Greek Tragedyhi

silk purses and sow ears

An article I'd written for now-defunct Jane Magazine on Couples Therapy

“Couples therapy before you’re married?”
“Hell, no. You don’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”
“…”
“If it’s not easy at twenty-six, it won’t be easier at thirty-six because life only gets harder. If you have to see a therapist before marriage, you shouldn’t be getting married.”
“Yeah, but some religions make you--”
“That doesn’t count. Then, you’d only be going because it’s part of the pre-marital process. It’s not that you need it. The people who have to work their shit out with an objective, trained ear, however insightful, are doomed.”
It seemed a bit narrow-minded for my taste. I sat quietly thinking it over. Were early problems in need of professional help really a sign? Or is it just good business to exhume all your issues and sensitivities up front, so you both know exactly what you're signing into? I suppose you could do that anyway without that strong need for therapy in place. And I guess that's what it comes down to. If you're in a situation where one of you can't budge, where you're at odds--where you want to be engaged and he's not ready, or where he thinks a Vegas bachelor party weekend of hotel room lap dances and "champagne room services" is a given and all you want to do is withhold--then maybe it's just a sign that everything else moving forward will be just as difficult. Just as stubborn. And you'll deal with power struggles 'til death do you part.

question: very quick answer

I have a question.  With your frank discussion and "nothing to hide" attitude towards the unhappy times of your past, I wonder:

If your current marriage were to also become unhappy, would you be honest about it in "real-time"? The emergence of your blog (and subsequent book) seems to be an "I changed my life" story.

Do you feel obligated to maintain an "all is rosy" position from now on?  It seems like you are banking your future on the success of the "re-do". What if you found out that the hedge fund manager has a penchant for hookers, or the love life gets boring?

Are you addicted to the "Stephanie: The success story" or do you have a healthy perspective and distance between the real you and the "public" you?  Clearly, you either enjoy the notoriety of being the SUAD girl or your career positioning simply demands it

This is not meant as an attack.  I'd love to see if you are willing to answer the question.

To which I respond: I absolutely feel that pressure to be the happy ending. No question about it. I mean, how successful could a memoir about addiction recovery be if after a few years the author relapsed, right? That's essentially what you're asking. And I'm answering.

We're all human. I think after reading Moose, if you read Moose, you'll see that I really don't make it about a happy ending. Though I suppose to look at how far I've come, that's the happy ending. I have absolutely turned to friends and said, "will people still like me, trust me, want my advice, if I split up with Phil?" Or if I were to gain more weight, would people stop caring? And intellectually, I know that people don't read me for my happy ending. They read, I assume, because I'm honest, real, sometimes funny, and I make people think. Do I have all the answers? No. But does that change any of the advice I included in my books? Hell, no. Besides, it's not about knowing the advice; it's about living it. And I'm doing the best I can; and that's enough.

desperate to be a housewife

I don't watch Desperate Housewives. I've seen it a few times, but I've never been an orthodox viewer. As I scrambled to compose yet another to-do list the other night, a preview for the show popped on, and I thought, "See, now there. That's what I want." I don't want to have to work or promote, to market, or to worry. I just want to do my little projects, to go to Target with a few mini boxes of raisins in my bag, and strap the tots in a shopping cart. I want to go to Mommy & Me events and developmental mornings, to make dates with other moms and talk about birth control, Sex & The City, and casseroles. I want to wear an apron and have coordinating potholders, to have time to capture more of my life with a camera, a pen, and some glue. Time to read magazines, or at least flip through them just to look at the coordinated outfits.

I think I want these things because they sound effortless right now. I know though, that if it came down to living that, I'd complain that it was too hard. That lugging around two kids all the time is taxing, that I need more stimulation, that I fucking hate baking, that I'm bored and want to go back to work, to an office, where women have office husbands, and people go out for happy hour. I think too many times I wish for "other" instead of being thankful for all that I have at the moment.

So as busy and stressed as I am, I need to give myself a good bitch-slapping into reality from time to time. Here it is:

As desperately as you think you want something else, realize that when you have it, you'll wish for this... at least sometimes. Don't be the idiot you refused to date, the guy who didn't know what he had until it was gone. Recognize all you have and hold it. Tight.

There is nothing wrong with want. It's good to want. It keeps you moving. Want is awesome. Want all you want, and don't feel guilty about it. Just also recognize all you have.

Celebrate the nights where you pull into the driveway knowing you have a beautiful family behind the doors of a home. That you can move freely, dance the funky chicken, and sing out loud. Yodel. Clap. Do the get down get down with those tater tots, and know that at the end you'll want more of these "now" moments.

I know you struggle with how to spend your time, how to prioritize, where to focus, so I'll make it easy on you: focus on your family and where you've been. Remember Grandma and all the questions she asked when she came over, how she wanted to hear about school and your friends and where you got your dress. Remember where you came from and let that ground you when you begin to compare, begin to compete, begin to doubt, and know there was a time in your life when you were loved and adored just as you are.

You are not your promotion, your graduate school, your marriage, or your blog. Open your eyes and realize you're where you should be, and that time in your past of which you think so fondly is actually still true today. Be thankful, and show it, to the people who do love you without the diplomas, awards, sales. Toast to them, drink with them. Call them. You'll feel better, and you'll brighten the day of someone else.

the gift of why

Fear has been described as beautiful. There’s nothing sensual or ripe about it; it’s one of those lean emotions, the kind that rides bitch in the backseat, who suns on the golden shorelines of our “almost” moments, and manages to slip in effortlessly even to the most exclusive of parties. The gift of fear. It’s celebrated as a catalyst to safety.

This might very well ring true when it comes to trusting our instincts about others, but it is not germane to the fear we create, that paralyzing sense of defeat.

It’s not that I hate the idea of public speaking; I hate preparing for it. Sitting in my seat, waiting to be announced, my mouth creamy, stomach heavy, taking deep breaths that never seem to sooth me. In the family of fretful emotions, suspense is the showy older sister that uses up all the hot water; expectation drives the car without permission and leaves the tank on empty; while anticipation is the brainiac with the horn-framed glasses reading a book in dim lighting conditions. It’s all in our own heads.

I fear I'll get up there and stammer into the mic, my nerves completely transparent in a quivering voice, in too many stalling "um"s. No one will laugh. They'll feel uncomfortable for me. It's not just a fear of failure; it's the fear of being ordinary. Uninspiring, unremarkable, plain. Forgettable. Or worse, a letdown—the first cousin of the fear sisters. We want so much to make our mark in this world, to be remembered, to make a difference, to feel confident in our choices. And to be truly great at something. In the wanting, we apply the pressure and begin to self-doubt.

These feelings, of course, extend far beyond my upcoming speaking engagement in Dallas and widen to include everything I expect of myself. I try to make nice with Stuart Smalley, reciting positive affirmations about pants and one leg at a time, but it seems in my quiet moments, I’m always trying to outrun the crippling feelings of failure. Of not being good enough, subpar.

Sometimes I combat it by being prepared, a hive of industry, trying anyway. It’s never enough to calm me. I remind myself of all the times I’d faced what scared me and assess all the good that came from it, the growth and the joy, but really that’s far too intellectual to impede my emotions. Especially fear, that able-bodied babe in the racing shorts. So I’m left with my most primitive coping technique: the gift of why.

I’m scared that my book will be ignored. Why? Because there won’t be enough promotion and marketing around it. Why? Because maybe the right people aren’t paying attention. Or maybe it’s not being pitched the right way. Why? And why do you think there are “right people?” Because there are people who know better than I do, people who are better. Why? Because sometimes working hard isn’t enough. Why? Sometimes it takes talent. And the right people know how to recognize that. Why? Because they just do. And you don’t? I don’t trust myself enough. Why? Because I don’t value my own opinion. I worry that my own voice isn’t good enough. That what I have to say can be said better. Good enough for who?

And then I realize it’s really all about validation. And I’ll never be satisfied until I’m truly able to validate and believe in myself. Anything we feel we need or want more of from others is something we need to learn to give ourselves. Once we’re able to do that, fear becomes quite the chump.

ass-pies and cock-sacs

I stumbled upon a parenting forum where a mother referred to her child as an "Aspie Kid." How darling, I thought. I love nicknames. I bet it's for little ones suffering with asthma. It makes no sense of course, but Aspen was all that came to mind. No one is plagued with allergies in Aspen. Oh, I know, an Aspie kid is a spoiled brat who winters in Aspen. The locals call them Ass-pies. This is what my brain does. Then I continued to read, realizing Aspie was short for Asperger's disorder, which made me feel like the ass-pie. But only for a second.

A Jew who tells Jew jokes. A black man who uses the N word. There's an unwritten rule somewhere (with which many would disagree) that says it's okay to joke about things about which you should never joke when it relates to you, when it's happening to you, when it involves you or the ones you love. But when you do that, you validate and perpetuate stereotypes, you're feeding a cancer, some would say. Oh how fond we can be of the cliche about laughter neutralizing a sting. At fat camp, we referred to ourselves as fattoes and bested one another with our "you're so fat, when you sit on a rainbow, skittles come out" jokes.(Oooh,did someone say skittles? Where?) We were lame, but we were in it together, and the words never hurt because we knew they were always coming from a loving, not spiteful or judgmental, place.

When it's your child suffering, you're sensitive to what others say, what they don't say, even to a pause or sigh. And your world becomes too quiet and polite. There are too many caring messages you don't have the heart to return. The spaces around you become television shows on hospital TVs, with your small son on a white gurney, your sheets and pillow on the sofa beside him. And inside you feel quiet and wonder when it will stop, when things will go back to the way they were before, when you'll get normal back. And you say normal because there is a normal, despite all the people putting air-quotes around it. And you worry what your new normal will become. And in all that heavy, you need to break the fuck out of there. To say shit like, "Great, now we're gonna have a fucking helmet kid."

And as quick as we are to glom onto the safety of polite and politically correct, to charge upon any great offenders, we should be as quick to make a little room for humor when it's done without ill-intent.

As I read through just a small part of the Aspie forum, it came back to me, that feeling you get when you scour message boards looking for answers. I remembered what it was like trying to diagnose my son. What it was like to think, "Wait, my child isn't perfectly healthy?" I wasn't just scared of what I didn't know, of what wasn't being said, of what they knew and didn't yet. I was scared of my own thoughts, thoughts to this day I'd never repeat to another soul. I was so afraid and so wrecked, and in a way it feels like so long ago. And in another, it's something I know will always be a part of me. We don't get to choose what we remember, but I know I will always remember Lucas's eyes the day he needed emergency brain surgery. I didn't joke then, but I joked through the rest of it. I was inappropriate, which was appropriate.

In extraordinary circumstances, you can scream in a library or slap a doctor. You can eat everything or nothing. Can refuse to return calls, to lower the music, to sleep, or shower. You can live, at least for a while, as if you're the child.

I almost forget sometimes that my son has a shunt in his head. I took him to the pediatrician the other day for his wellness exam. He wasn't exactly well--with enough mucus slugging its way across his sweet face to make him worthy of the moniker "Mucus Lucas"--but he wasn't unwell. He had a cold. A normal cold, with a few red dots here and there. And there. Oh, and there. Still, I wasn't worried. When you become a mother and see enough things you don't want to see you don't sweat the small stuff. So he had a rash. Psshaa. Whatever. My Chicken Soup for the Neurotic Soul and I have been through way worse.

The doc manhandled the beans and told me Lucas had been behaving more like a Luke and had contracted some coxsackie virus. The first thing I thought: He got it from that tart in Music Together class didn't he? "Let's all click our sticks today" is just a song baby boy, not dating advice. Serves him right for sucking on her tambourine the way he did. I could joke because I'd worried once before, when Abigail got her own taste of "Cock sackies? Did you say?"
"Yes, it's a virus, but basically it's just a cold."
"Doctor, if it's just a cold, then why's it called..." She doesn't even have a cock sac, for Pete's sake! Okay, admittedly I was joking, as I haven't been that particular brand of stupid since I was rendered idiot with pregnancy brain. Besides it's fun to say "sac."

The fun continued when I learned coxsackie was really just a polite way of saying, "Your kid's got the virus of a barnyard animal." Or as the doc put it, "You know, it's commonly called hand, foot, and mouth disease." At which point, all I really heard was "disease," and then, without notice, all I could think of were the underside of hooves. First of horseshoes and then of a cloven hoof. My kid's got Mountain Goat Disease. Phil is going to kill me.

Remarkably, during that first coxsackie scare, I was relaxed, so relaxed, I was almost inert. When the doctor said "hand" and followed it so closely with "foot," I must have scrambled the letters into hoof. That, or I was clearly confusing "hand, foot, and mouth disease" with "foot-and-mouth disease," which affects sheep, cattle, swine, and Manhattan men.*

"Not to worry," he'd said. I gave him the "who's worried?" face, then sped home to google. So this time, when the doc shined a light on the roof of Lucas's mouth to show me a few red dots, I fanned away his concern and let him know I was a pro at this mom stuff.

"Yeah," I said, "It's just like last time. It was never on their hands or the soles of their feet, just here and there all willy nilly like it is now." And then we looked at each other for a moment. It took that long to realize I'd just said "willy nilly." I also realized how far I'd come. How far we'd all come, and it made me smile. "Besides," I added, "if this kid gets anything serious again, there's gonna be a whole new meaning for cock sacky." Then he snorted, and Lucas laughed. It was a good day.

* "Wait, have I told you this story?" Clearly men who have to ask are dating (first dating, at that) way too many women and cannot keep their self-stories straight, making the foot in the mouth syndrome more of a disease. But more on that tomorrow...

channeling stuart smalley

I was taking Social Psychology, Body & Language: Studies in Literature, Macro Economic Theory, and The Novel & Psychoanalysis for the semester.  That's when it happened.  "It" was when things began to overlap, when one course was suddenly touching on the exact things I was learning in another class.  What I learned in Econ made everything I read in my Social Psychology class make perfect sense.  It felt like a well-orchestrated meal, with the perfect wines to enhance the subtlest flavors.    Synergy.  It's happening again now.

Now, I can't escape jealousy.  It's coming at me full force, everywhere.  Recently, it hit me over mini burgers, though, that certainly wasn't the first strike this week.  I'll cover that bit later.  First, I'll begin with recency, as I'm apt to do.  Over mini burgers, my date brings up a woman he has stopped dating so he can date me.  Perhaps he stopped dating her for other reasons, besides me.  That's not the point.  The point: he keeps bringing her up, despite my communicating with him, "Please, when you bring her up, I end up feeling like shit.  So, despite the fact that you choose to spend your time with me, please don't remind me of what you 'gave up' for me because the whole sordid mess makes me feel like--yeah, like that."  And that's how it goes, and despite my honest communication, he licks the soul of his suede shoe and goes there, all the while looking into the sky like Charlie Brown.  "What?  Did I do something wrong?"  I just spent half a day telling you, communicating with you, saying things that were really hard for me to admit, and then, you apologize, say it won't happen again.  Then, BAM!  You pull a fcuking Emril on me. 

"What, I didn't mention HER."  Whatever.  He totally mentioned her, and when he saw I was upset about it, he offered up a heartfelt, "I didn't mention her; you did."  Believe me.  I did NOT.  Sometimes you're unsure.  There's a cloud over right or wrong.  This is not one of those times.  And, it's really not about right or wrong, it's about working it out.  I didn't want to listen to him defend himself, tell me things that were "totally not the point."  I know it's not about right, but when do you get to the point where you can say, "you either just don't care to pay attention to what I outright tell you is important to me, or you're an idiot."  And I am so sad to say that way too many a man puts his hands in the air and claims, "idiot."  It's fine the first time.  Fool me once.  But keep telling me you're an idiot, and I'm going to believe you.  You're not fooling me twice. 

At the end of the day, it's data.  That's all it ever is.  You take it in and assess.  This is how he responds to me.  This is how he behaves when I communicate with him honestly... he leaves me in tears at the end of the night.  In his head, he'll blame alcohol, or a miscommunication, or his big dumb trap.  He'll say it's "drama."  But really, it's just uncool.  I wasn't just showing him how I felt, I was telling him, directly, in English.  It might as well have been a flash card I waved in front of his face thirty times before the pop quiz.  'I don't like it when you mention her.  It makes me feel like shit."   Right there, on the index card for the taking.  Fast-forward three hours, and he's mentioning her casually, as if he's asking what the soup of the day is.  That's just not okay.  It's worse than failing a pop quiz or arriving a half hour late.  This isn't a test; it's your being reckless.

Am I jealous of the woman in question? Yes.  I don't know her, or care to (because it's just another thing to obsess over, so the less I know, the better for my health), but I am jealous.  I'm not jealous, thinking he wants her.  I know he wants me.  But I'm jealous that despite how much I've told him it actually hurts my esteem and my own feelings of worth, he continues to go there, obliviously.  And you know what, that's my problem.  It's my problem that I let him even come close to my worth.  Like I've said before.  Who the fcuk is he?  This isn't about jealousy; it's about worth.  And, I know mine.

Back to the "first strike" of the green word...I was in the bathroom when it first struck.Public bathrooms aren't just breeding grounds for pubic lice, salmonella, and a host of other fecal-borne bacteria.  They breed jealousy.  Would you look at her back?  It's sculpted and tan, without even a hint of a beauty mark.  I have rolls and moles.  Enough said.  So, in turn, these restrooms, tucked into trendy bars throughout our city, are a destination for self-deprecation.  It might as well be a topless beach on Capri.

"If I were at the airport, they'd make me check these under eye bags." 
"Honey, that's nothing.  I haven't shit in four days. My stomach is so distended." 
"Want a fiber pill?  I keep them in my bag at all times.  Or maybe a gas pill will help?"
Listen long enough, and you'll learn there's a "cream for that" and the name of a great gynecologist, psychic, and tailor.  Public Restrooms are the new Yellow Pages.  You leave with an empty bladder, but the rest of you is still full of shit because now you kinda hate yourself.  "I'll just never have that figure.  I mean, it's really not in my genes.  I'm so not having dessert now."  Your night is basically ruined.

I thought, at least, I'd escape jealousy in my own bathroom.  I was flipping though my latest magazine arrivals, shaking my head, mental note to self: "buy gold flats," when it happened again.  Martha Beck addresses our competitive natures and our tendency to play the "er" game in this month's O Magazine.  Okay, that's mine--I call it the "er" game.  Is she smarter, prettier, thinner, richer than I am?  Martha calls it "a setup for failure."  I have to agree.  Though, I'd take it a step further.  It's more like a setup to gain five pounds (because you immediately try to diet), a master plan for biting off all your nails, and a guarantee that you'll end up crying, feeling like you'll never be good enough.  Well fcuk that noise!  I am good enough, and if you don't think so, go play in someone else's sandbox; I like mine the way it is.  Besides, this isn’t about you.  What was I even thinking, letting myself feel like shit based on what anyone else thinks?  I’m Good Enough, I’m Smart Enough, and Doggone It, People Like Me!  Besides, I have killer hair, so go throw sand somewhere else.

Martha suggests you pay attention to any of these telltale signs of your assbackwards thinking:
You get irritable or depressed when someone else succeeds.
You don’t feel loved or loving.
Meeting a successful person, you feel anxious rather than honored.
You actively hope for others to do badly or to fail
You criticize everyone and believe everyone is criticizing you.

I felt better after seeing the list.  I wasn’t on it.  Not in one sentence.  I’ve never been competitive with anyone but myself.  I took stock for a minute to figure out why that is, worried it was some self-fulfilling prophecy anchored in a fear of failure.  As in, “I don’t care if I ‘win’ because I know I’ll fail anyway.”  It’s just not the case. 

Growing up, I loved swimming until I was on the swim team.  I loved to race to beat my own times, but once a starting block, lanes, and prizes came into the picture, I wanted none of it.  As long as I sucked, I was happy because the focus was on improving, but once I improved and began to come in first place, it was no longer about me.  It was about winning.  So I stopped swimming. 

Two days ago, out of the blue, I was asked, "What do you think the difference is between jealousy and envy?"  To which I responded, without missing a beat, "Jealousy is about you."  Then I just blinked in silence.  "Jealousy is about your own insecurities, whereas envy is about admiration.  Envy isn't destructive; it's wistful."  I hate when I'm jealous, mostly because I know it's my problem.  I don't mind being envious, but jealousy gets me hating myself.  Then I went back to reading The Times Book Review of Katherine Harrison’s new book, Envy.  Man, can she write.  I’m so jealous.  Ahem, envious.