A Little Yellow Miracle

If I were not a nerd, master herbalist, and certified boggy swamp witch, I’d have missed it.

To the left you see something miraculous. Erythronium umbilicatum, also called dogtooth violet, though it is not a violet or pansy. Some might know it as adder's tongue because of the shape of the bloom, but it's actually a tiny lily-- only 5-7 inches high. The Cherokee refer to it as a trout lily, or dimpled trout lily, because of the spotting on the leaves, and because it blooms when the trout season is beginning in the rivers.  Trout lily is the most common name.

Why am I excited? Here is the growing map:  http://plants.usda.gov/java/profile?symbol=ERUMU

This little lily has begun to vanish all along the mountain ranges of the Blue Ridge and Smoky mountains, where they grow. They’ve ranged as far south as Florida, though they are vanishing there, and as far north as DC, where they have also become rare—possibly extinct. They have NEVER been seen further north than Mount Vernon. So finding this southern lily, so tiny, fragile, and fading numbers so far from home is quite remarkable. It may be fate or something more that placed it here, tucked tight against a stone wall as old as one of the nation’s oldest towns.

I pound the bounds of my property in both spring and fall, an ancient practice among my ancestors. Trout lilies have been known to go years without blooming, and I am quite convinced this has not shown the bright yellow blooms before. I would have discovered them. I’d been suspicious of the foliage—a rather remarkable dappled leaf—in the past, lost sight of it, and was teased by occasional, brief reappearances.

My best guess is that the lily is, like my father, a hardy transplant. This morning I took him out to show him the spot so we can care for our southern mystery plant, and he recognized the flower and leaves from his childhood. My grandmother was often kind to send home roots and seeds to us on the rare occasions my parents visited, and I’m certain this came north many, many years ago with a grouping of touch-me-nots. It has made a terrible week joyous for me… and I feel like Granny is smiling, too.

Fuck You

It’s been two days. So many great things have been said as we all deal with the pain, the horror, and the confusion. We want answers, and there are none. We want justice, and know we’ll have to wait. I’ve been struggling to write, sleep, and center myself on the compass of my soul.

And what I’ve come to is this.

Fuck you.

Boston is not a huge city. It’s actually tightly compacted into a wheel of insane cow paths (they actually started as Indian hunting trails, but yeah). It’s like a snowball full of rocks waiting for the right car window. It produces great writers, great sports (even when we’re losing), and great ironies. We’ll tell you to fuck off for driving the speed limit, but help a kid with a flat tire (after lecturing him/her). We have bar brawls and the Irish Mafia, but dozens of no-kill shelters. We elect a lot of Republicans for the local stuff but send mostly Democrats to Washington. We host a breakfast every Saint Patrick’s Day where both sides get together to insult one another and wouldn’t miss it for the world.

So fuck you.

We shrug off snow, hurricanes, N’oreasters, and beat the shit out the British with a tiny rebel army when they were the greatest military force in the world. Like your Liberty? You’re welcome. Fond of Freedom? Don’t mention it. Need us? We’re there, but try to stop screwing it up and call your mother.

And fuck you.

Because you have NO IDEA what a Pandora’s Box of FUCK YOU is coming your way.  We are capable of both, you see. We will give our blood to those you harmed, but never stop til we have yours. We will carry those with no legs—WERE YOU NOT PAYING ATTENTION TO OUR PEOPLE RUNNING 26.2 MILES WHILE PUSHING WHEELCHAIRS? We will take yours out from under you. We will send our best to NY after the attacks of 9/11 and embrace the returned favor with the open arms of true brothers who may slug it out on the field, but know where the game ends and humanity begins. There is a reason we are a hub of knowledge. People here are smart. We can love the children you maimed and killed with the tenderness of a mother and still stoke the fires of rage to direct at YOU. Not one another. YOU.

Fuck you.

The beautiful words, the amazing heroism, the powerful stories of men like my Ahmed, John Flanagan, Aemon Kelly, and hundreds of others who immediately GOT UP OFF THE DIRT to swing back are who we are, not your cowardice. In the shocked silence of the aftermath we needed those stories.
Now we’re just focusing on FUCK YOU. That feeling between your shoulders? That funny little seeping tingle? That chill, like the one you get in an empty parking garage at 4 am when you hear footsteps and realize there is no security? That rush of blood heading out of your head that leaves you dizzy and makes your ears roar when you wake up, after a night-terror, and don’t know where the crippling fear came from?

That’s us. We’re coming. Fuck you.

DVDs -- What's On Your Shelf?

There's crap on tv tonight, and I am a shameless tv fan. So shameless, in fact, that I have a DVD collection to rival Netflix. I was on the phone with my bestie, Roxie, when she mocked me for it.

Me: There's crap on tv tonight.
Roxie: Are you KIDDING? How many series on dvd do you have within ten feet of you right now?
Me: um.
Roxie: Turn your head and count.
Me: Shut up.
Roxie: Just "complete series," then... go on. Really.
Me: Really, just shut up.

She has a point. I can turn my head and count the ones I hoard in my bedroom for nights like this one. Probably only half the entire collection, since I keep some downstairs.

Will you hate me if I tell you I have second copies of a few in Maine?

For the record, this is the list from the bedroom collection-- just what I can see from the bed. I listed them from top to bottom on the shelf.

1. Charmed- complete series
2. Firefly
3. The West Wing - complete series
4. Star Trek Next Generation- complete series
5. Star Trek Deep Space Nine- compete series
6. All Creatures Great and Small - complete series
7. Bones - seasons 1-4
8. Angel - complete series
9. Buffy - complete series
10. Ballykissangel - complete series
11. Northern Exposure- complete series

So... what's in your collection? The sad thing is I am on ebay tonight looking for second hand boxed sets of other favorites. I really like tv.

Shut up.

Don’t Shoot from the Lip Unless Your Aim is True

Last night The Onion tweeted a terrible line about Quvenzhané Wallis, apparently within an hour of a tweet that was nearly identical from me. Nobody minded my tweet.

The reason I am not apologizing and they are is the very root of humor, appropriateness, and why something is or is not funny. It’s also the reason comedy is hard, risky, and tricky.

It is NOT an out. I write humor. I’ve been a columnist, a critic, and a fiction writer of humor. I’ve even done stand-up (very briefly). This lesson needs repeating: being sorry after you’ve said something that was not funny means nothing, erases nothing, and is not a valid excuse.

There’s a line. Comedy is brutal because you stop being a comedian the SECOND you cross it.

This is what I said:

It might have been considered mean, or snarky. Nobody flipped out, re-tweeted, or took offense. I actually got a lot of “she seems bratty to me, too.”

Here is what The Onion said, then deleted, then apologized for:

Pretty close. One difference. The word c***.  About a little girl.  A bratty little girl, but a little girl.

They crossed the imaginary line, and the INSTANT they did it, became massive assholes. The higher-ups apologized, and it was a genuine apology… but completely useless. Once you say it, it’s said. Once you fall flat, you’re flat. “It was a joke” is the most useless phrase in the universe, because the second you fail with humor, IT’S NOT A JOKE… IT WASN’T FUNNY… YOU ARE AN ASSHOLE, NO MATTER HOW SORRY YOU ARE TO BE ONE.

So why, when a humorist/comedian takes a swing and misses, do we flip out more than we would if, say, Nicholas Sparks set up a happy ending and killed everyone? Because of the risk. The risk is greater because humor is a trick on the audience, but one they are “kinda” in on. It’s jazz. It’s setting you up for the high C, then dropping you down for a low, smooth note. If it works, it’s dizzying, dazzling, and new. If not? Flat, jarring, and painful… because we expected the high note, you have to get the low note RIGHT.

So funny isn’t something you can screw up. Your audience won’t forgive you, even if they don’t QUITE know why, but the reason is the fall. The reason is the tricky part: you have set them up, and they want you to succeed, take them on the roller-coaster plunge toward the surprise they sensed, but could not QUITE predict… and you blew it. It’s like sitting across from the love of your life with stars in your eyes, hearing him or her say “I l—” and taking the breath to shout “I love you, too!” JUST as she/he finishes with “—like this restaurant.”

Crushed. Broken. There was a line, and you missed. It was not the GREAT thing I did not expect… it was something I did not expect that hit the ear like a flat saxophone note. It deflated like a busted soufflé. It set me up for joy, and kicked me in the funny bone.

And guess what? It wasn’t a joke. In order to be a joke, it has to be funny. It was an attempted joke, and now you’re an asshole standing at the microphone, feeling the silence hit you in the gut.

That’s why funny is scary, hard, and not for sissies.

“It was a joke” is a myth. It is, or it isn’t. Last night, it wasn’t. Know where the line is, or—like me, and every humorist who gets it—take your lumps. Period.

If you can’t, you can’t be in the business of making people laugh. If it were easy, everyone would do it. The Joy Behars of the world will always rely on the fallacy of the cloak of immunity, trotting out “it’s satire” or “it was a joke” with absolutely no redemption waiting. Everyone who tries to be funny risks failing.

When we fail we are assholes who weren’t funny.  And we don’t get to be anything else until we clean it up, do it better, and try again.

Weighty Issues—Body Image Awareness

This week is body image awareness week, so I suppose it’s fitting that I spent about 45 minutes on the phone with a friend of my mom’s today. She’s an obese hypochondriac who elected to do lapband surgery a few years ago. When she asked me about it then I told her what every doctor I respect has said: it will NOT eliminate diet and exercise from the equation, and is more or less a surgical procedure designed to force patients to do what they have to do anyway. Removing a risky surgery with life-long after-effects is the only rational choice. I know others feel differently, but I have yet to see anyone convince me otherwise.

She did it anyway. She lost 30 pounds. She has regained the 30, plus another 30. She still overeats, does not exercise, still makes excuses, and must carry spare underpants with her in case she has leakage. She regurgitates constantly while eating meals. Many of her friends mention that it makes them uncomfortable while eating out. I can’t imagine it's pleasant for her.

During the conversation she accused me of not understanding, because I have no trouble dieting.

While her phrasing was rude, there is one truth, there. I have no trouble dieting.  I don’t diet, and never have. I am still overweight, but have steadily lost pounds over the past 15 years. I have never gone back up in size, but don’t obsess over size or weight. My weight loss has been very slow.  My doctors have been very happy with it. What I did was:

1. Get medical treatment for issues that were helping to “make me fat.”  These had nothing to do with my diet, including having a gall bladder removed in the nick of time.  My diet certainly contributed to chronic gall bladder pain, eventual infection, and very nearly my death. But injury contributed, and misdiagnosis from bad physicians (who missed a gall bladder larger than a football for nearly a year and dismissed me as a fat complainer with indigestion) were, too.  I also had PCOS, which has virtually disappeared as I lost weight and got healthier. I was called a “borderline diabetic” for years. I still don’t know if this was simply lazy medical practice because I was very obese, or if I really was “borderline.” My blood sugars have been completely normal for years.

2. Move more. Never avoid moving when I can. Park further from the door. Walk the dog. Get up every day, no matter how much I would rather not. When I was young I moved a LOT, in spite of being heavy. I was active, even athletic. It was astonishing how much my personality, happiness, and physical ability bounced back as I started moving again.

3. Eat less, and eat better. I never stop myself from having chocolate or ice cream. I have a small amount. After a few years I realized I didn’t want more. I can’t remember a time when I “binged.” Even now, overeating for me is not binge-eating. It’s a second helping of something once in a while, and the GOOD news is… I feel it immediately. Your stomach WILL shrink. Emotional eating IS a habit that can be broken. In fact, it melts away on its own if you stick to your better habits.

4. Refrain from excuses. If I feel slightly bloated after eating, I take a walk. I don’t self diagnose with some syndrome that is a lot less likely to be the problem. I ate too much. EVERY person I have ever heard talk about losing weight being incredibly hard, and how difficult it is emotionally, and plateaus… counted calories, pounds, and sizes. Ignore the markers and be healthy… you will be unaware of plateaus and feel no need to make excuses.

I dislike it when people demand a pound count, because it completely tells on them when they insist they are “really just worried about health.” What I can say, only because my medical folks have stressed and confirmed it, is that I am literally half the size I was 15 years ago. Before my gall bladder surgery (the dramatic, emergency, saw-her-in-half kind) I was wearing a size 32 (not a 32” waist… a 5x / 6x). I now wear a 20 to 22, depending. I weighed at least 425 pounds (I was 405 a week after surgery, but refused to be weighed prior to it). My last weigh-in was 215.  I have lost a pant-size since then. (To be honest, I thought I would gain that back, since some of this weight loss was cancer-loss. So far I have not, and it has been a month.) I only have these statistics because of medical professionals and being forced to buy new clothes.

It wasn’t easy. Going without food never bothered me as much as MOVING did, because I was in constant pain. But the more I moved, the less pain I felt. The more I walked, the easier it became. I now only have joint pain in bad weather or after too much exertion, and take nothing but Tylenol on occasion to manage it. I still struggle with long flights of stairs, partially because of my knees, but largely because I am puffing with one lung. Walking steadily and slowly on level ground does not bother me at all. I actually enjoy it. Even in my late 20s and 30s I struggled to walk more than a quarter mile. I’m 47 now and can do 5 miles if the weather is good and I move at my own pace… still… though I am asked by my doctors not to. Plus Max quits on me after a mile. :)

Had I failed to keep moving, I would be dead. I would never have had the energy and physical stability to beat cancer, would not be able to function with one lung, and would not be living with pulmonary fibrosis at all. A 400 pound woman can’t function with one lung, limited heart health and capacity, and oxygen therapy. I could not have survived.

I would also not be capable of being sexually active. While sex drive is not always a problem for larger people (it often is), my heart and lungs, my knees and back, my sheer inability to move—all of these would have made regular, rigorous sex unsafe. Plus size people can, and should, love and be loved. But danger or simple inability to handle sexual exertion is a reality for some, and a concern for anyone considered morbidly obese.

My mom’s friend has no idea how insulting she was in calling it “easy” for me, but she is also someone who will never accept ownership of her body, her responsibility for it, or her own role in who and what she has become.

It’s not about dieting. It’s not about blame. It’s not about excuses. It’s about getting your shit straight, getting over your pity party, getting doctors who LISTEN and don’t consider you a waste of time because of the shape they see in front of them, and getting over it.

The one thing it is NOT is easy.