I Hate My Message Board » Guest Posts

Beautiful Boy, A book review

The Beautiful Fraud — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 21:04:57 +0000

Note: this post is by my very good friend Lesley, who also writes as The Beautiful Fraud. One day I’m going to talk her into having a blog of her own but until then I am honored that she lets me post her work.

The other day I felt a bit sheepish after I said I much prefer to be friends with upbeat people as I thought it might give the impression that I preferred to be friends with people without problems or complications. As you can read from Lesley’s review, it’s possible to go through pain and hurt and a life of twists and knots and still remain resilient, positive and yes, in the end, upbeat. I love her courage and her humor and I feel like I’m a better person for having met her.

Beautiful Boy by David Sheff

There is a secret club that exists all over the world. One where the members are ashamed, embarrassed, and feel hopelessly alone. It is not a club that anyone wants to belong to, yet we have no choice about entry, only about how we deal with the membership that is thrust upon us. And it takes a long time to recognize that we actually do have that choice about how we deal with our forced membership.

David Sheff is a journalist who has written for incredibly prestigious publications including The New York Times, Rolling Stone, Playboy and Wired. His interview subjects have included John Lennon, Steve Jobs and many others and he has written many well-received books. His life is filled with success, exciting opportunities with fabulous people, and sounds ridiculously glamorous. I have never had the pleasure of meeting him.

But I know a core part of his soul, and he knows a core part of mine. His words describe a part of my inner most being, that I thought was deeply buried inside me, and they bring me to tears. We belong to the same club. We both love, or sadly in my case loved, a drug addict.

Sheff’s book Beautiful Boy is a desperately honest, searing account of his son’s descent into meth addiction. It describes how his brilliant, outgoing, creative son, an honour student starts taking drugs and the inevitable deception and degradation that goes with them. It juxtaposes this with Sheff’s family life, his attempts to maintain normalcy for the younger children and his constant fluctuation between hope and despair. Despair. That word doesn’t capture the soul-numbing panic, the hyperventilation, the sleeplessness and helplessness that become all pervasive, but Sheff is a writer of considerable skill and his book does.

I have read many memoirs by drug addicts, but I have not read one by the parent of a drug addict before. I am sure they exist, but I doubt that they exist better than this one. Sheff’s anguish is tangible. He questions everything, every action he has taken, and his attempts to try and control his son in order to save him. He has anger swirling inside him, and he doesn’t know where to direct it. I know that feeling. I swallowed anger, hurt, and betrayal because I didn’t know with whom to be angry. It feels so wrong to be angry with the addict, because they are in more pain than even we are. Yet they are the ones who continue to use drugs and no one else can stop this endless hell. I martyred myself. And got the hell out of there. Not only out of the relationship, but out of my country, and out of my life. I came to America and stayed here. I did spend the first six months on the phone nightly trying to find out where he was, what he was doing, whether he was clean, but I was half a world a way. I can never thank the members of his fellowship enough for rallying round me, and gently advising me to stop calling, to let him go, to get on with my life. It took a while, but I did it.

It is impossible to control an addict. A drug and alcohol counselor I went to see in the depths of my own misery gave one of the wisest pieces of advice to me. He said to me that there were only two people who could help a drug addict and neither of them were me. One was his dealer and the other was Narcotics Anonymous and they would both always be there and it was solely up to the addict which one he saw. Wise words. So difficult to internalize. Sheff wants to help his son, that’s what parents do. I wanted to help my husband, because not helping him felt like abandoning him.

I abandoned him after eight weeks of trying to save him. I called his mother and told her what had happened, and moved to the US. I saw him one more time about eighteen months later on a brief trip back to Australia. That was nine years ago.

Sheff comes to understand that he cannot control his son, and this is the journey of the book. He reaches that place through utter exhaustion. His marriage is suffering, his quality of life is suffering, he even has a brain hemorrhage that may or may not be related to the stress, and through it all Nic does what Nic is going to do. Sheff senior’s actions have absolutely no effect.

My love had absolutely no effect.

Nic Sheff, who has written his own account of his addiction, Tweak, says that reading his father’s book alerted him to how much he hurt people. How could he not know? I have also read Tweak, which for obvious reasons doesn’t touch me in the way that Beautiful Boy does. Memoirs of drug addicts never answer the question that all of us who have loved addicts have. Nic doesn’t answer it. There is no answer. But we keep searching, keeping hoping to find it, to understand.

Why?

It is incomprehensible to any non-addict that when the stakes are so high and the solution to the problem so easy, the addict would choose to continue to use drugs, especially as they also know this and they do not want to use drugs. It seems so simple. If you don’t want to use, don’t use! Sheff struggles with this. He struggles with the two people who are his son, the one who loves him and the one who loves drugs. They are not the same man. The vibrant, ambitious, driven man who loved me was not the same man as the lying, sneaky, violent, depressed man whom I abandoned to his mother.

Except that they are.

I have spent ten years trying to get that question of why answered, from drug addicts, from therapists, from books and from movies. This is the question that runs through Beautiful Boy, and perhaps why I related so strongly. Sheff is compelled to find a reason, perhaps something he did, perhaps something situational, his divorce.

Why? Why did my ex-husband start using heroin after seven years, six with me? We split up, so if it was me, why didn’t he stop after I left? He had one of the most glorious mothers I have ever met, he had a sister who was his soul mate and he had a phenomenally successful career. It is so incomprehensible that he could have had all that if he had just stopped using. Just as Nic had a year clean and relapsed, my ex-husband had seven years clean and then relapsed. He knew the dangers. He had often said to me when he was heavily involved in his 12 step program that should he ever start using again I should just leave because he would no longer be the man I loved, and he would lie, cheat, steal, abuse. I laughed, never thinking that someone who was so committed to his sobriety, to complete abstinence would ever pick up again. He had a sponsor and a sponsee, was visible and active in the fellowship.

I left him when he started using again.

Beautiful Boy does not have a Hollywood ending. These stories rarely do. Nic had two and a half years clean and relapsed. The relapse seems to have been brief, and not to have led to the complete destruction of his carefully reconstructed life. But forgive me, David, I am not hopeful for you. My ex-husband, when sober, was a great teacher in the ways of addicts and he told me that the only real chance of staying clean was staying clean, and with every relapse the chances of getting and staying clean became slimmer and slimmer. He was right.

I flew back to Australia in March this year to honour my ex-husband at his funeral. For the first time since our traumatic breakup I allowed myself to remember the charismatic, vibrant man he was for the first 5 years and 9 months of our relationship, and to stop demonizing him as the toxic addict who ruined my life. I can understand his pain, which was, as Sheff describes, greater than mine.

I’m free to acknowledge that I loved him without being frightened that he would “get” me again. He was both my man, and that other man.

David Sheff brings humanity to drug addicts; he opens the door for the judgments to pale beside the love he feels. He freed me from judging myself for my anger and lack of compassion.

I am proud to be a member of this awful club when the other members include people like David Sheff. And though they may not be so well-known, Christine and Pete, the parents of my ex who loved him unconditionally, Michaela, his sister and soul mate and my sister, Jo, and parents Ken and Pam who accompanied me to his funeral despite having witnessed my breakdown and exile because of his actions. In the end, love is stronger than addiction, though not much else is.

I love you Christophe.

Beautiful Boy: A Father’s Journey Through His Son’s Addiction is available at Amazon and other retailers (affiliate link)Similar Posts:

Paying the Piper

Guest — Sat, 30 May 2009 00:53:29 +0000

by Jaimie Marzullo

Jon and Kate and their eight children

It’s so tired, so predictable, that we almost wish it wasn’t so. Like a pimp in a fuzzy purple hat and a girl on a dog leash, or a drug dealer with diamond-encrusted fingers standing on a corner in the poorest part of the ghetto. Like Achilles, like Macbeth and perhaps most of all like Narcissus, Kate Gosselin and her erstwhile obedient husband are being felled by hubris.

We almost wish it wasn’t so. But not quite.

Because never is entertainment so entertaining as when the stakes are high. On the timeline of history, we’re but a hiccup removed from our forbears who tossed one another to lions in the Coliseum and watched the carnage while gorging upon bread and wine to the point of retching shamelessly in a stinking vomitorium. As were the frenzied crowds in Rome, we’re in control as the stakes for the Gosselin clan shoot to astronomical heights. From the comfort of our barcaloungers, with the flick of the remote and a few words tapped onto a gossip columnist’s comments section via laptop, our fat asses are swinging the strings of the Gosselin marionettes to see just what else we can make them do.

“This isn’t where we’re supposed to be,” the heavily made up Kate, complete in designer duds and sporting that bizarre, Sonic-the-hedgehog-like hairdo, protests in this season’s opener.

But it is, Kate. It is where you’re supposed to be.

Because here’s the rub… the train that’s driving the Gosselin family over a cliff was designed and sold by Jon and Kate themselves. Narcissism and pride prevented them from looking down the track; like parakeets, their eyes were riveted only to the shiny pretties that a life of contrived “reality” TV promised. Little thought did they give to the fact that when you sell yourself, your family, your home, your vacations, your body, and everything else you have to give to the public, and resign yourself to live on the handouts that public tosses at you – no matter how generous they may be – you’re not in control. You never were. In other words, you’re our bitch now.

There’s an easy out. End the show. Walk away. Sell the million-dollar house, pay cash for a modest, middle-class dwelling, go to a marriage counselor, focus on the kids and hunker down. It won’t take long for the public to lose interest. Trust me. Because honestly, Jon and Kate, without the masochistic spectacle that is your TLC show, neither of you are all that interesting.

We know that will never happen, though.

Not because of Jon, who is more pitiable than unlikable these days, in spite of his preening, passive-aggressive ways. Jon, whose humiliating claim to fame is being the most beleaguered, spineless husband in the western hemisphere, has been reduced to a mumbling, near-incoherent shell of the half-man he once was. His vague allusions to the controversy that swirls around him are uncharacteristically reserved… an indication of his unwillingness to subject himself to more scrutiny, or – could it be? – a carefully chosen strategy to deepen the intrigue? But no – he’s surely not that good an actor. Gone are the days when he could at least muster a sarcastic comeback under his breath as he scampered off to do his wife’s bidding. This Jon Gosselin looks tired and broken. And he doesn’t want this life anymore. He said it at the end of last season, and he says it again at the beginning of this one. “This was chosen for me,” he says, his eyes eerily blank.

Cut to Kate. Kate, who tells her children not to utter the word “paparazzi”, yet squawks “Paparazzi!” as loudly and frequently as she possibly can, while TLC adds post-production flashes to the footage to create the impression that a few passers-by with low-budget camcorders are a swarm of princess-chasing maniacs. Who claims to want a normal life but then bookends her request of multiple renditions of “happy birthday” at her kids’ party with, “If you’ve seen our show, you know you have to!”

One of many moments Monday night that wasn’t meant to be sad but was, it was in that instant that America had the chance to see the heart of Kate Gosselin. Aside from the backwards relationships she holds with virtually all of her family members and growing collection of former friends, her only form of social interaction is with herself as a TV star and everyone else the viewers. Even in the most mundane of social situations, validation of her fame takes precedence over genuine personal contact.

“My job,” is how Kate currently refers to her hectic schedule of filming, book tours and speeches. Her job. The requirements of her job, the things her job makes her do. She refers to it cryptically and repeatedly and scathingly, punctuated by furious condemnations of the public that she panders to in “her job.” She admonishes us for our interest in her family while simultaneously digging in our pockets and begging, like a bedraggled, desperate one-night-stand that senses an imminent dawn, for us not to leave, to please stay a little longer. Just a few more book deals, a few more seasons, a few more millions. For the kids.

The kids, of course, are the leverage that’s worked for Kate for more than five years. Only the balance has shifted. In season one, we, the viewing public, had responsibility for keeping organic, homemade meals on the Gosselin table hoisted upon us. Now, in season five, as the public is limping away from having its house foreclosed, its job shipped to India, and its medical bills discharged in bankruptcy, Kate has the gall to intimate, through continuation of a show that is now rendered patently absurd by its insistence upon this family as wholesome, everyday folk, that we continue to bear responsibility for ensuring that the eight Gosselin kids have access to gourmet meals prepared by a private chef and served under a $1.1 million roof.

The heartbreaking irony is that, in spite of her spastic insistence that it’s all for the kids, Mama Gosselin seems to have no concern about her children’s well being whatsoever. When talking about the impact of tabloid magazines and how it feels to see them while standing in line at the grocery store, when every mother in the developed world thought of what that must mean to the Gosselin kids who are old enough to read, Kate instead focuses on what Kate always focuses on: herself. In the filming of a program that she is assuredly aware will be seen by her brood, she castigates Jon for, according to her, being resentful of the children. And with a guilelessness that is generally reserved for the very young and the deranged, she goes on to devalue any negativity Jon feels about being the primary caregiver of eight while his wife tours the country by asserting, passionately, that he isn’t doing it alone and has a lot of help and therefore nothing to whine about… before cutting to birthday party footage in which Kate, surrounded by a small army of helpers, complains bitterly, no less than a half dozen times, about having to do everything “alone.” Followed by more screeching about nearby photographers, present in numbers that are pathetically dwarfed by the camera crew the Gosselins court on a near-daily basis. Such is the hypocrisy that is the Kate Gosselin marketing machine, the same tragically hilarious engine that plans to churn out a Fall 2009 cookbook to give readers an “inside look at one of America’s most famous close-knit families.”

“Then I realized,” Kate ruminates later in the show, on the subject of fans she previously detested; and as all observers of developmentally-appropriate rationality and maturity anticipate the admission that Kate herself initiated the celebrity/fan paradigm she perpetuates, she surprises us yet again by skipping the equation in favor of the result alone: “They welcome us into their homes… we’re family for some of them.” And with that, we understand the pathological projection through which Kate views her life; rejecting her complicity in the devil’s contract she herself inked, a perpetual victim of circumstances over which she accepts no ownership. That her thinking is disordered is beyond her comprehension, much like the way she persists in describing close friends in terms of how much they love her and her family, rather than the other way around.

So with Kate in the lead, the Gosselins blindly careen toward disaster while we watch with hands up, peeking through our fingers. Lord knows we’re not going to put down the remote – this is the best water-cooler gab since Roseanne kissed a chick. Kate’s too viciously ambitious and self-centered to stop lining up her little, matching brigade to suck at the teats of the gluttonous, reeking sow of public consumption. And the executives at TLC would be downright insane to put a stop to the ratings bonanza that has exploded from our morbid rubbernecking.

It rests in Jon’s thus-far ineffective hands to pull the plug (yes, pun intended) on this nightmare. For the kids, let’s hope he finds the strength to do it.

Jaimie Marzullo is a freelance writer and mother of two.

Discuss Jon and Kate on the I Hate My Message Board Forums

Currently active thread: Jon and Kate make a serious life changing announcement

Similar Posts:

Beef Cheek Casserole

Guest — Wed, 27 May 2009 20:25:08 +0000

Or, yummy unctuous guest post (the food, not the writer)

Photo credit ©.mushi_king

Tracy’s recent blog on chicken in a can revealed a surprisingly high level of food squeamishness among her readers. It seems that you are not fans of the shiny gristly alien bits that hang off untrimmed meat. Not me, I reserve my distaste for cream of can casseroles, gravy from a box, and powdered Italian seasoning. Those shiny gristly alien bits are what give sauces and stews body and flavour without resorting to powders and cans. So you can imagine my delight when my butcher offered me four beef cheeks last week. Unlike fish cheeks, which are incredibly tender and sweet, beef cheeks are a serious hunk of muscle. I’ve spent a reasonable amount of time watching cattle cow about their daily routine and 98% of that routine is chewing. Which is why you never see rare grilled beef cheek or ox cheek carpaccio. But it does make the cheek perfect for long slow cooking into an unctuous sauce, tender enough to cut with a spoon. Admittedly it’s not something you’d want to cook in the middle of summer but as a winter warmer it can’t be bettered. The following recipe is more of a guide than a recipe, substitute ingredients at will, my only stipulation is that you stick with fresh ingredients – no jars, packets or cans.

Start preparing the meat three days before you plan on eating it.

Raw Beef Cheeks

So take your beef cheeks and trim off the excess fat. Leave some fat.

Slash through the top of the cheek so the meat doesn’t curl during searing. Rub the cheeks with salt and sugar, cover and refrigerate for at least 6 hours… Pour off any blood.

Salted Beef Cheeks

Add your flavourings – thyme, rosemary, bay leaves, juniper berries, orange rind and cover the meat with red wine (or dark beer). Leave overnight.

Heat a heavy based fry pan and add a little oil. Remove cheeks from marinade and sear one at a time until well browned on both sides. Place in a heavy casserole large enough to hold the cheeks snugly. Sprinkle with flour, about a tbsp per cheek. Brown a couple of roughly chopped onions (halved is fine) and a few halved carrots in the fry pan with the herbs from the marinade. Add to the beef. Pour the wine from the marinade into the fry pan to deglaze, bring to boil and pour over the meat. Add extra wine, water or stock to cover the meat. Simmer uncovered for one hour. Add more wine or water if necessary, cover, and place in a slow oven to cook for three hours… By this stage the meat should be tender enough to break apart with a spoon. Leave overnight.

The next day remove the fat from top of pan. Don’t be alarmed to find your chilled casserole is the consistency of rubber. This is a good thing and what makes the sauce so satisfying when heated. Reheat slowly until sauce is flowing freely. Take meat and carrots from pan, then strain out the onions and herbs and discard. Return sauce to pan, taste for seasoning (you may need extra salt and pepper), add chopped parsley and return meat and carrots to sauce to warm. Roughly break up the meat, you don’t want to pulverise it.

Serve with mashed potatoes or over pasta…

Beef Daube

If you don’t have three days to cook skip the salting, and marinating, and don’t leave overnight… It will still taste great.

Left overs are delicious as a beef pie.

Gaby is a former public servant, haphazard housekeeper, devoted wife, and slightly distracted mother. She will cook anything and eat almost anything. She has no blog for me to link to, I wish she did, it would be a foodie’s dream come true.

Similar Posts:

The Almost Killer Mouse and How To Pick Your Nose

Guest — Tue, 26 May 2009 03:24:22 +0000

Or, guest post by Numb Nuggets!

Photo credit ©Ikayama

I met Numb Nuggets on Twitter and quickly learned he has a great sense of humor as well as being an all around nice guy. Be sure to check out his blog, it’s full of laughs as well as more moving posts, including the touching story of his wife’s battle with breast cancer.

The Almost Killer Mouse

There was once a mouse named Sniffles
Who found some snot in his fipple.
When he tried to blow
So sweet music would flow
His sax shot the teacher’s grand nipple.

photo credit: sjkunphy

How to Pick Your Nose Without Making a Mess on the Steering Wheel

DISCLAIMER: Any photos depicting humans younger than driving age is not to be interpreted as an endorsement by me to allow the younguns to drive. They are posted for entertainment purposes only. Hopefully, though, this how-to will provide them one more reason to look forward to the day they receive their driving license.

Preparatory Phase:

Make sure you have a treasure worth digging for. Remember you are putting your reputation on the line if anyone driving by recognizes you.
Having that, observe proper truck-driving mirror etiquette: check all mirrors every three seconds to avoid surprise drive-ups.
Carefully check all blind spots around your vehicle, just in case that girl/guy you’ve been drooling over at the office/campus/bar/grocery is driving by and might end up seeing you. Murphy’s Law has a way of intersecting one’s reality during moments like this.
With proper attention to road safety, perform an exploratory dig to confirm the suspicion mentioned in #1 above. CAUTION: If the gem you’re seeking is found, don’t go all the way in just yet!
Check mirrors and blind spots
If all is clear, prepare the finger. It must be dry, so as to provide the best chance of adhering to the sticky surface of the nugget in question. If possible, it should be able to fit somewhat between the wall of your sinus cavity and the mass. This makes for easier excavation and provides the best chance of removing the delectable treat in one piece.
Carefully insert finger, moving it next to or around the mass.

Excavation Phase:

Repeat steps 5, 6 and 7 of the Preparatory Phase until the nugget is firmly attached to your finger. Occasionally you must change fingers in order to get a sufficiently dry dermal layer to use for attachment.
Continue checking mirrors and blind spots. But, make sure you watch where you are going. Safety is not to be compromised here!
Carefully, gently retract the finger. Contrary to popular opinion, you want as much trailing material to stay with the main body as possible. This will provide much entertainment value after the extraction, especially if you are on the freeway and humidity is low. CAUTION: extra care must be taken at this point. If you do not have sufficient distance from others of the human species and you are lucky enough to have a large trail of goop attached to your crown jewel, like a gelatinous trail on a comet, you risk being seen in a very compromising position. This is the most critical stage of the entire process.
As the ore is extracted, revel in the feeling of release as the nugget and its gelatinous entrails exit slowly from your sinus cavity. It’s almost as good as sex. ALMOST, but not quite. Also delight in the fact that you are now beyond the riskiest stage of the procedure. As long as no one looks too closely, you may resume driving in normal traffic.

Enjoyment Phase:

Once all is extracted, carefully and with one hand gather all the material into one glob so that you can roll it between your thumb and forefinger.
Place hand out the window or in front of the air ducts. If you do the latter, turn the air conditioner or heater on to provide the lowest humidity range possible.
Sit back and enjoy the process of rolling, rolling, rolling your snot between thumb and forefinger until enough moisture has been eliminated so as to produce a nice, firm little ball. Maybe crank up some of your favorite tunes, put your coolest pair of Ray-bans on, let your hair down, sing out loud. Wallow in the moment. You worked hard for this!
When the little fun ball is dry, no goop remains on your fingers and you are ready to move on you can do any number of things. Me? I flick it out the window and smile as I imagine the little snot ball bouncing down the road behind me. But if eating the salty treat is your thing, nibble away! Or, save it in your glove box for later. Really, just use your imagination at this point.

In Conclusion
Next time you’re driving down the road and feel that familiar annoyance, that distant sensation of fullness somewhere behind your nostrils, why reach for a hanky when you have so much fun doing something different this time?

You see, it is not the end result that is most important here, it is living fully in the moment, reveling in the process, stretching your boundaries and living outside your comfort zone.

And do not forgot what some guy said when he wrote a bunch of stuff while wondering around in some forest or hanging out by some pond somewhere: “suck the marrow out of life” (or in this case, your snot cave).

For inside each of us is a child waiting to break free!

photo credits: Mike “Dakinewavamon” Kline, wrhowell

Author Bio:

“An average guy trying to enjoy life’s simple moments. Chris is a husband, proud dad of three boys and a recovering Software Engineer. His current writings can all be found on his blog, Numb Nuggets on which he commits career suicide regularly. If he can ever get his act together again, he hopes to finish his novel before he dies. Chris is very honored to be featured on I Hate My Message Board“

Similar Posts:

Bringing Your Best

Madame Fabulous — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 20:01:14 +0000

I remember going to the grocery store one afternoon to pick up the usual supply of frozen blueberries, diet protein powder, green tea and potato chips, and noticing a woman who was wearing a grubby track suit with her hair in curlers. I very discreetly stared at her, with my basket of diet and junk food, and thought to myself, “Lady, who are you saving the good stuff for, if not us?”

I’ve thought about that question a lot lately. Lady, who are you saving the good stuff for?

I have in my closet several lovely outfits: sharp, tailored, stylish and flattering. They are suitable for many occasions, including business meetings and dinners out. However, as I’m mostly self-employed, I tend to do most of my writing while wearing t-shirts and jeans or acting while wearing costumes suited to whatever character I’m currently playing. So most of those fabulous outfits hang neglected in the dark, waiting for the right occasion, and some of them, for the fashion trend in which they were conceived to come around again.

While dressing the other day, I asked myself, “Lady, who are you saving the good stuff for?”

Which is how I came to wear my little black dress and dangerously high heels to run errands.

The clothes, though, are the tip of the proverbial ice burg. The best is that which resides within me, within ourselves. Our best behaviour, our best imagination, our best selves.

Trying to bring the best to everything we do, though, is an overwhelming proposition. Sometimes, it’s even more difficult to determine what the best we can do is. Perhaps it starts with using the “good dishes” for everyday family dinners. It begins with cleaning the house for company even though none is expected. It happens when we work towards a promotion, whether we are the boss or the lackey. All this, though, is still very superficial. This is the way of madness. This is the way of Martha Stewart or Bree Van De Kamp. This is not my way.

My very good friend, who has endured a long and uncomfortable pregnancy, finally gave birth to a gorgeous, perfect little girl at 4:25 this morning after a labour that should put all other labour horror stories to shame. It was my privilege and honour to be present for the entire process. I watched and supported this amazing woman as she worked to bring this baby into the world. I saw her dig deep for strength and courage, and I saw her great determination to do what was best for her child and not what was convenient for herself. I was witness to what it means to bring one’s best to the table, and let me tell you, I was humbled.

I was also lucky enough to be one of the first people to hold this precious new life in my arms and gaze at the infinite potential. The wee lassie has the whole world ahead of her, and was born in the midst of people who only want the best for her. They are determined not to save the good stuff.

May we all be so wise, and may we always bring our best to the table.

And Miss Madeline, welcome to the world.

Madame Fabulous–otherwise known as MadFab (more fab than mad)–has been a professional writer, actor, director, producer, occasional photographer and painter for most of her adult life. Her mother would argue that she’s been a drama queen from the get-go, however. She is a mother to three: Alexa, Theo and Ethan who she blames for the eternal house messiness, the ongoing pantry emptiness, the perpetual head-shaking oddness and the lifelong happiness. She was very recently married to the man who, for the record, she totally pegged as “That Guy” from the start.

Subscribe to Madame Fabulous’s RSS Feed or get her posts delivered straight to your email box.

Similar Posts:

From Water to Wine

Madame Fabulous — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 03:20:40 +0000

Photo credit ©hlkljgk

I am a wine lover. My husband has never understood the appeal. But then again, he said the same thing about sushi and now he throws down slabs of raw fish like he’s part pelican. So maybe he just needed a chance to try some different varieties to find something that tickled his palatte. Besides, it was clear that my technique of teaching him about wines wasn’t working. That technique, quite simply, involved forcing him to sample my favourite cabernet merlot and then stand above him, hands on hips, and say, “Well? WELL?”

“It’s fine,” he would say. “It tastes like wine.”

“And?” I would ask. “Good wine evokes more than flavour. It’s more than ‘fine.’ It warms the soul. It reminds you of summers when you were a child! It speaks to you of friendship. What emotion are you feeling right now? What feeling is the wine giving you?”

“Fear?” he suggested. “Anxiety? Definitely a feeling of wanting to be anywhere else.”

“Philistine,” I hissed.

“Can I drink my beer now?” he asked quietly.

I was recently invited to a wine festival highlighting several regional wines. The event, which tend to sell out quickly, is a weekend-long celebration wines from crystal-clear whites to so-dark-light-can’t-escape reds; from the syrupy-sweet dessert wines to so-dry-they’re-desert wines-and everything in between. Ports, pipes, fruit wines, sparkling wines, rosés, reds, blushes, barolos, chardonnays and shirazes-do I have your attention? The resort hosting the festival certainly had mine. We were invited by the resort’s marketing manager for the event’s second day which included a chance to participate in the judging portion of the weekend as well as the grand finale when winners are announced. My beloved philistine was ambivalent about the wine tasting, but the resort is famous for its scenery, fine food and luxurious spa. It wasn’t difficult at all to convince him of the merits of a night away at one of the most amazing-and free, natch-places around.

We started the day at the spa for a couples treatment that included a delicious soak in a mineral mud bath and a half-hour massage. While one of us sat in the deep, clawfoot tub in the rich, loamy heated mud puddle, the other was tenderized, round steak-style. I know that some people prefer a gentle, soothing massage but I like a masseuse who gets in there and beats up muscles I didn’t even know I had. Luckily, our masseuse was that perfect blend of nurturing and ever-so-slightly sadistic. As she kneaded that particular place between my shoulder blades that sometimes hurts like blazes, she worked out a knot that is likely as old as I am. Oh, sweet, sweet pain. I may have cried a little. Awesome.

An hour and a half later, with all the tension rolfed out of us, we floated to the first event of the day, the judging of the wines. If only all contest judges felt as fluid and full of zen as we did. If the Academy Awards were given out by an academy full of jello cups like Rusty and myself, everyone would go home a winner. This was exactly the shape my darling dearest needed to be to learn about how to taste wine.

There are many secrets to being a wine drinker. Getting just the slightest bit loud, clumsy and opinionated is not the secret part. The secret is learning how to swirl the wine to open it up to the air and really bring out the flavour. The secret is learning how to hold the glass by the stem of the glass so as not to muck up the glass with fingerprints and your body’s heat. The secret is learning how to really put your nose into the glass and smell the wine before you even taste it and searching your most ancient memories for that olfactory memory that, once found, can make a simple one-note Beaujolais suddenly become an orchestral movement on the tongue.

It’s amazing how quickly my husband discovered those secrets.

In the judging seminar, four different stations were set up with whites, rosés and blushes, reds and dessert wines. Upon entry, each judge was given a wine glass, a form to rate the vintages and a pad of paper on which to make notes. Each bottle was presented in a brown paper bag to conceal the label-one of the few times drinking from a paper bag is respectable-and labeled with letters of alphabet to distinguish them. Rusty and I were on, roughly, F-and starting to loudly debate the merits of Howard Jones as an accurate representative of the ’80s musical scene-when our marketing manager friend pointed us to the bucket in which to pour the excess wine in our glasses.

“Don’t hurt yourselves,” he advised.

From then on, it was all about digging in, sniffing, swirling, sampling and snobbing. There were over 40 wines to sample, and each with its own distinctive flavour. And my husband-bless him-started to understand the differences. At one point, an hour in, with his nose deep into the glass, he said, “This one smells of smoked oysters, compost and . . . and my mom.”

“And?” I asked.

Tears sprung to his eyes.

“And I love it,” he declared.

I never loved him more than at that moment. I sampled the wine that had reduced him to a blubbering fool. It was swill.

“Well done,” I lied. But he got better from there.

We rated the wines, and by the end of the judging, Mr. Expert was talking about oakiness, peppery flavours, fruitiness, dryness, depth, clarity, bouquet and all the other terms that aficionados use to prove we know what we’re talking about.

From there we proceeded to the grand finale, where the winners were revealed, all of the entrants provide samples of their best vintages and several cows-worth of some of the finest cheeses are offered for tasting. A fine evening. Some of the most distinguished palates in around were on hand to offer hints on taste, depth and tone. As well, there were people who-like the old saying went-may not have known a lot about wine, but they knew what they liked. The brilliant thing was that everyone found something they loved. For me, it was a fantastic syrah, a fantastic cheese combination-and my husband. His palate has turned out to be rather sophisticated. He found flavours and depths in wine that I hadn’t even begun to explore.

In the weeks since he was educated in being a better snob, he has purchased progressively better wines. Insufferably better wines. He’s been talking disparagingly about the Australians insistence on oaky Chardonnays, suggesting maybe they just need to make oak wine and save the grapes for people who aren’t complete cretins. He offers me a glass of this new Pinot Gris he just happened upon after reading a column on some snooty website.

I smile, shake my head and drink my beer.

Subscribe to Madame Fabulous’s RSS Feed or get her posts delivered straight to your email box.

Similar Posts:

Playing by the Rules

Madame Fabulous — Wed, 03 Dec 2008 18:36:31 +0000

My sons have invented a game between them that, because they are boys, involves one hitting the other in the arm as hard as possible. Often. Repeatedly. However, because it is a game, they have also created rules that clearly define when one may hit the other, where, and how hard, and what the consequences are if these rules are not followed. Also, because they are both cognizant of these rules, no matter how limp the affected arm might be after repeated assaults, neither boy complains. They just nod after the strike and muster up a strained “Good hit!”

Rules are important, and where none exist, people desperately scramble to create them. A group of children on a playground, with little or no exposure to the red tape and bureaucracy that will plague them as adults, will spontaneously and organically create the fundamentals necessary to keep order amongst them. Toddlers have intricate and firm boundaries that involve awareness of toys and implied ownership thereof. Those who don’t follow the rules are either outcasts or leaders.

So it is with adults as well, except those who don’t follow the laws become criminals or politicians.

I digress.

I was having cocktails (no more than two – it’s a rule of mine) with some friends recently, and we were discussing the creation of bylaws around local gambling in private clubs. One of my friends in attendance said that the singular function of government seems to be to enact laws where none had previously existed, nor were necessary. While I agreed with him about the creation of formal decrees, there are always the unwritten rules, even if no one clearly understands them.

Rules are rules, and they govern every area of our lives. Rules will determine if a relationship thrives or perishes. How many new romances have been dashed because one or the other of the young lovers cried out, “Why isn’t he playing by the RULES?” However, knowing all the commandments of intercommunication will not guarantee success. I’ve spoken to many a baffled man as he struggled valiantly to understand the rules of dealing with women. Some of them were certain that there simply were no rules, while I patiently explained that there are rules, but that they are fluid and change on a whim. Woe to the man who can’t keep up with them. Women, too, are perplexed by men who seem to have a genetic inability to follow the simple standards of getting along well in a relationship: That when a man says he’s going to call, the only acceptable excuse for not doing so is that his dialing fingers have actually exploded and dialing with his nose resulted in several wrong numbers. That the toilet seat is to be down after each use. That ogling the waitress is not okay. That muscle shirts are inappropriate for every social occasion.

Problems arise between people because our rules differ. Cultures clash as one country tries to create rules for the other. We all want to be Lord of the Flies. And regardless of whether or not new rules make sense, most people are afraid to let go of the rules with which they are familiar. We know our rules. We understand them. Dysfunctional though they may be, we will hold our antiquated, irrelevant rules close to our hearts, call them George, and promise never to let them go. Which is why the Battle of the Sexes will never end: We just don’t like the rules of the other side. Each is determined that, through wiles or warfare, peace will only exist once the enemy (and dearest object of our affections) is conquered and accepts the rules.

Until then, we must muddle through as best we can, giving here, taking there, and ruling our own little corners of the universe. We make and break our own rules as we try to understand the rules of another and, sometimes, even adopt them as our own. And adopt them we must if ever we are to reach détente. For once a peaceful negotiation has allowed for compromise and a new, understood set of rules, a new generation can be born.
They in turn will grow into childhood and create rules of their own which will affect when and how hard one child may hit his or her sibling.

Subscribe to Madame Fabulous’s RSS Feed or get her posts delivered straight to your email box.Similar Posts:

Hug the Ground

Madame Fabulous — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 03:10:05 +0000

I am afraid of heights. Terribly afraid. I have nightmares of falling from mountains. Flying dreams usually end in crashing dreams. My insane fear of falling is probably why my eldest son thought his name was “Get Down Off Of There”. I like to imagine a fleet of helium balloon-carrying angels supporting the wings of airplanes I fly on.

When I was a young teenager living in a prairie town, I had to pass the time-honoured test of walking across the railway bridge over the river. Every step was torture; I could look between the ties to the river below and the sense of vertigo was almost overwhelming. Had it not been for the mocking I would have suffered at the hands of my peers-more damaging than the plunge into the icy waters below-I would have crawled happily back to ground-level ground. Still, I did it. I crossed it. It took me a half an hour to go 50 metres, but I crossed that bridge.

And I have tried to hug the ground ever since.

Which is what makes it so astounding that I found myself staring over the edge of a steep drop-off near Golden, B.C. last week with what seemed to be an insufficient amount of cloth strapped to my back. You see, I somehow convinced myself that paragliding was exactly the adventure for me.

For those not in the know, paragliding is a strange and wonderful pasttime that involves wind, thermals, a parachute-like canopy and a certain disregard for peril. When the weather is right, enthusiasts hurl themselves from mountain tops and attempt to stay aloft with fabric, warm air and a seemingly wanton defiance of gravity.

The first hurl is always done with an expert secured to one’s back. The second and third hurls come later.

To launch oneself into the air, the pair of paragliders runs down a steep incline in tandem, waiting for the canopy to be caught by the wind and gravity to be flipped the bird, so to speak. Defying logic and instinct, I managed to do exactly this. Whether it was bravery or a man who weighed slightly more than I do running behind me, I can’t say for certain, but there I went. I ran. I jumped, and just like that-to quote John Gillespie Magee-I slipped the surly bonds of earth and danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings.

It turns out that leaving the ground behind is remarkably easy. We dipped. We soared. We topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace. It was almost poetic.

Until I noticed that we were going in circles rather a lot. You see, it turns out that height is only one small part of my neurosis. I may have been able to convince my head that gravity held no dominion over me but my stomach was having no part of it.

To make an embarrassing story no less embarrassing (but only slightly shorter), I may have-to put it politely-jettisoned some cargo midflight. Twice. There may be people who were a few thousand feet below me who were concerned about the strange and possibly biblical weather they were experiencing. But in my defense, I was very ladylike about the divulging of my stomach’s contents; I did say “excuse me” after all.

On ground, I shakily but resolutely thanked my instructor for an amazing flight. It was an unparalleled view of the Columbia Valley and-aside from the spinny spinny-very enjoyable. I said I’d recommend it to everyone I knew. I said that the experience was unforgettable. I said that I was so very glad I had done it. And then I excused myself and wobbled to the bathroom. Where I performed amazing feats of acrobatics as I dislodged dinners that I had digested in previous decades.

Still, I would do it again. I may, provided I can find the right medication to calm my turbulent tummy. Because perhaps I’m not as afraid of heights as I thought. Perhaps I’m really just afraid of widths, and the rapid circling of them.

If that makes me shallow, I can live with that.

Similar Posts:

Retail Therapy

Madame Fabulous — Tue, 18 Nov 2008 05:07:55 +0000

There is a trite bumper sticker that reads, “When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.” I appreciate the sentiment.

I suppose we all have our little ways of dealing with everyday stressors. Some run, some hit the punching bags, some develop endearing little tics, some drown their sorrows in drink and others smother them in food. And then there are us who shop.

I love shopping under the best of circumstances. I love to run my hands over the fabrics of the luxurious blankets and pillows in home stores. I revel in sniffing the pineapple and manhandling the peaches to find the ripest piece of fruit. I enjoy trying on the highest, most ridiculously dangerous stiletto shoes and tottering across the floor. I positively swoon when I find myself standing in front of the dressing room mirror with a perfect ensemble. And I thrill at handing over my credit card and happily sign my name on the dotted line as I collect my parcels. I smile at everyone, particularly those joyous souls who are also loaded down with various shopping bags. We understand each other.

But when one is engaged in a bit of retail therapy, the rules of the game change.

Normally, shopping is a satisfying experience, done because one wants to spend a pleasant day draining the coffers while in the company of good friends, better coffee and fabulous clothes. Retail therapy, on the other hand, is less about what you buy, but how fast you can do it and how happy it will make you.

This is a busy time of year for me. I’m not complaining, mind you; because I do appreciate those cheques arriving that allow me to continue eating and sleeping indoors. But it can also be a bit of a strain on both my mental health and the magnetic strip on my debit card. After a particularly anxiety-inducing day, I found myself alone in the mall in a shopping fog. Nothing was going to drive away these blues, unless it was that blue sweater that fit me like a dream. And that skirt. Which would look great with those boots! A vest! A hat! Scarf! Pillowspillowcasecordlesstelephonewirelessmouseespressomaker!

I stuffed the shopping bags into the van, and drove to the next store. This is the one where one must pay for the use of a shopping cart. As I deal primarily in plastic, and as I hate the sensation of actually parting with money, I chose instead to carry around an overloaded basket. While standing in the checkout line, I realized how little rationality has to do with my shopping binges when I was asked how many bags I wished to buy. I looked at the heaping mound of food, house wares, candles and a still unidentified object that clearly was going to require both arms to lug out. I took one bag. I didn’t want to overspend.

When I arrived at home, I opened up the bags and looked within. One by one, I pulled out all of my purchases. I looked at the items that I had no recollection of buying. The uneasy feeling that perhaps I had gone too far began to grow within me. I feared that I was suffering the shopoholic’s equivalent of a blackout. Still, I was loathe to return any of the wonders I had brought home with me. I didn’t understand some of them, need any of them, and could ill afford all of them, but they somehow made me feel, strangely, happy.
That is, until I looked at my bank and credit card statement and realized just how much this particular form of stress relief was costing me. Which made my blood pressure skyrocket. Which is how I found myself at the store. Luckily, it was in the snack food aisle. I’ve decided to smother my stress in food.

Similar Posts:

Madfab, Merlot and Malice

Madame Fabulous — Wed, 08 Oct 2008 17:28:43 +0000

Today’s column is brought to you by Yellowtail Shiraz and Ani DiFranco “To the teeth”

Dear Auntie Merlot:

What is the best strategy for dealing with sly bitches who like to poke and prod and then step away when you finally explode with that butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth look? Is violence the answer? I know they say it never is, but surely every once in a while it has to be, right?

Signed Imminently Imploding Ida

Darling,

Plotting violence is always satisfying, but actually engaging in acts of it is even moreso. However, because there are killjoy laws around the whole thing, it’s much better to twist the knife metaphorically. Channel Joan Collins. Put on your best shoulder pads, big hair and red lipstick, secure a sardonic sneer on your face and say, “So glad to see you got your teeth fixed, if not your tongue.”

They say the pen is mightier than the sword. This is especially true of pens that are weigh five pounds, are made of steel and are razor sharp. I suggest the following letter:

Dearest Sarah Palin [note: just a guess]

I see that, as usual, your inability to fully articulate a coherent argument means that you must rely on snide, unsupported innuendos. Pity that. I would expect more from someone who has attended so many junior colleges. I understand that mealy-mouthed passive aggressiveness passes for discussion in some circles-though those same circles would have some difficulty saying as much, what with the rampant monosyllabic grunts that pass as communication-but in these parts, we prefer something with a bit more substance. Work on that, would you? Perhaps then we might be able to address the issues, rather than your vacuous, transparent, mutton-headed attempts to draw me into a stupid-off.

Condescendingly yours,
Auntie Merlot

If you are in need of a person with a good vocabulary and no inhibitions to compose your more complicated correspondence, please contact Auntie Merlot via the Contact Us! form located at the top right of this site.

Similar Posts: