Contraception is essential

I've been pregnant exactly twice. I'm the mother of a 21 and 18 year old, both of whom I cherish! This couldn't have happened without safe, legal, relatively inexpensive contraception. Contraception is essential if you care about healthy families (and I don't just mean healthy babies...I mean a healthy, functioning, loving unit) and a woman's right not be a kind of indentured servant and victim. Why don't you join me? See the sample letter below.

Dear friend,

Subject: Contraception is abortion?

Hi,

I had to share something with you. Can you imagine living in a place where birth control is considered an "abortion" and health insurers won't cover it? Where even rape victims are denied emergency contraception?

It seems unbelievable, but the Bush Administration is quietly trying to redefine "abortion" to include birth control. The Houston Chronicle says this could wipe out dozens of state laws that protect women's reproductive freedom and protect rape victims. And this proposed "rule change" doesn't need congressional approval.

I just signed a message to Health and Human Services Secretary Mike Leavitt, whose department is considering this rule change, telling him: "Contraception is NOT abortion." Can you add your voice to this cause? Click here to sign the message:

Thanks!

Boys Stay Away - More (un) health tales from an aging gal

So I couldn't find the string. Which is weird. I've had this IUD since Nov 1999 and the string has always been right where it's supposed to be. I don't check every month, but often enough. I'm so grateful to this little device that keeps me free from an unwanted pregnancy. I know it's crazy! I'm 50. I have too many friends in their early 40s struggling and struggling to reproduce but I'm still ovulating and it could happen. My first kids are old - I'm done with that phase. I don't want to return; don't want the possibility made real, a too-old pregnancy, it's inevitable loss.

So the gyn wasn't worried. "I bet the string's just curled up in there. Hmm, your uterus is hard to get to. Hmmm. Well I guess you should have an ultrasound to see if it's still in there. " They take me pretty much right away, right downstairs. The tech is taking all sorts of measurements. "Is it hard to find?" "Oh no," she says. "Pretty easy but as long as were in here I'm doing a full exam."

The gyn calls later. Well, it's still in there but you have some fibroids. I told you you had fibroids, right? Uh no. "Well one is surprisingly big. Like 8, 8 1/2. Big as a grapefruit. I'm surprised it's so big. If it gets to 9 1/2, you're going to have some decisions to make. Oh, and it's pushed the IUD down to a lower position than usual, so that's why you said you thought you could feel your cervix before I even went on in there. The fibroid is exerting pressure. It's like you're 3 & 1/2 months pregnant. If you stopped ovulating in the next year or two, it should shrink. Problem will be if you're still going on @ 55. Or if you start having periods like a gulley waddle."

Uh, what?! "Can you translate from that Texas speak?" (At least I think that's what she said. - something about too much rain and overflowing the gulleys. gullets. I don't know.)

Not life threatening. Not even a sickness. But disturbing and uncomfortable. I can feel the pressure, in a place where sensation usually doesn't exist. And there are repercussions. Again, not life threatening, not even dangerous. Just a surprise and a drag. A mental drain and perhaps some unpleasant decisions and procedures ahead.

MBTs have saved my life

I totally prefer these:















But these MBT Kisumu sandals have fucking changed my life!















Seriously.

I've had trouble with my feet all my life. When others were comfy barefoot or in flip flops, I wasn't. Summer sandals gave me blisters. I needed arch supports. I angled in. From the earliest age, fashion was beyond me - because really, it starts with the feet, doesn't it? My dad forced me into saddle shoes. Later I made do with boots and clogs which kind of worked. I could be very happy living in boots. But it's always been a problem and always sucked. I love walking. And what could be more important and necessary?

But often it's been excruciating. Fallen metatarsals. Ball of foot pain. The dancing only made it way, way worse. So I started looking for some new solutions. At Karavel, a guy in the wellness center pointed me towards the MBTs. Masai Barefoot Technology. I'd heard of them, heard they were controversial. Some people loved them, others miserable. I picked the least worst looking, slid them on, and ohmigod, I felt like I was in a pilates session. Seriously. All of a sudden I was standing taller, the back of my legs lengthened, my core kickin' in. I bought them. Watched the "new user" video, laughed that they're classified as exercise equipment in Europe, and became a serious convert. They're fantastic. Instead of debilitating cramping pain 40 minutes into a regular walk, now I feel energized and painfree. Literally regaining a bounce in my step. Realizing how badly I'd been suffering from chronic pain and just living with it.

I'm not happy about the way I look in them. Really not happy about walking around in them with black socks when the weather turned cold. But man oh man, the relief. What a lifesaver.

Things that Feel Good

I used to have a friend, a highly ambitious super smart go-getter film friend, who bought a new lipstick every single day on her lunch hour. Some women (though not really in my peer group) compulsively buy shoes. Others, housewares and candles. Around here, a lot of people drink, a lot. In the last 10 years, I've become a devotee of bodywork. Massage, shiatsu, chiropractic, acupuncture, yoga and pilates - I'm into it. Today, I had my first ever reflexology experience. It was the greatest!

I've had problems with my feet all my life. From my youngest days it was complicated. I couldn't find shoes that fit. Blisters, no arch support. My father forced me into saddles shoes in those important 4th/5th grade years when everyone else was wearing loafers, or the luckiest, sneakers. Forget about flipflops - that was torture. It's been a real albatross - stopping me from things that would otherwise be great for me. Hiking. Walking. Now dancing. I'd been in a pretty good place for awhile, living here in the car country of Texas, and confining my shoe choices to Danskos and cowboy boots. But age and the dancing, precipated a new crisis. Mentioning the burning to Adrianna the other day she chipped, "Oh you have to try my reflexologist. And he's right in the neighborhood."

I wasn't sure what to expect. I'm familiar with the concept, that there are reflex areas in the feet and hands which correspond to all of the glands. organs and parts of the body. I understood that somehow in manipulating the feet, you'd be treating the rest of the body. What I wasn't prepared for was just how awesomely great it would feel, and deeply relaxing.

Maybe because for so long I lived in my head. For decades people hassled me, "You think too much!" So in this later phase, I've been embracing the modalities that get me out of my head. The mind/body connection is powerful and real. And once you come to understand and start to work with it, the changes are palpable.

I remember the year my father was dying. He lived in California. I was in NY. I'd speak to him nightly, going through details and listening to his frank talk about dying. "I'm a doctor. I can face these things," while the next minute he was buying chandeliers for his new condo. As the year progressed, I'd roll out of bed and stutter down the stairs. One foot at a time. Literally hunched over. After he died, my sister treated me to my first ever shiatsu in L.A. The masseuse was a blind Japanese named Mr. Hamm. "You really need this!" he said. Walking out of his office I realized I could straighten up. I could breathe. The wellbeing, which lasted a full three days was profound.

The next reinforcement came in 1995. I was typing John's book, writing the PTA newsletter, and into email into a big way. 12 hours daily typing, easily. I woke up one morning and couldn't use my left hand at all. It was locked into a kind of gimp spasm. It was a crisis; the book was near done but not finished, and my computer input and editing was crucial. I started seeing two different masseuses each week for six weeks. It was lifechanging. It didn't just feel good, it was essential.

So I've continued when I can, limited only by financial and time constraints. I'm amazed by the exploration of the different ways energy moves (or doesn't) in the body. I find the work miraculous, and the excellent practitioners who practice, fascinating. I know it's indulgent. But amazing. Powerful.

A glimpse of intimacy

Driving across 2222, by the HEB's red light, I see a threesome waiting for the bus. A round hispanic mom, her maybe 7 year old daughter, and a skinny guy. The kid punches the guy's middle, then hugs him, the mom does the same. I realize it's affectionate foreplay. I guess. I mean it looks like affectionate foreplay but the concept is so foreign to me I'm not sure. I guess I've seen it in movies and tv - that kind of punching and hitting as a kind of tease. In my own life, I can't imagine the instinct. Is it a class thing? Ethnic? Clearly one of the many varieties of human interplay.

In our own life, I'm surprised as well by a new little ritual. As I've written repeatedly, I stay up late. I've always stayed up late. John used to stay up with me, but now as he rises earlier and earlier, he doesn't. (And don't worry about our private life - there are still plenty of other hours of the day. I don't subscribe to that busy-married-with-children-give-up-your-sex-life cliche. In fact I was emailing with a writer/director about it recently, commenting on her recent script where I was happy to see at least one married couple still coupling but the others too glibly giving in to the lull, and not even lamenting. She was a bit defensive -

Re: sex. I think when you have two parents working demanding f/t jobs w/ two kids and you live in NYC it is actually very hard to navigate a sustained sex life. Or at least that's what I see and hear for the most part, and what I know from my own experience. But I commend you for keeping it going, throughout everything. That's a big deal, and rare, believe it!

She was, I'm happy to report, inspired to re-double her efforts after our back and forth. In fact she said,

Talking about it w/ you inspired me to focus more on making it a priority though... (and we just celebrated our 11 year wedding anniversary). Too easy to sweep it aside and yes, it is dangerous to the relationship. Choosing to keep one's life more porous and less driven in order to keep sex a priority in a marriage is kind of a fascinating subject... Maybe you should write about that!

But that's not what I meant to write about here.

Until recently, I would climb into bed trying not to disturb the sleeping guy. But then one day he surprised me with a request for a goodnight hug -- at whatever hour it was that I made it in. I was surprised but ok, why not, 25 years in, sure. A tiny thing. And surprised even more so by the response. Because every night, there is a distinct response. From deep in sleep it registers. Not pro forma but specific. And every night a bit different. A real connect. And of course I'm surprised by the sweetness it creates in me, when it had never even occurred to me in the first place.

Packing

Packing for a kamikaze trip for the opening night and weekend of the New York Film Festival. One of my very favorite rituals. Should I pack that black V-neck? Or that one? What about that one? Hmmmm.

bizarre bugs and movies, always more movies

It seems fitting to be reading this Yahoo news headline, Bizarre Gender Bending Bugs Baffle Scientists, while immersed in the Fantastic Fest, annual brainchild of Austin exhibition genius Tim League and friends. I particularly like this detail:

"Sex among bat bugs (as with bed bugs) is violent. During copulation, males of these species pierce the abdomens of their mates with their genitals and ejaculate directly into their blood."

Sounds like a perfect Fantastic Fest film concept - not that I would really know. I love the vibe, the setting, the fun, but carefully have to weed through the choices. I'm way too freaked out every single day of my life to be able to enjoy horror films. I see no difference between the possibilities and my reality. And I don't get the thing about enjoying torture either. Or total immersion in martial arts. I was happy enough to see George Romero's latest, Diary of the Dead, with his meta commentary on how we now live only behind video cameras. And also just enjoyed an anime, The Girl Who Leapt Through Time.

I just started watching anime this year . I've no idea why it's gained its immense popularity and cult status, but I'm finding that I quite like it too. Something about the simplicity mixed in with magic and aesthetic pleasure. And hell, I've been something of a Japanese language fetishist for decades. It's one of my favorite soundtracks.


While I'm mentioning some movies screened over the last couple of days, I can't leave out the wonder of Into The Wild. On the simplest level, eye balm. A sad tale certainly, a kid running into a dead end. I'm not a nature romanticist. I'll always take relationships over the outdoors, I'm a city girl through and through. But the film was provocative and gorgeous. Magnificent landscapes and yes, even some deep human connection.

And the night before? Steven Okazaki's searing White Light, Black Rain which is currently on HBO. We were privileged t o see it on a theatrical screen with the filmmaker in for a serious and thoughtful Q&A. The film is devastating and so, so current. Highly recommended.

The dating certainties

Last night John and I got a kick out of going to a book reading at Book People for Eric Schaeffer's new, "I can't believe I'm still single." As Eric explained to those gathered, "these are the people that made My Life's In Turnaround." Yes, in what feels like a long time ago. We've stayed close with Donny, not so with Eric. Keeping that mainly to watching his films and the occasional run in at sxsw. He's a controversial figure - for good reason.

Last night he totally cracked us up. His readings from the new book were hilarious.

Eric asked the crowd, "Who here has experience with Internet dating?" One person raised their hand, then another, eventually everyone but us. He continued, "Except of course those two who are the model, -- what together since high school like 35 years ago?!" Well not exactly - it was work, not high school, and 25 not 35 years but yeah, sure, in the ballpark. The audience had a lot of questions about dating, in addition to Eric's film, tv and acting career. He kept repeating how certain he was of what he was looking for, and how quickly he could figure that out. No drugs or alcohol, childbearing age and inclination, not too young. Later, while walking him to his car I reminded him, "It was not love at first sight for us. It really took awhile." Then John added an element I'd totally forgotten, "And the whole question of how ready someone is to have kids or not, you never know. When Janet and I first got together, even got married, it was very unclear whether she would ever have children. At that time, she really thought she might not."

True. But something I always forget in the repeated telling of the tale. I didn't want to have kids. I couldn't imagine it. I found the whole concept somewhat repulsive. It was only through the love with John that that door opened. And we walked through.

Blood Watch

OK boys, time to click elsewhere, you've been warned, TMI ahead.

Early on with this blog I started writing about my period. Then stopped as more people I know tuned in. But I've always loved talking and thinking about the monthly blood flow. I hate the wait, love the release. The flow itself a tie to life's lunar cycles, a connection to the stuff that keeps us alive, the drama, the richness, just another of life's messy liquids. Attached there's pain, discomfort, swelling. Too often there's pent up irritation waiting, waiting, waiting. But then, zah, often by surprise, the dam springs open. It's a letting go and tuning in. For years I thought about writing about it in depth - our most fundamental rhythm, this symbol of symbols, a source, from which so much else springs forth.

But now I'm at the place where that's changing. First the cycles came closer and closer. And then the blood increased. In amount and duration. Remarkable almost. How could there be so much yet still be OK? Just another day? I mean c'mon, blood is blood, whether it's gushing from your hands or elsewhere. Two years ago I started seeing an acupuncturist to manage the change. She was able to lengthen the cycles, decrease the bleeding. Until now. Now life's ready to move on - regardless. In February I started bleeding pretty much all the time. Some days lighter, some heavier (Boys - I told you to head elsewhere!). It continued into late April. Where it stopped. Completely. All that was left 28 days later was swollen breasts and a feeling of being on the verge. PMS to the max. Headaches, crankiness, any second, waiting for the blood to flow, waiting for the release. None came.

Oh, so this is it, eh? Had I bled out? But then I remembered, wait a minute, I know it's unlikely, but this is how I felt when I first became pregnant. So I used one of the EPT tests, itself an amusing ritual. They weren't around when I last conceived back in 1989. Negative. OK. So this is it I wondered. Will I stay this swollen and uncomfortable now forever? Two days ago I spot. Then again yesterday, in the middle of an all day meeting that I'd organized. Ok again, a spot. This morning the gush. It's red and wet. All through my system I feel the release and relief. Like a whoosy feeling. It's tangible this hormonal event. It reminds me of the crazy whoosh after childbirth - it lasts for days as your body crashes from the hormonal big deal. Like crashing from LSD.

But this time's there's another element. So I'm bleeding today. And maybe tomorrow. And maybe even next month. But maybe not. Definitely not forever. This time is coming to a end. And I realize I have to start saying goodbye to my friend (that quaint 50s euphemism growing more and more apt). It's been a vital connection to the life force. I'll miss it. I'll be curious to see what happens next.

Fantastic Women in Art animation on You Tube

My friend Joan just sent me this great youtube piece: Women in Art.

Incidental Star Gazing

I've been hesitating mentioning this because celebrity gossip is so not my bag. And this isn't even gossip. It's just idle opinion. But I can't stop thinking about it.

The other night, I had a really fun innocent time watching the IFC Cannes Cam pre-show for Death Proof. I was riveted by the red carpet antics. It was a high wattage occasion for the stars and papparrazi. There were a bevy of great looking ladies, in particular - Rosario Dawson, as awesome as ever. (I spent a fair amount of time following her Cannes appearance last year for Clerks 2, and as perfectly real and down to earth as she was in the film, she was gorgeous in every single image from Cannes. I don't think she can take a bad photo!) Again, this year, beautiful and sexy as hell in a shimmery, crystal sheath, fit to a tee. Zoe Bell, the real life stunt woman was gorgeous as well, and looking surprisingly comfy glamoured up. Then came Rose McGowan. On the arm of Robert Rodriguez. He looked stunning in his trademark black cowboy hat and suit, and stood as still as a buddha. Rose, on the other hand, kept messing with her dress - pulling the strapless top up, futzing with the hem, her shoes, looking like she needed to turn back, then posing like mad. Rosario and Zoe looked fantastic but also relaxed, and happy, and ready for a really fun time. Good-time girls! To me Rose looked needy and calculated, sticking out her butt, twisting for the angle, asserting her chest. It was all work and image.

Now of course this is ridiculous for me to even write. I'm talking about watching these stars on a 3 inch square on my computer captured on an overhead camera. Who am I to judge? Ridiculous of course, but fascinating all the same. Joni Mitchell's lines in my head: "Stoking the star maker machinery, behind the popular song."

Love this ad

These wonderful films actually made by women

After the Wedding was totally worth the wait. Textured, nuanced, lovely. One could, I guess, complain about the soap opera aspects but overall, it was gorgeous and involving. Really loved the thriving middle-aged marriage. The leads stellar. Definitely recommend.

What I realized as I left the Arbor today, is how four of the last excellent films I've seen were all directed by women. Five if you count the doc Manufactured Landscapes. The Namesake was directed by Mira Nair. Away from Her by the actress Sarah Polley. Waitress by the late actress/director Adrienne Shelly. After the Wedding by Susanne Bier. I loved all these films. They were all beautifully made with tremendously interesting performances and engaging story lines.

People, well people I often talk to, are often bemoaning the lack of women directors. Where are they? Why is it so much harder for them to sustain careers? And don't even bring up Nora Ephron or Nancy Meyers. They may make commercially successful films but they really don't speak for me. I thought Something's Gotta Give was one of the most sexist, offensive films ever! But thinking about it, over the decades it's clear that women have had it harder, and it's always been hard to understand why. Particularly in the independent arena where there really was/is an even playing field. This is a lovely new development. Even though I know it's still the art ghetto world gross-wise. Still lovely to see and experience. Next up that I'm looking forward to? Julia Loktev's Day Night Day Night and Julie Taymor's Across the Universe.

Knitting and the internet

Who knew that there are about a billion knitters out there, and they all seem to blog! It's incredible. For years I was aware of my old babysitter's blog. And amused. She pretty much never responds to email yet has been blogging constantly for several years. She started right after she got her masters in biology and decided knitting was more interesting. I visit her obsessive and delightful blog from time to time, noticing the growing community that she both writes about and links to. But it seemed pretty specific.

I started knitting as a kid. I delved into many crafts and mastered none. Then when I hooked up with John, I needed something to do during his endless baseball watching. This would have been @ 1981. I was a disaster at life size garments, but could make wonderful neck hoodie things and adorable baby clothes. Which I did until I had my own babies. Then I stopped. I no longer had free time or available hand use. Around that time I also got totally addicted to computers, which is also hand intensive.

Over the years I 've dabbled a bit. Made a fabulous green mohair scarf that's too itchy. Made my mom another hoodie which she loves. Spent a week knitting a scarf for my sister while visiting her in Amsterdam. Earlier this year, watching John and Richard Linklater talk publicly during sxsw, I spied someone knitting in front of me, and became entranced. Luckily she was someone I knew so I emailed right when I got home and got the details. During the basketball playoffs, (Damn that Suns/Spurs series was amazing! And the Mavs/Golden State before that!) I got the itch. So I started again. Having a question or two, I idly started googling and man, what a surprise!! Blog after blog after blog of knitting progress and discussion. Helpful tips. Photos of balls of yarns. Tips and links. Phenomenal really, the creative impulse and impulse to share. Pretty great.

What are you saying?

One of John's most constant retorts is, "What are you saying?" And it always surprises me because I'm like, "I just said, what I said. Which part don't you understand?" What I too often forget is the distance between what's intended and what's received.

My daughter's a classic case in this regard. For years she would spew conversations back to us that we were sure we never had. Eventually, she went through some neurological testing and the psychologist said, "your daughter has issues surrounding her audio processing. It's not that she can't hear, it's about how she's processing what she's hearing. She's missing parts but doesn't realize it because her brain just fills in on her own. So in effect she just makes up what she's not hearing and thinks that's what being said." Which, duh, yeah that's exactly what it felt like to us. But to her, her imaginary construct was real.

It's something I forget and need to remember more often. Not only in the natural order of things - because as I age I find I often actually use the wrong words. "Mom, didn't you mean "knife" when you said "window?" That's on top of the normal disconnect. The real question is how to verify that what we've intended to be said, is actually heard with the same intention? How do we learn to do that?

Waiting for Daisy - Highly Recommended

I've been really lucky. I've been pregnant two times, intentionally, both times resulting in healthy babies who are now healthy teens. But all along the way I've met countless women with far less luck. Infertility. Miscarriages, suffered in silence, because well, while they might be wrenching to the would-be mom, they aren't really anything yet, are they? Infertility treatments. Adoption. Time and time again we say to others, "No big deal..." but everything surrounding pregnancy and motherhood is in fact a big deal. In fact, the biggest deal striking at the core of our existence. Even when we choose to forego that experience, as so many of my close friends have, or given in to the impossibility, - they’re all powerful acts, with profound consequences.

I just finished my good friend Peggy Orenstein's new book, Waiting for Daisy: A Tale of Two Continents, Three Religions, Five Infertility Doctors, an Oscar, an Atomic Bomb, a Romantic Night, and One Woman's Quest to Become a Mother. It’s a terrific read. Highly recommended.

The book would have spoken to me regardless, but it’s even richer because my friendship with Peggy is so precious to me. I met her, a then successful journalist working on her first book, because she'd married a Director we were involved with. I was very close with his producer, Lynn O’Donnell. Tragically, Lynn developed ovarian cancer right after her daughter was born. During those three years fighting the illness, I needed a knowledgeable but safe conduit. Peggy and I started emailing. And so we’ve continued for a decade, writing back and forth at great length. We've met face to face only a couple of times. In fact, for what would be the second time, Peggy walked into the kitchen where I was waiting, then walked back out again. Returning a few minutes later she laughed, “I thought you were someone else all this time….But that’s OK. It’s OK it’s you.”

Over the years I would whine about finding my place in the world, managing my career, if you could call it that, balancing my close partnership with my husband, and of course, the kids. Peggy was writing articles and books. And managing her own bout with cancer, career, miscarriages, adoption, misgivings, and birth. We would write directly, or I would catch up via her NYT Sunday magazine articles. I’ll never forget the Sunday morning John woke me by throwing the magazine on the bed, “Here’s what Peggy’s been up to.” “35 and Mortal: A Breast Cancer Diary” I checked my email archive and damn, there it was, the last email saved, dated the day before her surprising diagnosis. And so it continued over the decade. Funny stories, Lurching, painful movements forward, supportive dialogue. One day she said, “I’m going to write my memoir and my HD crashed. Did you bother to keep a copy of my emails? ”

And so now, here it is, Peggy's moving, rich study of her journey from ambivalence to motherhood. It's such a clear narrative for our time. There are twists and turns, a coming to terms with the hand you’re dealt. And though I knew the outcome, I was still on pins and needles, so deftly has she spun the story. And it's not just about procreation, on top of everything else, Peggy has created a glorious, very honest love story. I highly recommend it.

Holiday Showcase with my new friend

Last night I went to a Holiday Showcase for my dance studio. Dress was "semi-formal," with a cash bar and hors d'oeuvres at a nice South Austin hotel. Walking in, it felt like a High School Reunion. The dress was fancier than I expected. Hell, I should have known better, this is Texas! My clothing range varies little - different shades and textures of simple black touched off by a varying intensity of makeup and earrings. That's it. But this crowd was quite swank and good looking.

I went with my new friend from class. The one who'd caught me on Sxsw Presents and then googled me. Which I found to be way more charming than creepy. It's a very familiar new-friend pattern for me. She's one of the cutest girls at the studio. I'd noticed her dancing before I recognized her at Sunday yoga. I mentioned the yoga, she mentioned the TV, and now she's the one I talk to. I watch all the guys hit on her, and ask her to dance while I'm standing by, and it feels very familiar. Only now, not only am I not single and available too, I haven't been in decades. But the syndrome feels the same. I don't know how she feels about being single. She asks more questions than she answers. But she's lovely, and we have a good time when we talk. I kept feeling like I should shoo her off to one of the cute young guys there, but she seemed comfortable hanging with me. One of these days I'll get her story.

I was primarily interested in the showcase to see the teachers. They did not disappoint. Real dancers, real beautiful lines and grace. But what was the surprise was the students. More women than men, of varying ages. Of varying ability too, but joined in their desire to perform publicly. Which means to be seen. Early on, my friend A. leaned over and asked, "Think you'd like to do that?" The answer was emphatically "No." I really don't like to be looked at. Why? I don't know. I performed as a child into early teen years, then stopped. I really don't like to be looked at, at all. To be known, yes. To get credit, absolutely! But to be looked at, definitely not. It feels like a different breed entirely, those who crave the spotlight. I recognize it, I truly can't relate.

venus

Sometimes I just need to see her.









One of the Venus figurines made 30,000 years ago.

elliott's watch

Looking for my Dad's old cufflinks for John to wear with his tux to the New York Film Festival opening night, I come upon this watch. And it cracks me up. It's Elliott's watch. I've kept it for years to remind me of a guy who didn't care about me so much, he never bothered to pick up his watch. Why is that funny? I don't know. But it amuses me deeply.

This was back in 1979. Elliott was a security guard at the rock 'n roll club where I was waitressing. And I thought he was hot. Though we didn't use that word that way in those days. He flirted like mad. But he also did tons of coke, so frankly, was less interesting to follow through with. We had a couple of encounters. The last time he forgot his watch. And so it remained. Though I taunted him. And I have it still. All these years later. Where it still brings a smile to my face. Not rage or pain or humiliation, just compassion and humor.

Reflected glory

Is it too much about salsa already?

Tonight was brutal. Caught in a downpour on the way in, my hair, simple black tee, and black pants drenched. Rushing on my new lower-heeled latin practice dance shoes, I make my way to a spot in front of the room. In each studio, one wall is covered in mirrors. On Tuesday, it's a larger room, with larger mirrors. Everyone around me is looking at themselves, studying their technique. I keep my eyes focused on the teacher or off to the side. I can't look at myself. When I try, it's all I can do to stay in the room. I can't bear the sight. I can't stand the way I look in the mirror. I look away. I just try and feel the dance. I think about the man who loves me waiting at home. I mentally grab onto my wonderful life with great kids and too many friends to even keep up with. It takes all my will to remain in the class dancing. I know I shouldn't give into the downward emotional spiral but it's almost impossible. I remain but I'm miserable.

I don't know anyone in this class outside this room. Have no idea where they live or what they do. We speak only the barest of exchanges. I know what they look like and how they move. We recognize each other week to week. The laughs are coming more easily. But I can't stand the fear of judgment and the sureness that the judgement is harsh. I can hear my friends rally, "But you've a beautiful smile." I smile a lot, laugh often. But it's not enough to feel OK. There's nothing to do but keep dancing. I can't help but see the extra attention to the more lovely girls. The moment is ruined.

My sister, who I think looks like a super model says, I don't know what you see. My accolades, always coming with a comparative edge I suppose, make her uncomfortable. It's not really my word against hers. Anyone who sees the photos easily sees the difference. But who said it was a race? And why does it matter now that I'm overweight? Because even when I wasn't, I was. I've spent my entire life trying to grow more comfortable with my image. I try to live my life is spite of it. In hindsight, of course, I recognize the waste of the negativity. In the present, I'm paralyzed.