madcelt's Open Salon Blog

New Year's Eve Just Ain't The Same

Mon, 4 Jan 2010 08:01:56 -0500

I remember when New Year’s was a real whoop. Lots of booze, champagne and French kissing at midnight accompanied by fireworks.

I’m getting old. I hate parties now where everyone is forced into a false gaiety (in my eyes) and now spend New Year’s with a couple of friends. This year showed me how truly sapped I am.

It started out okay, some good drinks, looking forward to the fireworks at midnight I had insisted on buying (despite the year before when one fell over and chased me around the yard), champagne in the fridge all ready to go.

We decided to watch a movie which was depolorable as we had our drinks. (Anyone who thinks the Hangover was funny must be a guy. My brother recommended it). These older people watch movies instead of wearing party hats and blowing tooters. At ten, I looked over and saw that two out of the four of us were asleep. I don’t even think it was the movie. They just hit their bedtime and that was that. The only other awake person and I looked at each other, headed to the fireplace and continued chatting and imbibing, but knew we were fading fast. We made it to twelve, but I was so wasted (not necessarily by alcohol, but by fatigue) it was all we could do to wake the other two, and wish a muted Happy New Year. I didn’t even have the energy to put on the firework display and no one wanted the nice Moet Chandon champagne. Everyone went to bed.

I had a friend tell me yesterday not to feel badly. Ten is the new midnight for those of us over fifty. Still, it is the year 2010, a new decade, and I feel like I ripped myself off some. I remember the year 2000 and the excitement it generated in everyone. I went with a friend to the city hall, and we stood in the freezing cold (in addition she was from California – very cold for her) and listened to music, enjoyed the fireworks at midnight and kissed strangers who may have had god knows what disease. It was a celebration.

But here we are. Ten years later and old fogies. I hate it. My blood sugar sucks from all that Christmas candy and booze (I’m not a big boozer by the way) and fatigue from opening too many presents. Then the Christmas tree has to come down (we wait until ‘little Christmas’ on the 6^th). I dread it.

I have past my prime. Although my head says I haven’t my body betrays me. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t an awful New Year’s Eve, and it was a fabulous Christmas. It was just – well – not like the New Year’s Eves of the past. I guess I better get used to it.

Yesterday we spent a day with a couple of friends, drank the champagne, and had a grand time. That was more of a New Year's celebration than the one on the 31st. We were home and in bed by - you got it - 10 o'clock. Though the box of fireworks remains unopened.

Nonetheless, for you of stamina, a Happy New Year to all, and I hope you tooted your tooters loudly and French kissed everyone.

Madcelt's Christmas and Thoughts on Santa Claus

Sat, 2 Jan 2010 06:01:28 -0500

So it’s all over. Christmas, New Year’s – kaput. All that careful shopping, massive amounts of wrapping paper now delegated to the recycle bag and for some who are excessive (myself included) a mess o’ goodies. Books, books, books. (So much for the e-book.)

We went and saw Avatar yesterday, and despite many peoples’ rush to criticism, it was without question a total theatrical experience. Yeah, I know the story line was weak, but it was a visual feast. Anyone who thinks differently had their eyes shut throughout the film. For those of us who tend to wait for a film to come out on DVD – it put us back in the theatre.

Santa vs. The Sweet Baby Jesus

I have a bone to pick. It’s about this Santa Claus thing. For the non-religious this works just dandy, but for many of those of the Christian faith, he is just a symbol of consumerism, and has little to do with the meaning of Christmas itself to them. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a died in the wool agnostic, but I think I came up with a solution for those of faith.

Instead of Santa Claus, why not have the Sweet Baby Jesus dish out the gifts to the kids. It might be hard to stick a baby in a chair at the mall for long periods of time let alone have them squarsh him as they sat on his knee, but I’m sure accommodations could be made.

Think of it. Saint Nick is always afraid of getting stuck in the chimney, those reindeer are always at risk of sliding of a roof, and there is little explanation as to how he gets all around the world on that old sleigh of his.

HOWEVER, if Sweet Baby Jesus were to be the present giver (he did get quite a bit on his birthday) he could slip down that chimney like a kid on a slide. And there’d be milk and cookies waiting for him. He could keep the presents in his diaper, or even better, being a god, he could just zap everything around quietly and quickly and then BING! Be in the next house. Makes much more sense to me. Santa Claus can remain for those of us who don’t really believe in him, but lust after the red suit and boots (those boots are awesome).

Madcelt’s Christmas, Love and Lust

So now that I’ve solved that problem, I’ll give you a quick run down on my Christmas. If you read any of my previous posts, you’ll remember that my widowed brother got dumped by his first girlfriend after his wife’s death. He felt he had no future because of it. They had made plans well ahead for trips and outings and all of a sudden she called him up and said ‘they weren’t suited’ after six months of ‘dating’. Maybe they weren’t, but she was a tacky broad, and he had left a lot of his equipment at her house FIXING it up for her. Instead of ringing his doorbell and thanking him for all the work he had done, she didn’t even stop to see if he was at home (he was) and just dumped the stuff in front of the garage. No class. So now he refers to her as ‘that bitch’.

But still it made him feel that he would spend the rest of his life alone (he’s 59). He’s a good looking fellow – nice sense of humor and a huge respect for women (apart from the one above). So when he arrived this Christmas I expected him to be rather glum, and to have to make an effort to be cheerful. Well, he arrived cheerful. New girlfriend.

He showed us her picture and she is indeed pretty, and French so what more do you want? He e-mailed her about 5 times a day (she returned and initiated many of these billets doux) and we even Skyped her a couple of times. She seems charming and they have both fallen for each other in a big way.

So my brother is happy. What a great Christmas present for me. If she dumps him, I’ll track her down and kill her.

On that cheery note – I’d like to say, I missed you all, and will have to spend this lazy day catching up on all my favorite bloggers. I won’t list them all here – too many – but I will mention Steve Blevins as one of the finest writers on Open Salon. Sometimes he’s funny, but also can touch us in a way, many of the talented writers cannot. Thank you Steve.

So hope you had lots of nog, set off some fireworks and French kissed someone at 12 on New Year’s Eve. Happy New Year.

I Was A Childhood Drag Queen

Fri, 18 Dec 2009 07:12:34 -0500

When I think back, I believe it was at a very early age that I realized I was different from other little girls. I didn’t like dolls, I preferred cars and trucks and dirt (my mother said I was the grubbiest kid in the neighborhood). I wanted all my brother’s hand me downs, which I did get for play clothes. The jeans (I think I even had a pair of Osh Koshes), the T-shirts. All suitable for a unisex child at play.

At first I was not cognizant of what the heck I wore (although I did like a little sailor suit - military lapels, you know). But then came the realization that not everyone dressed the same. Boys wore better clothes. I wasn’t a boy.

My mother sewed well, and unfortunately thought making little girl frou-frou clothes was just what I wanted. I didn’t. I hated birthday parties – why? Because I had to wear something with a crinoline. I even remember the torture of going to Sunday school at the age of 6 and wearing a brown velvet ‘bonnet’. Yes, bonnet. My mother thought it made me look cute. I felt so disgraced. I looked more like Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm out to kill her favorite chicken.

Fortunately at school we wore uniforms, which despite the skirt felt more comfortable than patent leather shoes and white gloves. At least we got to wear a tie and blazer and oxford shoes.

There were terrible tantrums about wearing my mother’s carefully made dresses. She must have been hurt and puzzled, but I had no way to tell her that they humiliated me. I wasn’t even sure why myself. I didn’t want to sit with my legs together, I wanted to play like my brother. I loved the feel of pants on my legs. I simply did not feel feminine enough to wear even the simplest of dresses without shame. It felt so unnatural. I was forced into drag.

I didn’t want to be a boy. But I wanted the freedom of dress and all that implied. Once I remember my brother in his 12 year old's ‘suit’ still being able to go out and toss the football with our male cousins. I sat and watched from the front step. I began to cry. No one could understand why, and my father lifted me comfortingly into the house, unable to know what set me off. Being a girl meant not having fun. Not being a part of the ruckus. Being left to watch, not do. Those knees glued together, and god forbid the sight of those white cotton panties (I always hated that word – why did my brother wear ‘underwear’?).I know I was the anomaly. Most little girls, enjoyed their own privileges by staying more with the adults, and feeling special in their floofy dresses. I don’t criticize them, I just didn’t understand them.

By the time I was able to say ‘NO!’ and not just tantrum, it became the battle of my life to get my mother to stop putting me in empire line dresses made of liberty cotton. If a dress was involved, I became rude, defiant, and generally a monster. I still have a picture my mother took of us in Montreal in front of the Queen Elizabeth Hotel on vacation. I was wearing a liberty cotton dress with…an empire waistline tied with a bow. My brother and father, smiling for the camera but I was stepping towards the camera (my mother) with a jutting out chin, and the eyes of a storm.

I never truly escaped the dress issue until I went away to boarding school at the age of 13. Again, more uniforms for all occasions. Nothing fruity. By the time I graduated and was headed for college, my mother had little say in what I wore. Thank god for dress pants.

I don’t even own a dress now, and haven’t for 25 years. There are too many options out there for women my age who wish to look dressy, but not wear a cocktail dress.

I do, however, still shudder when a little girl in a pink dress and patent leather shoes passes by.

My Funny Dead Mother

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 05:12:16 -0500

I woke up this morning and as I was making my coffee, realized I was thinking of my mother. It’s been 26 years since she died and although I have anecdotal thoughts about her frequently, it’s been awhile since I thought of her as a whole person. It took me only moments to realize that this was the anniversary of her death. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to be morbid here, it’s been too many years – but she was largely responsible for who am I as a person today.

She was what we would now call ‘petite’. A dyed ‘champagne blonde’ as was the look back then and was an attractive woman. She was always however, semi- invalided due to a nasty bout of rheumatic fever as a child which permanently damaged her heart. I remember my father and I having to make a ‘seat’ with our hands to get her up long flights of stairs. She sat there as she was ignominiously carried but always acted as if she were royalty being carried in a litter. People who stared gave an elegant smile and a small queenly wave.

She had a great sense of humour. I remember both of us laughing till the tears streamed down our faces. We were awful, we laughed about people, and we were more than willing to laugh at ourselves. We talked endlessly about films and books. I know people talk about their parents as their best friends, and mine was. Not without discipline (she could be REALLY scary), but when it came down to it I was like a mini-me. Without the helmet hairdo.

I remember I had a gay male friend who was always trying to shock her. He would often drop in on her for a good yammer, and they were good friends. Once while in New York he brought her back a pair of edible panties (do those still exist?). One occasion that he was visiting, she asked him to go to the corner store to pick them up some Cokes. Off he went and when he rang the buzzer on his return, she greeted him at the door, in the edible panties, black garters and stockings, and a black lace bra. He handed her the cokes and ran.

I think my father ate the panties on his ice cream that night. Banana flavoured if I recall him reporting.

I was adopted as after the birth of my brother. Mama was told her heart could not take the stress of another pregnancy. But she wanted another baby, and a girl at that. So I don’t feel given up – I feel totally chosen. I was lavished with affection and had a childhood anyone would have been happy to have. I was never told I was adopted. This was probably a wise move in my case. I was an anxious child, (perhaps the nascent beginnings of bipolar disorder?) and I think if I had known I had been ‘transferred’ once, I would have been terrified of having to face leaving my mother. It was her face at the door which rushed me home from school, our shopping trips and she even took me to the hairdresser with her (I was a well behaved child) and since her vanity required-it she was there often. I became the salon’s unofficial mascot.

It wasn’t that I didn’t love my father. He was absent a lot. He was a bank manager and worked long, hard hours and I was often just going to bed as he came home. He never expected my mother to have dinner hot on the table waiting for him, but was happy with heating up the leftovers from our dinners. He was and is a quiet, good man. As she was not physically strong, he hired a housekeeper for her (not easy on a banker’s salary with two kids in private schools) and what the housekeeper didn’t do, he did. He adored her.

Then came the ‘gay thing’. I knew from a very early age (5-ish? I do believe they say your sexuality is largely set at that point), that I was different. I had terrible tantrums when shoved into a dress as I would rather wear my brother’s hand me downs. White gloves and patent leather shoes for church and special occasions. "always sit like a lady with your knees together and ankles crossed". I felt humiliated. I wanted to sit like a stevedore with my legs wide open and I didn’t give a damn if my underwear showed. A struggle between the two of us. One of many.

When I was 17, I went into a depression, largely because I had fallen in love with another girl and couldn’t talk to her about it (we talked about everything usually) and I felt I was hiding a secret. Not a terrible one, I never felt guilty about being a lesbian, I did feel guilty not telling her about it, and also feared her reaction. I had good reason to. She knew I was depressed and was intent on getting to the bottom of it. She asked me outright what was going on. “Well, Mom, I have something to tell you”, I quavered. She immediately responded with “You’re pregnant”. “Uhm, NO…I’m gay.” She stared at me for a moment, then announced “Well, your adopted so it’s not my fault.” Now I know many of you reading this will think that cruel. But my response was so minor that it was not. I had my parents for my whole life and the idea of being adopted meant nothing. So what? Then she realized what she said, what I had said, and she began banging her head against the wall and crying. I look at this incident with humour now as one of the best coming out stories I know. She banged her head for some time and then in tears, ‘retired’ to her room for more sobs.

First there was anger, then there was the cold treatment and then after a couple of months it was a non-spoken subject and we went back to being best friends. She never approved of my buddies, but generally kept her mouth shut, limited to such things as ‘my that’s a masculine looking young woman’, or ‘and what does her family do?’ (she was an inveterate snob).

It was her heart that finally gave up on her. After surgery in the 50’s, 60s and 80’s,the last surgery was a failure. The valves leaked. For her time in the hospital, she told me things about her life that I never knew. Funny things, sad things, and sometimes rather shocking things. It was like she had to get it out. But all was not dreary. We always laughed. We used to play ‘spot the poofter’ (this included the women) on the hospital staff. (We had gotten over the gay thing.) I used to wiggle my pinky when one would come in the room and she would always laugh. One day, she lifted her own pinky weakly and twirled it around. She was getting the hang of it.

Then the thing that I would never have expected from my iron willed mother occurred. She went into a deep state of depression and anxiety and ended up on the psych ward. My mother on the Psych ward? It was shocking. The doctors’ said it was the result of too much stress on her body and mind to know she was going to die – soon. She was so anxious she pulled at her sheets constantly, begged people not to leave and said she saw nothing but black ahead. She was right.

One night, after returning home from hospital (on heavy medication) she took a fruit salad, and packed it in a suitcase. She died that night of a stroke. My best friend said she was sitting on a cloud happily eating the fruit salad she had the foresight to pack in case she had to wait in line to get to St. Peter.

So, on this day, I remember my funny mother whether I’m consciously thinking about that date 26 years ago or not. She always pops into my mind and lingers for the day. She used to say ‘when I go, NEVER put me on a pedestal’. I don’t. She was human, not an angel. She tried to do the right thing, but was often misguided and at times a prevaricator (just for the fun of a good story), and stubborn.

Fortunately or unfortunately I believe I developed my sense of humor from her, my love of books, theatre, film, a sense of honor and the ability to struggle through just about any of life’s difficult circumstances.

Thanks, Mama.

Avatar

Tue, 8 Dec 2009 07:12:11 -0500

I love a good sci-fi movie, and James Cameron makes some of the best. I mean who can forget Sigourney Weaver yelling at Mama alien ‘Leave her alone YOU BITCH!’ Wonderful.

Avatar appears to concern US armed forces trying to gain access to a planet with a fascinating indigenous population, which are blue (in a non-smurf like way) They must be eliminated or tamed in order to mine a valuable mining resource. These elfish beings have no advanced weaponry but fly on dragon like beasts, and are determined to protect their planet against overwhelming odds. Lots of James Cameron like weaponry, not unlike Terminator 2, and to be honest the film looks awesome and has been 14 years in the making. (It also has Sigourney Weaver in it - a draw - at least for me) In addition to 2D view movie format it is also offering a 3D in some theatres.

I wont’ add any spoilers as I know only what the PR says, but it also involves a parapalegic who by genetic engineering is turned into a blue elf himself. He is to infiltrate the blues, and the use of his legs returns. The rest you can sort of guess.

What is remarkable is that Avatar has to be the most publicized movie in history. It would seem that most of us have seen an ad either on TV or in print. Nearly every TV show that I watch has an Avatar ad. It looks great. It has created such a buzz that it is likely people will line up overnight to see the first viewing – and the second and third. (I did that once to get a Wii – it’s not fun– and no, the Wii was for me, not a child).

In fact it has already been able to produce major product placement. On the TV show Bones the other night (yes, I watch Bones, I love David Boreanaz) half the plot revolved around getting tickets to see Avatar. How much do you have to pay to get a show to actually include it in the story line? Clearly the distribution company, or the wealthy Mr. Cameron have gone beyond the pale in making sure we see what wonders Avatar will hold for us.

The official website for Avatar is a work of art itself. Done in Flash media it has trailers, features on the making of the film, a bio on James Cameron, images – you name it – again, out of the ordinary for a film. Even though the film is not out yet, there is a video game (rated poorly) and marketing products up the wazoo.

Maybe Cameron wants to be King of the World Again. We'll see.