Mad Men and Me

There are many many reason for my Mad Men obsession. One is the breathtakingly masculine, bourbon swilling, Marlboro smoking, lady killing Don Draper. What is it about him that is so appealing? He doesn't breathe, he exudes. In one scene he is shoving his wife against a wall, in another he is frying hamburgers for his anxious daughter. In one scene he is the mouthpiece of morality, chastising his boss for his foolish behavior, in another he invites a stewardess to his hotel room. Likeable? Not one bit. When he is on screen, I can't take my eyes off him.

Then there is the setting, which is a character on its own: the year 1963. I was 6 in 1963. Watching the scenes involving the Draper family has surprised me by releasing dormant memories. I'm recalling events I thought I forgot. The Drapers go on a picnic in their brand new Cadillac. At the end of the picnic, Don shakes out the blanket; napkins, paper plates, soda bottles spew onto the grass. He rolls up the blanket and off they go. I remember clearly being told to just throw trash out of the car window when I was a child.

Another scene has Sally Draper, maybe 8 years old, driving a car down the road, while being instructed by her grandfather who was seated in the passenger seat. My flashback: sitting on my father's lap and steering the car while he worked the pedals. I hadn't thought about that in years. My parents were divorced and my memories of my father are complicated and not complimentary. Thinking about “driving,” though, I remember us laughing and laughing.

In a recent episode Betty Draper gives birth to her third child. Don drops her at the hospital and is told by the nurse that his work is done; he is relegated to the waiting room while Betty gets wheeled away. She is drugged to the max and wakes up with voila! a new baby boy. Since it is 1963, she remains in the hospital for more than 1 day. Don brings his 2 other children to visit, but kids are not allowed inside so there is a scene in which they stand on the sidewalk, waving up to Betty at the window holding the new baby.

I call my mother. “Did my father take me to the hospital to see you after S. was born? Did I stand down on the sidewalk with him while you stood at the window holding the baby, waving? Was I wearing cowboy boots?” “Yup,” she said. I was 3 years old.

Let the analysis begin.

Morning Cocktail

These are the ingredients for my morning juice. I TRY to do it every morning: sometimes I succeed; sometimes I don't. I especially need the infusion of alkaline today since the weekend consisted of brisket, potato latkes, challah, apple pie. Toss in the fact that 4 invited guests canceled at the last minute, causing great consternation and an excess of delicious, high fat, high fun food. Instead of nine people, there were five.

I have a Breville juicer and my concoction consists of

5 or 6 leaves of kale, including the stalks
2 stalks of celery
1 large cucumber
2 or 3 broccoli stems

Who Does She Think She Is?

I had the wonderful opportunity to view this documentary. at the Maynard Fine Arts Theatre last week. The director, Pamela T. Boll, chronicles the lives of five contemporary female artists. How does being female affect and effect making art? How does motherhood influence your life as an artist? All five of these women felt pressure to choose between other-nurturer and self-nuturer. More than one of them was accused of being selfish for taking care of her own creative, spiritual, and undeniably psychological needs.

These women's stories are alternately inspiring and heartbreaking. Relationships with significant others suffer and fail; the ones that survive seem bedrock solid. It is disturbing that these are challenges that women, in particular artistic women, still face in the 21st century.

I was struck by a couple of moments in the film:

*Allison's mother tearfully supporting her talented daughter's tenacity and dreams despite the obstacles placed in her way. Everyone should have a mother like that.
*Maye's story about the custody battle for her sons brought about due to the time spent on her art.
*The vibrancy of Camille's paintings. This matched the energy and generosity of her personal story. I love Camille.

Please see this movie if you can. It speaks to the creative urge in all of us, whether we consider ourselves artists or not.

Phil

I first saw Phil in the chemo infusion room last spring. I thought he looked kind of familiar, in that way people do when you live in a small town. He caught my eye, gave me a quick nod, then went back to his book while the drugs hopefully worked their magic. You learn etiquette quickly in the chemo room: some of us are talkers and some of us are loners. Phil, like me in the chemo room anyway, was a loner. I pulled out my own book and settled in for my 4 hour infusion. Then Phil's wife walked in.

I hadn't seen her for awhile but knew who she was immediately. We each have a son the same age and a few years ago, she and I commiserated on the bad teacher our boys were stuck with. We spent a year as more-than-acquaintances-not-quite-friends. I ended up pulling my son out of school just before the end of that tumultuous year; they toughed it out. I hadn't spoken to her in about 7 years but would see her from time to time taking a walk on sunny mornings after the school buses had picked up the kids.

She came over and sat with me for bit. I told her my story. She told me Phil's. He's doing great, she said. Treatment's almost over. Good news! I exclaimed. You must be so relieved. Good-bye, good luck. I didn't see either of them after that day.

Phil died last week.

Some days, it is harder to be grateful than others.