Rose of Memory

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

Forgive me Mother for I have sinned. It has been three years since my last yoga session. 
I don't know why I stopped. Time, money, my yoga buddy moved away... from time to time, I think of it, lately more so.  I keep dwelling on something a yoga instructor once said that bothered me. 

It was a wintery Sunday in 2013. The yoga class was in mandu kasana or frog pose--a hip opener stretch. There was a strong feeling of resistance within my hips. I hated it, my pelvis felt like it was going to snap in half and the contents of pandora's box would come spilling out and kill everyone. The yoga instructor walked around and gently, corrected people in their poses, so that they got a deeper stretch or showed them how to not hurt themselves. She did this instinctively while telling the yoga class about the pelvis, hips and sacrum. 

She said, "An overwhelming emotional response may come over you when you do hip-openers. This is natural. Our hips and our sacrum, they are the body's emotional junk drawer. We store those emotional stressors, those sad memories, relationship woes and family issues there. By opening the hips, this is an opportunity for us to release and clear them. Acknowledge your emotions, let them flow out of you and move on to your greater purpose." 

Then the yoga instructor gently pushed my butt down deeper into frog pose. Vile metaphysical harpy. In truth, I did want to cry, but only because my pelvis was on fire and the sides of my knees were being ground into the floor. Emotional junk drawer. pffft.

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

A couple weeks ago I went to my second physical therapy appointment and had what can only be described as a Proustian memory moment, but I can't tell you officially. In Search of Lost Time or Remembrance of Things Past by Marcel Proust is on my unofficial list of books I want to read at some point, but...let's say the average novel is 90,000 words long, Proust's opus is 1,267,069. Shame. Anyway, I went to physical therapy. My physical therapist is kind, knowledgeable and professional. I walked for her, up and down the gym floor. She watched me and my gait with her eagle eyes. In an examination room, I bent over for her and touched my toes. She flipped my shirt up (with my permission) and ran her soft hand down my spine, and...I was face to face with a torrent of forgotten memories and "an overwhelming emotional response" was rapidly bubbling up to my face.
She ran her soft hand down my spine one more time and said, "huh...I believe you have a touch of scoliosis, which may've put enough pressure on that joint to bring us to today, certainly isn't helping...okay, hop up on the table for me..."

I got up onto the table. My physical therapist gave me some exercises to do and left me alone for a few minutes while I did them. I half did them and half tried not think about the fact that I'd just fucking felt my mother's hand run along the length of my spine, but really all I did was try and mop up the waterworks before my physical therapist returned. Did I mention my mother has been dead for thirteen years? Did I mention I didn't, that I couldn't cry at her funeral? That back then I was under the thick, wet curtain of anti-depressants and I had no emotions? I was vulcan and guided by logic--I couldn't cry because I was relieved that she was finally freed, after nearly a decade of suffering. That's what I rationalized to myself anyway, now that I'm out from under the curtain, I know better...Funny...Sad...Ironic that I was in physical therapy for an inflamed sacroiliac joint that may have been created by the pressure from a potentially undiagnosed case of scoliosis. My emotional junk drawer, that's been stuck for over a decade, was suddenly wide open. I danced between sweet sadness and laughter. I thought I was going insane.

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

  My mother. I look like her a lot, people always tell me so, but personality wise, we couldn't be more different. That's neither here nor there. She was a registered nurse by profession. Around the time of my pre-adolescence, she did a career stint as a school nurse and she also became obsessed with my back. Every time I climbed out of a bath or a shower, she was there, waiting for me with a towel. I would dry off and then I'd bend over. She would run her hand down my spine and look for signs of scoliosis. At my elementary school, she ran the girl's scoliosis check "clinics." Starting in 1990, the girls in my class stood in line in the school's gymnasium. The nurses checked each girl behind a divider. Bend over, touch your toes. That was the drill. Then one day my friend Molly looked at us sadly and shook her head. She had a note to give to her parents. Some time later, she showed up at school wearing a metal scoliosis cage. My own mother was obsessed with my back, she looked at me like she couldn't quite figure something out, but she never voiced any of her concerns to me. I sort of remember her pointing it out to a white-haired doctor in a white lab coat, but he wasn't concerned at all. That was the end of it of what I sort of remembered. It was so faintly vivid and so long ago that I wasn't even sure I was really remembering it. Maybe I was remembering a Judy Blume book? The prospect of "remembering" a novel as my own memory terrified me to the core. After my physical theraphy appointment was done, I "tore off" to the library to make sure I wasn't losing it. 

I hit the digital card catalog, occasionally wiping my eyes. The feel of my mother's hand on my back was still fresh. The book I was looking for was Deenie by Judy Blume. It did exist. I grit my teeth. I looked up where I could find it and grit my teeth again. It was in the teen section. I'd had a run in in the teen section before. They treat you like sexual predators down there when I'd only tried to write in there when all the other available desks were taken. I got booted. I looked to see if Deenie was in any other part of the library where I didn't have to deal with the teen librarian. Nope, but I had to know if I was losing my mind so I tromped down there. The librarian headed me off at the pass, physically placed herself between me and the table of "teenagers" that looked more like 22 year old college students cramming for an exam, "Can I help you?"
"Yes," I said, "I need a book that's apparently in the teen fiction section." 
"You're sure it's not elsewhere in the library?"  
"If it was, you can be sure I wouldn't have troubled you."
"What is it?"
"Deenie by Judy Blume," I said and looked down in embarrassment. 
"Deenie, Deenie, Deenie..." she muttered as she escorted me back to the teen book stacks. I followed her, sort of remembering the yellow hardback tome with groovy seventies coverart under a glassine protector. I remember the Judy Blume books I checked out from my California library smelling, as my ten year old self would describe, "yucky."
"Ah," she said, "here it is."
She pulled a diminutive paperback off the shelf and handed it to me. It was just a little slip of a thing, not at all like my memory. 
"Okay. Thanks," I said, starting to walk out. 
She ran up and once again placed herself in between me and the table of "teenagers" I was clearly looking to molest. I'm a 36 year old married woman that apparently looks like she loves nothing more than perving up some sweet, underage poontang at the library. I rolled my eyes so hard, I almost threw my back out again. I checked the book out and left.
With my light as a feather book, barely 33,000 words, I made it back to work before my lunch hour ended. After work, I laid on the floor and read Deenie for two hours. Here's the gist. The main character has scoliosis and gets a brace. Also, my memories are safely my own. I couldn't be happier or sadder. 

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

I know what I felt. I can still feel my mother's hand on me. I still weep. It's awful that the worst memories of her were the most vivid for so long. It has been nice to remember her when she wasn't sick, when she could be a mother to me. Opening up my junk drawer has opened up a volume of memories I'd long forgotten about. I remember her bringing me to the library on a weekly basis. I remember her handing me a mini maglite and encouraging me to disobey my father's cry for "light's out." "here's a flashlight. You can read under the covers." I probably read Deenie that way. 

As long as I've known Josh, I've been helping him cover Race For The Cure on Mother's Day. My mother died from breast cancer. Funny. Sad. Ironic. Amazing, that I would have this emotional revelation so close to Mother's Day and Race for the Cure. God, isn't there a weird synchronicity to life sometimes?  I don't have a mom to buy gifts for anymore, but I will celebrate her life and her spirit and her soft hands in my heart. If you too find yourself in this boat, truly, follow the vile metaphysical harpy's advice. Remember, acknowledge your emotions, and let them flow out of you so that you can move on to your greater purpose. Do it to make your mother proud. Believe what you want, but I'm pretty sure my mother is still watching me and obsessing over my back.

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

What I wore: 

Blazer: Anna Sui original sample SS02

Camisole: past season Express.

Watch: vintage Omega, my mother's

Jeans: past season Seven For All Mankind   

Shoes: Anna Sui original sample SS02 

Purse: French, family heirloom. 

Your bosom friend in Pittsburgh, 

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Turn Casual Friday Up To Eleven

 

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

You've heard the aphorism, "If you don't like the scenery, change your view"? What about, "If you don't like what's being said, change the conversation"? Or maybe, "If you don't like how the table is set, turn over the table"? I'm pretty angsty these days, so I prefer the last one.

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

If you tuned in to my last blog post (here) you'll know that I've been dealing with some health issues. I'm only very slowly getting back to my "regularly scheduled programming." Actually that's not true. Nothing is regularly scheduled anymore. I liked my routines. I liked getting up at 5:15am and cycling or running or picking up weights until I was good and mentally chill for the rest of the day. I liked sitting down to write during lunch. I liked having a drink, or few, with my husband and some friends at the end of the day, and then writing some more if I was able. This is what my muse, the writing inspiration and task master in my head, wanted. He's looks a bit like Raoul Duke, but has a tendency to become a Pterodactyl clawing around the inside of my skull if I don't get the exercise, writing, socializing, and drinking done. Because this schedule worked for him, it worked for me. Turns out, it's not working for me and I need to take better care of myself. Eat more healthy fats. Do womanly well being things. I'm learning, but honestly, I'd much rather take an upper-cut to the chin than do oogy-woogy, crunchy things that reek of "balance your hormones, balance your life" and "nurture your stomach, nurture your soul." 

This stuff, it's not for me. I'd much rather run with the wolves.

"That's just too damn bad," says the Universe, "listen, if you want to be healthy enough to finish your first draft before October, you're going to have to be more tender. Oh, and start taking those fish oil and evening primrose capsules!"

 Fine! I shout, like an angry teenager, slamming the front door for extra emphasis. Stupid Universe. My muse flaps around inside my skull like a rabid bat. He shrieks in agreement. Stupid Universe.

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

As I very, very slowly inched around my neighborhood on my daily very, very slow constitutional with a pissed muse and angry why me? thoughts skittering around in my head, I kept walking by the J.Crew store on Walnut Street. Before long, I became haunted by a very pink, very floral shirt in the window display. It stuck out. It was SO pink. After about two weeks of staring at it from the outside in, I went inside to see what it was about. I haven't purchased any new "work shirts" in a few years, so, what was the harm? The sales associate informed me that the shirt was sold out, except for the one in the window display. Oh well, I shrugged and started walking out, but, as you know, I walk very, very slowly these days. The sales associate pulled it off the mannequin and handed it to me before I made it to the door. What was the harm? I tried it on. It fit and I liked it. I liked a pink, floral shirt and I bought it.

 

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

Since I started writing, it has made me a little singularly focused. On words. On writing. On when l'll get to write next. I lost sight on how creative I could be in other avenues that I used to enjoy. I'm thinking food and fashion specifically. Even further specifically, I forgot how much I enjoy the challenge of mixing prints. Since I got this shirt with work in mind, I came up with a punchy casual Friday look and it went over very well. My colleagues were very enthusiastic. (I have a tendency to get into what I call my "Mr. Roger's rut" in the winter...button down shirt, cardigan, trousers, repeat. I shake out of it every spring). "Just trying to look better than I feel, " I quipped at the water cooler.

 I mixed the shirt with pinstripe denim, a leopard print belt, metallic gold flats ( no heels right now), and a Marsala-colored snakeskin clutch (I'm not supposed to carry heavy bags right now). It seems like a lot of different things that miraculously work together, but I have a few tips to share on the subject of mixing prints that I'd like to share with you now and in other posts this spring and summer. My first tip is: leopard and metallics should be used like neutrals (you know, black, white, tan), and they always look great when paired with pop-y colors like fluorescents...like hot pink. 

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

I never wear pink. I never wear floral anything. I never talk about clothes on my blog. Now I am.  A wolf in pink clothing.

I guess if even cowgirls get the blues, even tomboys can get the pinks...my way of wearing rose-colored glasses, I guess. 

So with that, consider the table overturned... I used my jedi mind powers since I can't physically overturn it myself right now. But I will again, soon as I'm done with physical therapy.

(Take that universe).

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

What I wore:

shirt: J.Crew

necklace: vintage Goldette, my mother's

watch: vintage Omega, my mother's

pants: Anna Sui original sample, Spring 2002

belt: past season Express

shoes: past season J.Crew

bag: vintage 

Sunnies: vintage Christian Dior

Do you ever use fashion or colors to change your mindset or alter your mood? Tell me all about it in the comments below!

Your Bosom Friend in Pittsburgh,

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Cause and Effect

I've been preoccupied. Too busy to fashion blog. I saved a newborn elephant while a hungry lion mauled his mother. I slung all 200lbs of him over my shoulders like a shepherdess, and carried him a short distance to safety. His little trunk bopped me on the head as he fought me. He wanted me to take him back to mom. Mom was gone, a giant red splotch on the golden safari. I threw my back out, fighting the cruel mistress that is mother nature.

That was sad and a lie. I'm sorry. It's just. Well. I've been having LBP, (that's internet abv for Lower Back Pain) going on three weeks now. Some of it was very bad. Bad enough to keep me from work for five and half days. I'm going a little stir crazy.

"Oooooh, what did you do?" people ask, irises dancing, looking for a medical cautionary tale replete with cause and effect. How can they avoid pain and suffering? 
I really wish I could give them what they want, instead I tell them, "Dunno, I woke up one day and my back was shitty." 
Life doesn't work like a morality tale. Truth. 


More truth. The cause. Four medical professionals have all agreed that the sacroiliac joint seems to be my culprit. The effect. The painful inflammation in my lower back spread to the front of my pelvis and my hips locked up. When I wasn't laying on my back, contemplating the merits of the ceiling, I had to crawl on all fours to make my way to the bathroom--I even kept myself dehydrated to limit these nature calls. When I absolutely had to walk (from the house to the car, to the car to the doctor's office, or when my tough-loving husband (who's recovered from back surgery and knows first hand that not walking, is far worse in the long haul, than the pain of walking) made me walk around the block once a day)...I moved slower than I thought humanly possible. Hunched like Quasimodo, I took a one inch step with one foot and repeated it with the other foot, until I reached my destination--a million light years later. The whole time, tears involuntarily sprung out of my eyeballs from the pain. Hooo boy, was my sacroiliac joint pissed, but not as pissed as I was. Nobody makes me cry my own tears. Nobody. 

I've never really known physical pain. At routine wellness check-ups, nurses always ask, "on a scale of 0-10. Zero being no pain at all and ten, being the most pain imaginable...How are you feeling today?"

I always pictured a big, red dragon with black eyes, holding a struggling person in its claw while it bends its giant head down and rips the human in half with its teeth. That's my standard for a ten. The most pain I could possibly imagine.

"zero," I've answered, to pretty much a lifetime of those wellness questions.

I had my wisdom teeth out when I was twenty. Even then, post extraction, when the local anesthesia wore off...I think I'd say I was sitting at a solid 4. I've been real lucky until a week ago, a 9, thank you.


My pain has not been managed very well and I find that I have room to be both angry and grateful that it wasn't magically whisked away with modern pharmacology. I am angry that I haven't been writing, that I couldn't write, that writing continues to be physically challenging. I am angry that pain is real and mind over matter is in fact, bullshit. Strange though it may sound, I am grateful to finally know what real debilitating pain is like,  didn't even have to walk a mile in someone else's shoes to look upon the world with brand new eyes. But instead of meeting people's eyes on the street, and letting them see my pain and embarrassment, I stared at my shuffling feet or at the plaster swirls on my bedroom ceiling...a disconcerting mixture of figure eights, half moons and angry swipes with a plaster trowel. Why?

My current diagnosis and prognosis offers me no comfort or direction. My LBP seems to be in tune with the normal fluctuation of hormones during a woman's menstrual cycle. I might feel like this once a month, or I might not. Hard to predict, the doctor shrugs. Sometimes medicine seems more like an art than a science. I missed the pain killer boon by about ten years. I would definitely say that I'm missing it, especially now that we're in the midst of a knee jerk reaction to it. Lucky me. I had to push hard to get prescribed anything, but ask and you shall receive. I was prescribed an anti-depressant for my back. It wasn't that long ago, (1600's) where pain was thought to be a punishment from God and the course of treatment was prayer. It seems pain is a spiritual problem again and cast into the pit of other medical undesirables, mental health. Depressed? Shh! Good God, stop talking about it! You think there's time in our medical system to get to the bottom of that? Here's a script for anti-depressants. You'll feel comfortably numb. I've looked for God amongst the plaster swirls on the ceiling and in between the carpet fibers on the stairs as I inched down them. I clutched the bottle of pills in my hand, they shook like a rattle on each step. God and mother nature, they're harsh mistresses.  I threw the anti-depressants in the bathroom trash and chuckled. Pain and suffering is often a fact of life, but it is not a spiritual problem. I know all too well that anti-depressants are pharmacological procrastination. I want my edge when I need it. But I didn't need it right this second so I grabbed some bourbon and laid down. My dog laid down next me. Sometimes the pain's not so bad when I lay down.

 

Your Bosom Friend in Pittsburgh,

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