Author Archives: Britt

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About Britt

A white girl in an Asian family... with a bit about breast cancer, flowers, Belief, and a deep love of champagne.

A new kind of awareness

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Today, this made a lot of people really happy.

I’m in awe. I want to meet her and hug her and be her (millionth) best friend. Look at her all adorable and smiling sunbeams and effectively preventing everyone in that room from crying! But I’ll bet you a Beyonce hair extension that tears flowed after the camera stopped and anesthesia started. A woman this spectacular is a woman adored. And no one wants what happens next to happen next. To anyone. To her. In addition to the millions who “like” this, there are thousands more sobbing atop their restructured parts (please pass me a tissue).

Roughly one in eight of us is thrilled October and all its yammering awareness is over. After Halloween, we were relieved that daily reminders of our personal demons had stopped polluting our newsfeeds, and tote bags, and cereal boxes. I wonder if, like me, they watched this gem of a video and thought, “This. This is ‘awareness.’” A beautiful, groovy gal in a backless gown shows us one way to plow through the terror of it all: with love… and a bit of Beyonce.

I’ve been quite vocal about championing Angelina Jolie for her spotlight on breast reconstruction after mastectomy. She brought awareness to the triumph of reconstructive surgery over devastating mutilation. Famous for being stunning before and after her mastectomies, she provides compelling evidence to women with this distressing diagnosis that the road to recovery isn’t necessarily the autobahn to ugly. Bravely sharing the nitty gritty of her medical treatments, she effectively outlined what women should expect as a “standard of care” faster than any number of 5K runners in tight, pink clothing. Today, I applaud Dr. Deborah Cohan for putting a groovy spin on awareness, for showing us the triumph of spirit over fear.

I hope today’s viral, feel-good story will be famous for longer, and for so much more than her johnnie jamboree. Deborah Cohan hijacked “awareness” like a John Malkovich movie cameo, showing us it can be quirky and cool. (For all of the good they do, Komen has become a bit of a Kardashian.) Don’t you want to know Dr. Cohan and her fun bunch of boogying buddies? What a gift to the people who love her: to show them joy when they feel dread, to give them Beyonce when they’re expecting dirges, to share herself (with the world!) when they (we!) need to know desperately that this isn’t breaking her. While I’m preoccupied with Pink-tober backlash rants, here is this brave woman reminding us of the big picture in a tiny space. She marshaled six minutes on the scariest day of her life to show everyone who loves her that she knows she’s loved, that joyfulness hasn’t died with this diagnosis, that it’s going to be OK. And in our hearts, we’re all dancing with her.

Big Shot Jerk Face (or, how I met my husband)

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It’s the first day of my surgery rotation, third year of medical school. I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing, so I focus on the easy stuff: looking pretty and being on time. Boosting my first impression seems important since I cannot remember where the electrolytes belong on those stick figure scaffolds or any of the branches off of the mesenteric artery. Only a few weeks prior, I became Dr. Stockton, defending my PhD dissertation in front of my parents, an entire Immunology department, devoted friends who will endure 79 slides about a cell surface molecule, and a (recently ex-) boyfriend. I was A Smart Girl, searchable on PubMed, and could talk to the field experts without hair flipping or reproach. But there were two years of clinical rotations to complete before gradation; and after a four-year hiatus of mouse murdering and futile, ring-less dating, I was rusty.

I set the alarm for 4:30am, blew out my hair, and channeled my best Bond Girl Goes to Medical School. One could reasonably assume that this getup was enduring an extended tour from an evening of bad decisions, but that didn’t occur to mid-twenties me. I looked good. Also, I needed the confidence of little dress/tall boots to endure impossible questions–a sort of medical hazing known as “pimping”– from a group of doctors who had only ever been described to me as assholes. Surgeons have a reputation (especially among the nerdy, PhD set) for being jerks: over-confident-frat-boy-cowboy-old-school-chauvinistic jerks. I had been warned, and I’ll admit to the disappointed sighs of my feminist sisters that I dressed to appeal to that demographic. It was still dark when I located the right floor and found a sleepy intern to tell me what to do. An hour later, I had collected the overnight vital signs of every patient on the service.

The Chief Resident arrived at 6am with a few other blue-pajammied underlings in tow. They were a sniggering bunch of inside joke-swappers; their swagger intimidated and annoyed me. Blech. I’d never catch up with these gunner medical students who could spew correct answers like the names of their own children. I had forgotten everything I’d learned five years ago in Gross Anatomy, and I had no desire to memorize minutia to impress physicians in a specialty I certainly never intended to join. Clutching my notecards with their teeny documentation of temperatures and urine outputs, I braced myself for the upcoming twelve weeks of sleep-deprived grunt work and public mockery.

The third year resident appeared to be in charge of rounds, and led the gaggle of us into each dark room to awaken the post-surgical patients, barking orders at the intern for dressing changes, scans, labs, or discharge plans. Occasionally he’d regard the medical students with distracted disdain, and assign us mundane tasks with subtle assurances that somehow we’d fuck it up. The Chief filed in behind us in his unstained white coat, paying more attention to his coffee than the plans for the day. He spoke quietly and infrequently, but his offhand remarks elicited smirks from the residents within earshot. I didn’t actually hear him speak until it was my turn to present a patient.

He didn’t interrupt me right away. I thought I was doing a bang up job, yammering away about temperature spikes and heart rates and drain outputs just like the students before me had done outside their patients’ doors. But he stopped me mid-sentence…

“Stand up straight when you’re presenting a patient to me.”

I was leaning against the wall. I was also desperately trying to finish my little speech about the overnight events of a patient I had never met so I could disappear again from their notice and questions. But Big Shot Jerk Face made me re-start my presentation from the beginning to the smug delight and grateful relief of my fellow classmates. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl, I thought. I had committed a grave error in sartorial judgment. Pants-with-clogs ponytail girl got through her morning report with absolutely no hassle at all.

Later that day, Big Shot Jerk Face sat down across from me in the cafeteria. The other medical students had already raced off to compete for space at the carotid artery aneurysm repair, but Big Shot Jerk Face implied that there was no rush and started being nice to me, explaining his reaction to my wall-leaning insolence was a common prank on Day 1 of a rotation. I was relieved that such a blatant example of asshole-ry was only a joke, less happy to be the butt of it. Big Shot insisted I follow him into the next case, and then his next one, where I began to notice that the attending surgeon was letting Big Shot do all of the sewing, and the nurses were happy to see him (if not blatantly flirting with him). Suddenly, surgery seemed interesting.

…

How many of you fell in love during medical school?

How many of you fell in love during medical school?

A Halloween Story

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Almost every morning I escort backpacked boys to the bus stop, and then race to ballet class. I love the effect all of that tuck, lift, stretch, and burn is having on my hormone-ravaged parts. (Tamoxifen should be every bit as delicious as a 3 Musketeers for all the damage it does to a midriff.) But, barre class begins a rather exact number of minutes after bus stop child disposal, leaving very little wiggle room to snag one of the unmetered parking spaces coveted by lululemon-clad women in legwarmers. We’re happy to shell out $20 per class for a flat belly, but it’s that much sweeter to save the buck on parking. Today I congratulated myself on my good fortune as I backed my car into the choicest spot that didn’t require quarters, then skipped into the studio, blissfully unaware that someone was trying to kill me.

On Thursdays, Leslie and I usually sneak out of barre early and race over to Bible Study. Today we decided to be late, because it feels rude to sneak out early, and Jesus appreciates a girl with a great ass. (Having established that Bible study-attending Churchy types can be irreverent as well as shapely, I’ll put in my usual plug for Thursday morning women’s Bible Study at the Redeemer.) Hopping into my SUV with my still-shaky legs, I turned the key in the ignition and… nothing. I flagged down Leslie and said within earshot of my would-be assassin that I’d leave the dead car in the lot and call AAA after circle time with Jesus.

AAA, for all its economy and convenience, isn’t always the swiftest champion for a damsel in distress. I spent three hours in a parking lot using my almost toned arms to pull on the steering wheel to get the column to unlock. Nothing. The key refused to turn for me, or for AAA hero #1–who was more interested in my ability to plié and do splits than figuring out why the car wouldn’t start. When fate requires you to depend on the kindness of burly men in vans, it’s better if your outfit leaves a bit more to the imagination. But I’d just returned from Bible Study, so in my these-people-in-my-path-for-a-reason frame of mind, I learned that his sister is battling cancer and we had a bit of prayer-share bonding before he told me to call a tow truck. It took another hour for AAA hero #2 to interrupt my shameless Facebook trolling for amusement. Four updates and fifteen comments later, adorable AAA hero #2 arrived, took my keys, and started the car on his first try.

Three hours of frustrated attempts to unlock the steering column so abruptly remedied made me go all Elaine-from-Seinfeld on him. I actually pushed him with an incredulous “how did you DO that?” Of course, having been blonde my entire life, I’m accustomed to these situations… it’s why we have such a bad rap. Proving in three minutes that there was absolutely nothing wrong with my car, he kindly suggested I get the ignition checked anyway. But as I exited the parking lot, my window wouldn’t close. The dashboard went dark. There was a weird rubbing noise that sounded like an expensive problem, so I backed up and told cute AAA boy that I was scared to drive with the noise and wonky computer. He sat down in the driver’s seat and closed the window without provocation before loading blondie’s gigantic, totally functional car onto the flat bed.

It wasn’t until we got to the garage that AAA cutie noticed one of my tires was hanging on with only one bolt. “Where are the other bolts?” he asked as if I use them for sundry art projects and forget to replace them afterwards. Unable to account for four missing bolts that require large, iron tools to remove, it was determined that this was a failed theft. But instead of leaving my Volvo propped up on milk crates, the criminal left me with a car that would have lost its tire as soon as I hit the parkway.

“God is looking out for you, Britt.”

That was the only explanation from my mechanic. He just called. There is absolutely nothing wrong with the steering column. Nothing. The only thing he’s certain about is that driving a car with one tire bolt would have spelled disaster… disaster that was diverted by a car that wouldn’t start. My completely functional car now sports four tire locks, and I’m safe at home in my Cinderella costume. The murderous thief is still out there… but apparently I have a guardian angel.

I've wanted this costume for years... and a failed murder attempt won't stop me from enjoying it!!

I’ve wanted this costume for years… and a failed murder attempt won’t stop me from enjoying it!!

Stay safe, friends.

The House with the Full Size Bars

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We’re the house with the full size bars. Handing out gigantic wrapped chocolates is a Stockton Family tradition that is rewarded with wide-eyed appreciation of small spidermen and princesses, and keeps teenagers from egging the house. Also, stocking the home with enormous candy bars is, at least for me, an obstacle from eating them. I could easily consume my own weight in two-bite, fun size 3 Musketeers increments. Much like drinking wine at the catered party, where the glass is perpetually filled and the count becomes fuzzy, I’ll conveniently forget how many breaks I took with tiny Kit Kats. It takes an extraordinary number of bite size Snickers to satisfy me. But unwrapping a full bar? That’s too obvious a sin to commit.

Brodie has asked to be the door greeter/candy bar distributor this year. My ten year old is approaching the holiday with I’m-too-old-for-that disdain. This saddens me. Our smallish neighborhood with far too many darkened doorsteps of elderlies who don’t want to be bothered hasn’t provided the spooky fun spoils every kid deserves. I loved Halloween as a kid: forcing down Mom’s healthy meal in advance of the anticipated pillow case of junk, waiting forever and ever for Dad to get home (when did he say he’d be here, Mom? Is he coming? Did he call? IT’S GETTING DARK!!!), unsuccessfully refusing the warm coat over the plastic-y costume, and finally rushing out into the shadowy streets with the promise of free candy.

I’m fairly certain my Dad initiated the Trick or Drinking tradition in our neighborhood. He and the other un-costumed fathers stood at the curb with their clinking glasses of vodka and scotch and approached for refills at houses where I guess they knew a “Trick or Drink!” appeal would be honored. After the pillow cases were heavy, we all landed in someone’s family room to sort and swap while the grown ups drained their lowballs and forgot it was a school night. The next day, the city kids bragging about their absurdly large spoils from many floors of closely spaced apartment doors sounded like cheating to us. Halloween happens in the dark; and it’s a little tiring, a little chilly, a little scary, a little magical.

I’m hoping for an eleventh hour change of heart from Brodie—that he’ll swap his indifference for a ninja costume and head out into the night with his little brother and Bernie. I’m hoping that the whole romantic notion of unlimited sweets and a flexible bedtime is too alluring to keep a ten year old boy at home to tend a bowl of big candy bars. Though I love Brodie’s maturity and “old soul” approach to the world, I don’t want him to miss the fleeting fun of Halloween– a precious time of goofy, sugar-fueled excitement coupled to the safe feeling of Dads at curbs and neighborly fellowship. I want at least one more year for him to collect his own Halloween memories, and sort his spoils while discussing the ethics of the just-take-one bowl and why anyone gives out pretzels.

I’d like to think our address is included on the trick-or-treating route, as well as in the catalog of Halloween stories, for any number of teeny Harry Potters. We’re the house with the full size bars! And if you show up with less than two fingers in your lowball, you can totally count on the Lee house for a Trick or Drink pour. Happy Halloween, friends. Go make some memories.

Look at all of that fluffy goodness...

Look at all of that fluffy goodness…

A love letter to baseball, by Steve Safran

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Many of us are feeling the nostalgia-twinged excitement tonight. Go, Sox!

Mom didn’t expect to see herself on the bright, new, hi-def Enormo-tron overlooking 36,000 people. None of us had ever been on Fenway Park’s big screen before. But there we were, enormously memorialized during Game One of the 2013 American League Division Series. How many lucky guys can boast attendance at this game, accompanied by the parents who birthed him into this great (Red Sox) Nation? Me. I can. Look at us.

Dad, Mom, her nose, and me

Dad, Mom, her Band Aid, and me

Mom wishes she’d timed the nose-mole removal a little better, since now her Band-Aid schnoz is captured forever, both here and on the JumboTron. We’re too superstitious to have arrogantly assumed this game would foretell future pennant grabbings. But now, my childhood team of bearded heroes is headed to the World Series, and the Jumbotron still of me, my parents, and one of my oldest friends gains even more sentimental cache. Also, superstition dictates that Mom cannot remove the Band Aid until this wraps up in November.

At the risk of having a puck hurled at my head, I’m partial to baseball over other popular sports in these parts. Playoffs in basketball and hockey are interminable. They’re playing when you file your taxes, hunt for eggs, and plan brunch for Mom… and they’re still at it when you put out the patio furniture and buy socks for Dad. That’s not a playoff system– that’s three entirely different cute kitties on the calendar. Baseball? Lose three out of five and you’re gone. And I’ve been to some magical nights at Fenway. As Humphrey Bogart once said “A hot dog at the ballpark beats a steak at the Ritz.” A bad night at the park–with the parking ticket and the drunk asshole and the Sox breaking our hearts–that’s still a damn good night.

A life-long love affair with the Red Sox, fostered by their parents, and shared with their best friends is a significant part what makes Bostonians of all ilk high five in the streets and feel Boston Strong. And tonight, on the eve of the first night of the World Series, I’m writing a love note to the Red Sox, to Fenway… to Baseball.

Dear Baseball,

I saw your gorgeous, green Fenway field for the first time in 1975– the very year the Red Sox came thisclose to winning the World Series in what is agreed to be one of the great Fall Classics. I was the seven year-old boy who cried when Fred Lynn crashed into the wall in Game Six, so worried for my idol that I sobbed myself to sleep that night. There was something about Carlton Fisk, and I missed the rest of the game, but Dad has his I-was-there story for all time.

That home run I hit in Little League in 1979? That cemented our bond, baseball. Maybe it was a grounder that went through the shortstop’s legs, allowing me to scoot from one base to another in a comical series of bad throws. Never mind all that. It was a Home Run, with merit trophy proof of my commitment to you… even if it was for coming in second.

I dozed off every summer night to announcers calling your plays on AM radio. Stu loved you as much as I did, and took me to game after game—a childhood relationship chronicled in Fenway ticket stubs. So I know you were sad, too, when it happened, losing one of your purist fans on September 11th when I lost my best friend.  After that we became even closer, baseball. Your games took on new meaning—weightier and urgent– as I root hard enough for the both of us.

A love note to you inevitably includes a family history of heartbreaks. Papa was a Boston Braves fan who was 20 when Babe Ruth played his final, sad year on the club. Dad once left a game early with his father, only to see a Ted Williams homer sail over his head as they walked behind the Green Monster. And me? Well, I died a little in 1978, 1986, and 2003. But then, in 2004, you rewarded us for our faith in you. (Because we know you love the Sox, too.)

Passing on our passion for you to our children is like a covenant in this town. My middle son was born in the fourth inning of a Sox game in 1998. I held him and explained your rules… starting in the sixth. Appreciating the subtleties of baseball, I told him, is a lifetime commitment. Baseball, you are the great imitator of life, providing the perfect proverb for my kids: though you may fail most of the time, you will still be a hero as long as you stay at the plate.

“How can you not get romantic about baseball?”  asked Billy Beane, echoing our feelings exactly. You are our shared history, our shared hot dogs, our shared disappointment, and tonight, our shared excitement. You’ve provided the venue for me to bond with my family, reminisce, enjoy new friendships, honor old ones, and drink an immoderate amount of beer. But you are a fickle lover, baseball, and I won’t implore you to bless our Sox tonight. We’ve got this covered. We’re Boston Strong. And Mom’s still wearing that Band Aid.

With great love, and a Pedroia jersey,

Steve

Your baby is totally flirting with me

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Rants are all the rage in the blogging world. From “open letters” to pet peevish posts punctuated with angry bullet points, these writers are fuming, and it’s something you are doing wrong. Of course, a proper rant is as satisfying as a Snickers® if you’re nodding right along with the writer. To wit, in honor of Pink-tober, Lisa Boncheck Adams reissued her angry plea to end kitschy Facebook postings that annoy us in the name of “awareness.” (The 99% who won’t repost are my kind of people.) Because my feathers don’t ruffle easily, I want this style to be wicked funny (better yet, satirical), or I read only whiny, self-indulgent, holier-than-thou foolishness.

If you are a ravenous reader of rants, you’ve noticed that the Internet has hijacked the word “feminism” in order to write angry essays about all sorts of things. When a 24-year-old Australian blogger took a crack at Feminism, and his young, thoughtful female readers chimed in with “I’m not a feminist, but…” comments, I couldn’t keep my meddling fingers from the keyboard. Doesn’t everyone know that the definition of feminism is a belief in the equality of the sexes? That’s it. Full stop. If you think women and men deserve equal rights and pay and access and accountability, then you are a feminist. (Yup, that’s you. Go get your bumper stickers.) All sensible and caring humans are feminists.

But after reading a ridiculous rant today, I see a glimmer of why sensible and caring people might shy away from the term instead of embracing it with pride. Occasionally, “feminist culture” has one too many Chardonnays and permits a dogged McCarthyism to unearth slights and inequalities in innocuous settings. Tagged with feminism! and gender this was published today on the always entertaining Belle Jar. A proud, but irritated mother of three absurdly attractive children doesn’t want you to compliment them. Seriously. She wants none of your inappropriate cooing about her diapered “heartbreaker.” She doesn’t want you to “warn” her that her son won’t be able to fight off the ladies. And when her Disney cute child aims a gassy grin your way, she doesn’t want to hear “he’s flirting!” Because apparently babies aren’t sexual creatures designed to seduce. Aaargh! I’M SO MAD THAT MY CHILDREN ARE BEAUTIFUL AND YOU ONLY HAVE COMPLIMENTS FROM 1965!

Taking offense at well-intentioned grandma praises is almost as silly as writing an essay about the downsides of financial security. I’m assuming future guest posts will tackle injustices against the naturally thin. Blessed with gorgeous, healthy children this mom can only suffer the right brand of compliments? A thread of supportive comments suggests there are plenty of sensitive moms who don’t think this is as silly as I do, but instead are aghast when someone wants to nibble Matty’s fat little toes. I imagine all of them sewing small burqas to shield gorgeous children from gender-role stifling compliments of evil anti-feminists. But telling someone in the checkout line that her baby is “delicious” is lovely, goddamit. There is NO OTHER WAY to receive this aside from, “thank you” or “I know, right? I just want to bite him!” The compliment may be trite or old-fashioned, but it’s a kindness from a stranger and should be paid forward with something much, much better than a rant about how not to say nice things about a baby.

And sure, we know what she’s getting at… after all, we’re all feminists (see paragraph 2). And language used thoughtlessly can certainly feed all sorts of stereotypes we would like to obliterate. But, if your children elicit these responses regularly enough to rally a rant against them, then you are throwing that cute baby out with the politically incorrect bathwater. Have the self-awareness to realize the world’s appreciation for your stunning children might not be knicker-bunch-worthy. Acknowledge a sincere kindness–hell, even a passing and corny kindness– as just that. And when we recognize the beauty of a child, this is not a willful neglect of his other traits, or a condemnation of all un-pretty babies (which do not exist, anyway).

Me, I’m much more concerned about why Suzie won’t be encouraged to pursue astrophysics. And if you want to compliment my boys on their cuteness and future prom date fitness, fire away. I’m going to thank you, and agree with you, and pour you a Prosecco.

My boys when little... big time flirts

My boys when little… big time flirts

Writing to be liked

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My college application essay probably sucked. I cringe at what teenage Britt included on one sheet of dot matrix. No doubt I dragged my gymnastic and typing accomplishments into an argument for personal betterment. (And what prestigious university isn’t recruiting self absorbed, inter-office-memo-drafting cart-wheelers?) No doubt the essay was very serious and heroically boring. But at the blue eye-shadowed age of 17, nothing had happened yet. Anything worth recounting in five sassy paragraphs was far off in my mammogrammed future amongst Asians, so I probably typed the usual drivel that drives admissions staff to an early and generous pour of single malt. Recently, a lovely and accomplished high school senior asked me to take a crack at her college essay. And because it wasn’t me who needed to impress some faraway grownup with a red pen, I transformed into a charming, competitive-swimming diabetic fluent in French. Je suis tres amusant avec une pompe de insulin sous ma lingerie! It was super fun.

Sometimes this is how the best writing happens: ignore any assumptions about the audience, and write for the sheer joy of it. Jenny Polk, an old friend with thousands of Twitter followers, wrote to me, “I would never have the guts to say f**k in my posts!” Presumably, that’s because her mother-in-law is a follower. I think potty mouth has all but lost its shock value, and the f-bomb sometimes provides the perfect staccato for an angry sentence. I wouldn’t recommend incorporating it into the Harvard essay, but for a silly blog, no one cares a fig. And as soon as I start worrying about how my own mother-in-law is going to react to scatological word choices, any written missives about moon cakes (vile) or Chinese food preparation (arduous) or energy work (hilarious but effective) will suffer for authenticity. And after two years posting sassy paragraphs peppered with baser adjectives and exclamations, I’ve received nary a complaint… but quite a few editing gigs.

I’ve been doing rewrites for family and friends, scientists and students for a quarter century. Even though I’m certain my own admissions essay was met with groaning, future literary endeavors (inspired by the inimitable Professor Kuyk) landed me a paid job in the college Writing Center. Training to become a Writing Associate involved one semester at a roundtable with other faculty-endorsed “writers” writing about writing. This was before anyone used the word “meta.” Professor Beverly Wall was an enthusiast for something called “desktop publishing” and encouraged us to “post” our papers on a school-sponsored “intranet.” In effect, we were all contributing to a classroom blog, although that word hadn’t been invented yet, either. In the early ‘90s, we found this tedious: we wanted to discuss our work, not type criticisms with a blinking cursor. Also, there was no “like” button.

It’s impossible to imagine a gaggle of college kids loath to type opinions onto a shared server, since this form of communication now eclipses all others. But those were ancient times when writers feared more than welcomed an audience with the ability to disparage your five paragraphs with one calamitous (or anonymous) comment. Modern writers are cursed and blessed with ubiquitous readers. Everyone loves to be “liked,” but your most and least favorite Facebook status updaters are testimony to the influence of audience on the tone and quality of a sentence. As I wondered if an adolescence of misspelled texting and like-clicking critique is ruining the written word, I read that Tufts University is now accepting video submissions in place of the compulsory essay… and that article used the word “interestingly,” so you be the judge.

A handful of my old Writing Center relationships have endured and their work still gives me goose bumps: Nancy’s guffaw-inducing comedic rhythm and word choice, Julia’s pretty handwriting reflecting her outer beauty and inner complexity, Tony’s brilliantly fashioned lefty opinions devoid of lawyer-speak, and Ran’s latest series of stories that will make you hmmm and ahhh and hate him a bit for being so fucking eloquent. I still swoon for a beautiful sentence; but now I blog, email, instant message, and craft silly statuses, because that is the stage for contemporary writing. I also edit college essays to stifle the sort of schlock I wrote before I had the chutzpah to make an admissions officer giggle… before I had a voice… before I stopped writing to please an audience instead of marinating in the sheer delight of having one.

CALVIN AND HOBBS

Calm Down

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I am extremely nice. My internal dialogue is occasionally brutal, often politically incorrect, and sometimes super judge-y. But outwardly, I am nice nice nice. I’m waving you into my lane. I don’t care if you go back for frozen waffles and then bananas and then pay with a check. I’ll hold your baby, the elevator, and even my composure if you get grabby. I spent the better part of this morning tracking down an air conditioning repair quote that is one month overdue, apologizing for calling so often with inquiries. It’s officially autumn now… so, really… take your time.

Today, with my usual “these things aren’t that important” breezy attitude I made the umpteenth call to Verizon. I ring them every few months, or years, to ask the current staff if someone could get rid of this for me.

Ain't it purdy?

This looks safe, right?

Last spring I made a huge breakthrough as Verizon admitted the pole was theirs, even confirming its exact location in my yard as it continues to wrap its (scary) wires around a rhododendron. They promised someone would come check it out very soon. I didn’t believe them. In fact, I might have even joked about not believing them… but in a nice nice nice way. So today, when I realized that “very soon” was six months ago, I made another call.

I usually dive right into my unwanted-pole-and-wires spiel peppered with factoids proving these (hopefully inert) wires are certainly theirs. Since I’ve been requesting pole removal for seven years, I know their deflecting questions and have ready answers. Occasionally, I’ll ask if they have any record of my prior requests. They never do. The whole dance is ridiculous and funny and a solid example of the complete customer service incompetence that exacerbates most of us daily; but the Verizon repair staff on the phone never, ever sees the humor in a mom trying for seven years to remove a wired pole from where the soccer ball always lands. It goes like this:

“I’m calling… again… see there’s this pole and blah blah blah and can you believe I’ve been calling for seven years? But now there’s this tree sort of leaning into it and the yard guys, understandably, won’t touch it until someone removes the pole and wires, and no one ever comes and, well… I’m just calling… again.”

Today, after my twee rant, the Verizon lady told me to “calm down.” I think tolerating a potentially electrified eyesore in the landscape for an entire dog year makes me the Zen Goddess of consumer complaint. She was probably reacting to my coffee-fueled pressured speech, but I certainly wasn’t angry or agitated… just overly effusive about my persistent pole situation. I’m calling about a POLE in the YARD, not a snake in the house, or fire in the attic, or tumor in the breast. Perspective and patience I have in spades, but nothing makes the blood boil faster than this couplet of words. But instead of indulging my inner meanie, I swallowed my spleen, apologized for interrupting her, and gave her the gift of silence… which she filled with a little harrumph that tells me this pole isn’t going anywhere fast.

Bitch.

(Over the years I have repeatedly offered a $100 reward to anyone who can make the men with chainsaws materialize. Apparently no one is so desperate for cash that he would willingly engage with vile Verizon staff.)

I think anyone who tells another (who isn’t aflame, or being chased by bees, or a smallish child) to “calm down” is afflicted with an incurable bad mood impervious to civility or bribery. And anyone who tells a sane person to “calm down” must know they’re inviting the opposite. But today, I resisted all desires to spew vitriol and landed myself Repair Request Order MAAT03D1Y2. Honey and flies and all of that. But if you wanted to call… like every single day… with not-calm-at-all inquiries about the status of Repair Request Order MAAT03D1Y2, I would urge you to Carry On.

REVENGE

Twirly Fabulous

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with , , ,

Modern Cancer-acquiring girls have the gift of social media, and if you’re comfortable being blab blab blabby about it, you don’t have to endure the disease alone. I now have dozens of virtual friends in this Crap Sorority of the Previously Bald and Possibly Dying. I’ve met most of these gals through friends-of-friends because, for whatever reason, people who know people who have Cancer want you to know they know other people who have Cancer, too. And because all Cancer-y girls will certainly be besties, they feel adorably obligated to broker the introduction. And even though I wrote that as if it’s annoying… it’s not. At all. (Although maybe take a moment to wonder if you have ever uttered, “Sally had Cancer… you should call her!”) I have texted, phoned, emailed, written, and blog-messaged with at least 100 women who found a lump, who can’t get out of bed, who are still doing CrossFit, who can’t choose a wig, who didn’t know how to tell the kids, who like their hair and hate their hair and grew their hair or love it short, and who want a sympathetic soundboard to blame those extra ten pounds on Tamoxifen.

Tara is one such internet-derived friend-of-friend. A decade my junior, there are still many similarities to how we slog and blog through the aftermath, although she does it with teeny children underfoot while continuing to work at her smartypants job. She’s a do-gooding lawyer and wicked brave and brutally honest. To point, she recently posted her weight. Few people are this honest. I get on the scale, sway, lean, inhale pointlessly, and round down. When subjected to the Balance of Shame in the doctor’s office, I console myself with the delusion that my flippy skirts are, really, rather quite heavy. But Tara posted her weight to disarm its Debby Downer reality and embrace it as a sign of her health. Most of us enjoy a temporary svelteness when the terror of a Cancer diagnosis makes us vomit and forget to eat. Surgery and chemo serve well as a weight-maintenance plan. But just as we’re feeling all groovy with our new parts and hair, hunger and Tamoxifen bring us right back to where we were (or a little ahead of that). Tara posted her weight as an in-your-face, here-I-am, suck-it-Cancer announcement, and by doing so, robbed a silly number of its power. This makes her kind of awesome.

As someone less awesome, I’m flabbergasted as to why that damn slide weight is still being coaxed to the right after an entire summer of liquefied veggie meals. It might have something to do with Prosecco… but c’mon metabolism, give a girl a break. Normally, I don’t focus on numbers, because I always assume that I look fabulous, and a digital judgment from an Amazon.com appliance shouldn’t interfere with my good common sense. But a handful of recent Cancer follow up appointments had me standing on scales in my (heavy) flippy skirts, wondering why I drank all of that kale. Happily, my faithful, on line Crap Sorority friends will always chime in to commiserate, and blame it on obviously very thick clothing or chemo-edema or Tamoxifen in spite of research which suggests that cupcakes might part of the problem.

This week, I chose to combat my anti-estrogen fueled liposomes at the barre (as my favorite belly-up version isn’t helping). Because I adore sitting still or only gracefully moving my appendages slowly, I’ve been doing yoga for two years. But I’ve grown bored with the ohm-ing, so maybe I can twirl myself to skinny? Pure Barre was the intended topic of this collection of paragraphs, because I am walking so funny today. After two classes repeating exercises shamelessly designed to tame jiggly bits—a refreshing departure from thumbs-to-third-eye yoga, for sure– I realize Pure Barre is only loosely informed by ballet. I had envisioned a morning doing mini back bends in fifth position accompanied by Mozart, but instead found myself staring into full length mirrors at my jiggly bits as we plié-d and tucked and lifted at Macklemore speed until our thighs wiggled with exhaustion. And there was no twirling. Nothing about this summons the loveliness I associate with ballet… except the instructors… who are interchangeably pretty and perfect and can do all of these drills without the slack jawed, holy-fuck-torture face. I may have mentioned once or twice how much I loathe exercise, in general, so you can imagine my disappointment that a ballet class was actually cardio. Bah.

But I’m going back. First of all, I already paid for a month of classes. And also, there was a noticeable dearth of jiggly bits in that room. Maybe Pure Barre is onto something. Or not. Certainly Tara is.

If I were as brave as Tara, I’d insert my weight here, followed by a quip about how twirly fabulous I feel. And honestly, after an entire summer slurping salad through a straw, I feel pretty twirly fabulous. But it would also be nice if this skirt wasn’t so heavy.

I didn't get to do this once at Pure Barre...

I didn’t get to do this at Pure Barre…

Opting Out

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with , ,

I am the prototypical opt-out girl. With two graduate degrees, a handful of publications, and many assurances of some sort of pay-the-bills job in science or medicine, I waddled my 9-month-pregnant self right out of the workforce. The New York Times reminded me I’ve reached a decade of unemployment. And just as Brodie turns 10, Judith Warner revisited women, like me, who in the budding new millennium dropped careers in the name of Motherhood. With the luxury and support of their husband’s income, as well as a shared idea that this was the right choice for their diapered ones, these women might have blushed a bit about becoming June Cleaver… but it was with superior, Family First! aplomb. The article reveals that ten years hence, they want (need) to use their Ivy League brains for something more enjoyable (profitable) than manic volunteerism or soccer halftime snack planning.

In short (which the article is not), many of these women find themselves under-utilized, or unfulfilled, or divorced. Though not a single one of them regrets the opt-out decision, none mentioned the fate of the children they placed ahead of a paycheck. There was, however, a fair amount of bitching about the laundry. The article is well-balanced, and does feature stories of the genera of women I love interrogating over cocktails: the ones who have found a flexible career that celebrates their smarts without sacrificing “quality time”—whatever that entails for their family unit. These ladies often describe their new jobs as “falling into my lap…” which is how work feels when you don’t actually have to do it. These enviable women have the continued support of their husbands (in both a financial and a we’ll-outsource-the-laundry way) and happily traded their yoga pants for pencil skirts and are leading non-profit organizations and small businesses.

But there were more moms whose lives took another turn. As their kids reached less-likely-to-get-head-stuck-in-bannisters ages, they felt the need to redefine themselves as more than crust cutters. These same do-gooding mommies who devoted a decade to poo and Polly Pockets and Legos and laundry now find themselves unable to tackle all of that after an exhausting day in a pencil skirt. And because a woman who lands a demanding new job may occasionally want someone else to wipe the sticky counter, or an appointment to address her dark roots, the confused husband in the messy house sees it like this:

“Once she started to work, she started to place more value in herself, and because she put more value in herself, she put herself in front of a lot of things — family, and ultimately, her marriage.”

He sounds just like William H. Macy in Pleasantville: “… and there was NO DINNER!”

Honey... I'm HOME!

Honey… I’m HOME!

This quickly sums up why I found the entire article irritating and depressing. Though masked as The Plight of the Opt Out Mommy, the undercurrent through it all was The Erosion of Marriage as exhausted couples try to do their capital B best at everything, except being very nice to each other. Who would want to live in any proximity to a woman who doesn’t “put value in herself?” What a dick, right? Or, maybe just a sort of sad guy who got sidelined as Wife morphed into Mommy who then turned into Working Woman who isn’t getting the laundry done. (Maybe still a bit of a dick.) I’m stunned and sad. Also, smug and lucky.  I’m Smucky. After ten years, Bernie and I still have regular check ins: Do you care that I bring in not a single penny and yet stand here in Jimmy Choos? Do you want to stop stepping on Legos and finish a residency in critical care? The answers remain no, and no. And even as Bernie brings home the bacon, and I fry it up in a pan, we still keep tabs on The State of Us. Are you happy? Am I happy? Do we still like each other? Yes and yes and yes.

Annoying Smucky Girl might also be an anomaly among Opt Outs. I love the laundry. My favorite part of the day is when all of the beds are made and no one is hungry. I spend a ridiculous amount of time thinking about flowers. And when asked what I plan to do when the boys no longer require my immediate and unrelenting crust cutting services, I defer to my algorithm (which last night leaned heavily toward the >4 cocktails pathway). Opting out has never affected the value I put on myself because what I do will never be who I am. Also, even though I take pride in my folded fitted sheets and meal-making, these little boys benefit most from watching Bernie and me be nice to each other… which I hope would happen even if I decided to don a pencil skirt and bring home a paycheck.