Surprisingly, Paul and I were the only two people in The Rat. He was sitting by himself at the end of the bar. I ordered a beer, dropped money into the jukebox, selected The Ramones and The Cure, then pulled up a stool next to him. We talked about music (he liked punk, but did not dress the part) and art; he told me he was a self-employed contractor and was working with friends on an apartment building close to The Rat. A more unlikely couple would be hard to find, but we hit it off immediately. When the bar closed at 2 o’clock we took a cab to his place in Brighton. After a few weeks I moved in with him.
*****
Paul and I have a lot in common – we like the same music, we both love to cook, each of us has a whacky sense of humor, and we both fit the quintessential definition of a Type B personality. But most importantly, there are enough differences between us to keep things interesting. One area where Paul and I differ is that I like to leave early for appointments, but Paul likes to wait till the last minute.
For most of the major events in our lives, Paul has been late. It started with our wedding day in 1989. Paul and I married in Rockport, MA, at the Ralph Waldo Emerson Inn. It takes about an our to get there from our home in Everett. I arrived there early to do my hair, makeup, etc. Paul left home a bit later than he should have. At the Inn, my mother began pacing and looking nervously at her watch while I tried to reassure her that Paul would come. Little did we know that Murphy’s Law had caught up with him – he got a flat on Route 128. So there was my future husband, dressed in a tuxedo, changing a flat on one of the busiest highways north of Boston on our wedding day. When Paul finally pulled into the driveway my mother, father, and our wedding guests heaved a collective sigh of relief, but I just laughed. I knew he would get there . . . eventually.
Paula and Paul. June 18, 1989
Two years later it happened again.
I had to spend the night before Marcy was born in the hospital because I hadn’t dilated. We decided that there was no use in Paul staying up all night watching me sleep, so he went home. Besides, Nancy, a friend of ours, was an OB nurse and she happened to be on duty that night. In retrospect, I don’t know what the hell I was thinking when I sent Paul home while I was in labor, but somehow it made sense at the time.
The next day my doctor induced me and things went fast from then on. Nancy dialed our home phone number so I could tell Paul to get to the hospital STAT, but there was no answer. I left a frantic message on our answering machine and hoped that he was on his way. Less than an hour later Marcy was delivered.
Paul showed up ten minutes later. His hair was disheveled and he looked exhausted. When he came into the delivery room I saw Nancy waving her finger at him while whispering “Where the hell have you been?” He sheepishly made his way to my bed and told me that he had spent the past half hour looking for a parking meter because he didn’t want to spend the money to park at the Beth Israel Hospital garage. In the haze of pain and exhaustion I wanted to be mad, but when Paul awkwardly picked up Marcy and cradled her in his arms, that feeling vanished.
Two days later, Paul was on time when he picked up Marcy and me to take us home from the hospital. When we went into Marcy’s room there were a dozen roses sitting in her bassinet, and I thought to myself, how lucky we are to have him.
One of my favorite holidays is upon us -- Halloween.
This weekend I read many lists of scary movies on websites and blogs (like this one: boston.com's top 50 scary movies), and now that I have a blog, I can add my own.
Before I get to my list, first a word about films that do not scare me.
Slasher films just don't cut it for me (pun intended); I mean, how many times do we have to watch directors try to outgross each other to see who can make the goriest film? Besides, real news stories about atrocities humans inflict on one another are far more scary than any Saw film. (OK -- I'll admit that little swirly-cheeked dude is creepy -- check out "Honorable Mention" below.)
Giant spiders, sharks and other abnormally mutated animals don't frighten me. I'm one of those crazy people who think spiders are cute. And aliens don't scare me either. I would welcome being beamed up by visitors from another planet because the one we live on has become totally unhinged, and I'm optimistic enough to believe that any alien landing on Earth would come in peace.
Vampire films aren't on my list either. I love a good vamp film as much as anyone, but the vampire class I'm taking has changed how I view these unfortunate creatures. I pity vampires because they are metaphors for many anxieties in society like alienation and humans' fear of death. Besides, from what I've read, hot vampire sex is the bomb -- just ask Sookie Stackhouse.
* * * * *
I won't keep you in suspense any longer -- here is my Top 5 scariest movies countdown:
NUMBER 5: THE SHINING When it comes to horror, what could be more frightening than watching your generic, happy-go-lucky Dad slip slowly into the dark side? Jack Nicholson's over-the-top portrayal of Jack Torrance is bloodcurdling; he has so mastered his craft that his facial expressions alone instill more terror than any special effects technician could ever dream up.
In the hands of Stanley Kubrick's skillful direction, a little boy riding his Big Wheels takes on the menacing appearance of an innocent child entering the abyss of hell.
And what is up with those twins? Sure, they look innocent enough, but would you want to run into them in some dark, empty hotel lobby? What makes this movie so chilling is that if a normal family like the Torrence's could be taken over by some unknown evil entity, then it could happen to any of us.
Poor Rosemary Woodhouse. All she wanted was a normal life with her actor husband and a baby. What she got was an asshole for a spouse, a coven of witches, and the spawn of Satan.
Say what you will about Roman Polanski; he is one hell of a director. The tension he creates in this film builds agonizingly as we learn that Rosemary's husband, Guy, has sold his soul to the devil with the help of their neighbors in their deliciously gothic Manhattan apartment.
What woman could not identify with poor Rosemary as she scrambles around with her swollen belly, desparately trying to save her unborn child from the clutches of the Castevet's and their fellow witches. For me, one of the most terrifying scenes in the film is when Rosemary is in the phone booth and we think finally -- she will be saved. But then we see a man has followed her and is standing ominously outside the booth. Now we know that Rosemary is doomed.
The terror in this film doesn't come from special effects; these characters seem real; it's what we don't see that scares us. And in the end, the bond of motherhood prevails. Yes, we mothers love our children unconditionally, even if they do have the eyes of a goat.
* * * * *
NUMBER 3: PSYCHO (The original 1960 version, not the 1998 abomination.)
OK, so technically Psycho is a slasher film. But it was the first. And the best.
Alfred Hitchcock was a genius. In the infamous shower scene, he was able to totally freak out his audience without buckets of blood or grisly, gaping wounds. Sure, there was some blood, but that's not what is so scary about this scene. The true horror is watching Janet Leigh's life slowly ebb out of her as she helplessly tears down the shower curtain to escape her fate, with perverse violins playing an eerie wee-wee-wee-wee in the background:
The end of this scene, where we see an extreme close-up of Leigh's blood swirling down the drain, which turns into a close-up of Leigh's eye, is brilliant.
Anthony Perkins' as Norman Bates is one of the scariest characters in the history of film. Perkins' understated portrayal of the murderer is chilling, and in the final scene, his twisted smile brings the creep level to new heights as the voiceover says, "Why, she [Norman's mother -- his alter-ego], wouldn't even harm a fly."
Thanks, Hitch. Because of you I still can't take a shower without locking every door in the house.
Our 19-year-old daughter Marcy called me last Friday to tell me she was going on her first camping trip with some college friends. She goes to George Mason University in Virginia which is a very rural setting a few miles outside of Washington, D.C.
Me: So, you're first camping trip. You must be excited!
Marcy: Yeah, but I think I made a mistake Mom. I watched The Blair Witch Project last night and I don't think that was a good idea.
Me: Don't worry Sweetie -- you'll be fine. It's only a movie.
I resisted the urge to call her on Saturday, but on Sunday evening I caved in.
Me: So how was it?
Marcy: Oh-my-God, Mom! Our campground was in Maryland and you wouldn't belive it -- when Leah, our driver, told us we were almost there, I looked out the window. Then, I saw the sign:
Yeah, THAT Burkittsville -- home of the Blair Witch.
This film is so well made that I completely fell for the hype that surrounded its debut. I mean look at it -- it's a documentary for crying out loud -- of course it's real.
The premise of this film is simple: three average college students working on a documentary. They go camping in the woods -- you know, thoseplaces that city people like Marcy and I fear more than the streets of Roxbury. They become hopelessly lost. Things go bump in the night. They wake up to witchy twigs hanging from branches. In the end, the only things that survive are the videos they made, and the footage is used to make this documentary.
Many factors contribute to the realism of this film. It was filmed in video and in real time. The directors rationed the actors' food and left them in the dark about what was going to happen next; as a result, the fear the actors exhibit is real, and therefore totally believable.
Marcy taught me a couple of things this weekend: (1) she's not a helpless little girl any more and, (2) she's got balls the size of watermelons.
There are so many hair-raising images in this film, it's hard to know where to begin. So let's just get right to the images of sweet little Regan MacNeil in full-tilt possessed mode.
William Friedkin eases the audience into this freak show by first showing some furniture moving around Regan's room on its own. But then stranger things begin to happen to Regan . . .
Holy shit! She's levitating!
Oh my God -- what's happened to her face?? And WTF is that green stuff coming out of her mouth??
Sweet Jesus, her head is spinning! Mommy! Mommy!
Yes, there were special effects in The Exorcist, but you have to remember -- the film was released in 1973 and trust me, there was nothing even close to this on film at the time. People ran screaming out of theaters when it was first shown. These images will be seared on my brain forever.
* * * * *
HONORABLE MENTION:
Any film with clowns or dummies in it scares the shit outta me. Period.
*****
All of my top 5 scary films have common denominators: they achieve their frightening goals through the mastery of their directors and the brilliance of the actors who portray unfortunate characters with whom we can all identify. In The Exorcist, where special effects were used to enhance the storyline of a young girl possessed by Satan, it is the storyline, incredible acting, and direction of the film that made people run out of theaters. Unlike horror films today where the special effects are the storyline, these five directors knew how to tell a scary story by slowly building tension and leading their audience to a psychological free fall of horror.
There is much to be cheerful about today; I am in the homestretch with my Prednisone regimenand I feel FANTASTIC! After all the scary, frustrating days that led up to this, my lungs are clear and I am sleeping more soundly than our teenage daughter Marcy on a Saturday morning. And I got through it all without vomiting up coffee grounds.
I would not have gotten through the ordeal without Paul and our amazing cat, Flash.
I believe pets can tell when their humans are sick or depressed, and Flash was extra concerned about her Momma during this ordeal. She shadowed me constantly, to the point of being a nuisance. But how could you stay mad at a face like this?
Flash has been a member of our family since I got her from a cat rescue shelter 15 years ago. She is an extraordinary creature; among her many enduring features, she is polydactyl and has six toes on each front paw instead of the usual four. Polydactyl cats were brought from Europe to the U.S. by the Puritans and as a result, they are usually only found in New England.
Flash has what look like opposable thumbs on each paw, and she uses them in that capacity with great dexterity. She wraps them around her favorite toys as she bites and bats them with her hind legs. These claws also enhance her value as a top-notch mouser. When the weather gets cold, Flash will occasionally leave a present for me on the floor by my side of the bed -- a nicely rigor mortised mouse. What a great treat it is to wake up on a chilly morning and step on a tiny, furry corpse.
Flash works hard at looking beautiful -- it's a full-time job -- and she has mastered the fine art of posing for her humans' entertainment. Here Flash displays the Turkey Butt Kitty pose where she makes herself look like an oven-stuffer roaster:
Here is the frightening Don't Mess With Me/I Will Eat You Leer of Death; watch out Bela Lugosi:
Like all cats, when it comes to snoozing, Flash has many poses in her repertoire including the I Have a Dream pose:
and the I'm Too Cute For Words pose (which is extra effective when performed next to a sleeping Marcy):
One of our nicknames for Flash is Woo-Woo Kitty. She earned this title from midnight ravings that sometimes take hold of her. It goes something like this: Paul and I will be lying in bed when all of a sudden we'll hear Flash galloping from one end of the house to the other. She comes to a screeching halt at our bedroom door, then stares wild-eyed at some thing hovering over our heads that can only be seen by cats (we call them greeblings.) Next she pins her ears back on her head, arches up like a Halloween cat, and jumps simultaneously backward and sideways before spinning around and racing back to the other end of the house. Evidently, Woo-Wooing takes a lot out of you because she'll do this for a few more rounds before she gets so exhausted that she jumps onto our bed and goes into a deep slumber.
We are not privy to the reasoning behind this behavior -- it simply must be done.
Unfortunately, getting photos of Flash in full Woo-Woo mode has eluded me. We never know when it will happen next (I think it has something to do with a full moon), and I'm usually at the brink of sleep when she commences flight. But some day, when she least expects it, I'll be waiting in bed with my Leica. . .
Last weekend my husband Paul, daughter Marcy and I made the grueling ten hour drive, schlepping Marcy and all her stuff to George Mason University (GMU) in Virginia. This is Marcy’s sophomore year.
Last year the three of us experienced the wild emotions of sending your kid off to college for the first time. Marcy was scared to death and was afraid that nobody would like her. We were scared to death – this was our baby, and were sending her off to the unknown to fend for herself. The minute Paul and I got in the car after moving Marcy into her dorm I wanted to run back in, take her in my arms and protect her from all the horrible things in this world – drunken boys, mean girls, drunken boys. When we got home I went into her room and sat there for hours, looking at all the little girl stuff she had left behind -- Pokemon cards; ceramic tea pots; mountains of stuffed animals; her favorite tiny white "cha-cha" shoes she wore as a toddler. I went to her closet and sniffed her clothes and visions of the shy, tiny young girl overwhelmed me.
Two weeks later Marcy called us; she was out of breath as she told us that she had auditioned and made it into Urbanknowledgy 101, (UK 101), George Mason's hip-hop dance team. She got her first English paper back and got an "A." She had lots of friends. She loved her classes. She was in better shape than we were.
The following month we went to visit her during Parents’ Weekend. We watched Marcy and her UK 101 team perform to a full house during “Mason Madness” in the huge campus arena. After the show she found us in the crowd and introduced us to two of her team members. They were giggling excitedly after dancing their hearts out. We were going to take Marcy to dinner, but she said, "Oh, Mom, I'm sorry. There's a party for UK101 and we're all going. You don't mind, do you?" Then she was off, cell phone attached to her ear.
I felt differently this time when we left her to return home. She had settled into her new life and was happy. But a new emotion hit me -- she no longer needed us.
When Marcy returned home this summer she told us that she loved college. She said she felt like she had matured and that she could make it on her own. She felt free. We saw very little of her while she was home. Our house was little more than a bed and home base for Marcy and all her stuff.
When Paul and I returned from Virginia last week there were no tears. Marcy was reunited with her friends and got right back into the swing of campus life. She’s fully independent now. We expected to never hear from her this semester.
******
Friday, 4:30 p.m. Marcy calls, screaming hysterically. She lost her debit card. Luckily I was able to put a stop on her card. But now there was a new dilemma -- she had no way to access money in her account. And it’s Labor Day weekend. And Marcy needs to buy textbooks. Panic set in.
I go to the website of the Virginia bank where Marcy has an account and figure out a way to electronically transfer money from her account back home, to the Virginia account. Problem: the Virginia bank has to send test deposit and withdrawal transactions between banks before they can finalize setting up this feature. This will take a couple of days. And it's Labor Day weekend.
Plan B. I go to Western Union’s website. I fill out online forms to wire money to Marcy. The transaction doesn’t go through. WTF??!! I call Western Union. New plan. Paul goes to nearest Western Union office with $500 in cash. He waits in line FOREVER because this place also cashes checks and everybody in the world was there cashing paychecks for the long Labor Day weekend.
Paul is finally able to wire money to a Western Union office in a supermarket near GMU. I call Marcy and tell her where to pick up the money. Mission accomplished.
Ten minutes later Marcy calls from her car and says she can't figure out how to get to the supermarket which is about 1.5 mi. away from campus and involves only three turns on major roadways. Google in one hand, phone in the other, I become her co-pilot. Go straight. Left at lights. Left at lights. She finds the store. She gets the money.
******
So what are the reasons to be cheerful in this story? We nurtured a shy, scared little girl and helped her become a well-adjusted, intelligent, and (mostly) self-sufficient woman. Yes, the nest is empty; this bird has flown. But she still needs us in her life.
.jpg)
.JPG)
