Why didn’t Claudia call me? What I told her was significant. No, but why didn’t she call me? Americans are terorists. Americans are terrorists.
“Hey MEB, do you ever miss living in the United States?”
What is the correct answer here? If I say yes will he get mad because Americans are apparently terrorists? Nevermind that our mother is American and I’m a U.S. citizen.
“Umm, sometimes I do. I lived many of my formative years in the U.S.”
“Okay, okay.”
The earth is Queen. We have not been good to the earth. They told us not to fly. Flying is not good for the earth.
“MEB, do people still take planes?”
“Umm, yes they do. Sometimes people need to visit their families.”
“They told us not to fly.”
“I know. It’s a complicated issue.”
When the fleurs de lis returns everything will be right. No, but how did she know? How did she know?”
“Mike?”
“Ya?”
“That big pile of matches is making me nervous. You’re not burning candles are you? I’m scared of having a fire.”
“I’m not burning candles.”
“Okay, good. Thanks.”
“MEB? Do you trust Dr. Doukas?”
“Yes, I trust her completely. We are very lucky to have her as our family doctor.”
“Really?”
“Yes. She’s excellent.”
Americans are terrorists. No, but they’re terrorists. Why didn’t Claudia call me back? What I told her was significant. No, but how did she know?
“I’m going to go under soon.”
“What does that mean Mike? You’re going to die?”
“I’m just going to go under.”
“Okay. But if you start feeling suicidal please tell me. I don’t want to lose you.”
Americans are terrorists. Americans are terrorists.
When I was very young, a neighborhood girl bullied me. I don’t remember exactly what she did, but I do remember that for years afterwards I was petrified of spiders. And I remember her face: pale skin, pretty freckles and squinting blue eyes. If you met her in passing you would think: “That’s a pleasant-enough child.” But if you spent any real time with her you would think: “I bet this kid is going to grow up and become one of those crazed nurses who kills all her patients.”
For years after the spider debacle, at bedtime I would ask my parents to tuck me in very tightly to keep the spiders out. Which of course was insane. “Tighter, tighter,” I would tell my dad, as he tucked me in with army precision. Then all my stuffed animals had to be placed around my head for protection, like a magical stuffed crown.
If God forbid a spider was found in our house, I had to watch dad flush it down the toilet (I feel guilty writing this now, sorry spiders) and I would stare into the toilet bowl, making sure the spider was vanquished to the sewer system.
The fear of spiders combined with my fear of fires to make me one very nervous youngster. Back in the day, it was common for parents to put large stickers on their children’s bedroom windows so that firemen would know directly where go. But the stickers were kind of scary-looking, at least to me: they depicted a fireman holding a child in his arms with flames in the background.
At night, tucked in so tightly I was barely able to move, I would pray: “Dear God, I hope things are going well. Please when I die, could you make it not by fire? I could drown, that would be fine. But please don’t let me burn to death. Thank you so much God, I love you.”
Though I was obviously a nervous kid, I was also an organized kid, who had a packed ready-to-go bag in case of emergency, aka fire. I kept it in my closet in an easy to grab location. The bag contained only one item: my old Snoopy, flattened with time like Flat Stanley, with silly putty stuck to his long black ears. I imagine a fireman trying to scoop me out of bed, flustered by the tight sheets and me saying: “Not so fast mister, I’ve gotta grab my snoopy bag first.”
In high school, (in the 80’s, pre-internet), no one talked about female sexual pleasure. Giving boys blow jobs was a privilege we were blessed to have. Yay! In fact the whole vibe was: “You’re lucky to be with this guy at this party where there are no parents, just tons of floral upholstery and wine coolers.” I didn’t even know that a boy, or a girl, could “go down” on me. Go down where? Do what? I don’t remember one friend ever mentioning the joys of reciprocal oral sex.
University Part 1
The movie 9 1/2 Weeks was released right before I started University, so everyone wanted to use food in their sexual play, it was the “in” thing, (watch the movie if you haven’t, it’s an 80’s classic). My boyfriend bought whip cream and honey, but we both just ended up feeling like barfing.
University Part 2
Later on, during that same first year of university, a different boyfriend became irritated with me when he couldn’t get his penis inside me: “You’re gonna need a pencil thin dick to get in there!” Wow. Your mother must be so proud to have such a poetic son. Backstory: I was raped in high school and I hadn’t had a penis inside of me since then – which he knew. The next day he tried apologizing and I was like “Boy Bye,” except we didn’t say that in the eighties and I don’t remember what I said, but he and his penis were banished forever.
NYC
Later, at The Fashion Institute of Technology, I decided that my Advertising professor was perfect for me. Total dreamboat. I made up excuses to visit him in his office, we flirted and he blushed a lot. But he had morals, (damn), and he followed school rules, (rats), so he didn’t let anything inappropriate happen.
Now my Textiles professor was a different story, he wanted to sleep with me. He had an office a few blocks away, I think it was on 23rd street. How convenient. I remember him calling me at FIT’s residence, trying to convince me to have sex with him. His rousing pitch went something like: “My wife and I have an arrangement, so don’t worry about it.” Wait, first of all, you have a wife? Second of all, I’m pretty sure she did not sign off on this “arrangement.” I might have been young and stupid but I wasn’t that young and stupid. “Boy Bye.”
Just One Drink
I was working my dream job ~ managing a vintage store ~ when one of the city’s most notorious bad boys appeared at the cash register. I quipped: “You’re going to ask me out now aren’t you?” like I was Lauren Bacall in a 1940’s film. He was uncharacteristically tongue-tied, not used to this level of confidence in a woman (granted it wasn’t real confidence, but he didn’t know that). We agreed to meet at the European cafe where everyone hung out. Word had traveled fast (pre-cell phones) and when I arrived early, staff and customers warned me about meeting up with him. I said: “It’s just one drink, don’t worry about it.” Because being in your early twenties is all about making the most deliciously dreadful decisions.
We drank wine and bantered, like Howard Hawks was directing our scene. Who was this new version of me? She was amazing. I liked who I was with him. I was more assertive. In the past I had assumed if a guy wanted to date me, I had to date them; like I had no say in my own life. But now I was trying to be pro-active and make smart decisions about men. Insert Taylor Swift lyrics here: “This is me trying”
For awhile it worked. I felt some sense of agency and that felt so damn good. Turns out the bad boy wasn’t so much bad as he was badly traumatized, in ways I only fully understood years later. We never stood a chance. In the end it was serious “Boy Bye,” so much so that my psyche blocked out almost the entire relationship, save for a few very tender moments. But what I do remember is that after being with him I completely shut down: No Men. No Dating. No Sex. It was extreme self-protection. Everyone said: “You’re in your twenties, you should be out there dating & having fun!” I didn’t care. No one was getting in.
Every once in awhile, when I’m least expecting it, a wave of grief washes over me and I mourn those years ~ Those Lost Years.
I’m walking in my favorite forest. It’s not a forest forest, it’s a city forest, but still, it makes me happy.
I see a heart carved into a tree, with the initials J + D Forever. I see many more hearts carved into many more trees and I wonder if any of the couples are still together. Did some of them marry? Adopt a dog? Visit Italy? Have babies?
I wish there was a couple update on each tree, to let us know how they fared:
Jess & Maria fell in love, married and adopted two cats. Maria had five affairs before asking Jess for a trial separation. When Jess found out about her infidelity he said: “you’re kidding me about the trial right? I mean we’re obviously skipping right to the divorce part. And by the way fuck you and I’m keeping the cats.”
AND
Mike and Robert fell in love, then out of love, then in love again and this continued for three years. When they had used up all of their therapy sessions – the ones covered by medical insurance – they called it quits.
AND
Tara & Finn are still together. They live next door to each other in a duplex and share a silver Prius and a grey Schnauzer named Marty. They can’t decide if global warming makes having a baby selfish. Would it feel like welcoming a child into the apocalypse? “So sorry about the fires, earthquakes, heatwaves, droughts, hurricanes, tornadoes and ice storms. But we hope you thrive andlive your best life little one!” Tara has frozen her eggs until they can reach a decision.
I’m trying to remember if I ever carved my initials into a tree when I was young. No, I don’t think I did. Though there were some really cute early romances and I wish I had taken photos, (this was pre-cell phones), because my God it would be fun to look at my fashion & boy choices.
Instead of carving initials into a tree I would play the game True Love. Not sure if it still exists, but this is how you play it: 1. Write your full name + the full name of your potential love interest on a piece of paper. 2. Below the names write True Love. 3. Now the math begins: How many letters do your names have in common with the letters in the words “True Love.” Example: Mary Ellen Brett + Eric Shields T – 2 R – 3 U – 0 E – 5
L – 3 O – 0 V – 0 E – 5 Total: 10 + 8 = 108% Oh My God, Eric Shields and I are meant to be! We are 108% matched together!
True Love was an early version of the dating apps. If you liked someone and you scored only 68%, it would give you pause. Although like any other red flag, we probably ignored it. 🚩
Driving to the flea market last week, my chest suddenly felt like it was being crushed. Like a giant garlic press was squeezing my heart. Was this some type of new panic attack? Maybe it was Panic Attack 5.0, the latest version. I had anti-anxiety pills with me but they wouldn’t help, this was something different. But what? Ah, I know what this is, of course: It’s loneliness. I’m lonely. I’m really fucking lonely.
During this revelation Cher was playing on the radio. “Do you believe in life after love?” she sang. Yes, yes I do Cher. Then again I don’t really understand life or love, so there’s that. Listening to her sing reminded me of my old Cher Barbie doll whose nails I had painted bright red. Her beautiful long hair had somehow ended up horribly snarled, forcing me to cut it into a 1920’s bob, a hairstyle that didn’t suit her at all. I had ruined Cher.
Despite feeling choked with loneliness, I made it to the parking lot where I applied gobs of lip gloss. I figured super shiny lips would distract people from my sad girl aura.
Why is it that when you feel lonely every fucking person you see looks ridiculously happy? Like they’ve just won the lottery. The flea market was packed. A DJ played while trendy couples and cute families checked out vintage cameras, 1970’s polyester dresses and home-made $25 hot sauces. They were all smiling and laughing. Literally every single person – even the kids – were vibing like they were on edibles.
Why am I the only one here alone? I usually have no problem with going out solo, but today it was getting to me. “It’s a cruel, cruel cruel summer…” Bananarama sang in my head.
Crushing loneliness makes me cranky and I soon found myself critiquing everything I saw: Like enough with the crochet stuff. It was a bad look in the 70’s and the 90’s and it’s a bad look now. Also, why are so many people selling vintage tea cups filled with soy wax? Why is that a thing? And what about all those play-dough looking earrings in the shapes of strawberries and mushrooms? Just stop it already.
I spotted a few cool vintage dresses, but I was unable to get to them due to the hoards of euphoric shoppers crowding me out. Nevermind, I had plenty of vintage dresses. Plus the main reason I had come to this particular flea market was to check out a cute bakery I’d seen on Instagram. Their cakes were magical-looking, like they were decorated by artsy fairies. Soon I too would be euphoric and no longer lonely, because I would have cake; cake solves all problems.
But to my horror, the bakery wasn’t there. Checking their Instagram I found they were doing a pop-up at a flea market in the west end. The west end? They may as well be in the U.K. Driving across Toronto from the east side to the west is a torturous journey, one I made only for emergencies. Did this bout of garlic press squeezing my heart loneliness qualify as an emergency? Actually it did. But I just couldn’t face the traffic.
Then – pouf! – I saw a florist stall outside the flea market tent. Next to cake, flowers were the best soul-soother. I bought myself an obnoxiously large bouquet, then walked my shiny lips back to the parking lot.
Once, when I was little and my grandfather was babysitting me, I picked up a beautiful shiny green stone off the sidewalk. At least I thought it was a beautiful shiny green stone, but of course it was a piece of glass. I was wearing a yellow and white poncho which quickly became sprinkled with blood, as I excitedly showed off my treasure to my grandfather. Poor Pop, (that’s what we called him), he was visiting from Hartford and he had been charged with picking me up from school which was just a few blocks away. He scrambled to stop the bleeding as he rushed me home.
My grandmother gave him serious Irish side-eye when we came zooming in looking for first aid supplies. I still have the scar on the palm of my hand and honestly I could not love this memory more – to me it’s the funniest metaphor for life.
I still love shiny pretty things, but now I look a little closer before picking them up.
Photo by Lisa Larsen, 1953. The LIFE Picture Collection/Getty Images
I thought having “boobs to pubes” cancer surgery, including the removal of several organs, followed by hot chemo being poured into my abdomen, was going to be the most difficult part of my life. Turns out I was wrong.
For the last year my personal relationship has been imploding and I no longer recognize myself. It’s as if I started off as a colorful, vibrant painting and have been reduced to a black and white sketch. I’m also not the partner that I would normally aspire to be and that makes me feel horrible.
To deal with the pressure I’ve developed two new coping strategies, though they’re not ones that you’ll find in self-help books: compulsive cleaning/organizing and binge-eating.
By eating disorder standards my binges may appear small – think ten cookies eaten really fast while standing up. But since I don’t have a normal gastrointestinal tract, (due to the boobs to pubes surgery), this is equivalent to eating about 25 cookies. I don’t purge – I hate throwing up, it scares me – so I usually end up in bed with a horrible stomach ache, hugely bloated like someone filled me with helium. For me it’s not so much about eating to fill a void, as it is about eating to extinguish a raging fire. A fire whose accelerants have been self-abandonment, extreme passivity and fear. It’s self-harm, but with cookies instead of cutting.
The compulsive cleaning/organizing seems to be in part about exhausting myself so that I’m too tired to feel anything. At my parents’ house there are endless projects to be done, though they are projects that no one is asking me to do. I spent one whole day organizing their chaotic garage, forgetting to eat and only stopping to bring my dog Lexie out for her regular walks. Lexie watched me work for awhile: breaking down boxes, putting all the tools together, tossing out dead ferns. She gave me a pitying look before leaving me for her favorite couch to snooze. By the day’s end I was absolutely ragged – too wrecked to feel any of the emotions that I needed to feel in order to create change in my life.
Last week the cleaning lady came and there was virtually nothing for her to do except vacuum and mop the tiles. I explained that I’d gotten a “little compulsive” and I think she understood. I mean the house was immaculate, like it had just been professionally staged by a real estate team.
I intuitively knew to tell my loved ones right away about my behaviour, I wanted to avoid the vicious cycle of shame and secrecy. My close friends know what I’m doing and they put up with my dark humour: “if I don’t start purging soon I’m going to gain weight!” Obviously there is nothing funny about eating disorders, but we all deal with our emotions differently.
I’ve been through therapy before and I’ll do it again if I continue with these destructive behaviours. In the meantime I’m trying to give myself one break each day to just feel and not do anything.
You are cordially invited to Mary Ellen’s Dancing Down Memory Lane Party Location: High School Time: 1980’s Attire: Goth, Punk, Mod, Preppy, New Romantic, Madonna, Jock, Hippie or Burnout Please RSVP by calling 613-722-8181 Leave a message on the answering machine.
SLAVE TO LOVE The first boy I ever loved in a truly, madly, deeply way was Luigi. He smelled like Ivory soap. I wanted to delay going to University for a variety of reasons, mostly because I didn’t want to leave him. But my parents were terrified that as the first born I would be setting a horrible example if I didn’t go directly – Do Not Pass Go – to school. So I spent weeks and weeks listening to Bryan Ferry’s “Slave To Love” while crying. And I mean crying. Luigi was the love of my life and my parents were tearing us apart. I mean true, we weren’t officially “a couple,” but still – he smelled like the love of my life. On the four hour drive to Toronto to drop me off at my dorm, I barely spoke two words to my parents; they were destroying my life after all.
THE GLAMOROUS LIFE I think it was Grade 11 when a few friends and I started a group called “The Glamorous Girls.” It was a tongue in cheek thing, there were no clique-y rules or mean girls. But, we did each wear an oversized faux gemstone ring, bought from those small coin-operated machines at the grocery stores. Our theme song was “The Glamorous Life” by Sheila E. We danced and vogued – before we knew what vogueing was – and for a few months it was a wonderful bit of lightness, a salve to soothe the sting of high school’s cuts.
HOW SOON IS NOW? Nothing says teenage angst like a messy bedroom with mood lighting. I had a hanging lamp over my bed and if I was really in the depth of misery, I would swap out the regular lightbulb for a red one. Then I would put on my giant headphones and listen to The Cure’s “The Hanging Garden” or “How Soon is Now?” by The Smiths. I remember one night feeling so, so horrible but I didn’t understand exactly why; I just knew that one girl was making my life miserable. Looking back it’s very clear that I was being bullied, (a term not much used in the 80’s), by a schoolmate who was jealous of me. She was controlling and manipulating, undermining me every chance she had. That particular night ended poorly, with me attempting to dull my pain by dying my hair a hideous shade of drugstore burgundy.
Years later when I lived in Los Angeles, I ran into this girl (now woman) at a dog park. I remember saying to my husband: “we need to get out of here immediately!” and so he and I and our Corgi fled. Talk about triggering. The next day I received a friend request from her on FB which I quickly declined. HELL NO.
WILD HORSES When I went to high school we had to do five years – FIVE! Grade 9-13. By grade thirteen I had just had it, I was so over school. I knew I had to keep my grades high, so I was strategic about how and when I skipped classes. But I would guestimate that I skipped 1/3 of my final year. My friend Ali – who I still talk with every few days – and I used to play hooky together. We hung out in her super cool bedroom, which she had covered in tin foil a la Andy Warhol’s Factory. Drinking her mom’s boxed Pinot Grigio, we would smoke cigarettes and complain about the boys in our lives, all while listening to The Rolling Stones’ “Wild Horses” on repeat. David Bowie was also on heavy rotation and I remember us dancing to “The Jean Genie,” spinning faster and faster to release the pressure valves of our psyches.
RELAX I grew up in Canada’s capital city, Ottawa, which is right across the river from Quebec. Back then the main clubbing area was in Hull Quebec and it was owned primarily by the mafia. The owners didn’t care that we were fifteen with fake ID, in fact the Hull police would let the bouncers know when they were going to raid their club and the bouncers would kick us all out before the cops arrived. It was a system that worked for everyone.
I remember dancing to Frankie Goes To Hollywood’s “Relax,” while wearing my Madonna style, pointy-toed buckled booties. The band’s original video for the song, which was pretty explicit, played on a giant screen. After twirling the night away, a friend and I went to a diner with a super sketchy dude who claimed to be in the mafia. Of course that became the story at school on Monday morning: we had met a real life mafioso.
BREATHE Michelle wore long swirly skirts, armfuls of bangles, big turquoise rings and cowboy boots. She looked straight off of an album cover from the late sixties/early seventies. She had transferred from a different school so we only met in our final year. She introduced me to vegetarian food, herbal medicine, Isabel Allende’s books and Kate Bush. But she wasn’t just a granola-beauty, she had a bit of a tough vibe too. I felt like if anyone tried messing with me she would fend them off with her heavy silver jewelry – like a bohemian Wonder Woman.
Lying on the futon in her attic bedroom, we listened to Kate Bush’s song “Breathe:” Out, in, out, in, out, in Breathing Breathing my mother in Breathing my beloved in
Dreaming about our futures and talking about guys and asking just how many rings was too many to wear? Laughing loudly as we crunched organic corn chips and salsa. Michelle was an only child and I had two crazy brothers, “the boys” I called them, so we imagined being sisters: two big haired girls, one blond, one brunette. Breathing life into each other. And thirty-five years later we still are. Out, in. Out, in.
THE END
LOL. I think this was Grade 10 & I was wearing a 2-piece matching set ~ blouse & “trumpet skirt.” And of course teal eyeliner! I still have the skirt b/c I’m a fashion hoarder.
A few good tunes from my high schoolyears: 1) Smooth Operator by Sade 2) A Blister In The Sun by The Violent Femmes 3) Borderline by Madonna 4) Raspberry Beret by Prince 5) The Tears of a Clown by The English Beat 6) Lips Like Sugar by Echo & the Bunnymen 7) In Between Days by The Cure 8) Town Called Malice by The Jam 9) What Difference Does It Make by The Smiths 10) Cloudbusting by Kate Bush
I once dated a guy who was a gigolo. Of course I didn’t realize he was a gigolo when I first met him. I just thought he was a friendly dude in my apartment building. One evening he knocked on my door and there he was holding a plate of homemade spaghetti – smooth move. He was very funny and used to sing Tom Jones songs until I was crying with laughter.
I also dated a guy whose house was full of cockroaches. I had never seen a cockroach before, therefore seeing a bazillion of them when I turned on the kitchen light in the middle of the night was terrifying. It felt like I was in an 1980’s horror movie – with fabulous hair, makeup and clothing by moi of course.
There was the boyfriend who literally passed me over to another man, like they were farmers and I was prized cattle. We had broken up and he knew the other guy really liked me, so he said something like: “She’s yours now, take care of her.”
Let’s not forget the “give your girlfriend cocaine on her twenty-first birthday boyfriend,” because of course as young women that’s exactly the gift we dream about getting. Not jewelry, but hard drugs.
Oh and the boyfriend who had a thing for long finger nails! That was a problem for me because I was and still am a nail biter. But thankfully the drugstore lady introduced me to “Lee’s Press-On Nails.” I’m forever grateful to her for helping me keep my man happy.
There are more men and more stories, but for now this is it. Just a little fun list to jazz up your Wednesday.
To get to the good stuff – love, creative flow and thriving – we have to live in the weeds for awhile. Sometimes we have to live in the weeds for a really long time and we’re not talking Instagram-pretty weeds displayed in a vintage mason jar.
We have to live in the ugly, prickly, yucky weeds and it ain’t fun. But, then we get a few beautiful days, or months, or even just moments and it makes it all worth it. It’s like having six days of grey skies and then the sun comes out.
The messy is exhausting but also liberating, because when you’re really in the depths of the messy, knee-deep in the weeds, you kind of have nothing to lose.
Think of the messiness like your tripped-out, Burning Man alter ego who gives you permission to just say “Fuck It.” Spinning around on their 1970’s lowrider bicycle, your Burning Man alter ego yells out random bits of advice:
“Ask for what you need, ask for what you want. If they can’t give it to you, then just Peace Out and Keep It Moving.” “Dude, fall in love with yourself!” “Take up more space. Why are you letting all these clowns crowd you out?!”
And actually your Burning Man alter ego is pretty damn wise. They’re like having your own personal psychedelic therapist living on your shoulder. Best listen up. They’ll get you out of the weeds and into the sunshine in no time.
sparkledame 