My Bullies

The bullying tragedy in western Massachusetts has rightfully received a lot of press, with columnists and psychologists and educators commenting on aspects of the case from cause and prevention to warning signs and severity of punishment. I bet there are many of us who can remember an incident or two from our far gone (or not so far gone) school days. Here's mine.

I really, really liked high school. I had a lot of friends, got good grades, and remember laughing a lot both in and outside the classroom. Except for a 3 month period as a freshman, during the spring of 1972.

I was 14 and he was 18; a senior. And not just any senior. He was on the football team. He had just been voted “Best Looking” for the annual yearbook. Not only good looking with his swept back, medium length brown hair and chiseled cheekbones, he was charming and funny and sweet. All the senior girls were gaga over him. He hung out with everyone, not “dating” anyone in particular.

He started talking to me in the hallway between classes. I can remember feeling my cheeks grow bright red as I was singled out. “Hey, what class do you have next?” “I'm going the same way. Let's go!” After about a week of this, he started calling my house and we would talk almost every night. I remember being on the phone for a long time, but I don't remember what exactly we talked about. He laughed at my jokes. I was floating. I was one of those annoying little girls that always “liked” a boy. Or two or three. And boys always liked me. But, still, this was pretty heady stuff.

We went public: movies (Dirty Harry), dinner (lasagna at the local Italian restaurant). And then, the senior girls went into action.

I started getting tripped in the hallway at school. Scathing looks. Pairs of senior girls would walk behind me and whisper loudly. The phone would ring repeatedly at night, and there would be nobody on the line. (We had a yellow rotary dial wall phone in the kitchen. My parents had a table phone in their bedroom, which was quite advanced for our day. No caller ID. No *69.)

Then came the day of the Girls Club vote. The Girls Club was ostensibly a service group set up to fundraise for good causes. It was for girls in grades 10-12. The glitch was that the current members voted in the new freshmen members. I was sunk. The senior girls, one in particular whose name I still remember and would never have had a chance with him even if I was not in the picture (sorry, it still pisses me off), orchestrated my black balling. Every one of my friends got in. Not me.

I never said a word. We continued to go out; have fun. I would listen for the chug of his beige VW Beetle as it made its way up our street to our house. He would come in, talk to my mom, and we'd be off. We went to his house; I met his family and sprayed his little sisters with the hose as we washed the Beetle. He was the first boy to tell me he loved me. In retrospect, I can't believe how well mannered and controlled he was. Sure, we parked and kissed and a little bit more, and I would have rolled for him in a minute. But he never asked for it; it was never an issue.

We double dated with his friends and their girlfriends who were quite nice to me, although also warning me to be careful at school. Notes started appearing on my locker. “Bitch” and “Slut” are what I remember. More phone hang ups.

Then, he stopped calling. Just like that. Even worse, he didn't show up for a long standing date we had discussed for the school's gym show. I was crushed. I didn't see him at school anymore. I cried and cried and cried as only a heartbroken 14 year old can.

A couple of weeks passed and then he showed up at my house unannounced. I was in my room, and I thought, once again, I heard the chugging of the Beetle. I looked out the window and couldn't believe it. We sat on the front porch and he told me he thought is was unfair to feel so deeply for someone when he would be leaving home soon. He realized he was wrong to just stop talking to me; he thought that was all he had to do. He was sorry. At that time, I believed him but I think I would have believed anything he told me. Who knows. He drove off and that was that.

In light of the recent headlines, I wondered what my life would have been like if there had been Facebook and the internet and texting in the 70's. I remember the viciousness of those girls way back then. Today, they would have had many more tools of torture. Who knows what would have happened to me.

Just something I'm thinking about.

Aladdin

I was on the treadmill this morning watching Gilmore Girls reruns on the ABC Family channel (Season 2: Lorelai and Max are engaged for about a minute) when a commercial came on for a upcoming showing of Disney's Aladdin.

When my oldest son was about 3 (he's almost 24, now) I thought I would treat him to a movie. His younger sister had been bugging him and hogging all the attention with her wobbly walking and lispy talking. He needed some extra attention; a Mom and Kid day out. He'd never been to a movie theater before and was very excited. The Little Mermaid had just been released so we headed to the mall.

He lasted about 2 minutes. The beginning of The Little Mermaid has big, loud waves (I can't remember if they were crashing against the shore or against a ship or just against each other. And I can't look it up because Disney keeps its old movies “in the vault.”) and he was terrified. It was just too loud. The movie had barely begun when I scooped him up and carried him out of the theater. After a chocolate ice cream cone, he was fine.

When I naively relayed this story to other mothers with kids his age, there were snickers. He was afraid of The Little Mermaid? Are you serious? I stopped telling the story and it became part of our internal family lore.

Three years later, when he was 6, I took him and his younger sister, 4, to see the new Disney movie, Aladdin. This time, it was their idea. I frankly cannot remember if we had seen any movies in between, but I'm thinking no. Everything was going fine until about halfway through. He jumped up, and ran out of the theater, claiming he had to use the bathroom. I got up to follow him; his sister refused to budge. Yes, I left a 4 year old alone in the theater to chase after her brother. I had a feeling something else besides a biological urge was going on.

I found him in the men's room crying his eyes out. He looked at me and blubbered, “It is so sad that Aladdin doesn't have a mom or a dad!” What? Did I miss that plot point? It was the sweetest thing, really. And this time I didn't share the story until he was old enough to understand how wonderful it is that such a thing would bother him so much.

We stayed away from Disney movies and movie theaters after that. Interestingly, the youngest in the family, also a boy, shared his older brother's dislike of: 1) loud noises in movies; 2) dark theaters; 3) anything sad. Middle child, the only girl, watched Dennis Hopper get beheaded in Speed at the age of 13 without blinking an eye. A story for another time.

New List

List of what I did today, so far:

1.Ran one exhausting, ugly, wheezing, complaining mile; walked two.

2.Did some PR/Marketing for that slave driver of a boss, CHC Design and Redesign.

3.Cleaned out 3 more flower beds: raked and wheelbarrowed the leaves over to grouchy neighbors' side of the yard. Dumped them there.

4.Dug out vehicle ID numbers so Daughter can recover the towed car.

5.Wrote a total of 500 words on current piece for writing group.

6.Started 2 more travel pieces.

7.Read both the Sunday Globe and NY Times.

8.Yelled at the neighborhood boys who were taunting my sweet, old black lab. Little shits.

9.Showered.

10.Moisturized.

11.Accessorized.

Some days, I really can't stand myself.

This is what I am doing today.






No food since 9AM; only clear liquids for the rest of the day, with nothing at all after midnight. This is my third time in, so I guess I'm kind of an expert. You have to drink 2 liters of vile tasting liquid, camouflaged as “lemon lime,” in order to clean out your system for optimal viewing. Bathroom proximity is a must. Everyone says the colon preparation, my activity for the day, is the worst part of the procedure. I guess that's true, unless you get results like I got the first time around. Waking up to the white coat at the foot of the bed telling you that there is a tumor in your colon so big that the scope couldn't get by it and you have to go down for a CAT scan right away -don't even get out of the bed, we'll wheel you as is– that's the worst part of the procedure. Trust me.

So, I'm trying to keep the prep in perspective. I can hang out in my bedroom and watch movies all day, breaking frequently for the obvious reason, without feeling guilty. Good variety of films: Summertime, with Katherine Hepburn and evocative scenery in Venice (although they took a boat to what they referred to as Murano; it looked more like Burano to me, with its colorful architecture and fishing boats); Milk, which is beautiful and sweet and heartbreaking and I keep hoping for a different ending every time I see it; and Wuthering Heights with Laurence Olivier and the magnificently overwrought Merle Oberon.

Tonight, between bathroom breaks, it's reality tv all the way.

And, first thing in the morning, I jump on the scale. I'm counting on being 5 pounds lighter.

A Winter's Tale

Today, it is gloomy and rainy and dull and dank outside. While looking through some older material to cheer me up, I came across this piece, which I wrote last winter.



“The bunny is dead,” Steve whispered.

I was sitting in front of the fire, wrapped in blankets, reading about the Hemingses of Monticello. The power had been out since early morning. We had no lights, no running water, and no heat. It was cold outside, with slivers of ice dangling from wires and trees. It was chilly inside, especially whenever I left the living room and the heat of the fire. This was not my idea of the perfect day. I was not terribly happy at that moment, and I really was not interested in any bunny, alive or dead.

Eleven years ago, while visiting the Bolton Country Fair, we acquired 2 baby bunnies. They were sisters; the kids named them Mercury and Mars. One was mostly black, with a bit of a white face and the other was black and white all over her furry body. I could never remember which one was which. They lived in a hutch in the garage and annoyed the shit out of me just by their mere existence. They smelled awful, no matter how often the hutch was cleaned out. We put them into the garage because we got them in late September and they were so tiny that it seemed cruel to put them outside and subject them to the cold winter. Big mistake. After they were used to the garage, the rest of the family insisted, how could we possibly dump them outside? I had a few answers to that question but kept them to myself.

I am not an animal person. Oh, I love puppies. And my own sloppy black lab. Other people's dogs I like as long as they leave me alone after I perform my obligatory “aren't you the cutest thing ever” routine. I get annoyed when they hang around for more attention. And I get even more annoyed when they shed all over my black pants. It was pure mother guilt that led me to agree to the purchase of baby bunnies. What's the big deal, I thought. They'll hang out in a hutch, the kids will feed them and learn responsibility. Hah.

Like all novelty items, Mars and Mercury received plenty of attention at first. They were promptly fed carrots and hay and some little pellet food which we were constantly running out of. The kids held them and petted them and trimmed the nails of their crazy little rabbit feet. They made sure their water bottles were full. This lasted all of 6 months, which is actually not too bad. Then the 2 oldest totally lost interest. They had school, they had friends, they were busy. Connor, almost 5, took over the tasks but still had to be reminded to do so. Mars and Mercury continued to stink up the garage, and grow chubby and contented. I'm guessing at the contented part because I never heard them complain.

Whenever we went on vacations, we had to make sure someone could come in and feed the bunnies. I know this does not sound like a big deal, but it bothered me that we had to pay someone to stop by, and throw some hay and a carrot into the hutch every day. As time went on, other people began to comment on the bunnies' ages. How long do they live? I looked it up: 6 years. Maybe it was because they had each other, but they were hanging on for a lot longer than that. Then about a year ago, there was news from the hutch.

One of the bunnies (the mostly black one, still don't know her name) was looking a little funny. She wasn't moving as much and didn't seem to be eating. Her head was tilting to one side. Steve and Connor were inconsolable and steeled themselves for bad news. A few days later, she died. They buried her in the back yard, in one of my shoe boxes. I was extra generous and picked a Cole Haan box for the occasion. Ok, I thought. Once one bunny is gone, the other can't be far behind. Connor was horrified by my lack of feeling. He made some routine trips out the grave site to pay his respects and reprimanded me for not going with him.

Cut to the current ice storm and power outage and Steve's declaration. He shared more details than I was interested in: she hasn't moved in a full day. He made a ton of noise in the garage while he was hauling in wood, and she didn't respond. I began to think of ways to dispose of the hutch. It would free up quite a bit of space in the garage. “Have you told Connor yet?” I asked. “No.” “Well, you'll probably want to get her buried before it gets dark, so you'd better get a move on.” I threw off the blankets and left for a hair appointment in the powered up, more civilized town next door and while having the color applied, I texted a friend, who, like the boys in my family, is a bunny-lover: The oldest living bunny known to mankind has gone to the big meadow in the sky. Finally. Steve and Connor are beside themselves. I am having my hair colored. Love, Glenn Close.

Inexplicably, the weather warmed up a bit mid afternoon and it became one of those strange winter days when it is warmer outside than it is inside. When I arrived home, I came in through the back door rather than the garage because, really, who wants to see a dead bunny. The power was still out so I began scavenging for candles and matches. It was getting dark outside. Quickly. The mourners gathered their implements: gloves, shovels, an ax in case the ground was very frozen. They were both somber and serious. “It's the end of an era,” Connor declared dramatically. He looked at me to make sure his pronouncement had the appropriate effect. Apparently unsatisfied, he went into my closet himself and claimed a Joan and David box for the ceremony. They had held my black cowboy boots, but, hey, I bit my lip and made the sacrifice.

In the meantime, I grabbed my Blackberry, its battery still intact and googled the Burlington Marriott. There is not one iota of camping or survivalist blood in my body; a pile of blankets and candlelight weren't going to cut it. Never mind a dead bunny. I needed a martini bar, a George Clooney movie, and a toilet that would flush. And I needed them now.

Steve and Connor trooped outside, dug their hole in the ground, and went into the garage to retrieve the bunny body. I heard laughter and yelling and then they burst back into the house. “She's alive!” They were ridiculously giddy with excitement, jumping up and down and hugging each other. How is this possible? She apparently was just cold, like the rest of us, and stayed as still as possible to conserve her energy. “Wow, Dad, I guess she fooled you!” They both howled uncontrollably at the cosmic joke. Then they ran back into the garage to spend more quality time with the resurrected rabbit. I think she even got an extra carrot that night.

So, it's back to square one. We still have an 11 year old rabbit. I still have to make sure the windows on my car are closed tight while it is in the garage so the icky rabbit smell doesn't permeate the inside of my car. I'm crossing my fingers that the damn bunny doesn't have 9 lives. Meantime, I can be reached at the Marriott.

Leopard Print Uggs

I bought them 2 years ago at the David Z website:

http://tinyurl.com/yhdxfkg



I also love these, but NEVER at the same time.

A Stroll Down Lexington Avenue

I had just spent the afternoon at MoMA. Three and a half hours of glorious solitude with Van Gogh and Warhol. I headed over to Lexington Ave to walk the 15 blocks south to my hotel. It was cold, but sunny, and I was enjoying my walk. I had my leopard print uggs on for warmth and comfort, along with a silk scarf and stylin' beige jacket. I thought I looked New York worthy.

A good looking man in a dark overcoat and suitcase strode by me on the left. “You walk like a married woman,” he stated. Then he looked at me, smiled, and kept walking. I stopped. “What does that mean?'

He just laughed.

Explain