Makes-Me-Mad Men

Hello! Yes, it's me, and, no, I didn't fall off the face of the earth. I've been terribly busy eating, drinking, turning 38 and tottering around in my Christmas Shoes. See below:





Amidst all the revelry, H and I managed to have a few quiet nights at home and during one of those he convinced me to start watching Mad Men. I know, I know. What's wrong with me? It's the best show ever! John Hamm is gorgeous! I just...meh. When there's too much cult-like hype about something, enough to inspire an entire line of clothing at Banana Republic for instance, it kind of turns me off. I felt that way about New Kids on the Block too.

Even H has been hounding me to start watching since he's four seasons in. How's that you say? Haven't I written countless times about how H and I love to watch TV together? Well one of the first things my darling did when he got his beloved iPad, was to glut himself on television series during his commute. Which, while making it impossible for me to catch up, also finally puts to rest the myth that he is working during his commute. So when he gives me a beleaguered look when I throw kid at him seconds after his arrival home, I can now, with confidence tell him, "I wish I had just had an hour to watch TV, no go wipe your son's ass."

A friend lent me her DVD set of the first season about a year ago, so H dusted them off and we began to watch. A few episodes in I can agree with many points made by avid watchers - yes, John Hamm is good-looking, and the show is visually impressive, with all the period costume and set design. I realize now I totally missed my era. Dresses with fitted tops and full skirts as wardrobe staple? It's a pear-shaped woman's dream! But then there's all the sexism, so maybe not. I do enjoy watching, very much so, and will probably catch up with H in the next few weeks. The show is not only pretty good, but it's brought up some interesting points that H and I had fun debating.

For example, why is every stay-at-home mother in the media depicted as miserable? Sure, Betty Draper didn't really have any choice but to stay home with the kids, making it more slavery than occupation, and I know the 60s were an era when women had not a tenth of the choices modern women do now, but even in modern day depictions, the women at home are shown half worked to death and complaining all the time. Yes, I have had many, many, many moments where I have complained bitterly about my current gig, but, I love it a vast majority of the time. It kind of makes one feel like a chump to love a job that is universally depicted as demeaning and unfulfilling. It's hard to love something that, apparently, you are supposed to hate. Kind of like enjoying prunes. Which I do as well.

Also, why is a dramatic series only a hit if the main character is a flawed hero? Mad Men, Rescue Me The Sopranos. What happened to good guys and bad guys? Why is everything so complicated? Maybe I'm a simpleton, or too rigid, but the moment a male character cheats on his wife, I'm out. He has lost my empathy, since many of the situations he winds up in are due to his own shitty choices. I believe the world is full of essentially good people and I'd like to see some of their stories. Why can't the boss be the philanderer? I undertand that moral ambiguity makes for good TV, so surround Don Draper with douche bags for all I care, but I'd like to see a story of a guy who's surrounded by all this tomfoolery and stays on the straight and narrow. That brings me back for more, not some asshole who can't keep his dick in his pants.

Aside from these two larger issues, the sexist remarks make us laugh and talk. Like when Betty tells the neighbor Don needs "an hour of complete quiet when he gets home. He works so hard." H jokingly remarked he'd like that. I remarked how he watched this show on the train and should shut up if he wants quiet. One of the frat boys who works in the office asks, "What do women want?" to which his crony replies, " Everything." This line reminded me of a point I've been trying to work into a post for a while without sounding too bitchy. Why is it men think women are the only ones with wants? Or is that men's wants are always met, therefore they needn't ask? Nothing makes a woman feel like more of a nag or makes me want ot put my fist through H's face than when he asks during an argument, "What do you want from me?" I would get so angry, any discussion became useless after that, so I had to outlaw this statement along with its ugly step-sister, "What do you want me to say?".

Despite my original reticence, I am hooked and will keep watching. It's entertaining and makes me feel like my drinking is merely what Don would do after his morning coffee. And when I feel like my life is out of control, I'll just think of Betty. She's miserable, but, damn, she looks good.

The best is yet to come...

Well i've made it to Christmas Eve, dear readers. Presents are bought and wrapped, cookies have been made, even the goddamn Elf has been moved every single night. Of course, the kids had to up the ante and start trying to give him a snack each night. In an attempt to prevent my finding moldy cheese sticks everywhere, I wrote the kids a note from him, in an elf-esque curly handwriting that took as long as calligraphy, explaining he can't eat human food. Well this began a letter writing campaign from the kids that require I eventually have the elf break into our computer and learn to type using the Curlz font. But even with all that I have not missed a night - yet.

We are preparing for Christmas Eve dinner - The Night of Seven Fishes. This includes H taking two days off from work to cook, and bringing enough seafood into the house that we could open or own Red Lobster, including a five pound whole octopus that he likes to randomly snatch from the refrigerator to terrify the kids. Today we will enjoy the fruits of his labor for four hours, after which we will stagger away from the table drunk and stuffed to the gills (no pun intended).

I love that I have married into this tradition. And it's not just the fact that we eat and drink for hours, or the fact that I am wearing my new Christmas shoes, which H is now making a holiday tradition. No, I love it because, in addition to pizza, celebrating the night before Christmas is one of the best ideas Italians have ever had. What's better than having a party on the most excitement-filled night of the year? Growing up, our celebration took place Christmas Day with a table of over-cooked vegetables and some giant, equally over-cooked hunk of meat. It was fun, but it was tinged with sadness at the end of the night as Christmas was over for a whole nother year. At Christmas Eve dinner, the kids are out of their minds with anticipation and there's an energy zipping through the house.

One of my favorite moments of the year is when H and I stand up to make the toast. Thinking about it this year, I realize we are pretty much at the zenith of our lives. Sure, there many more good times to come, but right now, all my kids are young and sweet and believe in Santa. Our extended family is growing via marriages and babies. Our parents are all healthy and active. H and I are even still reasonably young. Right now, is the time of abundance which, like Christmas Eve, has so many good things to follow. So we will raise a glass to that tonight. To abundance and happiness and the the good things that are to come.

I wish you and yours Happy Holidays, whatever they may be and that you go to bed tonight filled with excitement, not about gifts, but about your life.

XO,
M

Have a seat on my couch...

“I have a number if you want to talk to someone.”

This is what I said to a friend the other day when the subject of therapy came up. Yes, I am “in therapy” and, no, I’m not afraid to admit it, which apparently, I should be as evidenced by some of the surprised looks I get form people when I tell them I am. But I don’t see it that way. I think admitting I talk to someone is like telling someone I get my hair colored. Am I going to tell a perfect stranger? No, but if we get to know each other well enough, the topic will probably come up. And just like hair color, therapy is something I do for myself to make myself feel good.

So how did all of this begin? When I had #2, I’d say I dabbled in post-partum depression, which was nicely coupled with an undiagnosed, hyperactive thyroid, which resulted in my alternately crying and flying into fits of rage – all of which I contained to the hours the girls were asleep, which was SUPER fun for H. Thyroid surgery and the stabilization of my reproductive hormones finally ended these dark days, but when I became pregnant with Little Man I was terrified they might return. I was determined to prevent that, so I got a list of therapists from my insurance company in an attempt to find and develop a relationship with a therapist before his birth. It’s interesting the very nice people they put on the mental health phone lines. Guess they don’t want to drive anybody to suicide with bad customer service.

This was not my first time at the Therapy Rodeo (where all the clowns are crying, or manic-depressive). No, that was way back in 1993, after my mom died. Suffering from crippling stomach problems, the school doctor recommended “counseling”, which I began. In this particular circumstance, I had no choice of providers, so the middle-aged man who stared blankly at me while I cried, was not, perhaps, the best match. It beat annoying the shit out of my roommate though, locking her out of our room so I could sob in private. So this time around, I was going to find someone who I felt I really connected with. Someone I could tell all my deepest, darkest thoughts and fears without feeling judged, and who would have some helpful insight.

Finding a new therapist is a lot like finding a mate. Your first appointment is a one-sided first date – if your date was scribbling on a legal pad while you talked. You tell them your personal history and they ask probing questions – but no alcohol or awkward kiss goodnight. The first woman was a dud. Rail thin, prim and cold, she insisted we begin our “work” together by delving into my “unfinished” relationship with my mother with weekly appointments. First of all, the word “work” was not what I was looking for. I wanted to chat and kvetch. I have enough “work” in my regular life. As for my mother, I refuse to believe every issue in my life stems from the fact that my mother died when I was young. Sure, it affected me, and still does at times, but at some point you need to get over it. I have accepted what this loss has done to me mentally (control issues, difficulty allowing others to help me), so let’s just deal with the practical ways of managing that goody bag of neuroses, huh? And WEEKLY appointments? That is not going to happen. I’m looking for a tune-up when I’m having a tough week. I have three kids to raise, lady. She got the “it’s not you, its me” letter explaining I didn’t think we were a “good fit”.

The next woman, SV, was just what I was looking for. Soft and motherly, in appearance and personality, she suggested we make a list of the behaviors I wanted to change and move forward from there. She suggested we start out meeting weekly for four weeks, so she could really get to know me, and then we could taper down to fit my needs. I had found my perfect match!

My talks with SV are like having coffee with a friend, except I’m the only one who brings coffee and the only one who talks. I have almost suggested we meet at a Starbucks since I’m not dealing with scary issues, but there have been times tears have taken me by surprise, so maybe that’s not the best idea. Sure, I talk about big things like my mom (OK, it comes up more than I thought), what I’m doing with my life, etc., but I also do mundane bitching about the kids, the house, and H. I bounce ideas off her about how to deal with difficult situations with the kids and she offers advice, occasionally telling stories about when her boys were little. Sometimes just one sentence from her can alter my thinking. I was crying one time about some bad decision I felt I have made with #2, scarring her for life, when SV asked me, “Mary, do you think you are a good mother?” I started to deflect and she asked me again, forcing me to answer and, just saying out loud, “Yes, I am a good mother” shifted my thinking. Now any time I doubt myself I remember that feeling. We mothers say so many negative things about ourselves, that saying something positive out loud, without worry about feeling like a braggart, is very powerful stuff. She also tells me how, in the grand scheme of things, I am so mentally healthy, which, coming from a professional, who sees it all, is very reassuring. I leave her office feeling like I’m doing pretty good, and my life is pretty great. H LOVES me after I come home from therapy. Why wouldn’t I suggest this to all my friends?


So this is why I bang the therapy drum. It’s something I do for my well being and is just for me and about me. Like getting a massage for your psyche. Some people say, “My friends are my therapists.” No, not really. You can unload on your friends, but then you have to reciprocate which, maybe you don't have the energy to do that at the moment, so you don't talk to anyone. Sometimes, we all just need to emotionally vomit on someone who isn’t involved in your relationships and won’t judge you for saying, “Sometimes I hate (insert person or situation here)” and doesn't require you asking, "So what's going on with you" after you're done crying. Leaving a lot of my stuff SV’s* office means less time spinning in my own head and more time enjoying my life.

Isn't that worth a twenty dollar co-pay?

*email me if you want her number, Bergen County residents!