Becoming a mother - whether for the first time or the fifth - is miraculous and beautiful. There is nothing like the feeling of holding my new son close and breathing in that sweet baby smell. For the first few of days after the birth, I am surrounded by well-wishers, family, and a nursing staff who bring your baby to me to nurse and help manage your pain. The day arrives to be discharged, and I can't wait to bring baby home. But somewhere between the driveway and the nursery, it dawns on me that it is all up to me from here on out.
I have done this before. Nine years ago it was my daughter.
When I arrived home after her birth, I was overwhelmed by pain. No one could have prepared me for the aftermath of a C-section. Hopped up on painkillers, I felt zoned-out and absent for at least a week. Sitting up took Herculean strength, much less picking up the baby. Fortunately, I had my mother to help, and I recovered from my surgery in a few weeks. Around the same time, I learned that my husband was being deployed to Iraq. Understandably, I became deeply depressed; this news, combined with the cocktail of postpartum hormones swirling around in my system, resulted in classic postpartum depression. So I saw my doctor, and he prescribed Zoloft to help me function. The overwhelming misery gave way to normal sadness, and I was able to care for my baby. It was difficult to bond with her for a while, but by her fourth month I was as attached to her as any mother ever was to her baby.
This time around, I knew exactly what to expect. Maybe that's why it was so difficult for me to get excited about the birth. With my first, I was too clueless to be afraid. And this time around, I wouldn't have a mother to help me, for she had finally smoked herself into an early retirement home. Even still, I had more going for me; my husband was home and out of the military, my daughter was old enough to be self-sufficient, and even to help.
He is here now, and he is beautiful. I love him with all my heart, and I fell for him instantly. So why can't I stop crying? It may have something to do with being sequestered from the world in my living room day after day( I can't drive for two more weeks, doctor's orders). And maybe it's because a person can only watch so much Shahs of Sunset and Real Housewives marathons on television without taking time out to fixate on real-life worries, like: How will we live while I'm on unpaid leave and I just paid $1,000 to the hospital and pediatrician thanks to my shitty insurance?
Those are logical worries, but there's more at the root of my despair than that. There is a dread that lurks in the corners of my consciousness; it eats the food in my refrigerator, it ducks into doorways on my way down the hall. It lulls me into calm and certitude, and it waits until I am distracted. And then it reaches out and grabs hold of my heart and lungs and it squeezes as hard as it can with its cold fingers until I cannot breathe. The room goes crooked, my fingers go numb, and I brace myself for the deluge of horrific thoughts that are coming, sure as anything.
It's the awful thoughts that really do it, that send me, sobbing, into the next room. Away from the baby. Because what if? What if I lose it and hurt him? WHAT IF I LOSE IT?
Of course, I don't lose it. I have not yet lost it, and I understand that there is about a 0% chance that I will enact any of the fiendish deeds that my imagination conjures. You'd think that would help somehow. And yet logic and hysteria perform this tango every single day, and I have to talk myself through it, breathe through it, excuse myself and just get through it.
I suffer from postpartum OCD. In fact, something like 5% of women suffer from it. (I wonder what the real percentage is, though, and how many women just keep it to themselves because, honestly, how many people are comfortable admitting that they have terrifying visions of harming their own children?) I didn't know that my crazy had a name until very recently, and it was thanks to my Google search prowess that I found some answers. I also had going for me a longtime familiarity with OCD and anxiety, old friends who like to pop in and out of my life periodically like that cousin who hits you up for a loan every holiday. So I am familiar with the treatment options: medication, cognitive behavioral therapy, a combination of both. I have taken the meds, I have done the exercises, and I know that there is help for me.
As for the moment, I have decided to avoid taking the medication yet; I am going to white-knuckle it for a few weeks because I want my son to have uncorrupted breast milk, if only for a little while. We'll see if I last that long. I can't get out to a therapist yet, but I am making plans to do so in the coming weeks, as well. Until then, I will look forward to feeling better soon.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Whooo, Doggy!
Upon my recent visits to the dog park, I have observed that some aggressive/dominant dogs zero in on the less extroverted ones and try to annoy them. Sometimes they try to mount, but often it's just a dog's equivalent of poking someone in the shoulder and saying, "Hey you." I am impressed by the dogs who, rather than choosing to run or to fall to the ground, simply turn their backs on the offending hound. Invariably, the aggressor finds himself diminished in the eyes of his peers, and he goes on his way.
I tried this with a person the other day. I didn't like what he was saying, so I turned around and stood with my back to him until he went away.
I tried this with a person the other day. I didn't like what he was saying, so I turned around and stood with my back to him until he went away.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Stuff That Makes Me Look/Feel/Seem Less Elderly
So some of my friends talk about being flummoxed by the arriving at a "certain age" and selecting from the ocean of products available. This year, I found myself at looking in the mirror and seeing stuff on my face that didn't used to be there. Here's some stuff that I like that seems to be doing the trick:
Mom Spit No-Rinse Cleanser - Nothing makes you look dowdier than spit-shining your child in public.
Dickinson's Witch Hazel - A classic. Been using this since high school, and still gets my skin super-clean. Don't reinvent the wheel.
L'Oreal Skin Genesis Serum Concentrate - I like this A LOT. Has instant brightening/smoothing effects.
Smashbox Photo Finish Foundation Primer SPF 15 and Dermaxyl - So important for keeping foundation and powder out of sneaky creases.
Benefit Ooh La Lift - A surefire product I found in my twenties, when fabulous parties and the whimsy of youth kept me up too late. Now I rely on it as an eye-debagger after a night nursing growing pains and earaches.
The Balm Hot Mama - Slightly shimmery, very flattering, and it does double-duty as eyeshadow. Don't go anywhere without it.
LCD Soundsystem, "Sound of Silver" - Gets me going on tough mornings.
Monday, August 9, 2010
How Was My Day? Thanks for Asking.
I always get a little sad this time of year. It's the end of the summer, and soon I will have to start showering and brushing my hair in the morning. I have compiled a list of things I will miss about Summer 2010:
1. Not showering or brushing my hair in the morning.
2. Getting dressed at noon.
3. Pretending I am an heiress who is running from her stifling obligations as a socialite.
4. Celebrating stuffed animal birthdays with my child.
5. Grocery shopping when there are few people in the store.
6. Complaining about the weather with strangers: "It's not the heat, it's the huMIDity!!!"
7. California's Central Coast.
8. The fabulous summer lineup on USA network
9. Hanging out at coffee shops long enough to make people think I may be spying on them for national security reasons.
10. Allowing my daughter to use swimming as an excuse not to bathe.
1. Not showering or brushing my hair in the morning.
2. Getting dressed at noon.
3. Pretending I am an heiress who is running from her stifling obligations as a socialite.
4. Celebrating stuffed animal birthdays with my child.
5. Grocery shopping when there are few people in the store.
6. Complaining about the weather with strangers: "It's not the heat, it's the huMIDity!!!"
7. California's Central Coast.
8. The fabulous summer lineup on USA network
9. Hanging out at coffee shops long enough to make people think I may be spying on them for national security reasons.
10. Allowing my daughter to use swimming as an excuse not to bathe.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
God Gave Us Advil Cold & Sinus Because He Loves Us.
Sure, there's that business about "his only begotten Son," but he really showed he loved us by giving us almost instantaneous relief from severe sinus congestion. If you don't believe in God, you've never had a sinus infection relieved by the miracle of pseudoephedrine and whatever-the-hell-else is in that stuff.
Why can't people do things exactly the way I like?
Example:
Good: My mom took Madeline to sit for a portrait for holiday cards. Bad: she dressed her like a girl who might work for the telephone company or do lumberjacking, with hair brushed forward like Little Dutch Boy.
Good: My mom took Madeline to sit for a portrait for holiday cards. Bad: she dressed her like a girl who might work for the telephone company or do lumberjacking, with hair brushed forward like Little Dutch Boy.
In Search of Things Past
No one I know particularly enjoys using public restrooms. Everything about it is distasteful: waiting for your turn, for example, broadcasts to the world that you have to use the toilet. Sometimes you're just waiting to spot-clean the coffee stain from your shirt, but it doesn't matter. People still look at you knowingly. Add to this unpleasantness the adjunct activity of exiting the restroom and meeting - or, in my case, avoiding - the gaze of the person next in line. This is why I tend to limit my visits to these facilities to two minutes or less. If the patron outside is already feeling self-conscious or annoyed, my taking forever will only increase her irritation and make the inevitable walk-by awkward. I like to think that I am a pretty considerate person in this respect. My feeling is that, if you have to attend to something that requires more than five minutes in a public lavatory, you're better off just going home, and I am diligent in applying this standard to myself. But today I was reminded that many people are quite unbothered by the bathroom visit, to the extent that they lounge around inside as if they were preparing a decadent Saturday night bubble bath. I waited so long today that I expected the woman to emerge in a negligee holding a pair of champagne flutes. When she finally did reappear, I couldn't help but notice that she was not wearing a negligee and didn't look refreshed; instead, she scurried past me and shinnied up against the wall, her eyes averted and her face a mask of terror and shame. I stepped into the restroom and discovered the reason for her furtive escape. The air was heavy with stench, and I think the temperature in the tiny room was ten degrees hotter than outside in the hallway. I tend to avoid inhalation in every public restroom, but the miasma was so pernicious that even the cessation of breathing couldn't mask it. My instinct was to flee, but I'd drunk too much coffee, and so resigned myself to a minute of torture. I became consumed with the desire to run out into the busy coffee shop to find that woman, put my finger in her face and, in my best Marat impression, shout, "J'accuse!" Really, I wanted to go right up and ask her what the matter was with her, who did she think she was, and explain the proper etiquette. Once I was out of the bathroom, I avoided scanning the room so that I could look pointedly in her direction, which was all I'd be able to muster. And anyway, I forgot about the whole thing pretty quickly. But still. I mean, come on.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
DailyFail
Last evening, I was dining out with my family at a local all-you-can eat buffet (one might consider this to be its own kind of failure). As we enjoyed our dinner, I let slip a spoonful of mashed potato down my shirt.
The appropriate thing to do would have been to excuse myself and retrieve the errant food in the privacy of a bathroom stall. Instead, I thought that I could reach down my shirt and grab the potato in a way that would escape the notice of 30 or so other diners. Perhaps if I had dropped a carrot or a french fry down there, I could have pulled this off. But mashed potato is a tricky customer, refusing to remain in a tidy mound; I ended up smearing most of it around my sternum and inside placket of my shirt, while a few knavish bits settled into other areas.
And, of course, it was a family of four with two young children who passed my table at the time. The smaller boy looked to his mother in confusion, simply pointing and asking, "What's that lady doing?"
The appropriate thing to do would have been to excuse myself and retrieve the errant food in the privacy of a bathroom stall. Instead, I thought that I could reach down my shirt and grab the potato in a way that would escape the notice of 30 or so other diners. Perhaps if I had dropped a carrot or a french fry down there, I could have pulled this off. But mashed potato is a tricky customer, refusing to remain in a tidy mound; I ended up smearing most of it around my sternum and inside placket of my shirt, while a few knavish bits settled into other areas.
And, of course, it was a family of four with two young children who passed my table at the time. The smaller boy looked to his mother in confusion, simply pointing and asking, "What's that lady doing?"
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Counter-Reproduction
As I was poking about on a social networking site the other day, I came across the profile of an acquaintance whose status breathlessly announced, "I'm so excited!!! I am two weeks pregnant!!!" Beside her exclamation was a photo , taken at what looked to be arm's length, of her stomach. It took me a moment to figure out what I was looking at, because I thought at first that she had taken a picture of wallpaper.
I don't usually react with cynicism to these kinds of announcements, but the up-close belly pic irked me. First of all, I could detect no discernible difference in the photo between her abdomen in the picture and what it looked like in the image taken three weeks earlier. Maybe it's just my monitor. I was likewise bothered by the feeling of obligation that the announcement demanded: "Be equally thrilled for me!"
It is exciting that this person is welcoming a second child into the family, I suppose. Parenthood is good - I happen to be a parent. But it is also a personal joy, one that I am glad to hear of, but perhaps without the intimate detail. During her pregnancy, another acquaintance was apt to posting her sonogram photos on her page, from nascent cannelini bean-stage through the last trimester. What ever happened to pleasant profile shots of family pets or, even better, the profile owner's face?
I daresay that the general public will soon be privvy to photos of this girl in the hospital waiting to be be admitted, and probably some in the delivery room during the birth. In fact, she intimated that these scenes are treats we can perhaps look forward to. For myself, I prefer to see the resulting child, rather than to witness something that my cat can accomplish quietly in just under twenty minutes behind the television set.
I don't usually react with cynicism to these kinds of announcements, but the up-close belly pic irked me. First of all, I could detect no discernible difference in the photo between her abdomen in the picture and what it looked like in the image taken three weeks earlier. Maybe it's just my monitor. I was likewise bothered by the feeling of obligation that the announcement demanded: "Be equally thrilled for me!"
It is exciting that this person is welcoming a second child into the family, I suppose. Parenthood is good - I happen to be a parent. But it is also a personal joy, one that I am glad to hear of, but perhaps without the intimate detail. During her pregnancy, another acquaintance was apt to posting her sonogram photos on her page, from nascent cannelini bean-stage through the last trimester. What ever happened to pleasant profile shots of family pets or, even better, the profile owner's face?
I daresay that the general public will soon be privvy to photos of this girl in the hospital waiting to be be admitted, and probably some in the delivery room during the birth. In fact, she intimated that these scenes are treats we can perhaps look forward to. For myself, I prefer to see the resulting child, rather than to witness something that my cat can accomplish quietly in just under twenty minutes behind the television set.
Monday, June 22, 2009
How to Be a Failure, Part I
People want to believe that the word "failure" carries with it a certain foreboding, a final pronouncement of hopelessness. In fact, it takes a special kind of person to welcome failure; in order to be okay with the idea, one need only envision the possibilities that open up when things don't work out. With a little bit of effort, any of us can become comfortable with the idea of failing, or of being called a Failure.
Consider for a moment a few of the great failures of history. Who comes to mind? Here's a little list that I came up with in the fifteen seconds that I devoted to the question:
Consider for a moment a few of the great failures of history. Who comes to mind? Here's a little list that I came up with in the fifteen seconds that I devoted to the question:
- Gen. George Armstrong Custer
- Benedict Arnold
- Ferdinand Von Zeppelin
- John DeLorean
- Napoleon Bonaparte
See? What do all of these men have in common? You might say that they were all delusional, maybe even insane. But the other quality they share is their fame! These men are all famous for failing at the endeavors to which they devoted their lives. Perhaps you feel that this kind of large-scale failure is beyond the grasp of the average person, and you may be right. What we can learn, however, is how to embrace failure gracefully and fearlessly. In the posts that follow, I hope to provide some guidance into such quagmires as: how to respond when others accuse you of failure; dealing with public humiliation; finding ways to exploit your own failure.
Success is easy. Failure is hard. And what do we learn from success? I wouldn't know, but probably not very much.
Friday, May 1, 2009
On Relaxation
A student told me today, "Whatever it is you do to relax, Mrs. Anderson, please do it." I gave a flip response, but his comment has been bugging me. I just finished watching The Devil Wears Prada, a film I've resisted watching because, frankly, I've lived it. I used to live a life that lent itself to relaxation: go to a coffee shop, read the NYT Magazine, then cocktails, then dinner at the "now" NYC or SF spot, then more cocktails and pithy exchanges... Those days are gone, and I can't decide whether or not I miss them. I made a conscious choice to give them up in favor of the life that I have now - a life with meaning, no doubt - but there are some evenings, after a glass of wine and the announcement of a former Columbia floormate having won the Booker prize or the Pulitzer, that I wonder what meaning is really most significant?
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Monday, August 18, 2008
The Scab Eater
So, for a while now, I've been taking responsibility for all manner of other people's problems. Maybe "taking" is the wrong word. People have been very generous to me, gifting me with one onus to shoulder after another. I appreciate these gifts, but I'm also a practical gal. I've got mouths to feed. So I'm going to start charging. Think of the service as selling Indulgences but probably a lot more economical. I'll take just about anything. Does male pattern baldness run in your family? I'll take it. Is your teenager alienated and distant? I'll take that, too. Awww, does your girlfriend think you're an insensitive asshole? Probably my fault. What's that you say, your cousin Ricky is incontinent and you can't figure out why because there's no history of this in your family? Gimme. I can't get enough of it, and I'm embarrassed with a wealth, so why shouldn't I turn a profit? To that end, I've made up a preliminary price list:
Sibling Rivalry: $.50 per incident
Traumatic Breakups: One-time flat rate of $20, or buy a year's subscription for $75 (if you're a real emo loser, this is definitely the better deal.)
Adolescent Malaise: Due to the chronic nature of this blame-generator, the cost is a flat $500 (if your kid is a total emo loser, this will cost far less than your weekly therapy encounters, and will make you feel way better.)
Newfound Awareness of Alternative Sexuality: $Market Price
The Peace of Mind That Comes From Knowing Nothing is Your Fault: Priceless
Sibling Rivalry: $.50 per incident
Traumatic Breakups: One-time flat rate of $20, or buy a year's subscription for $75 (if you're a real emo loser, this is definitely the better deal.)
Adolescent Malaise: Due to the chronic nature of this blame-generator, the cost is a flat $500 (if your kid is a total emo loser, this will cost far less than your weekly therapy encounters, and will make you feel way better.)
Newfound Awareness of Alternative Sexuality: $Market Price
The Peace of Mind That Comes From Knowing Nothing is Your Fault: Priceless
A Solution: Revised
The 5,000 people responsible for outselling the "Handpainted Oil Portrait of a Shih-Tzu on a Cushion in Ornate Gold Frame" on HSN gave up their personal information and, therefore, their right to privacy. They must be individually tracked - each and every one of them - and their voter registrations must be revoked.* This is not the painting I saw on TV
** I realize it's a Pekingese
*** I thought it evoked the same gestalt as the Shih Tzu on Pillow one
The Sea Pig
Pig left his pen
Somewhere south of here
A life in the slop
Was ordinary
He longed to look at moving waters.
"A brine bath," he thought."Sounds fine."
A trotter he dredged through the shallows.
The current carried him out to sea
He'd never felt so light
So free
It may have been days
He didn't wear a watch
He longed to dive to the floor
But he absorbed the watery life around him
His swelling hide, it
Buoyed him up
To his annoyance.
The pig resolved:
"Before my next jount to the sea
AloneI'll fill my pockets upWith stones."
Somewhere south of here
A life in the slop
Was ordinary
He longed to look at moving waters.
"A brine bath," he thought."Sounds fine."
A trotter he dredged through the shallows.
The current carried him out to sea
He'd never felt so light
So free
It may have been days
He didn't wear a watch
He longed to dive to the floor
But he absorbed the watery life around him
His swelling hide, it
Buoyed him up
To his annoyance.
The pig resolved:
"Before my next jount to the sea
AloneI'll fill my pockets upWith stones."
Sunday, August 17, 2008
My Thirties
At this point, it's really about maintenance and avoidance.
It's been a main priority to avoid any emotion stronger than peevishhness. Drama is soooo mid-to-late twenties.
Also important to stand up straight all the time. Crack a joke to put others at ease.
Forget about the really deep cuts. You had your time to mourn, and frankly, others find it tedious. (See above re: mid-to-late twenties.)
Tedium is your fault.
Listen to Nick Drake about all the things you could've been. Like a clock.
Contemplate your tenth college reunion. Then throw out the invitation.
It's been a main priority to avoid any emotion stronger than peevishhness. Drama is soooo mid-to-late twenties.
Also important to stand up straight all the time. Crack a joke to put others at ease.
Forget about the really deep cuts. You had your time to mourn, and frankly, others find it tedious. (See above re: mid-to-late twenties.)
Tedium is your fault.
Listen to Nick Drake about all the things you could've been. Like a clock.
Contemplate your tenth college reunion. Then throw out the invitation.
An Ideal World
In my ideal world, all newborn boys would be named "Waylon." Newborn girls would be called, "Marfa."
In my ideal world, David Lee Roth and Tom Jones would record an album of duets entitled, "These Pants Ain't Too Tight for Two."
In my ideal world, the national bird of the United States would not be the Eagle. In fact, there would be no national bird. It would be a dog, and it would be a Lhasa Apso.
In my ideal world, a person's voter registration would be revoked upon a third purchase from the Home Shopping Network.
In my ideal world, emails would not suffice as Thank-You notes.
In my ideal world, individuals would be required to submit Letters of Intent to the National Science Foundation, The National Endowment for the Arts, and The ASPCA before receiving approval to reproduce. This requirement would be limited to humans.
In my ideal world, cats would finally be acknowledged as the original purveyors of ancient knowledge.
In my ideal world, Simon Cowel would not be nationally regarded as a member of the intelligentsia.
In my ideal world, David Lee Roth and Tom Jones would record an album of duets entitled, "These Pants Ain't Too Tight for Two."
In my ideal world, the national bird of the United States would not be the Eagle. In fact, there would be no national bird. It would be a dog, and it would be a Lhasa Apso.
In my ideal world, a person's voter registration would be revoked upon a third purchase from the Home Shopping Network.
In my ideal world, emails would not suffice as Thank-You notes.
In my ideal world, individuals would be required to submit Letters of Intent to the National Science Foundation, The National Endowment for the Arts, and The ASPCA before receiving approval to reproduce. This requirement would be limited to humans.
In my ideal world, cats would finally be acknowledged as the original purveyors of ancient knowledge.
In my ideal world, Simon Cowel would not be nationally regarded as a member of the intelligentsia.
I know funny.
I KNOW funny!
Here’s what I know. I know about comedy. I screamed at a kid today that he didn’t know funny because he didn’t like my idea.
I also figured out that comedy lives in my shoulder. Know how I know that? Because I have severe stabbing pains in my shoulder that I thought were caused by poor weightlifting technique. Cuyler said it’s ’cause my funnybone is in the wrong place. Then I realized that he was wrong. Know why? Because my funnybone is SO precise that it grew all the way up my tibia or whatever and pierced my rotator cuff tendon or whatever it’s called. How come it did that? Because I have funny IN my bones now, where most people have just one, separate bone.
Here’s what I know. I know about comedy. I screamed at a kid today that he didn’t know funny because he didn’t like my idea.
I also figured out that comedy lives in my shoulder. Know how I know that? Because I have severe stabbing pains in my shoulder that I thought were caused by poor weightlifting technique. Cuyler said it’s ’cause my funnybone is in the wrong place. Then I realized that he was wrong. Know why? Because my funnybone is SO precise that it grew all the way up my tibia or whatever and pierced my rotator cuff tendon or whatever it’s called. How come it did that? Because I have funny IN my bones now, where most people have just one, separate bone.
Happy Birthday, Kaspar Hauser
Happy Birthday, Kaspar Hauser
There you stand,A monkey in culottes.
You foraged for fruit in the Black Forest
And shat in the brush
Ere we discovered you
A year ago today.
See the cheerful faces of the neighborhood children
and those of us from the university research facility
Who have come to celebrate the glorious day of your discovery -your deliverance from savage obscurity!
Remark how our eyes glow and our smiles beam
In birthday candlelight!
No, no Kaspar, you mustn't bite your party guests!
Mind that you use the fork!
Kaspar, dear boy, remove your penis from the table.You frighten the children.
There there.
It's so lovely when you're calm.
Let us raise our glasses to this little wonder
And toast to his approximately sixteen years of life(So far as we can glean from dental X-rays)We celebrate your progress
And pray that you soon acquire speech.
Little Kaspar.
Who would know that you, our rosebud in blue stockings,
This picture of Lutheran sweetness
Was weaned from the teat of a marmot?
Lo these two years since you came to us
You have become our wee man-child.(Please do not mount my leg while I'm speaking, Kaspar.)
Let us thank a power greater than ourselves
And the miracles of modern science!
For you, our feral boy, our marmot-man,
Are born anew in the chaste waters of Christendom.
The Almighty has brought you from the wilderness
And to the forest shall you never return.
There you stand,A monkey in culottes.
You foraged for fruit in the Black Forest
And shat in the brush
Ere we discovered you
A year ago today.
See the cheerful faces of the neighborhood children
and those of us from the university research facility
Who have come to celebrate the glorious day of your discovery -your deliverance from savage obscurity!
Remark how our eyes glow and our smiles beam
In birthday candlelight!
No, no Kaspar, you mustn't bite your party guests!
Mind that you use the fork!
Kaspar, dear boy, remove your penis from the table.You frighten the children.
There there.
It's so lovely when you're calm.
Let us raise our glasses to this little wonder
And toast to his approximately sixteen years of life(So far as we can glean from dental X-rays)We celebrate your progress
And pray that you soon acquire speech.
Little Kaspar.
Who would know that you, our rosebud in blue stockings,
This picture of Lutheran sweetness
Was weaned from the teat of a marmot?
Lo these two years since you came to us
You have become our wee man-child.(Please do not mount my leg while I'm speaking, Kaspar.)
Let us thank a power greater than ourselves
And the miracles of modern science!
For you, our feral boy, our marmot-man,
Are born anew in the chaste waters of Christendom.
The Almighty has brought you from the wilderness
And to the forest shall you never return.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
The Beautiful People
Why could we not avert our eyes from her? Was it because she beckoned? Or was there something else we longed for?By IAN BURUMA for Time
These words were penned in honor of an extraordinary woman who left the world in a state far better than she found it. Mother Teresa? No, silly. Diana Spencer.
In 1997, the world was set to mourning. Princess Diana died tragically while being pursued by pernicious paparazzi. Her coy countenance graced the covers of Vogue, Elle, and Time. Her death was followed not long after by the death of her favorite designer, Gianni Versace. After his murder, the world likewise felt its heart pull in the direction of glamour. New York City was just growing scar tissue over Audrey Hepburn's demise in 1993. The international beauty brigade couldn't deal with the shock of losing another icon.
So there was this other woman who perished in the summer of '97. Her name was Agnes Gonxha Bojaxhiu. This name doesn't so much roll off the tongue as stumble down on clumsy bear feet. She must have realized this and got herself a publicist, becoming a much easier-to-prounounce Mother Teresa. So why did she merit only a couple of lousy spreads in Newsweek and an obligatory mention in Time? Why didn't Vogue salute her as L'Ange des Enfants, the way it did Ms. Hepburn? Sure, she performed a miracle or whatever (something icky about a tumor). But she didn't try hard enough where it counts: Prettiness.
I understand - I guess - that missionary work in leper colonies doesn't leave a girl much time for her toilette, and Lord knows there must be a dearth of good dermatologists in Calcutta, but really. If she had really wanted this Sister of Charity thing to take off, she could have made herself a touch more camera-ready. Now, I don't know what a missionary packs in her Prada duffel, but I'll bet dollars to doughnuts that there's room for a Chanel lip gloss and a tub of La Mer moisturizer. She needed to come down to Earth and look at her predecessors: The Angelic Eyes of Joan D'Arc (doubtless she dabbed a bit of Great Lash on before those portraits were painted); Saint Bernadette, the ingenue; and, let us not forget, the Virgin Mary. She was at least in her forties when all those beatific portraits were done. (What did Mary know that Teresa didn't? Lighting, honey. It's EVERYthing.) There's a reason her beatification is taking so long - she's a tough PR sell.
So, again, let us not be befuddled at M.T.'s lack of post-mortem publicity. It was her own fault for not trying hard enough to be good-looking. If I could go back in time, I'd like to help her image with a few timely fashion spreads with Sting or Bono and gift her a facial peel. She could have had Comme des Garcons craft her a much more flattering habit, which would have done loads to ingratiate her with the right people. Who knows, maybe Elton John would have rewritten the lyrics to a song about her, as well as Di? (Alas, hindsight is 20/20.)
In our paths to greatness, let's be ever-aware of the importance of lighting, smiling, a few no-nonsense wardrobe staples, and a skincare regimen. Remember the immortal words of America's greatest living actor, George Hamilton (no stranger to the sun himself) in his finest cinematic hour as Zorro: The Gay Blade: "There is no shame in being poor: Only in dressing poorly."
These words were penned in honor of an extraordinary woman who left the world in a state far better than she found it. Mother Teresa? No, silly. Diana Spencer.
In 1997, the world was set to mourning. Princess Diana died tragically while being pursued by pernicious paparazzi. Her coy countenance graced the covers of Vogue, Elle, and Time. Her death was followed not long after by the death of her favorite designer, Gianni Versace. After his murder, the world likewise felt its heart pull in the direction of glamour. New York City was just growing scar tissue over Audrey Hepburn's demise in 1993. The international beauty brigade couldn't deal with the shock of losing another icon.
So there was this other woman who perished in the summer of '97. Her name was Agnes Gonxha Bojaxhiu. This name doesn't so much roll off the tongue as stumble down on clumsy bear feet. She must have realized this and got herself a publicist, becoming a much easier-to-prounounce Mother Teresa. So why did she merit only a couple of lousy spreads in Newsweek and an obligatory mention in Time? Why didn't Vogue salute her as L'Ange des Enfants, the way it did Ms. Hepburn? Sure, she performed a miracle or whatever (something icky about a tumor). But she didn't try hard enough where it counts: Prettiness.
I understand - I guess - that missionary work in leper colonies doesn't leave a girl much time for her toilette, and Lord knows there must be a dearth of good dermatologists in Calcutta, but really. If she had really wanted this Sister of Charity thing to take off, she could have made herself a touch more camera-ready. Now, I don't know what a missionary packs in her Prada duffel, but I'll bet dollars to doughnuts that there's room for a Chanel lip gloss and a tub of La Mer moisturizer. She needed to come down to Earth and look at her predecessors: The Angelic Eyes of Joan D'Arc (doubtless she dabbed a bit of Great Lash on before those portraits were painted); Saint Bernadette, the ingenue; and, let us not forget, the Virgin Mary. She was at least in her forties when all those beatific portraits were done. (What did Mary know that Teresa didn't? Lighting, honey. It's EVERYthing.) There's a reason her beatification is taking so long - she's a tough PR sell.
So, again, let us not be befuddled at M.T.'s lack of post-mortem publicity. It was her own fault for not trying hard enough to be good-looking. If I could go back in time, I'd like to help her image with a few timely fashion spreads with Sting or Bono and gift her a facial peel. She could have had Comme des Garcons craft her a much more flattering habit, which would have done loads to ingratiate her with the right people. Who knows, maybe Elton John would have rewritten the lyrics to a song about her, as well as Di? (Alas, hindsight is 20/20.)
In our paths to greatness, let's be ever-aware of the importance of lighting, smiling, a few no-nonsense wardrobe staples, and a skincare regimen. Remember the immortal words of America's greatest living actor, George Hamilton (no stranger to the sun himself) in his finest cinematic hour as Zorro: The Gay Blade: "There is no shame in being poor: Only in dressing poorly."
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