Britomart's Open Salon Blog

My Last Few Meals, until . . .

Sun, 11 Apr 2010 14:04:59 -0400

No, I'm not being executed at dawn (at least not that I know of--don't think any students could be that upset about anything).

But I'm turning 30 very soon indeed, I don't fit into some of my jeans, and the man I love so much it scares me hasn't shown up here in longer than I care to think about.

Now, I do everything you're supposedly supposed to do. I eat a variety of fresh foods, with desserts in moderation, and maintain an active lifestyle. I have a decent energy level, and I feel generally healthy. What's more, I'm still significantly smaller than the average American woman.

But clearly, none of it's enough. A few years ago, I could squeeze into a size 4 on a good day, I could feel each individual vertebra in my neck when I tied my hair back or put on a necklace, I could see my ribs so well that it frankly scared me, and it was only then that I met The One and he fell for me.

I told him fairly early on that I hadn't been that good looking for most of my life, that I thought if I ever had kids I'd never recover physically, and on and on, and he kept claiming it didn't matter. Of course, the last time we saw each other, I wasn't looking fantastic, and he hasn't been back since.

It was also during this time that my Phillies and Red Sox finally won their World Series, that I got my job, and that other various impossible dreams came true.

Now what was the downside? Let's see, I had no energy, I always felt tired, I had fuzzy vision a lot of the time, my stomach hurt a good percentage of the time (as far as I can tell, an overbalance of stomach acid because I wasn't eating enough), and I never really felt well.

I've been so busy the last little while that I haven't had the energy left over to push and starve myself. And I feel healthy, and I get a lot done.

But I can't fit my smallest jeans.

And the man I love isn't here.

So starting tomorrow, I'm not going to be a total idiot about it, but I'm going to deliberately and purposefully near-starve myself.

So bring on the exhaustion, the stomach pain, the joint discomfort, the shaky hands, the fuzzy vision, and the weakness.

And maybe bring back a Commissioner's Trophy and the man I love?

Olympic Champion Evan Lysacek: Worth Waiting 22 Years

Fri, 19 Feb 2010 19:02:13 -0500

22 years. That's how long it had been before last night since an American man won Olympic figure skating gold by skating flawlessly, against a formidable competitor, and winning by the thinnest of margins.

I was a starry-eyed seven-year-old when Boitano bested Orser in the Battle of the Brians. I am staring down the barrel of 30, and my first beloved sport has taken several beatings over the intervening years, as I detailed in this rather meandering post, written after Evan Lysacek won the 2009 World Championship. My high, high praise of Evan at the time was: "Evan Lysacek--Someone fetch the smelling salts. An American man has won the world title. And a man actually skated LIKE A MAN. About. Freaking. Time."

Everything I wrote there was true again last night. Evan skated like a man, skated with perfect technique, skated a program rather than a string of elements under a system that is not set up to reward that, skated with strength, skated with joy, faced off against the reigning Olympic champ (who had abysmal technique but lots of elements, which the new system often rewards, and who was behaving and continues to behave like a Stereotypical Snotty European Jerkoff From Central Casting) . . . and won.

It's been a rough few months for me and sports. The 2009 World Series saw my Phillies lose to The Most Evil Franchise in the History of Sports (TM Bill Simmons), which also happens to be the favorite baseball team of The Bitch I Once Called My Best Friend. Then the Saints, favorite football team of Said Bitch, won the Super Bowl.

Figure skating, as anyone who's followed the sport for more than five seconds knows, does not have a history of distinguishing itself in the realms of fair, consistent officiating or logical results. Occasionally, things come out the way both the rules and common sense say they should, but it's definitely not the norm.

Last night, though, the rules and common sense lined up. Evan Lysacek--together with his coach Frank Carroll and choreographer Lori Nichol-- found a way to satisfy the insane "let's just count elements" new scoring system and still skate a program. He gave the best performance--and won. That was truly, truly special--historic in the sport, even.

And on a personal level, it was needed. So, so needed. Between my family situation and the World Series-Super Bowl double whammy, I needed a gift from the sporting gods. While Evan was skating, my heart sped up on every jump, and I squealed and clapped at the end--haven't done either of those things in years, and definitely not since The Salt Lake Olympics Scandal.

While Plushenko skated, I noted every error and lack. I knew he shouldn't win, but I knew he very likely might. When his scores came up, I held my breath. When Evan's victory was confirmed, I yelled "USA USA USA!" I would have jumped around the living room, but I hurt my knee in an icy parking lot on Monday.

When Evan was notified backstage, I grinned like a fool, and the tears pricked my eyes. Then they cut to Plushenko being villainous, and I giggled. Then I remembered that The Bitch Mentioned Above prefers Johnny Weir* among American figure skaters, and the tears started to fall. In my heart, the cuts administered by the Yankees and the Saints got some salve. And then Evan, beaming with joy and well-earned triumph, mounted the top step of the Olympic podium. It really hit me then that it had been 22 years since the last time this happened for an American man, and the tears spilled over. Then "The Star Spangled Banner" played.

USA USA USA!!!! Evan Evan EVAN!!!!

To Evan Lysacek for laying down the skate of his life, to Frank Carroll for teaching him, to Lori Nichol for brilliant design and strategy, to the judges for using the rules rather than being used by them, to Evgeny Plushenko for being a great villain, to Brian Boitano for the wonderful old memories that came flooding back . . .

Thank you from the bottom of my heart. And congratulations. And thank you. So very, very much.

*To be fair, the people who are saying, "Weir got shafted" are not being entirely irrational. Under the old judging system, and even under some early iterations of the current one, he'd have placed higher and maybe even medaled. Like Evan, he actually skated a program, which most of the men placed in between them did not do, and which the current system doesn't necessarily reward. This is not the fault of either Weir or the men whom the system rewarded. It is, again, what makes Lysacek's achievement truly extraordinary.

Is it really betrayal if it wasn't on purpose? Part 1 of 2

Thu, 28 Jan 2010 21:01:53 -0500

Because I feel betrayed.

Yet I am mature enough (or boring and stick-in-the-mud enough, take your pick) to step back, analyze and realize that what has transpired here is really not about betrayal, and it's not about people setting out to hurt me.

I know that at least one person read this post. I'm not pimping it here per se, but it expands upon what I will summarize below, if you're interested. For 11 years and change, from the first day of college until the last day of the 2009 World Series, I called a certain person my best friend. The World Series is important here because I'm a fan of the Phillies and Red Sox, and she's a Yankees fan (to be fair, she is a real and knowledgeable lifelong fan, not a bandwagon-riding, front-running moron).

Also, I'm a Republican who thinks Reagan wasn't quite conservative enough, and she's a Democrat who thinks Obama needs to be more liberal. More also, I'm a Christian who has faith without the pretentious post-modern fake irony, and she's never quite ~~stopped being morally and mentally lazy~~ ~~and~~ decided whether she's Christian, agnostic, Buddhist, atheist . . . you get the idea.

We're polar opposite human beings. However, I was raised with and hold to boring, old-fashioned, wonderful values like integrity, loyalty, kindness, and consistency. Hence, I was more than happy to go on with the friendship for the aforementioned 11 years, because, well, you're supposed to do right by people, and I take life's "supposed to's" seriously. I was the Maid of Honor in her and her husband's wedding, for heaven's sake.*

It's worth noting that the man I almost married during this time is also a Democrat and a Yankees fan, and he and I don't now hate each other. Funnily enough; he's pretty near entirely consistent in his ideas, attitudes, and actions. This issue did not originate in my little corner of the world.

However, as I noted in the post linked above, over the years since college, I've grown up and she and her husband simply haven't. Whether they can't mature any further or simply refuse to is not a question I can answer, and frankly it isn't relevant; the situation is as described.

For the last few years, I've been growing steadily more frustrated with and disappointed by their essentially random behavior, and my post-2009 Series heartbreak was, I guess, the catalyst I needed to really admit to myself, "I'm so mad her team took that from my team because really I'm just so tired of her bullshit and I cannot. take. it. any. more."**

A couple weeks and a few dissatisfying e-mail exchanges later, I recognized this for the dead end it is, squared my shoulders, and went about the house consigning framed photos of us to closet bottoms.* Then I got all post-modern, deleting the two of them from my cell phone, e-mail address book, and Facebook account (from which I also blocked them--I don't even have to see it when they communicate with mutual friends).

And the thing is, I simply did not feel very sad. Not even a little sad. More just tired and vaguely annoyed, as if I were running an errand. In the previous post, I wondered if I might be some kind of sociopath due to that lack of emotion. My real best friend***, of 23 years' standing, assured me that I am not. We also discussed the importance of not taking friends and friendships for granted, and of remaining true to each other and to who and what we are. She is awesome and I love her.

Just today, a comment on another Facebook thread in which I'd been participating with some other college friends revealed that one of them wasn't who I thought he was, didn't have the ideas I thought he did, and didn't respond to me and my ideas in the way I'd expected. I felt vaguely upset for about 5 seconds, and then I thought, "Well fuck him very much too," but only with about as much vehemence as one would think, "Well damn, I dropped a pencil on the floor." I unfriended him, blocked him, and went on with my day. Hell, he's Ex-Best-Friend's husband's close friend, so why am I even surprised? But seriously, am I the only bloody person from that particular circle who grew the fuck up? We're 30 years old, for heaven's sake!

The man I love and trust so much it terrifies me (like most cliches, it's true) thinks my approach to all this is too harsh. He's likely right; he's older and smarter and right about most things (thank you honey, again and again, for all the wise counsel). I think I understand why I'm handling things this way, though.

As I've blogged about before, my mother (one of the most loving, generous people God ever made) is terminally ill with Lewy Body Dementia. It's a progressive, degenerative illness, so only after things got truly horrible and the doctor figured out a diagnosis did we look back and realize that she's been sick since 2003 or 2004, maybe earlier.

During that time, she started to . . . slip . . . a little bit. She said and did things that just didn't make sense. And that kind of thing offends more than just about anything not directly connected with the New York Yankees. If I'm at a restaurant, and I say, "I'd like the turkey sandwich to go, please" and then the person says, "Will that be for here or to go?" it takes all my restraint to avoid grabbing the nearest condiment dispenser and emptying it on their head. Why did I say "to go" if I didn't mean it? Am I going to lie about lunch just to mess with your head? Listen to the fucking conversation and proceed accordingly! Drives me batty.

I usually manage to smile tightly, repeat myself, pay, and leave, but it's a close run thing.

Every conversation with my mother was like that. And I became steadily more angry and resentful. We'd sit down and talk things over, and I'd explain how much I didn't like non sequitur responses. How they made me angry, and frankly hurt my feelings. I couldn't understand why I begged her over and over not to say and do things that upset me, and she wouldn't stop. I couldn't trust that she'd do what she planned to do, or that she'd respond to what someone said in a logical way.

When we got the diagnosis, though, one of the things the doctor told my dad was, "People with this disease will do and say things that are inappropriate. They don't do it on purpose; they don't have any choice left." Once I wrapped my head around that, years of resentment melted away. My mom was never trying to hurt my feelings. She was never trying to make me or my dad angry, or make things harder for us or herself. She was ill, and she had no choice. She never betrayed me. She never betrayed us.

Now, I don't have access to their medical records, but I'm pretty darn sure that my three recently-ex-friends are neurologically able to control their behavior. If they're not going to behave how they ought to, if they're not going to treat me how they should, how I need them to, if they're not going to sit down, shut up, grow up, and be consistent, and there's not a damn good excuse on the order of atrophy of a brain lobe . . . I'm done. I'm just done here.

It seems wrong to say I've been betrayed. It seems like I'm making light of cheated-on spouses, embezzled-from employers, and many other folks who are the victims of willful, evil, harmful actions.

But still, somehow, I feel betrayed.

I do believe there's an upside here, which I'm slowly starting to see. That will be Part 2.

*Lest this post go too far in the direction of trying to make me appear blameless and saint-like, I freely and somewhat shamefacedly confess that one of my less enlightened coping strategies is thinking something like this: Yes, the end of this friendship is a sad thing, and it is also going to cause me pain or at least annoyance and discomfort for a good many years to come when I think back on the many moments and memories we shared. However, I was their Maid of Honor. I am all over their motherfucking wedding pictures. Every time they think about their wedding, it won't be without memories and photographic evidence of someone they didn't exactly do right by in the intervening years. College memories in which you can also focus on lots of other people? The person standing to the non-spouse side of you at your one and only wedding? Oooooh, which is more awkward? Britomart 1, Jackasses Who Won't Grow Up 0, game over!!!!!!

**The bitch is also a Saints fan. If New Orleans wins the Super Bowl, The Sound of Ultimate Suffering (TM Inigo Montoya) that you hear rending the universe in two will be coming from me.

***And she's a left-wing, feminist Muslim; we disagree on a lot. However, at bottom, there's a consistent set of values, standards, and human kindness. I don't need people to be my clones, but I do need them to be grounded in things that are real and permanent.

They're all younger than me now, even "the old one"

Sat, 23 Jan 2010 21:01:24 -0500

In about twenty minutes, the free-skate portion of the 2010 US Ladies' Figure Skating championship will begin. I'll be watching with a great sense of conflict, actually multiple conflicts.

For one thing, ever since the 2002 Olympic judging scandal, I have known just how fixed competitive skating is. Yes, everyone who's ever come in even the briefest contact with this sport always knew, but after 2002 we really knew, and nothing has ever been the same. The crappy umpiring of the last two MLB post-seasons* has me simply counting the days until baseball has its 2002 Olympic Pairs moment. What will I do then? Devote my life to the Philadelphia Eagles (until the NFL has its 2002 Olympic Pairs moment)?

For another, I can't stand Sascha Cohen. The very mention of her name makes me want to throw things at the television and run from the room. She's just one of those women with an "I'm a bitch who thinks I'm better than you" look permanently fixed on her face. Am I the only one who sees this? I even confess to having rooted against her in international competition a time or two, despite the fact that she's American. I just can't stand her. However, as a past medalist and non-child, she'd probably be a better Olympic bet than the interchangeable children that comprise the rest of the US competitive skating field right now. A tough choice.

For yet another, this sport has done everything possible to break my heart as a fan. There was Debi Thomas's implosion in Calgary, the death of Barbara Underhill's infant daughter, the realization that my first-ever sports crush (Brian Boitano) would never love any girl, the Tonya Harding attack followed by Nancy Kerrigan's totally fixed (and now I know it, see above) Olympic loss to that hideous wench Oksana Baiul, Sergei Grinkov's untimely and preventable death, Scott Hamilton's cancer, the judging insanity that made both of Michelle Kwan's** Olympic medals the wrong color (stupid Horseface Lipinski, can't trust anyone with her first name, mumble grumble) . . . these are just a few. I have more. Figure skating judges make baseball umpires look like a wise, impartial bunch of King Solomons; the sport also attracts way more than its fair share of external tragedy and unpleasantness.

For one last thing, Bitchface Cohen is "the old one" in this field. She's twenty-fricking-five. I'm going to be thirty in just over three months. Figure skating, baseball, the NFL. With all my sports, I've gone through the years from watching them and thinking, "Wow, they're 22" to "Hey, I'm 22 too!" to "Oh my God, they are children of 22."

Watching sports has gone from a way to dream about the future to realizing that the future is now. Sometimes, like 2004 (Sox), 2007 (Sox), 2008 (Phils), and 2002 (Sarah Hughes! Yet sad for Kwan. What a night.), sports are everything I could ever hope for and "the future is now" is the most glorious statement I could ever dream. Others, like 2003 (Sox), 2007 (Phils), 2008 (Sox), 2009 (Phils), Super Bowl XXXIX (Eagles), and all the figure skating disasters above, sports are a hot poker in the heart and "the future is now" is the cruelest of jokes.

One nice moment in all this, though. More than nice. Golden. Better than golden. No words. I was talking to The One earlier today. Again, I'm pushing 30. I don't exactly keep house. I don't have an eating disorder. I'm not sweet and smiley all the time. I have nagging, inconvenient health problems. There's no reason on Earth for any man to hang around in my life. Yet for some reason he does. And this afternoon, among other things, he discussed figure skating with me. If I needed another sign that he's for me . . . well . . .

He's the only shot I have. More, he's the only shot I want. The only shot I could dream of wanting. If I woke up tomorrow anorexic, blonde, in a perfectly neat house, with all my nagging health problems cured, he'd still be the only shot I want. Ever.

He doesn't know this (yet), but he makes me feel how I've felt twice before. October 27, 2004--Boston Red Sox win the World Series after 86 years. October 29, 2008--Philadelphia Phillies win the World Series after 28 years. Many, many moments big and small from 2006 to now--I share moments I won't elaborate here with The One.

What all these moments have in common: a clear, super-rational, absolutely peaceful certainty from my deepest soul to the tiniest nerve ending that--against all odds, all logic, and all past disappointments--things are how they're supposed to be. For me and mine. For real.

Now I'm feeling all sentimental and might actually cheer for Bitchface Cohen.

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*Particularly the "foul" ball in the 2009 ALDS between the Twins and the Yankees. If there's no fix in, the Twins organization makes a lot more noise about that call. Around that same time, I found out in researching some other topics that the 1919 World Series was very likely not the only fixed Series of that era. The 2002 Olympic Pairs moment is coming to MLB. I can only pray that it harms the Yankees and no one else.

**Michelle Kwan (who is also younger than I am, but only by a couple months) is right up there with Ted Williams for Greatest Athletes Who Never Won The Big One.

Good (Frivolous) News Sunday: Cowboys are DONE!

Sun, 17 Jan 2010 16:01:07 -0500

It hasn't been a good few months in my sporting world. My Phillies lost a winnable World Series to "the most evil franchise in the history of sports" (TM Bill Simmons), and then the Eagles went cold at the worst possible moment.

After the Birds' first-round exit, I was reduced to rooting against for the rest of the playoffs--no teams or players I like even a little are left in this thing.

This approach has worked okay so far. The Patriots were humiliated last week. This was lovely (my favorite part about the Super Bowl the Pats lost to the Giants was Brady getting sacked five times, and the Ravens made him look like the whiny little girl he is).

The Saints just keep winning, and this is not so good for me. The person with whom I never should have been best friends is a fan of both the Yankees and the Saints, and I want her sports teams humiliated publicly. Like now. And always.

The always is something else I've realized in these difficult sporting months: your enemy can never stay down long enough to make it okay. Nine World-Series-less years for the New York Yankees were not nearly enough for me. If a decade from now they've somehow gone so low as to have had the type of decade the Baltimore Orioles have been having, my thirst might be about 3-percent slaked.

Same with the Cowboys. Philadelphia Inquirer sportswriter Phil Sheridan refers to the Cowboys as the team "whose very existence most offends Philadelphia fans' sensibilities." Damn straight. During last week's travesty of a game between the Boys and the Birds, the announcers were remarking that the Cowboys hadn't won a playoff game since 1996, and I thought, "You know what? 14 years is not long enough. I don't want anything to go right for the Cowboys. Ever. They can't stay down long enough."

The Saints could still win the whole deal. A person who I mistakenly allowed into my life could get to celebrate her second major sports championship in less than a year. I'd have to vomit profusely. And possibly break things.

But for now, for today, the Dallas Cowboys are headed home, star between legs.

I'll take it.