope has turned, and at long last, the pattern has resolved, and it is bright and colorful and lovely.
I hope that with the change of name, so to will my luck and fortune change, as well. I hope that the new name will change my perspective, change my expectations, change my resolution, change my outlook. I hope that with the new name will come new opportunities, new attitudes, and new interests. I hope to keep the best of the old, and find the best of the new.
So, come July 22, 2009, I will proudly take the name that has always been mine. Hello world! Sarah Elizabeth has finally arrived. Better late than never.
It is hard to believe, but 25 years ago, come July 21, I married the man I thought was a dream. As regular readers of my blog are aware, that decision did not pan out as well as I had hoped. [I am ever the optimist....] But this is not about him, so I will leave it at that and not take any of the pot shots you are all waiting for, and which, in my opinion, he so richly deserves. (Okay, that was a teensy, weensy small sauce pan shot, I realize, but sometimes I just can't help myself.)
The best things to come from that ill fated union were my beloved children, who continue to surprise and delight me every day of my life. I cannot imagine what life would be without the two people to whom I have devoted so much of my time and attention over the last 24 years, and I don't really care to speculate on it, either. But I do know that when they came into my world, it changed for the better, and I would not be the person I am today without them.
A few other positive benefits resulted from that time in my life, which now feels like someone else's life, if you want to know the truth. I have a house I wouldn't have, I have a frilly little high maintenance dog that I adore, I have a lot of stuff that I probably don't need, but really like. I also live in Kansas City, which still surprises me. [For those who were born and raised here, I'm sorry to have to say this, but Kansas City is not exactly the apex of cool places to live for the rest of the country. Enough said.]
A few negative impacts have also resulted from that hasty and ill advised decision I made all those years ago when I was young and stupid. [I realize I have left myself wide open to the observation that the only thing that has changed is that I am now old and stupid. I leave it to your discretion. Personally, I think I've wised up a lot in the last five years, but I know I have a ways to go.]
The biggest negative impact is to my children's well being, which has been severely strained by going through a divorce. For all those who are fooling themselves out there, thinking that THEIR divorce will be different and the kids won't get hurt, let me just enlighten you.
Divorce is a quick trip to hell, and the road back is a lot longer than the slide in. You will survive, your kids will survive, but if you think it won't affect the rest of all your lives, you are kidding yourself. I did everything in my power to protect them and to help them, and they still got hurt. Divorce is painful, and it changes you forever, and there is no escaping that unfortunate reality.
However, there is a bright spot in all the agony. The nature of crisis is that it either splits a family apart, or brings them together. Most of the kids I know who have gone through a divorce find their siblings in a way that siblings in a stable family don't.
My kids have a strong, loving relationship completely outside of the one they have with me, and it is one which will serve them well for the rest of their lives, long after I am gone. That has been a goal of mine since I first learned that child number two was on the way, and it is something that I know they cherish. When my daughter calls her brother her best friend in the world, she means it, and it is a really special thing.
I have also forged a bond with each of my children because of our experiences during the divorce that we would not have had otherwise. We were always a team, of sorts, I think, but the divorce clarified and strengthened those bonds for us into a tight knit unit that I cannot imagine anything ever shattering. We have enough confidence in our relationships with each other that we have no fear to allow others in, and I swear I will be the world's best mother-in-law. Seriously. In fact, I am ready and waiting for the girl of my dreams to take over the care and maintenance of my son. [He is almost 24, tall, dark, and handsome, and VERY available, by the way.... Just sayin'.]
The delicious irony of this 25th anniversary is that on the 22nd of July this year, I am going back to my maiden name. I never actually lost it, it was always a part of my name, but now I am formally dropping the married name and going back to the last name that I was given the day my parents claimed me for their own.
My maiden name is one I wear with pride - my father's life long gift to me. It is a name that was conferred by my relationship to a man whose life was much too short, but lived very well, and it is a name I am lucky to call mine, as well. I am fortunate to wear my last name as a badge of honor, and I will do the best I can to enhance, and not diminish, that name, as I carry it forward.
I am also, in the process of changing my name, rectifying a wrong that has annoyed my mother for the last 40 some years - I am correcting my middle name to the one she always wanted me to have, and which, for some unexplainable reason, was not on my birth certificate. When pressed as to the reason she didn't just correct it after the fact, her answer is a simple shrug of the shoulders, and an "I don't know."
But after all she has done for me, the very least I can do for her is to make sure my name is the one she wanted me to have - Sarah Elizabeth, after two women in the Bible. There is a meaning to my name, one which resonates for her. Sarah and Elizabeth were two women who waited through all their childbearing years to have their beloved children, just as my own mother waited for me to come along. After much heartache and despair, I finally arrived on the scene, just as their children came as a surprise to them at the end of their childbearing days.
Ironically, taking on a new middle name has not been difficult at all. It has always felt like my name, more than the middle name I carried, and is comfortable and satisfying to me. I have never been fond of my first name, but with the addition of Elizabeth, suddenly, the name feels right. The kaleidoscope has turned, and at long last, the pattern has resolved, and it is bright and colorful and lovely.
I hope that with the change of name, so to will my luck and fortune change, as well. I hope that the new name will change my perspective, change my expectations, change my resolution, change my outlook. I hope that with the new name will come new opportunities, new attitudes, and new interests. I hope to keep the best of the old, and find the best of the new.
So, come July 22, 2009, I will proudly take the name that has always been mine. Hello world! Sarah Elizabeth has finally arrived. Better late than never.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Sometimes, in writing, the work takes on a life of it’s own. It insists on going its own way, no matter what you intend, and there is nothing you can do about it. Today is one of those times. This post wasn’t what I started to write, but it seems I couldn’t help myself. Sometimes events overtake you, and you are left to ponder them, and take from them what you will, for better or for worse. This past week was such a week.
In the last few days, we have all been spectators at a world event of epic proportions, if only because of the excess of everything involved. The passing of an icon, especially one as quirky and controversial as the King of Pop, was bound to bring about excess. But this was Princess Diana style excess, something I didn’t think I would witness again in my lifetime.
After the whole spectacle was over ten years ago, I remember wondering if anyone who participated in the orgy of grief over Princess Diana would look back and question their own part in the proceedings. [Brief digression here, but Elton John rewriting one of his most famous songs in tribute was one of the saddest moments in musical history, as far as I am concerned.] I wonder if anyone who participated in the excesses of this past week will look back on it in a similar way and question what drove them to be a part of the orgy of grief this time.
Personally, I think there is a phenomenon of mass grief that occasionally grips the world. It’s almost like every now and then, we have to have something to pull us all together, and remind us that we are all, at the very end of the day, people, and we are on this rotating ball together. Whether it’s the death of someone globally famous, or a worldwide tragedy like 9/11 or the tsunami, these world events make us all aware of how vulnerable we are, and how little control we really have over what happens to us. It’s as if, for a brief moment in time, we are all pulling in the same direction.
And it’s a sobering reality we must consider. If, with all his money and power and fame, Michael Jackson couldn’t control his fate, then what hope have the rest of us, who toil in obscurity for our whole lives?
Of course, we all experience these epic moments differently. For me, the first thing I thought of was not the death of the King of Pop, or even that a tortured soul will finally have some peace. I thought of his children, who are now left essentially parentless and alone in a rather frightening world that up until now, they have been entirely protected from. Having lost my own dad when he was just 50, and I was only 12, I quite naturally have a heart for the children, and my thoughts go out to them.
For his children, they haven’t lost an icon or a musical genius or even a far away hero. Their relationship with him was independent of the public persona, and it wasn’t wrapped up in his controversies or his dance moves. Whatever your opinion of him, he was their father, the only one they have ever known, and they are now without him. That is heartbreaking to me.
For most people under the age of 50, I’m sure Michael Jackson was always in the world. He started singing on stage when he was five, which means I was only three at the time. He was always out there, front and center.
It’s certainly hard to imagine the world of music without his influence over the last few decades. He was a catalyst for many of the most iconoclastic images of modern music. Everything from his moon walk to his glove to his ever changing skin and face were new, different, challenging to the way things have always been done.
Without his leadership, everything from dance to music video would be different. There is no denying that even at 50, he clearly still had the power to move, and we’ll never know how big his new tour would have been. But from watching the brief video taken during a recent rehearsal, it seems clear that Michael, the Performer, was still at the top of his game, and he would have put on an amazing spectacle of a show.
One of the producers of the upcoming show talked candidly about Michael’s motives in doing this tour. Money, of course, was the main driver, as his lavish lifestyle came at an unimaginably high price.
But there was another motive, and it was that motive which caught my interest, which suddenly, out of nowhere, made Michael Jackson human for me. He wanted redemption – he wanted to show not only his fans, but I believe more importantly, himself, that he was still the King of Pop, the popular boy. But it turns out he was really Peter Pan on Xanax.
I think, at the bottom of it all, he was still a little boy looking for love and approval, and he couldn’t even find it inside himself. That is an indictment, not of Michael, but of all the people around him who used him to line their pockets or enhance their own fame, without ever considering the cost to the heart and soul of the Lonely One.
When I am gone from this earth, there are really only two things that will matter in summing up my life. I think they apply to Michael Jackson, and everyone else, as well. Did you leave the world a better place than you found it? Did your contributions justify the rest of your existence?
Thankfully, I will never have to be his judge or his jury. I have made enough of a mess of my own life – I don’t need to be commenting on anyone else’s bad decisions or faulty judgment. (Okay, that is a comment, I realize, but I think it’s pretty clear that holding your baby out over a balcony is just stupid, and let’s not even get into slumber parties with children when you are an unrelated adult.) A jury of his peers acquitted him of his legal difficulties, and one of those who accused him of the most heinous acts has now recanted as an adult. It is entirely possible that the image of dollar signs blinded people into thinking that they could destroy what he dedicated his lifetime to building, without a thought for the real human being inside the bubble.
Michael Jackson was the Wizard in his own wacky Oz, an ever changing chameleon, a façade behind which hid an unknown personality seen only by a few insiders, if by anyone at all. Peter Pan may have been real after all, but we are left to wonder whether Michael Jackson was.
It is now left for the ages to determine his contribution, both to the world of music, and to the world generally. Michael Jackson has fulfilled his destiny, whatever it may be, and we can only hope that one of the more tortured individuals to ever walk on this earth is now at peace.
I think Michael Jackson’s fast burning life, over too soon, should serve as a warning call to every stage parent pushing their child forward to perform, or to excel, at too young of an age. When they are five, they should be performing on their front porch, not in Motown. When they are 17, they don’t need the adulation of a bazillion fans, they need the love and attention of their parents and the people close to them.
Although I am not much of a television watcher, and I am definitely not an American Idol fan, last year I couldn’t help but notice the show highlights, since the ultimate winner was from Kansas City. It was the battle of the two Davids, and I, for one, hoped that David Cook would win, not necessarily because he was better, but because the other David was so clearly in over his head with the fame and publicity and attention swirling around him.
The collapse of Susan Boyle shouldn’t have surprised anyone. A regular person thrown into the fish bowl of the super famous would have a hard time walking out the front door, to say nothing of performing in front of millions of fans who will be let down if you fail. I think the collapse of Michael Jackson, the person, was the outcome even he knew to be all but inevitable, given the highly public nature of the life of a man who was clearly a very private individual.
I also believe that we, the public, played a role in that breakdown. By trying and convicting him of everything imaginable in the court of public of opinion, we stripped him of his humanity and his dignity, and still we clamored for more. By allowing our prurient interest in everything celebrity to overcome our better judgment and common sense, we put the hammer to the wall.
As we all heave a collective sigh, we, the public, will move on with our lives. Whether you ate up every moment, or studiously ignored it, the untimely death of Michael Jackson at the incredibly young age of 50 was noticed by the world, and has made an impact on millions and millions of people. But like Princess Diana, for most of us, this was a moment of time in our lives, and meant nothing more significant.
But for his family, especially his children, and his friends, his absence will change their lives forever. I can only wish his three children a life of normalcy and mundane happenings. I hope they will find their name to be a blessing and not a curse. I hope they find peace within themselves, and forgiveness for their father for not being there for every important moment for the rest of their lives. I hope that their grandparents can get the dollar signs out of their eyes, and will take loving care of the living legacy that Michael left to them. They are the world he was talking about in his music.
But the cynic in me says they will be a commodity, just as their father was. We can only hope that they lead a brighter life than the supernova they called Daddy.
In the last few days, we have all been spectators at a world event of epic proportions, if only because of the excess of everything involved. The passing of an icon, especially one as quirky and controversial as the King of Pop, was bound to bring about excess. But this was Princess Diana style excess, something I didn’t think I would witness again in my lifetime.
After the whole spectacle was over ten years ago, I remember wondering if anyone who participated in the orgy of grief over Princess Diana would look back and question their own part in the proceedings. [Brief digression here, but Elton John rewriting one of his most famous songs in tribute was one of the saddest moments in musical history, as far as I am concerned.] I wonder if anyone who participated in the excesses of this past week will look back on it in a similar way and question what drove them to be a part of the orgy of grief this time.
Personally, I think there is a phenomenon of mass grief that occasionally grips the world. It’s almost like every now and then, we have to have something to pull us all together, and remind us that we are all, at the very end of the day, people, and we are on this rotating ball together. Whether it’s the death of someone globally famous, or a worldwide tragedy like 9/11 or the tsunami, these world events make us all aware of how vulnerable we are, and how little control we really have over what happens to us. It’s as if, for a brief moment in time, we are all pulling in the same direction.
And it’s a sobering reality we must consider. If, with all his money and power and fame, Michael Jackson couldn’t control his fate, then what hope have the rest of us, who toil in obscurity for our whole lives?
Of course, we all experience these epic moments differently. For me, the first thing I thought of was not the death of the King of Pop, or even that a tortured soul will finally have some peace. I thought of his children, who are now left essentially parentless and alone in a rather frightening world that up until now, they have been entirely protected from. Having lost my own dad when he was just 50, and I was only 12, I quite naturally have a heart for the children, and my thoughts go out to them.
For his children, they haven’t lost an icon or a musical genius or even a far away hero. Their relationship with him was independent of the public persona, and it wasn’t wrapped up in his controversies or his dance moves. Whatever your opinion of him, he was their father, the only one they have ever known, and they are now without him. That is heartbreaking to me.
For most people under the age of 50, I’m sure Michael Jackson was always in the world. He started singing on stage when he was five, which means I was only three at the time. He was always out there, front and center.
It’s certainly hard to imagine the world of music without his influence over the last few decades. He was a catalyst for many of the most iconoclastic images of modern music. Everything from his moon walk to his glove to his ever changing skin and face were new, different, challenging to the way things have always been done.
Without his leadership, everything from dance to music video would be different. There is no denying that even at 50, he clearly still had the power to move, and we’ll never know how big his new tour would have been. But from watching the brief video taken during a recent rehearsal, it seems clear that Michael, the Performer, was still at the top of his game, and he would have put on an amazing spectacle of a show.
One of the producers of the upcoming show talked candidly about Michael’s motives in doing this tour. Money, of course, was the main driver, as his lavish lifestyle came at an unimaginably high price.
But there was another motive, and it was that motive which caught my interest, which suddenly, out of nowhere, made Michael Jackson human for me. He wanted redemption – he wanted to show not only his fans, but I believe more importantly, himself, that he was still the King of Pop, the popular boy. But it turns out he was really Peter Pan on Xanax.
I think, at the bottom of it all, he was still a little boy looking for love and approval, and he couldn’t even find it inside himself. That is an indictment, not of Michael, but of all the people around him who used him to line their pockets or enhance their own fame, without ever considering the cost to the heart and soul of the Lonely One.
When I am gone from this earth, there are really only two things that will matter in summing up my life. I think they apply to Michael Jackson, and everyone else, as well. Did you leave the world a better place than you found it? Did your contributions justify the rest of your existence?
Thankfully, I will never have to be his judge or his jury. I have made enough of a mess of my own life – I don’t need to be commenting on anyone else’s bad decisions or faulty judgment. (Okay, that is a comment, I realize, but I think it’s pretty clear that holding your baby out over a balcony is just stupid, and let’s not even get into slumber parties with children when you are an unrelated adult.) A jury of his peers acquitted him of his legal difficulties, and one of those who accused him of the most heinous acts has now recanted as an adult. It is entirely possible that the image of dollar signs blinded people into thinking that they could destroy what he dedicated his lifetime to building, without a thought for the real human being inside the bubble.
Michael Jackson was the Wizard in his own wacky Oz, an ever changing chameleon, a façade behind which hid an unknown personality seen only by a few insiders, if by anyone at all. Peter Pan may have been real after all, but we are left to wonder whether Michael Jackson was.
It is now left for the ages to determine his contribution, both to the world of music, and to the world generally. Michael Jackson has fulfilled his destiny, whatever it may be, and we can only hope that one of the more tortured individuals to ever walk on this earth is now at peace.
I think Michael Jackson’s fast burning life, over too soon, should serve as a warning call to every stage parent pushing their child forward to perform, or to excel, at too young of an age. When they are five, they should be performing on their front porch, not in Motown. When they are 17, they don’t need the adulation of a bazillion fans, they need the love and attention of their parents and the people close to them.
Although I am not much of a television watcher, and I am definitely not an American Idol fan, last year I couldn’t help but notice the show highlights, since the ultimate winner was from Kansas City. It was the battle of the two Davids, and I, for one, hoped that David Cook would win, not necessarily because he was better, but because the other David was so clearly in over his head with the fame and publicity and attention swirling around him.
The collapse of Susan Boyle shouldn’t have surprised anyone. A regular person thrown into the fish bowl of the super famous would have a hard time walking out the front door, to say nothing of performing in front of millions of fans who will be let down if you fail. I think the collapse of Michael Jackson, the person, was the outcome even he knew to be all but inevitable, given the highly public nature of the life of a man who was clearly a very private individual.
I also believe that we, the public, played a role in that breakdown. By trying and convicting him of everything imaginable in the court of public of opinion, we stripped him of his humanity and his dignity, and still we clamored for more. By allowing our prurient interest in everything celebrity to overcome our better judgment and common sense, we put the hammer to the wall.
As we all heave a collective sigh, we, the public, will move on with our lives. Whether you ate up every moment, or studiously ignored it, the untimely death of Michael Jackson at the incredibly young age of 50 was noticed by the world, and has made an impact on millions and millions of people. But like Princess Diana, for most of us, this was a moment of time in our lives, and meant nothing more significant.
But for his family, especially his children, and his friends, his absence will change their lives forever. I can only wish his three children a life of normalcy and mundane happenings. I hope they will find their name to be a blessing and not a curse. I hope they find peace within themselves, and forgiveness for their father for not being there for every important moment for the rest of their lives. I hope that their grandparents can get the dollar signs out of their eyes, and will take loving care of the living legacy that Michael left to them. They are the world he was talking about in his music.
But the cynic in me says they will be a commodity, just as their father was. We can only hope that they lead a brighter life than the supernova they called Daddy.
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