Shopping Parties - Not For the Timid

There was a time in my life when I tried never to turn down any invitations, because I didn't want to disappoint anybody. I was invited to a lot of mommy type events - Tupperware parties, Pampered Chef parties and the like.

Which is how I ended up at a lingerie and lotions party.

Go ahead. Laugh. Get it out of your system.

It wasn't overly raunchy. There were no sex toys. Still, there were things that I didn't normally shop for, and others that I had never shopped for in a group.

Plus, I found out w-a-a-a-a-a-y-y-y more than I ever wanted to know about total strangers.

One of my best girlfriends was the hostess. As is usual with home shopping parties, she was hoping for a certain number of attendees and a certain amount of sales so that she could earn free products. She and her sister were the only people that I knew in attendance. Have I mentioned that I'm uncomfortable meeting people?

Anyway.

Let me be upfront about the fact that I mean no disrespect to the company, its employees, its customers, its manufacturers or its founder's great aunt's childhood sitter's next door neighbor. I simply found myself to be totally out of my depth.

The company had some sweet sounding name like "Pleasant Dreams." The consultant was a lovely woman. (It was a bonus for me that she was large, and that the company made large sizes, so she therefore wouldn't be giving me those sidelong looks that say, "Oh, honey, give up on having any sex appeal.") The products had ridiculous, flowery, euphemistic names. There's a reason that I'm not a product namer. Nobody wants to buy an "ivory bra." They want "Arabian Nights, color: Filtered Moonbeams."

One of the products that the consultant demonstrated - well, not demonstrated, it wasn't that kind of party, more like explained - was a desensitizing cream called Man Delay. Yeah, I know; I cringed. Besides, I had two children and more than a half decade of marriage under my belt at that point, but my first thought was that I never, when I was in a romantic mood, considered novocaine. I could not quite fathom the need this product would fill.

The point, apparently, was that it was supposed to make your man take longer to finish. While I was still trying to wrap my brain around why it would be fun to numb my husband's pertinent parts, things got weirder.

One woman, whom I had never before met, had fairly detailed questions. "I bought some last time," (leaving me thinking, "You attend these parties often?") "My husband lost all sensation. The last thing he wanted to do was have sex, because he couldn't feel anything. We tried waiting, but he was numb all night."

Consultant: "How much did you use?"

Customer: "I don't know." (squirms) "Not, like, the whole jar or anything."

Consultant: "Did you get it all over both of your hands, and really work it it? Were your hands numb?"

HEY! WHOA! I do not want to know this about total strangers! I get pictures in my head when people speak, and I did not want a picture of this woman's hands, or anything else, working it in! But now, there it was, along with mental pictures of her husband that I didn't want to entertain! Good gravy, could I run to the bathroom, or would that look really bad when we're discussing sex acts? Tilt! Tilt!

Consultant: "You should only use the amount that will fit on your fingertip. Otherwise, it's too much, and it defeats the purpose."

I have always been a full disclosure, "let it all hang out" kind of person, on the theory that it was honest and authentic. I believe that this was the exact moment that I began to embrace the concept of Too Much Information. There are things that I don't want to know. There are things that you don't need to know. Privacy is good. It's not about shame, it's about intimacy. Dictionary definition: "Intimacy (noun) 1. a state of being intimate; 2. a close, familiar, and usually affectionate or loving personal relationship; 3. a close association with, or detailed knowledge or deep understanding of, a place, subject, or period of history." Boundaries, folks! There are very few people I want to have these discussions with, and you're not on the list. Decorum, please!

And, of course, because it was a party, there were party games.

One was called something ridiculous like, "Measure Your Romance Level." The consultant read off scenarios, and you gave yourself points depending on your answer. I found myself overthinking it. Asked about times that my husband and I had "walked hand in hand on a beach at sunset," I found myself wondering if the beach had to be an ocean beach, or if lakes counted. After all, we're hundreds of miles from the ocean. This was a clear sign that I was getting pulled into the madness.

Asked to award myself points for every time my husband and I had "been parking" in the past year, I spoke out loud. "I didn't even go parking when I was a teenager!" I mean, really, does anyone think that's what romance looks like?

Apparently.

The consultant stopped the quiz to give me earnest advice. Knowing that I had young children - I think my oldest children were about 4 and 5 at the time - she said, "Put the kids to bed. Then, take a 6-pack and go out to your driveway. You'll be surprised at how a change in scenery can really spice things up." She said this very sweetly and sincerely.

This is the moment that I ended up describing to a family member after the fact. She lived thousands of miles away, a single, childless life, so I looked to her for input on whether or not I was the only one who thought this was crazy.

"Parking is for kids who have nowhere else to go. I mean, in my house, which I own, I have a bedroom with a door that closes, windows with curtains on them, and a king sized bed. And I'm supposed to schlep out to my driveway? In my van, with its narrow seats, a gear shift, and curtainless windows all the way around? And even if I drank, what's with the 6-pack, for crying out loud? We really want intoxicated exhibitionists in the driveway, in full view of God and everybody, instead of in my own private, comfortable bedroom?"

My loved one was not worried about my driveway. She was still trying to wrap her head around the party itself, and why I had attended. It didn't help that, instead of just describing it as "a home shopping party," I had used the comparison, "like Tupperware." Now the outrage came down the line, clear as day.

"You're the one attending sexual Tupperware parties! What the hell is going on out there in suburbia?"

The phrase "sexual Tupperware party," which she used repeatedly (for years afterward) quite frankly also puts images in my head that are best left unthought and unshared.

I don't think that anyone was surprised when I got the very lowest "romance level" quiz score. I even got 50 bonus points, and my score was far and away the lowest.

The 50 bonus points were for my shoelaces. It was the early 90s, and fashion was still reflecting an early-in-her-career Madonna influence. We got bonus points for "having black lace anywhere on your body," and I had wide lace shoelaces in my black leather shoes.

I still got the consolation prize. And an annoying level of sympathy.

Just for the record, in case you're wondering, I've still never felt the need to "spice up" my relationship by retreating to my driveway.

Or numbing anything.

Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

"Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again..."
- "The Sound of Silence," Simon & Garfunkel

This feeling is familiar, and yet new. I've been struggling to categorize and catalog it for months, with no luck.

Mostly, it's exhaustion.

I have to finally come to terms with the fact that these last years are kicking my butt.

Part of the problem is that I'm very good in an actual crisis. Calm, clear headed, efficient, helpful, unflagging - you want me around when there's trouble. It's after the trouble itself has passed and the danger is gone, or the trauma is past, that I come undone.

Part of it is that there's nothing tragic going on. This is just normal stuff, a normal life. But, objectively, I have to admit that things are adding up.

Arbitrarily, let's pick the mark of three years ago. I've had three major surgeries in three years. They all went well. I recovered nicely. Still, I'm in residual pain, and fundamental things - for instance, how I walk - are forever altered. My endocrine system is shot, and my body chemistry has been forcibly altered. Those things are tiring, in and of themselves.

I have ongoing health issues, and I'm developing a deep, unwanted hostility and hatred for insurance companies. Not helpful.

My mother is gone. We'll soon come up on the second anniversary of her death. I have been unable to attend church on Mother's Day since she passed. So often, I want to call her, want to visit her, and I can't.

My childhood best friend passed away; he was 48. If you want to know how tightly someone is woven into your life, pull that thread loose. Sometimes it feels like everything will unravel. He touched everything in my life, from the time that I was 14.

My son left for college hundreds of miles away. It was easier than sending his sisters, because he's the third child, and we've Been There, Done That. It was also harder, because his older sisters attended public school and left the house at 6:30 am, often not returning until 10 pm or later. My son was homeschooled, so even when he worked 5 or 6 hours a day, he was home with us for hours a day. His absence is more noticeable.

Part of it is that I've been down the rabbit hole, and I'm together enough to recognize that I'm not there. I remember that a bit too vividly. Twice in my life I've had breakdowns so complete that they blackened the sky, choked the air with ash, just consumed everything in their path. This is not one of those times. (And for this, I thank God.)

There are times of great joy and deep contentment, and lots of normalcy, and I honestly think that I've handled everything well, but do you know how I can tell that I haven't? Or, maybe I have, but that hyper competent period is wearing off. Stuff I should be able to shrug off doesn't shrug. It gnaws at my extremities like some annoying, rabid animal.

"Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains."

The other day, I was thrown into mourning for the fact that my two closest girlfriends moved away after high school. I mean, I handled this clear back in 1984, and suddenly my middle aged self is in tears. What gives?

OK, maybe that's easy to diagnose. I keep seeing in my head two absolutely beautiful smiling brunet high school boys, and all the memories shared with them, and they're both dead now. As time goes on, there will be fewer of Us left, the ragtag community, the family we created for ourselves, the group of former kids who were my life in high school, who still populate my life now. We'll all leave each other sometime. I've become (probably annoyingly) effusive, reminding them how much I have always adored them. I fear becoming clingy and syrupy and maudlin.

Circumstances are preventing me from doing a lot of otherwise normal stuff, like auditioning. I was in a show, had just started rehearsals, when my mom passed away. I had the presence of mind to step down from a major role to a chorus role, but I had no business being in a show. My head was not in the game. I need solitude when I'm hurt - I'm like a canine who needs to find a den and lick my wounds. I stayed because I've never dropped out of a show, and I also hoped that doing normal things would help. During times of stress, I crave normalcy. I hoped that it would feel normal. I didn't even tell anyone that my mom had passed away until we were performing, and then I told all of four people in a cast and crew of dozens.

It never did feel normal. Months of rehearsal, and it never felt right. It felt empty. And good heavens, let's not even talk about the work I did. The work stunk. I also, for the first time in my lifetime, since I started acting at 12 years old, missed an entrance - missed an entire scene - during a performance. That's just unacceptable. That's more humiliating than being naked in public. It's horrifying to even admit. And yet, I think that maybe three people even noticed. I was only in two freakin' scenes - crowd scenes. I was so unnecessary and expendable, yet knocking myself out trying to do a decent job. Yet I was not thinking clearly enough to see that I should have bowed out entirely.

I hear that being intoxicated is like that - you honestly can't tell whether or not you're functional.

I recently looked back at the photos I shot of the show, and I was pleased to discover that they were good. That part of me continued to function quite well. That was nice to know.

I'm finally reaching the point that maybe I could handle a show. But, months of being wheelchair bound, and more time with my feet in casts, means that it's not an option. If I can't even drive, I sure as heck can't rehearse or perform.

Since I can't work on anything, I'm even less inclined to watch anything, because it's painful. So, I don't even see most of my friends' shows, which means that I'm missing out in all kinds of ways.

Maybe I'm not ready for a show yet. Ordinary human behavior is too difficult for me right now. People will be inconsiderate, annoying, self centered - you know, human - and it's just too much. I finally understand about "the straw that broke the camel's back." You just can't handle one more freaking thing. Any rudeness or nastiness or even just annoyingness pushes past the breaking point. And, you know and I know, life is FULL of rudeness and self centeredness.

I've always been very Greta Garbo, but I need to be alone even more now. It's exhausting to be with people. EXHAUSTING. Not depressing or unfulfilling, just so tiring.

It's not that I don't like you. Chances are, I do. I like people in general. I deeply love many people, personally. I just like them at a distance. Don't take it personally.

I'm perfectly OK with being flawed. (I mean, have you seen my housekeeping? Please.) But here's what I'm going to do, what will preserve my sanity and keep me from unleashing the dogs of war on random passers by, or people in my family who simply chose the wrong moment to be insensitive. Sometimes, I am not going to cope well. I'm just not.

I will burst into tears when the radio is on - some days, not at all, and some days, with virtually every song. And here's the thing - I'm going to stop being embarrassed or upset by it.

I don't want you to comfort me and tell me it'll be OK. I really, truly, don't. I don't want you to get manic in your efforts to cheer me up, trying to get me to laugh. It will just annoy me.

Most of the time, I am fine. Everything is great. Even things that hurt are small potatoes. I sit here in a climate controlled house that I own, eating every day, sleeping in a bed, showering - life is luxurious. I have family. I have friends. I love what I do, and I pretty much set my own hours.

And yet. Sometimes, life will shatter at a moment's notice. That's as normal and predictable as the sun rising. Sometimes, I will break.

Sometimes, I will also sleep too much or eat too much sugar. And you know what? I will not feel guilty.

And sometimes, I will regret having said all of this, because people still won't understand, and I'll feel exposed, and everyone will be awkward, and good grief, can I just live on a deserted island?

Sometimes, I just need quiet.

"And the sign said, the words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered
In the sound of silence."

Ice Caves

Some of my favorite childhood summer memories are from time spent at my cousin's cabin.

All of my dad's surviving siblings were parents, and some were grandparents, by the time my dad got married, so I grew up playing with my cousins' kids. (This seemed very normal to me, and incomprehensible to my husband when we were dating and first married. "You must have that wrong." He could not imagine cousins an entire generation older than he was. When my husband's dad was 50, all of his own kids were married, and he had 4 grandkids. When my dad was 50, he got married, for the first and only time.) Dad had helped raise my cousin Lynne - in fact, she herself always phrased it as "raised me," not "helped" - before he had children of his own, and they were always very close. We, my sister and I, spent a lot of time with Lynne's three sons.

Lynne's second husband, George, worked for Pacific Gas and Electric, and they owned cabins that the employees could use for a nominal fee. Sometimes when Lynne's family would go to the cabin near Mt. Shasta, they'd take us with them. I don't recall feeling stacked like cord wood, but it must have been a tight fit. Sometimes we had Lynne, George, Lynne's sons Joe, John and Chris, George's mother, known to all as Ma Bell (since her last name was Bell), George's son George, my parents, my sister June and me, all in a 2 bedroom, 1 bathroom cabin. In our room there was a double bed (for my parents) and a bunk bed (for us kids), and the other bedroom was similarly outfitted, with the bathroom inbetween. Somebody had to have slept on the screened in patio, and someone on the living room couch.

I loved that cabin. I loved the tiny town with 81 residents, reachable only by dirt road, that it was in. I loved the mountain most of all. It just spoke to me. I've spent most of my life in a valley ringed by peaks of the Sierras, and I spent my newlywed and new parent years in a small town facing a large peak, but the one I refer to as "my mountain" is Shasta. I haven't been there for years, but she'll always be my mountain. I know exactly when she appears - or disappears - from view on any highway in her vicinity.

Small towns and summer meant freedom. I'm probably the last generation that had their parents feel safe turning them loose and saying, "Be back before dark." We rode my cousins' three wheelers, we fished, we went down to the general store and played pool or bought ice cream.

One year, the boys wanted to take us through "the ice caves," lave tubes that had ice in them year round. We thought this was a great idea. Our moms were onboard. My dad was not.

My dad was a pretty typical macho man with chauvinist tendencies. Had we been sons, he would have agreed in a second. But, we were girls, and therefore too delicate and incapable. He was terrified that we'd be hurt, by anything. We weren't even allowed to wash dishes - "Something might break and cut you." Dad put the "over" in "overprotective."

This was maddening to me. I felt perfectly capable of handling anything that the boys could. And the caves sounded really cool - the boys once found an antique gun and a lizard frozen in the ice.

So - kids, don't try this at home - our mothers conspired with us to let us go. We would smuggle our coats and gloves out of the house, and just neglect to tell Dad where we were going. We could put on our outerwear just before we went into the caves. Our moms knew where we'd be and when we'd be back.

The age spread was about 5 years from oldest to youngest. June and my cousin Joe were 3 years older than me, John, 2 years older, little George ("Georgie") was my age, and Chris was two years younger. Georgie was at his mom's for the week this particular summer. Joe was down the street helping Spence, one of the year round residents, reshingle his house. (Joe was hitting the age where he'd rather make money than spend time with "the little kids.") So, four of us set out to walk to the caves. I've always been bad at estimating distance, but it was probably about half a mile, out of town and past the campground.

The caves were great. Most gave us plenty of room to walk upright, although some were narrow enough that we had to go single file. It was cold; we needed the coats. Sometimes, we'd have to duck through an opening. We didn't find anything cool frozen in the ice, but we had fun.

Then we came across a cave that the boys hadn't previously been through. The only opening we could find was one that we'd have to crawl through, and I for one wasn't keen on that. We'd had to climb down a steep incline covered in loose rock to the cavern where we were sitting. There was a log that I was using as a bench, and several small holes in the rock that let us see through to what looked like a large cavern. It was bright enough inside that it had to have large openings somewhere, but we couldn't find any.

John was on his hands and knees, trying to see if we could all fit through the hole that only appeared to be about 18 inches tall. We were starting to get antsy, and complain about how long it was taking. "Let's just go on to the next one." "Hang on, I think I'm almost there." I went over to check an opening above John, one only a few inches across. I wanted to see where we were headed. It looked like the cavern below me was huge - I thought of a ballroom - with stones littering the floor. Still, I could see no way in. I sighed and sat back up.

Now June was getting ready to follow John. "It looks like we only have to crawl for a few feet."

"I'm not squeezing through there!"

"If we can fit, you can fit."

Suddenly, John started yelling. "Back! Back! Go back! Get out!" June sat back and John scrambled out of the hole. The rest of us were saying, "What? What?" when we all heard it - a sound, a roar, from inside the cave.

Panic ensued, total panic. All four of us tried to run up the slope at the same time, sliding and stumbling. Behind us, the sound seemed to repeat, to get louder. I was the slowest, and I was quickly behind the others. "Wait! Wait!"

"CATCH UP! Hurry!"

And then, I fell. I slid backwards, yelling for help, and everyone else hit the top of the incline and scrambled out. I crawled the last few feet as everyone yelled at me to hurry, and lurched to my feet as they took off running. "Wait! Wait!" I limped. "My foot! I hurt my foot!" We ran - OK, I hobbled - until we hit the road and stopped to breathe.

"What was that?" With the moment of panic over, we turned to John for answers. We'd all heard the noise, but we wouldn't have panicked without John panicking.

John explained that he was head and shoulders through into the cavern. "And then, the entire back wall moved."

"Something moved?"

"The whole wall moved! The whole thing!"

We didn't know what we'd run from. It could have been a landslide, a bear, Bigfoot, the little people Native American legend said lived on the mountain and caused hikers to disappear, a rift in the space/time continuum, an earthquake - it all seemed equally plausible and impossible.

We still had plenty of time before we had to be back, but we decided to cut the day short. "We can't go running home scared. We have to act like nothing happened." I mean, all we needed was for my dad, with his temper, to hear that we'd actually been in the presence of something dangerous. We all knew that situation would get ugly fast. We decided to just casually stroll home.

"You can't limp like that."

"It hurts!"

"Well, we can't go home with you dragging your foot that way!"

My big toe throbbed. "I think I broke my toe."

"You did not."

"It'll be fine."

They were right, though. I couldn't let my dad see that I'd been hurt. He'd never let me out of his sight again.

I'd pretty well perfected the casual walk by the time we hit the edge of town. It hurt, but so did limping. We stuck our hands in our pockets and strolled, ever so casually, into town.

We were coming up the street towards Spence's house, where we'd turn left and go up to the cabin. We could see Joe and Spence on the roof, ripping and hammering. Joe had peeled off his shirt in the midday summer heat. He was hot and sweaty, wearing only a pair of short cutoffs and his shoes. We were still a couple of blocks away when he looked up and saw us coming. He stopped work and stared. Then, he called Spence over - we were too far away to hear the words - and Spence stopped and stared. They wiped the sweat with bandanas and just watched.

"Are you still limping?"

"NO! Look at me! I'm fine!"

We continued our casual stroll up the street, trying to look innocent. As we came up to the house, Joe leaned over. In his best deadpan, casual voice, he said, "Cold out, isn't it?"

THE COATS! We were all still in heavy coats and gloves! The boys had hats on! In the middle of the day, in the middle of the summer! Within sight of the cabin! OHMYGOSH!

"Not really. We were just..."

"It was colder earlier..."

"It's hotter up there."

Joe was not interested. "Uh huh," he said, and went back to hammering.

We peeled off all of our outerwear in a flash. I don't remember where we stashed it - maybe in one of the cars. Then, trying again to project casual innocence, we strolled back into the cabin.

Both moms were surprised. "You're home early."

John did the talking. "Yeah. We just decided to come back early." He may have offered an excuse - hunger? fatigue? - but I don't recall. We waited until my dad and George went somewhere - maybe on a firewood run - and then told the story, with lots of dramatic gesturing.

Neither Lynne nor Mom was particularly concerned. We heard a noise, we ran - not a big deal. Both were very sensible, capable women, trying hard to raise sensible, capable children.

"I think I broke my big toe," I said. Instead of getting better, the pain had actually gotten worse.

"Does it feel like it's bleeding? Should we take a look now?"

"No, no, it's not bleeding. We can check it at bedtime." Again, hiding it was more important than risking Dad seeing it.

That night, while I got ready for bed, Mom and Lynne checked my foot. My toe had swelled dramatically into a tiny purple barrel shape.

"Can you bend it?"

I flexed just enough to move the toe. "Ow!"

"OK. If you can bend it, it's not broken. You've just burst all the blood vessels. It'll hurt like hell for a few days, but you'll be OK," Mom said.

Allow me to pause here to, in effect, sing a love song to my mother. This exchange is really indicative of her parenting. When I grew up and started devouring child development texts, I discovered that the way my mom behaved - apparently instinctively - was what experts recommend. If a child is hurt, physically or mentally, you shouldn't ignore or minimize it, but you also shouldn't allow the child to either panic or wallow (or do so yourself). You acknowledge the hurt, let the child experience and express the fear, pain or both, appropriately, but reassure them that it's temporary and that they can handle it. Then you send them on their way and let them handle it. That was the way my mother operated, all the time.

She checked it for me, acknowledged that it "hurt like hell," but also reassured me by using the word "just" before the scary description of "burst all the blood vessels." And, she reinforced that I would be OK. A brilliant woman, my mom. I try very hard to measure up to that standard.

"Do you want to wrap it?"

"No, no, that'll just make it bigger and more awkward. It should be fine." I cringed when I put my shoes on the next morning, since the swelling made it a tight fit, but it wasn't too bad.

We went back to check the cave - with our mothers' permission - to see if we could figure out what had happened. The whole thing actually got creepier at this point. There had obviously been a rock slide of some kind. Most of the access holes, including the one I'd been looking through and the one John was crawling through, were blocked from the inside. A huge rock had dropped onto the log - cliche' as it sounds - exactly where I'd been sitting the day before, smashing it. The incline into the cavern looked steeper - or maybe we were just freaked out.

We never agreed about what it was - animal, geology, volcanic vent - and we didn't discuss it too much, either. I think that John was simultaneously embarrassed about having caused a scene, and firm in his conviction that running had saved us. I think we all were. We told our moms what we found, and their best guess was some kind of volcanic burp, if you will, from the mountain - some kind of tremor that triggered a rock slide. I held out for the Bigfoot theory.

We never went back to the caves, though. On at least three more summers, we explored everywhere but the lava tubes.

A day or so later, someone tripped over my foot and I yelped. "What is it?" my dad asked.

"I fell the other day, and hurt my toe. She just tripped on it," I said.

"Oh," said Dad, and went back to what he was doing.

I like to think that I'm my mother's child - describe the situation truthfully, but without too much detail or drama. Just the facts, ma'am. You don't have to remember a lie, and it keeps those around you from panicking.

Maybe that's the moral of this story.

Well, that and the fact that you'll never look quite as innocent as you think that you do.

"Discover Your Nevada"

A friend works for our state's tourism commission. They're holding a contest, currently, asking people to send in stories of "adventures" in order to choose ones to be featured in a magazine.

He let his writer and/or photographer friends know about the contest, and reminded us several times of the deadline. Still, I let it slide, because I was both indecisive and busy.

I mean, I could write about petroglyphs, the Pony Express fort, the old West mining towns, camping, homeschool field trips, photo spots, beaches, things that we do with visiting relatives - so many choices! How would I decide? What did people want to hear? A local's view of where I live, or exotic places? The popular spots or the unknown?

In the end, I went with, "What can I write on virtual autopilot?" On the very last day submissions were accepted, I was having bone surgery on my foot, and spending the rest of the day doing nothing but pain management and sleep. I didn't have a lot of time or mental energy to spare.

So, instead of being witty or amazing, I went with easy. I wrote about museums. My family loves museums. We love big ones, small ones, expensive ones, free ones - museums are fantastic.

If you're so inclined, here's the link for voting. If you want to vote for a piece besides mine, that's great, too. You can vote once every 24 hours.

http://discoveryournevada.com

Note: The contest is over. I didn't win. That's OK. :)

Rosencrantz Was Right

Rosencrantz: Did you ever think of yourself as actually dead, lying in a box with a lid on it?

Guildenstern: No.

Rosencrantz: Nor do I, really. It's silly to be depressed by it. I mean, one thinks of it like being alive in a box. One keeps forgetting to take into account the fact that one is dead, which should make all the difference, shouldn't it? I mean, you'd never *know* you were in a box, would you? It would be just like you were asleep in a box. Not that I'd like to sleep in a box, mind you. Not without any air. You'd wake up dead for a start, and then where would you be? In a box. That's the bit I don't like, frankly. That's why I don't think of it. Because you'd be helpless, wouldn't you? Stuffed in a box like that. I mean, you'd be in there forever, even taking into account the fact that you're dead. It isn't a pleasant thought. Especially if you're dead, really. Ask yourself, if I asked you straight off, "I'm going to stuff you in this box. Now, would you rather be alive or dead?" naturally, you'd prefer to be alive. Life in a box is better than no life at all, I expect. You'd have a chance, at least. You could lie there thinking, "Well, at least I'm not dead. In a minute somebody is going to bang on the lid, and tell me to come out."

[bangs on lid]

Rosencrantz: "Hey you! What's your name? Come out of there!"

Guildenstern: [long pause] I think I'm going to kill you.

-Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, Tom Stoppard

I was supposed to have an MRI at the hospital.

I've had them before. This is, I think, number 6, but I can't be sure. Anyway, it's not a new experience. I had the first one well over 20 years ago.

It's fairly miserable, but doable. I mean, it's not fun, but on a scale of "inconvenient" to "please make it stop," it should be in the "I can handle it" range.

(Now for more medical information about me than you really need or want. It's backstory. I'm big on full disclosure, and annoyed by deliberate mystery.)

We had our first two babies so quickly and easily (two babies in two years of marriage, while using birth control) that we figured, hey, I'm one of those super fertile women who would make a great surrogate. Then we started trying to have Baby #3, and - nothing. No baby. So, we went to the doctor, then to a specialist, who determined that I'd need "aggressive" treatment to get pregnant again.

It seems that my hormones were off. My youngest was approaching 3, I hadn't breast fed since she was 8 months old, and my body was still producing both breastfeeding hormones and pregnancy hormones. This chemical "no vacancy" sign is what kept me from getting pregnant.

The culprit, it seemed, were three pinpoint tumors in my pituitary gland. I was supposed to get an MRI every year, to make sure they hadn't grown.

The treatment? None. "If you're not miserable now, you will be if we start messing with your hormones, guaranteed. Eventually, it'll get bad enough that you'll want treatment. Now, we'll just leave well enough alone," said my gynecologist. OK. Works for me.

I had maybe 3 MRIs before I skipped it for a good 10 years. Our insurance company changed 3 times in 3 years, everything had to be authorized anew, and it was a pain in the butt. I finally got one more, then skipped another 5 years or so. Save the lecture. Anyway, on the last scan, with a new doctor treating me, the original scans and diagnosis lost and the gynecologist retired, they found "no evidence of tumors." In fact, the doctor looked at me like I was a hypochondriac or suffering from Munchausen Syndrome, and was wasting time and money on unnecessary tests in order to gain attention.

No more tests works for me.

Now, though, years later, almost two years into hormone treatment brought on by thyroid disease, I'm back getting an MRI. Roughly 24 years after the original diagnosis, my blood tests show that my pituitary hormone levels are unnaturally elevated.

(The doctor wasn't kidding about the misery thing. Trying to regulate the meds, keep me happy, keep the doctor happy, and keep the insurance company happy is a painful and complicated dance, and it makes me grouchy just talking about it.)

Has anyone checked my pituitary levels in over two decades? I don't know. I've had gallons of blood drawn, but it appears that they only run this test if they think there's a need, and there's usually not a need.

Anyway, they want pictures of inside my brain, again.

The last time I had an MRI, maybe a year and a half or two years ago, it was to look at my neck and shoulder. I periodically need treatment for a pinched nerve, and after repetitive, recurring treatment, they wanted to see why. Turns out that my mild scoliosis pinches the nerve.

Anyway, I was sent to the facility where I'd gone before. The test isn't new, isn't, to my knowledge, different, but that time I felt like I was sausage meat being squeezed into a casing. My chest, my shoulders, my stomach, everything pressed against the inside of the stupid tube they slide you into in the middle of the MRI machine. My arms wedged tighter and tighter, since I couldn't put them next to me or on top of me, because there was no room either place.

They give you a microphone and a panic button, and I used both. "STOP, STOP, STOP!" They did.

Those slabs they put you on adjust up and down. I assumed that they'd just put it up too high, and they'd drop it down so I'd fit. Nope. The - what is she, a nurse? a technician? - appeared peeved, and said, "We'll have to send you to our sister facility. They have a machine there that will handle larger patients."

Wow - way to deliver that "you're too fat for an MRI" message with tact, honey. I'm not particularly touchy on the subject, but you managed to be "fat shaming." Thanks.

So. New appointment, new facility. It went just fine. Again, it's not comforting or fun, but it can be handled. You're cramped, but you expect to be cramped. It's loud, so loud, and you can't scratch, so everything itches. You can't cross or uncross your feet, even though they're outside the machine, and it's best to keep your eyes closed so you don't blink. Blinking counts as movement, and you have to be absolutely still. You can't even sigh - that, too, is movement. Heaven forbid that you have to sneeze or cough. It was OK, as medical procedures go.

This time, they sent me to the hospital closest to my house. I go where they tell me to, really - I don't have particular loyalties. If the insurance pays for it, I go there.

I was hopeful, because the first machine I saw was only about 18 inches deep - just a circle around your head. They're only looking at my brain, right, so I'll get that one, I thought. Woo hoo!

Short lived euphoria; I was ushered into a room with the familiar hulk of a regular MRI machine.

"It looks pretty small," I said.

"Oh, don't worry. It's not. I've fit really enormous people in there, people much larger than you."

They always ask if you're claustrophobic. I always say "no;" I don't feel claustrophobic. As a child, I built my blanket fort under my mother's built in desk. I was dragging a miniature TV under there into my teens. I don't worry about the things they strap you into for "Mission: Space" at Disney World, where they close you up in a capsule and put the screen and controls inches from your face. Inside cabin cruise ship bathrooms don't bother me.

But, as I said, MRI machines are uncomfortable anyway. You lie flat on your back on a plastic table. They try to make it comfortable, by doing things like putting a pillow under your knees, but it's not great for me. Staying that way too long hurts my back. And, because I'm in a bad mood, I'll admit out loud that I think unkind things about anyone who ever told me that my discomfort was weight related. My skeleton is twisted. Things that feel OK for "normal" people hurt me.

They put your head and shoulders in a little frame that's light bulb shaped and holds you immobile. They have to - I get it. It's not awful, but it's not pleasant. Then they strap what I refer to as "the hockey mask," a big plastic cage, over your face. Again, I know why. Again, that doesn't mean that it's great. Normally, I close my eyes, not only for the blinking factor, because nobody wants to stare at a cage over their face. This time, she put that thing over me and snapped the latches - KA-CHUNK! - and everything went dark, and I wasn't even inside the machine yet. Normally, there's open spaces over your eyes, but not in this thing. The open parts were over my forehead and cheeks.

"Oh, wow," I said.

"There's a mirror in there. You can look at that," the nurse/technician said.

A mirror? Truly? That's supposed to help? I don't get it. "Let's close your head up in this plastic bubble, but you can check your own eye makeup, if you want." I mean, I assume that they do that because it does help some people, but it doesn't help me. How is staring at my own eyes going to make anything better?

"Can we just take it off for a minute?"

She did. I adjusted myself up slightly - about an inch - and said, "OK, let's try again." Given a moment to prepare, I was OK. If I know what to expect, I'm OK. The unexpected is not my friend.

"It's going to squeeze your shoulders, OK? It's going to feel tight." She was sweet, really, and trying hard. She noticed, for instance, that I need a moment to prepare. So, I was ready for it to squeeze my shoulders. It didn't, but the "hockey mask" extended so far down that it was biting into my breasts. It didn't hurt, but it surprised me - how far down does the mask need to go? I said something about that, and she said, "Well, God has certainly blessed you."

Again, she was trying to be light and upbeat. It's not like I'm unaware that my breasts are large; I pack these things around every day. But when someone says something like that, saying, "Thank you" or, "I know" or anything of the kind smacks of bragging, and saying something self deprecating sounds like complaining (which is generally unpleasant, and goes over especially badly with the flat chested). So, I went with factual.

"I can't exactly take them off and leave them at home in a box." I mean, if I could, I'd fit into a heck of a lot of things.

You know what else I can't take off? My arms. Moving me into the machine, we encountered the arm problem again. I couldn't put them at my sides, and I couldn't rest them on my ribs or tummy. She tried hard to adjust them, but only succeeded in crowding my breasts further, and pinning my elbows to my ribs, with nowhere for my forearms to go.

"You're doing fine. You have plenty of room," she said.

DEFINE "PLENTY!"

How can there be no room to put my arms next to myself or on top of myself, but there be "plenty of room"? There wasn't "plenty" of anything! I felt like a sausage again. She stopped feeding me any further in, but kept saying nonsensical things like, "You're almost there!"

We're looking at my brain! Why do I need to be stuffed into this machine up to my freakin' knees?

"It's pinning my elbows."

"It's going to do that."

IN "PLENTY OF ROOM?"

"We can try later, with sedation."

"No, we can't. My veins are so difficult that, last time I had surgery, they sent me home after trying to run an IV for 45 minutes. They went up and down my arms, my legs, my feet, and couldn't get a needle in."

"We can reschedule."

"The doctor's office has refused to renew my prescription, on the medication I'm supposed to take every day, for the rest of my life, until they get these test results."

This is the point at which I started to melt down. The PA at my doctor's office had come totally unglued when she saw my last blood tests. She freaked out. Normally, I like her, but she didn't let me finish a single sentence, and she said things like, "You'll HAVE to return to (the office of a specialist that I dislike)," even though my primary care doctor had assured me that I DON'T need to go there. "I don't know how to treat you."

"Can I just stay on the dosage that works for me?"

"It's not working! These numbers are terrible!" Doctors keep trying to return me to the chemical levels that I had back when the thyroid disease was diagnosed. (See "Illness, Part 8: Meds.") It's an ongoing battle. How can the levels I had while battling disease be a reasonable goal? When the numbers get anywhere near there, I sleep for 18 hours a day, and they tell me how good I "should" feel.

Last time, the PA only conceded to a shortened order of medication, and made any further refill conditional on the results of the MRI. When I picked it up, the pharmacist said, "Um, I have here a note that says that we can't refill this until you've had a visit with your doctor. Are you aware of this?"

"Yes. I'm aware."

Now, the only medication that lets me function reasonably, and which I need for the rest of my life, is being held hostage until I stuff myself into this plastic tube that is constricting my chest, ribs, tummy and arms.

For crying out loud, it's not like these are narcotics or anything. It's dried pig glands.

"Just give me a minute or two. I'm sure I can handle it." Yeah, that sounds convincing when you're on the verge of tears. I can't breathe in this thing.

The nurse/tech levels with me. It will take an hour or more. I need ten, TEN (!) separate scans. Then, I'll be wheeled out of the machine, given a dye injection, and all TEN tests will be run AGAIN. "Look, we're talking about a minimum of 50 minutes in the machine."

I didn't ask if that meant 50 minutes total or, heaven forbid, 50 minutes both before and after the dye.

"Oh, no. No, no, no." Ten, fifteen, even (gulp) twenty minutes, maybe. AN HOUR? No. Not possible.

"It's OK," she says repeatedly. "I'm claustrophobic. I know how you feel."

As I get ready to go, and cry, she assures me that there are "open MRI machines." "They have a crescent top and a crescent bottom, but the sides are open. There's at least two in town. One is right down the street."

Fine. Whatever. I am so miserable; we've added another medical visit to my calendar. This week alone, I need a blood test, a PICC line installation, and surgery in which they'll saw my bones in half and then screw them back together in a new configuration.

And my husband wonders why I'm hoping for menopause instead of having my fibroids removed.

From now on, when they ask if I'm claustrophobic, the answer is, "YES. Very. In fact, this room is too small." Put me in the "open" machine.

I know that this is a first world problem, no big deal, small potatoes. And yet, I'm miserable. Does it make sense to take a woman with a documented hormonal imbalance, and try to stuff her in a misery inducing box?

The poor nurse/tech tried so hard to console me, offered me water, walked me to the elevator. It was so nice of her, and yet I wanted to be totally alone. I don't generally handle being consoled well.

Now I have to wait for a phone call from whatever facility specializes in portly, panicky patients.

I have no moral or message here. I'm just grouchy.

Rosencrantz: In a box. That's the bit I don't like, frankly. That's why I don't think of it.

You and me both, brother.

I (Don't) Feel Pretty

I'm thinking about prettiness.

I wonder sometimes about what it feels like to be pretty. I'm considering it in a purely theoretical sense, like wondering what it would be like to live in a colony on Mars. I have no real experience in this area.

Now: STOP IT. Every time I say something like that, people leap at the opportunity to tell me how tragically low my self esteem is. They say, "You're just beautiful!" They're sure that I'm sad, or angry, or depressed. I'M NOT. I have no experience in being European, or redheaded, or speaking Portuguese, either, and none of that affects my self esteem. I've already covered this ground ( in "I'm OK, You're Mistaken"). I am fabulous. I am bright, talented, capable and many other wonderful things. I value all of those things much more than I value "pretty." In the right culture and/or time frame, I would be considered very pretty. I know this. PLEASE, for heaven's sake, let's ALL move past this idea that a woman cannot be whole unless she feels pretty. I am happy with myself.

Ironically, that attitude - that women NEED to be/feel pretty - is what leads me to contemplate it.

Of course, I've wondered what it would be like. I've concluded that it would probably be nice, at least most of the time. I've also wondered what it would be like to have nearly unlimited money - I'm talking the "burn my crumpled bills" kind of obscene wealth. I've concluded that it would probably be nice, at least most of the time. Yet, I have never factored it in to my day to day living, never figured that my life would be empty and unfulfilled without it. I do not feel that I have "settled" or given up or any other such drivel. It's an unnecessary outcome.

Talking to other women can be alienating. One of my dearest friends confided in me, long about the time we hit our 40s, "Every head doesn't turn when I walk into a room any more." She was in actual pain, I could tell. She was hurt. I should have been sympathetic, should have assured her that she remains beautiful (because she always has been). I should have helped her feel valued. Instead, I was entirely unsympathetic.

"Welcome to the real world! The rest of us have been living here for years."

Another friend once said, "Remember how it was in your 20s, when guys constantly hit on you, no matter where you were or who you were with?" No. I never experienced such a thing. Guys hit on my friends, sure. But aside from the fact that I've been married practically since childhood, most of the times that anybody hit on me, it tended to be the "you have girl parts; therefore, you'll suffice" kind of attention. It had nothing to do with me, personally.

You know how, in a lot of movies, TV or even books, a guy will have a female friend who's funny, loyal, great to be around and clearly adores him, but he never considers her female until he sees her dressed up for some fancy occasion; then, he'll suddenly realize that he loves her, because he realizes that she's pretty? I hate that convention. I hate those scenes. SO shallow. You can tell me all you like about how men are hardwired to respond to visual stimuli, how it's natural selection at work, how you can't fight biology, blah, blah, blah, and I'll still find it shallow.

The only time I watched one of those scenes and really applauded, it was on "Dawson's Creek." Joey (who is female, by the way, in case you never saw the show) has had a crush on her best friend Dawson for years. She's been trying and trying to get his attention. Then, she enters a pageant; she needs scholarship money for college. Dawson, after blowing off her advances, sometimes very rudely, sees her in her evening gown, with her hair and makeup done, and he swoons. He compliments her. He makes a pass at her, finally. Joey's response? "This is just a dress. This is makeup. It washes off." She wants nothing to do with his newfound intentions. She blows him off - not to make a point or teach him a lesson, but because she's not interested if all he's attracted to are the trappings.

Only once in my life did I ever have something even remotely similar happen. I was 17 or 18; the "Dawson's Creek" kids wouldn't be born for years. I had a lot of friends in the theater departments of other high schools, because theater kids tended to know one another and stick together.

I was visiting my sister at her apartment. I went out to the pool by myself; she was doing something, and was supposed to come join me as soon as she finished whatever it was. The pool was empty, which was great. I like to be alone.

Then, a kid that I knew appeared out of one of the apartments facing the pool. He seemed delighted to find me there. I'd known him for about a year and a half. He'd never spent time with me alone, never given me his number or asked for mine, never invited me over, even in a group, never treated me any differently than you'd treat a distant relative that you saw every few months (definitely friendly, but not seeking you out), but suddenly he was acting like he was my best buddy, and he'd missed me so much since the last time we saw each other. "Do you live here?" he wanted to know; then, "Which apartment is your sister's?" ("Um - I forget the number. (That was a lie.) It's over there" - wave of my hand in a westerly direction.) He asked me to a party at his apartment that night - asked repeatedly and rather forcefully, when I responded with a vague, "I dunno. Maybe."

I did not feel pretty. I did not feel desirable. I did not feel noticed or wanted. Maybe I was too hard on the guy, but the only way that I could interpret this behavior, this change in established behavior, was, "I, myself, am a fan of breasts, and I couldn't help but notice that you possess some."

I did not attend his party. I did not take him up on the "call me sometime" invitation. I fled the pool.

If you would have asked people who knew me what my best physical feature was, the answer would be divided along gender lines. Most girls would have said it was my hair, long, thick and wavy. (It started to fall out - or at least, I started to notice - when I was 16. It's been less impressive ever since.) Guys, I think, would have said my breasts. They were larger than most other girls' breasts, and kind of obvious. Plus, teenagers are hormonal. I knew that people noticed, but that's a far cry from feeling pretty. I was the girl with the "great personality."

This is my favorite photo of myself from high school. It's not exactly "me," though, even though those are my clothes, on my body. This is Gwendolyn, a character I played as a high school junior.

I'd been acting for five years at the time, and it was the first time I'd ever been given a role that had a smidgen of sex appeal. I was always cast as the spinster aunt, grandmother, or mother. That's kind of ironic, when you think about it; how do women become mothers if they're lifelong celibates? Still, mothers were not sexy or attractive in any way. Gwendolyn may not have been outright sexy, but she was somebody's date, and that was new for me. Having a director decide that I was capable of portraying that was new and unexpected and wholly delightful. (Thanks, Andy.)

I was grateful for the role, and I worked hard at it. I felt capable of projecting the idea that someone would find me desirable. In one scene, I walked into a poker game, and the poker players were supposed to gape at me. They were all my friends, we were all in character, so it was fine. I got comfortable with the scene. When we started working in costume, though, one of the guys continued to look at me as though I was a steak dinner and it was two hours past his dinnertime, even after the director called "cut" and stopped the scene to iron out problems. That was deeply unnerving. Not because I didn't like him - I did; we were very close. I just didn't know what to do, how to react, how to be someone's steak dinner. Gwendolyn could, but I couldn't. I was glad when I got to put my regular clothes back on and be myself.

When this photo was taken, I liked it, but all I could see were "flaws." My stomach is rounded, and I have round "saddlebags" at the top of my thighs, even in control top pantyhose. My eyelids droop. My chin recedes. It took years to be able to say, "Flaws are OK. A person can have flaws and be pretty." Still, I did not personally feel pretty.

I did not date in high school. I was actually asked out only once, when I was too young to date. Nobody else bothered. I was not gorgeous, I was not promiscuous, and I was therefore off the radar.

Very occasionally, I would recognize flirtation. A bisexual girlfriend once said, "Look, if you're ever curious or bored and you just want to know how the other half lives, call me." I actually found the straightforwardness of that to be very sweet; no code words to decipher, no pity, no game playing, just a sincere offer. If, indeed, I wanted to date women, she would have made a lovely and considerate partner. I just wasn't interested.

Knowing that she meant it was nice, though. It was, and is, important to me to feel attractive and desirable. I just never thought that "pretty" was a prerequisite. Plenty of people are deeply attractive and very desirable without being lovely to look at. It's a whole "different ball of wax," as the saying goes.

I was about to list certain actors to illustrate my point, but that would be rude. "Look at (Name Censored). He's hideous physically, but he's still incredibly attractive." Instead I'll try to explain what I find "attractive." To me, it means, "This person possesses qualities that make me want to spend time around them." "Desirable" is close, but more specifically romantically oriented - "This person would be a great partner."

What's attractive? Talent. Oh, good heavens, talent. If you're good at anything - performing, writing, building, programming, gardening, I don't care what - it's swoonworthy and deeply attractive. There are a few plain to ugly men that I would have no trouble at all casting or watching as Prince Charming, because I would totally buy it. I would be convinced that they were both royal and The Perfect Man for the princess. Talent also tends to increase my estimate of your physical features. I may have once thought you were plain, but then I saw what you're capable of, and now you look lovely indeed.

If I was ever to be a groupie of any kind, or if I was ever to decide to be promiscuous, fame, status and money would not interest me at all. Talent would.

Any quality that you'd list if asked, "What makes a good friend?" is attractive. Sense of humor, fun to be around, honest, supportive, spiritual, trustworthy, brave, hard working - all attractive.

Loyalty tops the list of what makes you desirable. I have no interest in, or time for, people who can't handle monogamy. Don't waste my time. All the above qualities help, too. "Desirable" speaks to the long term.

Occasionally, it would seem that someone found me to be either attractive or desirable, even though I was not pretty. I think that's as it should be.

One of my best friends said to me, when I was roughly 18, "If no one else ever marries you, I will." We were in a group at the time, and I gave him major grief for the awkward wording of that compliment.

"Oh, gee, every girl wants to hear that. I feel warm and fuzzy all over now."

"No! No! I meant it! I just mean, well, you'd make a good wife."

I ribbed him pretty hard, which wasn't very nice of me. Chalk it up to teenage angst. At the time, though, and more and more as I got older, I knew that his actual sentiment looked something like, "I've noticed that you're good wife material. I'd be happy living with you." I'll take that compliment. I'd much rather have that than be pretty.

There was one time when I was growing up that I felt not only attractive and desirable, but cherished. I was comfortable being affectionate with my friends, but there are levels of physical affection. Some are fine no matter your age, gender, marital status or familial ties. Some are a little more exclusive. Some are romantically motivated - those can get iffy. Some just say, "I like you," some say, "I love you," and some carry other messages.

Most romantically motivated affection, at least when you're young, is geared around what you, personally, want. You want to behave in a certain way because you enjoy it, or because you think that it will lead to things that you enjoy. It's rarer to do something just because you know that the other person would enjoy it. (Are you rubbing her feet because you have a foot fetish, or because you know that she enjoys it? Are you happy with just her gratitude, or do you hope that she'll express that gratitude by doing something for you that you enjoy?)

Someone expressed physical affection toward me in a way that probably carried no reward for him. It doesn't come with bragging rights or rank anywhere on the "bases" list. Yet he did it not only unprompted, but willingly. It also carried the message, "I am so lucky to be here, with you." It was - delightful. Sometimes, when I need a pleasant memory, I call that one up. If I'd known how rare those moments are, I would have enjoyed it even more.

It took a long time for me to learn how and when to express any interest in someone. People asked me, when I was a teen and long afterward, "Why didn't you take the initiative and ask someone out?" My usual answer was, "If they wanted to go out with me, they would have asked." I was not about to put some guy on the spot, and risk either a pity date or rejection.

The first time I chose to make a pass at someone, it was someone who'd already kissed me in a non-platonic fashion. That made it safe, I hoped - I had no wish to have him be horrified.

I don't think he was horrified, but he said, "I think we should stop." Ouch. It wasn't any behavior that was morally objectionable. Neither of us was cheating on someone or touching forbidden places or undressing. Man, rejection stings. It was very painful. Everyone has to learn how to deal with it, but it doesn't make that first time any easier. Or, any subsequent time.

I never want to date again. I am not just the marrying type, I am the married type.

Which is good. I've spent more time married than I spent single. I intend to stay that way.

Sometimes, though, I still wonder about being pretty.

One friend told me that it's tedious and predictable. Another told me that it's a great tool for getting what you want. Another said that it means constant fear that you'll lose it.

I don't know. So, I wonder. Not that it matters.

And there's life in that Martian colony to consider.