It is a widely held belief that all good things must come to an end. I understand and accept that. But it still does not lessen the pain I will be feeling this time next week when something in which I have invested six years of my life will finally end.
In short, I’ll be lost without “Lost”.
Six years ago, I tuned into the pilot episode of a program about a group of survivors whose plane crashes on a tropical island. The survivors include, among others, a doctor, a fugitive, a rock star, a con man and a lottery winner. The premise sounded ordinary. However, by the end of the pilot, the introduction of a polar bear, an unseen “monster” and a distress signal broadcasting for more than sixteen years firmly set the tone for a television show that was anything but ordinary. The last words spoken in this episode hinted at the roller coaster ride ahead: “Guys…where are we?”
Six years later, those of us who tune in faithfully have been treated to a flood of plot points including a smoke monster, a man living underground in a hatch, a button that needs to be pushed every 108 minutes in order to save the world, and characters whose lives have intersected off-island (in ways unbeknownst to them but revealed to the viewers). We’ve seen flashbacks, flash-forwards and flash-sideways. We’ve witnessed miraculous healings, time travel and alternate universes. The common complaint I hear from people who don’t watch “Lost” is that they tried to watch but they got…well…lost. (I feel the same way about “24”). Take heart. I have watched every episode multiple times, have read hundreds of postings online, traded theories with fellow “Losties” and I still have no clue what it’s all about. Clearly “Lost” isn’t just the title of the program. It’s a state of mind.
The title “Lost” doesn’t just refer to the fact that the characters are stuck on some mystical, uncharted island (kind of like a Zen version of “Gilligan’s Island, a show I loved as a kid. Uh-oh. I’m sensing a pattern here.) In their own unique way, the show’s characters are all “lost”, whether they are seeking love, faith, acceptance, redemption or peace. Lately, the show has leaned heavily on spiritual parallels, with viewers pondering concepts such as good versus evil, free will versus destiny, and where we fit in the tapestry of the universe.
It’s always funny when someone who doesn’t watch “Lost” asks me what’s going on. A typical response might go something like this: ” Well, the smoke monster inhabited John Locke’s body and is now trying to leave the island in the submarine. Jacob is dead but he still appears to Hurley, who can see dead people, and Desmond returned to the island but was thrown down the well by Sayid. Oh, and in the alternate timeline…” At this point I start to feel like a jackass and shut my mouth. There’s no way to succinctly sum up what’s happening on “Lost” without sounding like a complete lunatic.
I appreciate that the “Lost” producers decided to end the series while still going strong. Nothing is more pathetic than a television show that exceeds its freshness date. (Can you say “Will and Grace?”) Perhaps you’ve heard the phrase “jumping the shark” (referencing a show that has lost all credibility, as when Fonzie decided to water ski over a shark tank on the program “Happy Days”), “Lost” was one of the few shows that was unable to “jump the shark” since the premise was completely outrageous to begin with. I’m sure there are millions of fans that would love to continue watching “Lost” for years to come, but after watching a similar fan favorite, “The X-Files”, spiral down to mediocrity, I’m okay with “Lost” going out while they’re still on top.
On Sunday night, at 11:31 p.m., television sets all over the country will be turned off and fellow “Lost” fans will shake their heads, perhaps dab a tear, and begin the process of living without “Lost”.
To which I say: It is better to have loved “Lost” and lost, than to never have loved “Lost” at all.
I am a survivor.
Some survivors prefer to not discuss their experience, while others find it a form of catharsis, a way to free the soul. I prefer the latter. If I am able to influence even one person by sharing my story, then I I’ve achieved my goal. So here goes:
I survived a 9-week fitness challenge at The Workout Club in Marshfield.
Scoff if you will, but until you have walked a mile in my athletic shoes, I respectfully ask that you hold your tongue. A little background is required. I’ve struggled with my weight since college. When I married my husband, I bought a wedding dress two sizes too small, then went to Weight Watchers so I could fit into it. The birth of my two children allowed me to eat without guilt (not a good thing), and I’ve been trying to get down to a healthy weight ever since. The advent of middle age has not helped, as each year makes weight loss more difficult. And though I had once been a frequent visitor to the gym, lately my attendance has fallen off. I needed motivation. I needed inspiration. I needed a kick in my ever-widening butt.
A friend had participated in a fitness challenge at The Workout Club in Marshfield and lost 28 pounds. She mentioned that she was going to sign up for the next challenge, and encouraged me to join her. Though my regular gym is the YMCA in Hanover, I thought a change of scenery might be just the thing. In the weeks leading up to the challenge, I indulged in my favorite foods, like a dying man eating his last meal. Indian food? Bring it on. Sour cream and onion chips? Pass them here. Entennman’s chocolate covered donuts? Don’t have to ask me twice. At my first weigh-in, I was dismayed to find that I was up several pounds from my already unhealthy weight.
Our team leaders, Wendy and Caitlin, explained the challenge: We would split into two teams of 15 women each. Over the nine weeks, we would be required to participate in at least 25 workouts. Special classes that qualified for the challenge were highlighted on the club’s schedule (names like “TOTAL INSANITY” and “THE FORCE TIMES 4” gave me a sinking feeling in my too-large gut). In addition to these workouts, we would need to adhere to a strict nutritional plan. The initial two-week “fat flush” eliminated any breads, refined sugar, potatoes, rice, pasta or alcohol. Though I had recently given up alcohol for Lent, several of the ladies groaned when they learned this. I left the club with my challenge notebook, workout schedule and nutrition plan in hand. The challenge was on.
I arrived at the gym the next day for my first challenge workout: Total Insanity. There’s an infomercial for this exercise where hard-bodied men and women do a relentless amount of aerobics nonstop: jumping jacks, lunges, knees, football runs. Total Insanity was all that, except that instead of watching from the comfort of my couch, I was smack in the middle of it all, praying I wouldn’t lose all the egg whites I had eaten for breakfast. You know those drill sergeants the military uses for basic training? I think these Aerobic instructors train those drill sergeants. When the class was finally over, I hauled my exhausted, sweaty body home and collapsed.
Each day, I diligently followed the challenge’s nutritional guidelines, avoiding “bad” carbs like bread and pasta, and choosing good ones, like fruits and vegetables. Each meal and snack was a nearly equal balance of good carbs, protein and fat. Instead of a handful of chips, I would have a few almonds and a piece of fruit. Instead of pizza, my dinners consisted of grilled chicken, steamed broccoli and homemade coleslaw. At night I dreamed of ice cream and donuts, but my days stayed “clean”.
As the challenge progressed, I was amazed at how great I felt. My body had detoxed from all the junk I had consumed before the challenge. Though I was down to just one cup of coffee a day, I no longer needed a nap in the afternoon. Best of all, I had started the challenge with an injury, a shoulder impingement. By the middle of the challenge, all the exercise I was doing, combined with physical therapy, brought my shoulder’s range of motion back to normal.
Every Monday I was back in “Total Insanity” and though I struggled every time, I no longer felt like I was going to lose my breakfast. I added in other cardio and free weight classes at The Workout Club, and supplemented them with my favorite spin classes at the “Y”. Best of all, I was getting to know the other challenge participants. Though we were all vying for the top spot, the camaraderie and support these women offered kept me on track and motivated along with weekly weigh-ins, e-mails and support meetings.
The challenge finally ended on May 2. I lost 22.5 pounds and 9% body fat. My team lost a total of 176 pounds while the other team lost 147.5 pounds. My “before” and “after” photos are incredible. And though I still have many more pounds to lose, I am off to a great start. I am thankful for every hungry, sweaty, sore, exhausted moment I spent in this challenge because it changed my life. I’ve even decided to continue working out down in Marshfield, since no one kicks butt like those women.
Though I think I’ll skip “Total Insanity” from now on. (C’mon, I’m not crazy.)
What is a mother?
The definitions listed on Dictionary.com range from the succinct (…a female parent) to the technical (…a term of address for a female parent or a woman having or regarded as having the status, function, or authority of a female parent).
Singer/songwriter Kate Bush sings, “Mother…stands for comfort” but Roger Waters of Pink Floyd disagrees by saying, “Mama’s gonna make all of your nightmares come true. Mama’s gonna put all of her fears into you.”
Michael Keaton played “Mr. Mom”, Kathleen Turner racks up a high body count in “Serial Mom” and Danny DeVito wanted to “Throw Mama from the Train”, but Barbara Bel Geddes recalls that “…first and foremost, I Remember Mama.”
Whether you’re Mom, Mommy, Mother, Mama or Ma, this Sunday you will be honored alongside millions of other “female parents” for Mother’s Day.
I have a very vivid memory from my earliest days of motherhood. My husband and I brought our newborn son home from the hospital. Our drive home from Boston took twice as long as usual due to my husband driving 25 mph on the Southeast Expressway. “Slow down!” I hissed from the back seat as I hovered over my baby. Was his head tilted too far to the left? Were the straps too tight? Good God, was he still breathing? Phew.
Entering the house with new baby in tow, I heard a distinct popping sound. What’s that? Oh, right, that’s the sound of my safe haven, baby-hospital bubble popping. Taking in the disarray, clutter, hungry cats and recently delivered flower arrangements, my overworked hormones exploded. “What have we done?” I wailed, “We’ve made a huge mistake. We’ll never watch TV or read a book or eat dinner out or go to a movie ever again.”
Thankfully, twelve years later I’m happy to say that eventually we did do all of those things, and more. Last night I even left that “baby” in charge of his younger brother while my husband and I went to a friend’s party. But in those early days of motherhood, it seemed like someone had stolen my previously carefree life and replaced it with a duffle bag of insecurity, fear, anxiety and exhaustion.
What saved me? My own mother, of course. She timed her arrival from New Jersey to coincide with our arrival home from the hospital. And though she was initially nervous about handling my infant son (after all, more than 30 years had passed since her baby was born), she pitched in with rocking, singing, cooking, cleaning and most importantly, soothing (the soothing was for me, not the baby). When it was time for my mother to return to her own home, my mother-in-law arrived to continue the rocking-singing-soothing process.
With both families living out of state, I quickly realized that friendship with other mothers was the key to keeping my sanity. Over the years, I’ve relied quite heavily on my girlfriends, soliciting advice on every subject from rashes to fevers to the color of poop, on teachers and sports and whether my occasional use of an expletive will scar them for life. When your child is puking and there’s no way you can run to the store for ginger ale, a girlfriend always has your back.
The more I experience as a mother, the more I appreciate my own mother. She too was a stay-at-home mom, and I don’t ever remember her having girlfriends over or going to Gymboree or story time at the library or any of the other activities I did to help fill the hours until my husband arrived home and could give me a break from the kids. When my sons forget to pick up after themselves, or leave dirty dishes on the table, or chase each other around the house screaming, I think about how my mother must have felt dealing with the very same issues, except she had three shrieking girls instead of two loud boys. God bless her.
When do you stop being a mother? Never. You are a mother from the time your child is placed in your arms until long after your body has left this earth. I’m blessed that my mother is still with me (not everyone is as fortunate) but I know that long after she is physically gone, the memory of her love and the lessons I have learned from her will stay with me forever.
To all the moms who might be reading this (especially my own): Happy Mother’s Day!
And so another school vacation comes to a close. How was yours? Were your plans cancelled by a giant cloud of volcanic ash? Did it rain the entire time at your tropical destination? Did your airline unexpectedly move your flight up an hour, resulting in your driving 1,500 miles to get home?
If you answered “no” to any of these questions then perhaps you fared better on your vacation than some of my friends. One of the benefits to staying local (other than some mighty fine weather) is that the cosmic gremlins are unable to put much of a monkey wrench in your meticulously planned vacation.
My sons and I spent a few days with family in New Jersey (luckily, there was no previously dormant volcano spewing ash out of the Hudson River, otherwise we might never have made it over the Tappan Zee Bridge). Upon returning home, I pondered what other activities we might find to fill the remaining vacation days (helping me maintain a grip on my sanity).
I finally settled on the one place I had been meaning to take the children for months: The Institute of Contemporary Art. I always meant to take them on a Thursday night (admission is free, thanks to Target), but somehow homework, soccer and Tae Kwon Do practice always took priority. Lucky for me, our local library now has a pass available, so my admission was $5 (instead of $15) and my sons were free (my favorite discount).
This unique museum sits right on Boston Harbor, next to Anthony’s Pier 4 on Northern Ave. The building’s architecture reflects the unusual artwork within. My kids were unnerved by the giant glass elevator (you could park a car in it) that allows you to see all the way down to the lobby as you zoom up to the galleries on the fourth floor. My children started their exploration with a visit to the Poss Family Mediateque (a media center with multiple computers in rows that step down, stadium style, towards a wall of glass that looks out over the harbor). This room, which looked like the bridge of some futuristic space ship, allowed each child to view any number of animated short films on their own computer (complete with headphones). The unanimous favorite was a film entitled “Never Live Above a Psychic”, in which a man is tormented by the children of the Psychic who lives downstairs.
“Art in the Making” was another exhibit which captivated my kids. Artists used ordinary materials like sugar cubes, oil, pins and scotch tape to create their pieces. An enormous cube was made entirely of silver straight pins. A museum employee explained that the artist had poured thousands of pins into a square mold, and then removed the sides. The pins held their cube shape entirely by friction and weight, with no glue or epoxy to keep it together. Of course my first question was “How do you move it?” She went on to explain that when the exhibit was over, the cube would be dismantled.
Another room held what looked to be a mist of fine clouds floating upon the floor. On closer inspection, we discovered that the mist was made from scotch tape. One artist had a whole exhibit dedicated to water, complete with sculptured glass, photographs and an ant farm (with real, live ants. Would that be considered performance art?)
My favorite moment of the day was when my children discovered a film entitled “Sugar and Oil #2”. The film shows a block made entirely of sugar cubes. The artist then pours crude oil over the cubes, and as the oil seeps into the sugar, the block crumbles and dissolves. When my twelve-year-old said, “Oh I get it. The sugar is like the purity of mankind and the oil is what happens when we get corrupted by greed,” I nearly fell over.
One of the last exhibits we visited was a collection of art by a Mexican tattoo artist who goes by the name Dr. Lakra. Rather than tattooing skin, the artist uses his skills to tattoo vintage printed materials, found objects and even baby dolls. Some of the images were funny, some were scary and some were a little disturbing (they involved the human anatomy. Use your imagination). Though it didn’t have the same cache as the block of pins or the scotch tape clouds, my children did appreciate the artist’s talent.
As we left the museum, one of my kids blurted, “They should call this the IACA: The Institute of Awesome Contemporary Art.” Though I was happy to kill a few hours over vacation week, I was thrilled to reinforce the lesson that everyone’s concept of art is different. Art can be a Monet painting, a Rodin sculpture or even a giant block of pins. For more information, visit www.icaboston.org/
And don’t say I didn’t warn you about Dr. Lakra.
Is it possible to love a machine?
That sounds like the opening line from some romance-science fiction novel, doesn’t it? If you’re a fan of The Twilight Zone, you might remember the episode entitled, “The Lonely” where Jack Warden plays a convict serving time on a remote planet. His only company is a robot designed to look like a beautiful woman. When his sentence is up, he is devastated to learn that he has to leave his companion, “Alicia” behind, since there’s no room in the rocket ship for her. True, she’s only a machine, but the two had formed a deep, emotional bond.
I have similar sentiments about several machines in my life. At the top of the list is my new Saturn Aura. Of course, “my” is a relative term. Though my name is on the title and the insurance, it’s used primarily for my husband’s commute to Providence each day. Our last Saturn, a ’93 SL2, finally conked out after 16 years and 345,000 miles. And while I enjoyed that car, it’s nothing compared to the love I feel for our new Saturn: Leather seats, sunroof, XM radio (how did we survive with just AM/FM?), On-Star, MP3 jack and heated seats. Our last Saturn smelled like an old man and sounded like a New York City taxi. The new one still has that pristine-just-out-of-the-showroom smell and rides oh-so-smoothly. Though I only get to drive it on weekends, I revel in those few moments when I can open the sunroof, blast XM radio and forget that I’m actually a middle-aged, suburban soccer mom. The rock band Queen had it right when they sang “I’m in Love with My Car…got a feel for my automobile.” Really, as hard as I try, I just can’t form the same emotional attachment to my mini-van.
Running a close second on the list is my new Keurig coffee maker. I admit I resisted this one for quite a while. My husband and I had just converted from a French press to an automatic drip, when these single-cup, pod machines hit the stores. Too expensive, I thought, and those k-cups can’t be recycled. What would Al Gore say? Our grind and brew had a programmable timer and a carafe that would keep the coffee hot all day. Still, it was a pain to clean, and my husband and I were at odds over what type of coffee to brew (he loves extra bold, I like extra wimpy). Soon most of my friends had a Keurig in their kitchen and I couldn’t help but be impressed by the assortment of coffee pods available: Decaf, Mudslide, Buttered Toffee or Blueberry Crumble. (My resolve was starting to crumble). When my husband developed reflux and had to reduce his coffee intake to one cup a day, I took it as a sign. It was time to pull the trigger. The Keurig is now firmly ensconced on my counter and I’ve willingly joined the ranks of the pod people (sorry Al…)
Third place is a tie between my iPhone and my Tivo box (though I’d be hard pressed to decide which I could live more easily without). Prior to purchasing my iPhone, a friend and I went out one Friday night. Upon discovering that her iPhone was left at home, my friend immediately went into a panic. Though I assured her I had my cell phone, she responded “I’m crippled without the internet!” How could we check movie times, search restaurant reviews or Google pictures of Josh Holloway? At the time I chuckled and shook my head, but now I’m the one who can’t bear to be separated from my iPhone. No longer satisfied with just making and receiving phone calls. I have to fill every moment of downtime checking email, Facebook and surfing the internet. My Tivo box was a gift from my husband’s co-worker, and sat unused in our attic for nearly two years. When our ancient VCR finally bit the dust, I decided it was time to forgo videotape and head over to the digital side of town. Oh the wonders of watching one program while recording another. The joys of my season pass manager, which records all the episodes of my favorite programs with just one touch. The thrill of skipping over commercials, or instantly stepping back three seconds to catch that missed moment. Who came up with this brilliant idea, and how can I get in touch to thank him?
So yes, I guess to answer my original question, it is possible to love a machine. But as you know, love and hate go hand in hand. Therefore, with the capacity to love comes the potential to hate a machine as well.
Just ask anyone who owns a computer printer.
Let’s talk about the price of beauty, shall we?
First things first. I am not talking about the VH-1 program hosted by Jessica Simpson which explores the whys and wherefores of beauty rituals around the globe. I could certainly write plenty about Jessica and her BFFs drinking cow urine in India and being buried up to their necks in Tokyo. But that’s a column for another day.
Recently, I won a free rejuvenating peel and microdermabrasion from a local spa. The peel refers to a “chemical peel’ where salicylic acid is applied to the skin to slough off old skin cells. The microdermabrasion then uses light abrasion to remove the outmost layer of dead skin. I’ve heard that these treatments can work wonders in bringing a fresh, vibrant look to the face, but at almost $200 a pop, it’s low on my priority list.
I’ve never been one to obsess over aging. Still, I can see how women who were beautiful their whole lives might pursue Botox and face lifts and other cosmetic treatments to maintain their looks. Having always been average, my beauty regimen is minimal at best. I indulge in pedicures during the summer, when my icky toenails aren’t falling off (I’m like a lobster…I shed body parts on a regular basis). I’ve also enjoyed facials from time to time. Manicures last about five minutes before they chip, so I don’t bother. But overall, I tend not to spend much money on beauty treatments; I like a decent return on my investment and this face just doesn’t give it.
Lucky for me, my peel and dermabrasion were free. I arrived at the spa at the appointed time and filled out a very detailed medical questionnaire and waiver. I was thrown by some of the questions, including the one which asked for my genetic background. (Were they checking to see if I’m a mutant? Was a DNA test required?) The receptionist assured me they just needed to know if I burn easily (I’m Scandinavian…so that would be a “yes”).
After signing away all rights to my face, I met with the nurse who would be performing my procedure. This was reassuring, because when someone is putting acid on your face, you want it to be a medical professional. After several more questions regarding my skin care regimen (what regimen?) she instructed me to lie on the table. Pushing thoughts of the Phantom of the Opera from my mind, I lay down.
Now I want you to picture what it’s like to have a relaxing facial. The room is usually quiet, the lights are dim, and typically there’s some kind of new age, pan flute music playing in the background. As the skin care professional gently cleans and massages your pores, any stress or tension just melts away.
A peel and dermabrasion is not like that. In the bright lights of the examining room, the nurse went to work. “I’m applying the peel now, it might feel sting a little bit,” she warned. Within seconds, I wondered how my face had caught fire. My face felt as if I’d fallen asleep in the sun for six or seven days. Luckily, the burning sensation soon took a backseat to the acidic fumes filling my nostrils. “It smells a bit,” the nurse admitted as I silently gasped for air. I squeezed my eyes shut against the flames and fumes as the nurse fanned my face. My skin temperature returned to normal as the stench dissipated.
On to the microdermabrasion. Those of you who’ve had cavities filled are probably familiar with the tool my dentist calls “Mr. Thirsty”, the one that sucks up all the excess water in your mouth. The dermabrasion tool felt a lot like Mr. Thirsty as the nurse rubbed it across my skin. “So this is what it’s like to have your face vacuumed,” I thought. After a quick rinse of water (Ow!) and some calming moisturizer, it was time to head home. The nurse cautioned that my face would be red for a couple of hours, and then flake two days later.
Sure enough, 48 hours later I woke to a face full of flakes. It was like everything south of my nose had developed dandruff. Washing my skin and slathering on moisturizer, I rushed to my aerobics class, only to discover that sweat stings a lot more when your face has been chemically flambéed and vacuumed. Ever swim in the ocean after getting a cut? It’s like that…except it was my whole face…for an hour.
Three days after the treatment, my flakes have diminished, my face feels nice and clean and I’ve received several comments on how fresh my skin looks. All in all, it was worth the minor discomfort I endured. And though I don’t have the money for another such treatment, I’d certainly be opening to trying new things should the opportunity arise.
However, I draw the line at cow urine.
