There's No Place Like Home

Scarecrow: "Well, some people without brains do an awful lot of talking, don't they?"

Wizard of Oz: "As for you, my galvanized friend, you want a heart. You don't know how lucky you are not to have one. Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable."

Tinman: "But I still want one. "

------
 My senior year of high school I was cast as Dorothy in our high school production of The Wizard of Oz.

It was an amazing experience on so many levels and I look back on that time as one of the best in my life.  And not just because of the show.  I was turning 18.  And I was anxiously waiting to hear from colleges.  It was during rehearsal for the show that I called home and found out I had gotten into Yale.  It was an exciting time.

Like most of the world, I had always loved The Wizard of Oz.  It was on television so much that it was just one of those movies that you just knew.   It had everything I loved -- the singing, the dancing, the classic battle of good vs. evil, humor, heart, soul, a very cute dog, and yes, some pretty hot shoes.

You can't see my ruby slippers here, but let me tell you, they were something.  $9.99 at Payless, then hours and hours of hot glue gun action and red sequins and glitter.

It was fun to be cast as the lead.  My tiny high school's musical theater program wasn't that robust -- I mean, we performed in what we called "the cafetorium."   Let's give a shout out to the multi-purpose room, shall we?  And let's face it, the overweight girl doesn't usually get cast as the romantic lead, which is generally the focal point most musicals are built around.

But it was fun being a part of something that we created together out of nothing (ahh the magic of theater), and yes, I liked being a little catered to.  I had a real dog for Toto who, when not peeing on me, would lick my face and pretend to love me at just the right moments.  Somehow my "ruby slippers" would disappear overnight - polished and stocked up with new "rubies" for the next show by a dedicated guidance counselor with a glue gun and, I'm sure, lots of coffee and patience.  I can see how "real" celebrities become divas.  I could get used to that kind of treatment.

The best Tin Man, Lion, and Scarecrow a girl ever had.

Riding on the high of this experience, I entered college thinking, hey, I might study acting -- something Yale, with a reputation for a strong theater program, prepared for by requiring anyone who was remotely thinking about pursuing a Theater Studies major to take a 101 class that quickly separated the serious and talented from, well, me, and those like me, who thought that, um, yeah, getting cast in a high school production meant that I was a star.  There were a lot of us who entered that class first semester who knew by semester's end (or, who am I kidding, the second week of class) that our glory days were over, and many of them are my closest friends to this day.  We still love all things theater - we just love it from our seats in the audience and not up onstage.

In truth, even though I have a flair for the dramatic, I'm not an actor.  And I was essentially cast as myself when I was cast as Dorothy -- as our director put it, "You ARE Dorothy."  I didn't understand what she meant then, but as I get older, I can see what she meant.

Growing up in a tiny hamlet, like Dorothy I always dreamed of getting out.  This wasn't true of everyone I grew up with, many of whom still live in our hometown.   I grew up in a place people spend their lives trying to get into -- one of the tiny towns which comprise the Hamptons.  Small town living yet relatively close to NYC, on the water, where many of the wealthiest people vacation, with some of the most gorgeous beaches in the world.  So, many of my peers stayed -- why leave a place so beautiful and coveted?

See what I mean?

But I always wanted out.  And not just because with skin as fair as mine I can't go to the beach without wearing body armor.  Even though I had a rich and robust experience growing up and lots of friends, good memories and a strong connection to my family, I always felt I was meant to be somewhere else.

Does this look like someone who belongs on the beach?

There was no question in my mind that, if I could afford it, I'd go away to college, and, I knew, ultimately, I'd end up in NYC.  Living outside NYC my whole life, it almost seemed inevitable that I'd live there -- close enough to family, but where the action was, so to speak, where all the opportunity was.

So it was off to college in New Haven, and then a two year stint in Boston where I was so miserable every day that I actually numbered a page a day calendar backward and counted down to the day that I was leaving.  Boston is a wonderful town with a lot of things going for it, but coming out of a college experience that I Ioved and heading into a city where I was forced to deal with the reality of living as an adult -- working full time, living in an apartment, commuting, keeping house, and well, supporting myself, it really had no chance.  The role of the villain will be played by ... the entire city of Boston.

Gone were the dozens of friends willing to chat at any hour and the limitless social opportunities, here were early mornings, deadlines, and bills.  Although I loved my job, it wasn't a happy time.

College -- beautiful Davenport.  If you look closely, you can see the ghost of me hammering out a paper on ye olde word processor.

So off to New York I went, joining many of my closest college friends and really, living within just a few blocks of the majority of them.  We were some of the early pioneers of the rediscovered Park Slope, Brooklyn when it was just beginning to be hip and wasn't currently THE place to live as it is now.  Things were different, in that we had responsibilities now, but similar enough, and there was comfort in proximity.  And my social circle expanded to many more people that I loved, even as it was rooted in the comfort of familiarity.

That was 1997.  I was 24.

Since then, many of my friends have left the city.  Some, for literally greener pastures like the suburbs of CT.  Others to cities and countries very unlike New York.  Some remain.  We don't see each other as much as we used to; some I don't see at all.

Gone is the free and easy social life where spontaneous plans came together on a moment's notice, as is the assumption that there's nobody else we'd rather spend time with than each other.  Enter reality and increased responsibilities.  Enter evolved priorities, politics, interests, interesting people.  Enter exhaustion and inertia.  Enter husbands, wives, children, mini-vans.  Some are settled down, some have families, some don't.  But somehow, all of our axes shifted, away from one another in varying degrees.

It would be sad if it weren't an age-old story; such is life.  Nothing stays the same.  But as the landscape changes, I ask myself, is this New York my New York?  Is this New York my home?  And if not, where is home?  And what does home mean exactly?

For most of my life, my true home was my family home on Long Island and in many ways it will always will be.  And with so many friends and loved ones here in the city, the actual space I lived in was immaterial.  So living in a one bedroom apartment with a lack of a truly homey feeling was just fine.  But, as I get older, and as friends shift away from one another, I find myself craving normalcy and comfort, ease and familiarity -- things that New York both has in spades and doesn't possess at all.  I find myself coveting basic things like a washer and a dryer, or a car, or dare to dream, a second bathroom.

Although it's big enough space physically, I get emotionally claustrophobic in my apartment - my big dreams penned in by the reality of New York real estate and the awareness that I couldn't afford anything much better here unless I am willing to sacrifice in any number of ways that I feel I shouldn't have to - location, size, add roommates, etc.  But who wants to go backward at any age when I feel like I should be going forward?

Unlike a lot of die hard New Yorkers, I don't love New York.  Sure, there are days when I love living here and having access to theater, culture, and experiences you can't find anywhere else.  And the ease and freedom of it is nice - being able to walk, especially in my neighborhood, and find essentially anything you want or need, at essentially any time of the day or night.

But it's also noisy and dirty and crowded and loud and hectic.  Peace can be hard to come by.   The subway is both miraculous and awful - miraculous that you can get anywhere in the city for $2.25, and awful that you are so close to your fellow riders that you can tell their brand of deodorant, or worse, if they're not wearing any at all.  The walls of my apartment shake like an earthquake when my upstairs neighbor burps too loud, and I get first degree burns every time I'm in the shower and someone flushes their toilet.

All of that somehow seemed ok in 1997, but now, not so much.  And I'm left wondering what home looks like for me.  With so many of those I love most scattered like marbles, home isn't as easy to identify.  If I click my heels three times, where will I end up?  Will it be right here in my one bedroom apartment?  Back home on Long Island?  Or somewhere I never dreamed of?

Is home constant and steady and reassuring or always evolving?  Is it a mindset or a place?  Is home where those I love are or where I am?

Some days I think about packing up everything I own, and well, giving most of it away.   I spent a lot of years acquiring stuff (read: junk), and now I think, for what purpose?  And maybe then I'll see where the road leads -- not that I'm going to be a wandering traveler, but just pull up roots for awhile until I decide where to put them down.

But until I figure it out, I'll invest in some Purel for the subway and maybe leave a canister of Tums as an anonymous gift for my neighbor.  All of that dashing away from the scalding hot shower spray is building my coordination and reaction time so I'll be ready when it's time for my big move -- whether it's down the hall or across the country.

All I need are some hot red shoes.

"Who me?  I'm not a witch at all."

Who's on First?

I think I broke my therapist.

Let me explain.

I recently started therapy again after unceremoniously quitting last summer.  I never really clicked with the original therapist I started seeing last January after my head injury.  I left each session more stressed out and anxious than I had arrived, largely, I'm sure, due to me and being closed off to therapy, and not her.  The old, "It's not you, it's me," was definitely true in that case, but long story short, it wasn't working.

I started back up this January (trend?) when I realized all of the things that I had been feeling a little cray cray about were popping up again and thought maybe I'd have better luck with someone else.  Happily, we click in a much better way -- she talks more, which in turn makes ME want to talk more, because there's nothing I like more than cutting people off and interrupting them.  And she uses complementary therapies like yoga, qi gong, and meditation, all of which I love because they give me tools for my little toolkit of "How I Can Help Fix Myself When My Mind Goes Bananas."  Perfect for someone who hates asking for help and who likes to think she knows it all.  Love.

So, after a few weeks of gently easing her into my crazy, without even planning it, I just let 'er rip:

"Is this it?  I mean, is this all there is?

And I mean, maybe this is all there is, or maybe this isn't all there is.

Maybe I deserve more, but I don't know what that is, but maybe I don't deserve more because who am I to deserve more than anyone else and maybe there isn't anything else anyway and maybe really it's not about having more or something different but accepting what you have and being happy with it.   But I don't want to just accept what I have if I really should have more, you know?

So I guess what I'm asking is, how do I tell the difference?"

Or, perhaps Whitney Houston said it best when she asked, "How Will I Know?"

It was the psychotherapy equivalent of "Who's on first?"

And, unfortunately for her, since I speak a mile a minute, I essentially only burned through 47 seconds with all of that so she couldn't even say, "That's all for today, thanks for playing."

To her extreme credit, she didn't try to answer what really are unanswerable questions but she try to help me through them with a doozy question of her own:

"Well, are you happy?  And if not, when were you last happy?"

I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with the term.  Happy?  I'm not sure what that is.  Sure, I have moments of happiness and sadness, and love and indifference, and kindness and cruelty, and peace and worry, and hope and despair, and connection and isolation.  But happy as a full-time state?  As in, all the time?  Hmmm.  Does that, like, happen for people?  I mean, I live in New York City, I'm not sure that's a characteristic I've seen native to this environment.  Maybe I saw it once when I saw ANNIE on Broadway and once at Chili's during half-priced happy hour.  Do I need to go to Iowa to see it or do they have it in the Bronx Zoo?

Oh wait, yeah, I was happy that one time -- no, wait, sorry, I just got myself confused with someone else there for a second.  I was thinking of Liz Lemon and 30 Rock.

Like Prince Charles said when he was asked if he was in love with his new fiancee Diana Spencer, "Whatever in love means."  Whatever "happy" means, sure, yes, I guess so.

Ask again later.

I've never been a fan of asking questions that don't have clear cut answers.  Too messy, what's the point?  Just keep your head down and keep moving forward.

And I'm not sure why these questions popped up today -- maybe it's that February has been the longest shortest month, maybe it's turning 40 shortly, maybe I just wanted to see someone's head explode in real life, I'm not sure.

My people, and by "people" I mean both the Irish and Long Islanders, are not a particularly, shall I say, "sunny" lot.  They are always on high alert for the black cloud.  Thar she blows again, the winds of bad luck.   You'll pay penance for any stroke of good fortune with something disproportionately nasty down the line.   And don't even think about keeping that dollar you found on the ground.  You WILL get struck by lightning.  Don't get too comfortable.   Don't get too smug; God will wipe that smile right off your face.  This won't last.  Hoard the potatoes.  Kids are starving somewhere.  People have real problems.

All of that's well and good.  By no means do I have a bad life.  And many, many, many people in this world are worse off.  But is it so wrong to want more?  And if not more, different?

The problem is, if you're used to living life waiting for the other shoe to drop, maybe the more that you need is simply to accept that the other shoe WILL drop, so you just have to enjoy all the days in between.

So, maybe the better question is, "Which comes first?  The chicken or the egg?"  Does happiness come when you realize you have everything you need as it is now?  Or does it come when you look around and say, "This isn't all there is and I am going to make a change (or ten)."

Don't look at me.  I asked you first.

Damned if I know.

But I'm beginning to think you have to find out who's on first to help figure out what's on second, especially when I don't know's on third.

All I can hope is that Hugh Jackman's at home plate.

A girl can dream, right?

Carry That Weight

So many people have weighed in (no pun intended) on the Rex Reed-Melissa McCarthy situation.  Old news, I know, but, candidly, I was debating whether to add my voice to the fray, but, in the end, we all know I just have to have my say, so here it is.

For those who might have missed it, or have forgotten, essentially Rex Reed used a good portion of his review of the recent (I can't in good faith call it "new" anymore given the lateness of this piece) Melissa McCarthy-Jason Bateman movie, Identify Theft, to make negative comments on Melissa's weight, calling her a "female hippo" and "tractor-sized."

I know:  Way to stay classy, Rex.

And I know:  Old news.

In a follow-up interview, Rex went on to accidentally call Melissa McCarthy "Melissa Manchester," which shows you what decade he's stuck in.  Don't cry out loud ... He's so irrelevant, I say with no meanspiritedness, that I thought he was already dead.  Good for you, being alive, Rex.  But anyway, Rex claims in said interview, "I have too many friends that have died of obesity-related illnesses, heart problems and diabetes. … I have helped people try to lose weight, and I don't find this to be the subject of a lot of humor," Reed said.

Yeah, neither does Melissa McCarthy, or any overweight person for that matter.  So what exactly what was his intention?

I'm supposing that Rex is showing his overweight friends some love and helping them lose weight by calling them tractor-sized also?  Nothing says I love you and care for you than calling someone a hippo.  And nothing is more motivating than verbal abuse.   Too bad Valentine's Day has come and gone; I'm sure Rex could have a whole line of Valentine's Day ideas - perhaps a chocolate heart that says, "Eat Me, Fat Pig?"  "Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but here's my number so call me tractor-sized..."

Now, Melissa McCarthy is overweight.  And yes, she knows it.  It's her business not anyone else's.  And, if, as Rex says, she's made a career of playing overweight characters, good for her, that's her choice, and frankly, none of my business.  Given that weight discrimination is rampant in this country, she's probably one of a handful of people making money off her weight.  But in this country, we vote with money, and if there's anyone out there who thinks she is too "unhealthy" and they don't want to encourage her, they don't have to see her movies.

And let me be straight:  I am not advocating that people be overweight.  On the contrary, as someone who has been overweight 35 of my 40 years, I don't recommend it.   But why do we judge overweight people so harshly?  What is it about them that irks us so much?  Why can't we just let them be?  I guarantee they are aware they are overweight and are struggling -- maybe they've come to accept and love their bodies as they are, and that's their business, not ours.  Sure, there are people who are genuinely concerned about their loved one's health and well-being when they're fat -- I get that, but that's not what's fueling most of the fat discrimination out there and the negative comments.  In fact, research has shown that criticism has the opposite effect on those struggling with their weight.

Every day I'm on Facebook, a community of roughly 400 of my friends, loved ones, and random people I've met in various circumstances.  Most of them I'd be able to pick out of a line-up.  And every day at least one of them calls someone fat as a disparaging remark, or makes a joke at a fat person's expense.

And every time, I cringe.  Because, again, as an overweight person, what I immediately think is, "What do they think of me?"

If this seems a bit deja vu, I've blogged a bit about this before.

You can't hide being fat.  It's out there for the world to see.  As much as I'd like to think that people don't see it, they do.  I've lost 65 lbs in the past few years but I am still far from thin, and I am still far from accepting my body as it is.  And I fear that I may never accept my body.  I am a perfectionist and highly critical of myself and I can almost guarantee that my weight will always be something I'm unhappy with, as much as I wish that weren't so.

I have never been one of those people who is happy with my body overweight.  It just didn't -- it just doesn't -- feel right to me.  I feel that my heavy body weighs me down and betrays my energetic spirit.   And I feel judged.  I have a lot of energy and stamina -- I'm often the first person up and the last one standing.  But I'm sure people would look at me and think the opposite.  That bothers me.  I don't want to be judged on what I weigh.   Love me, hate me -- but make it for a good reason, not because of my dress size.  There are plenty of things to love and hate about me -- you don't need to make that decision based upon my weight.

So when I see or hear a friend make a fat joke, it breaks my heart a little.   First, I wonder if they're that shallow that they are judging ME on my weight.  And if you aren't, and I'm more to you than that, shouldn't others be granted the same courtesy?   If you can see beyond my weight, can't you do the same for others to see their heart and soul and personality and intelligence and humor and worth?  Their humanity?

Then I get offended because I think any friend of mine should have a little more in their arsenal than fat jokes/comments-- can't you be a little more clever than stating the obvious, i.e. making a comment about something the world can see?   Don't you have anything more to add than that?  Any humor?  Insight?  Commentary?  And if a person is truly terrible, seriously is the worst thing about them their weight?  As I've said about Chris Christie, if you have an opinion of him, have it be an informed opinion about his politics and views, not the size of his fleece.

But mostly, these comments just hurt.  I can't hear someone being talked about in a negative way in regards to their weight without feeling it -- because I'm fat too.  The comment applies also to me.  It's like, physics, or something.  A universal truth.  Fat is fat.

And even comments less severe than Rex's -- comments about Lena Dunham's body or Kate Upton's.  They still sting.  How can an average person accept his or her body as it is with this kind of dialogue happening constantly?  PS, I wish that Lena Dunham would put clothes on, but not because she doesn't have a perfect body.  I just don't think it personally adds anything anymore -- point taken.

Being overweight in a thin-obsessed world, you learn to swallow the hurt when people make comments and jokes.  Sometimes you make them yourself  -- they're practically guaranteed to get a laugh -- and feel ashamed.   Doing so betrays yourself and those who share your struggle.

I wonder how Rex Reed's overweight friends (that he claims to have, kinda sounds like, "Some of my best friends are black, I mean, fat.") felt when they read that review.  I'm sure they weren't proud.  I'm sure they didn't feel good. I'm sure they hurt a bit deep down in that place of their heart that has scabbed over from one too many comments.  And I hope at least one of them had some choice words for him to help him understand why his words were so biting.

Just because someone may be taking up more space in the world doesn't give us the right to comment on it.  Melissa McCarthy's body is her body and none of our business.

I'm not here to preach, although I know it sure sounds like it, mainly because writing in this tone is helping me conceal the hurt I feel from a lifetime of dealing with this.  Comments, stares, well-meaning and well-intentioned "advice."   My favorite piece of advice comes from my grandmother, who, when I was 16, recommended that I not buy any additional clothing until I was "thin."  Thankfully I didn't listen because nudity is not acceptable in the workplace, at Barry Manilow concerts, or at Starbucks.  And it's questionable on the subway.

I guess all I'm trying to say is, I just invite everyone to just think twice -- before making a comment about anyone's body or weight -- fat, thin, in between -- think of them as a person first, and let that be your guide. And if that doesn't work, ask yourself "What would Rex Reed do?"

And then do the opposite.

(Anyone care to help me down from this soapbox?  It's a long way down and I'm not wearing my helmet...)