A Cosmetic Conundrum (September 9, 2010)

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

botox_injection_052609_m

I am 32 years old, which I realize, in the grand scheme of things, is far from elderly. With proper care and the continual advances of modern medicine, I could have a good 60 years of soul searching and hand wringing in front of me. That said, I have done some hard living in my three plus decades on the planet. Some of that is due to outside forces beyond my control (family for example), while other influences are an amalgam of my innate joie de vivre, my penchant for self-medicating in difficult situations and the fact that I have always had a terrible time turning my mind off. A good friend of mine recently said something that will always stick with me: “I love your personality Becky – all of them.”

I am a professed neurotic. No sense lying about it. While this certainly renders me an entertaining cocktail party guest, there are definite downsides to the Tao of Boop. I have lines on my face – lots of them. While I am told over and again by well-meaning family and friends that I am a beautiful person, and the evidence of my life experience should not bother me, clearly it does. I am a perfectionist with a palpable fear of aging – a nasty combination when we’re dealing with self-esteem.

To make the situation more interesting, I have a violent aversion to all things medical. I keep promising to tell the story of my flight at the age of five from a pair of nuns wielding booster shots, because frankly speaking, this is one of my proudest moments, but we’ll get to that another time. Though I have since been inked twice (NEVER allow 20 year-olds to select permanent body art – butterflies? WTF?!), had an oral surgery and a couple of short stays in the hospital, each and every time I am confronted with a needle is like the first. I simply cannot deal and often display this fear in the most irrational ways – like pulling a much needed IV out of my arm because I “couldn’t stand the sensation.”

So as I approach my mid-30s, I find myself in an interesting predicament. I want Botox in the worst way. I once claimed I would wait until the age of 35 before giving it serious thought, but that aforementioned hard living is beginning to play itself out in a reverse Dorian Gray fashion. “But Boop,” you may ask, “What about your fear of needles? How will you get around that?” Apparently when it comes to down to it, vanity trumps phobia. I do not declare this with pride.

Let me be clear that for everyone outside myself, I am a huge fan of aging gracefully. I simply can’t imagine loving Sophia Loren, Barbara Walters or Helen Mirren as much had they been the willing victims of plastic face pulling. Why I cannot apply this standard to mineself I leave to those with M.D.s and $100 per hour billing rates to assess. I know so many strong women personally who grow more gorgeous with age, but when I look in the mirror, I see the early stages of hagdom reflected.

But that’s OK. It’s 2010 and I have the freedom of choice to do what it takes to bolster my self-esteem, right? Now the only problem I have is that the Botox gods seem to be trying to tell me something.

On September 22nd, I will be making my third attempt to actually have the procedure performed. Eddie had planned to gift me the injections for my birthday on August 8th (despite his stated disapproval), but after learning that he is being phased out at the office, spending $400 for a cosmetic pick-me-up seemed a little unsavory. Happily, my husband’s employment situation has since been resolved for the better.

Last Saturday, I made my second appointment for a consultation at a trendy spot in Chicago’s Lincoln Park neighborhood. I arrived right on time for my 12:30 PM rendezvous, feeling a lot of things: shame, excitement, fear and guilt among the mix of emotions. I was immediately disconcerted by the perfect looking mannequins snidely manning the reception desk, but decided that once my wrinkle-free face emerged from the doctor’s office, they could take their superiority and shove it.

40 minutes, many disdainful once overs and two magazines later, I was still waiting to be seen. I began to feel the presence of Panicky and Uncomfortable, the twins who typically accompany me to any sort of medical practice. I realize Botox injections are a relatively minor procedure, but this is, after all, my face and my muscles. If the practitioner isn’t taking my time and my visage as seriously as I am, should I be there?

Just as I was finishing my thought, Mannequin #1 did her best to smile at me before dispensing the information that the doctor would be “ten more minutes.” No apology, just the smug presumption that I would continue to hang around. Naturally, I grabbed Eddie’s arm (after first waking him up from his afternoon waiting room nap) and headed for the door in a huff. For the record, Eddie congratulated me on making it past the 15 minute mark, which is the typical upper limit of my tolerance for rudeness.

I made some calls after I returned home and selected another reputable establishment with which to consult. So in less than two weeks, will I finally be acquainted with my new temporarily motionless, but wrinkle free countenance? Or will the Botox gods throw up another road block?

From the Front Lines: the Battle Against Mental Illness (September 7, 2010)

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

As I wound up the last night of a much needed three-day weekend, I turned my attention excitedly toward the new week. Overlooking some family drama which seemed minor at the time, I rested, I wrote and I refreshed. I looked forward to unleashing my creative juices to write about any number of topics: Obama’s “too little too late” Labor Day address to the unemployed American worker and the exhaustedly disappointed Left, the unofficial beginning of the Fall season and the pending return of network television – there are many places I expected my mind could take me today.

However, around 9:00 last night, my stomach tightened into Gordian knots and my veins ran cold with ice. My sister Jen and I had an inkling we were headed in this direction after some strange phone calls we had received earlier in the week. But now there could be no avoiding the truth: our homeless and severely mentally ill father Gregg was up to his old tricks. We were being harassed via phone call and email from a concerned “friend” of my father’s who had obtained our contact information through his cell phone.

There is a complicated and painful backstory to all of this. My poor father suffers from the following list of mental illnesses: manic depression with psychotic features, hoarding, borderline personality disorder, and in just in case all of that weren’t enough, throw in a gambling addiction that led to his bankruptcy of our nuclear family – more than once.

Those of you with good memories may recall that I only just purged the psychosis surrounding my mother from the tip of my pen on August 24th, in a post entitled “My Mother’s Birthday.” I wish I could pull the curtain aside and expose this much family trouble as the elaborate hoax of a creative mind, but I am just not that good with fiction. I readily believe that my penchant for essays and non-fiction comes from a firm belief that I could never concoct anything as fantastical as my own biography.

Over the decades, my father has been in and out of many treatment programs, taken numerous medications and been prescribed every alternative therapy known to humankind. Nothing has worked, not the least because my father is unfortunately the last person on Earth to believe he is perfectly sane. It is the medical community, his family, and most of all, his own children (Becky, his eldest daughter being the worst offender) who are out to “sabotage” him. He has lost everything, more than once, due to his inability to comprehend reality, and his daughters have suffered right alongside him, even if he was unable to grasp it.

Almost a year ago, I received an email from a family friend alerting me that my father, jobless and seven months behind on his rent, had locked himself out of his apartment, which was piled three feet high with garbage, and had taken to sleeping on buses. As this was one of his more malleable periods, I convinced him to commit to a three week stay at a suburban Chicago mental health facility, so I could sort out his affairs. I paid $1500 to have the garbage removed from his place and convinced the landlord not to sue him for the back rent. I took his valuables and relocated them to safety, so that he could take possession, after the long term treatment he claimed he was willing to attend had been completed.

But once again we encountered the same old problem. Once the medication the hospital had prescribed began to take root, my father believed he was fine and reneged on his pledge to entertain year-long treatment offers from two different human service organizations. When I protested that he would only endanger himself again, he signed himself out of the hospital AMA and stole away like a thief in the night. He has been a homeless wanderer ever since. Every month or so, Jen and I are contacted by one or more of the following: the police, a hospital, an unknown friend who claims my father has taken advantage of his/her goodwill. When we hear from my father himself, it is usually through email. He will not say where he is. If depressed, he makes it clear that we ruined his life. If he is manic, we are told of “great plans” of which we will never be a part. Ha ha!

On so many levels this is heartbreaking, frustrating and mentally debilitating. We worry nonstop about my father and what his end will eventually be. This may go a long way toward explaining my day job as an advocate for the retooling of Illinois’ broke and dysfunctional human service delivery system. Everytime I speak to a member of the Illinois Department of Human Services, I am told that my homeless father, who has made the rounds of every mental facility and holding cell in Chicagoland “doesn’t meet criteria” for state care – despite losing his health, his family, his job and his ability to see to his own basic needs. I am told “he has to want it.” When I point out the circular logic in asking a disturbed man to make the informed choices that are best for him, I am quickly shuffled out of the office (or off the phone).

So last night the intermittent stalking began again. Jen and I don’t answer, but are left strange voicemails or receive disturbing texts. Why am I afraid of my own father? I have heard through the grapevine that he often uses a library computer to read my work. Dad, if you’re reading this: stop scaring us and let us help you.

Is the U.S. Too Religious? (September 4, 2010)

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Typically, I find New York Times columnist Charles M. Blow to be among the most boring of the bunch. But I read this and wondered if the religiosity effect my not be one of the reasons the country is coming apart at the seams. Religious beliefs are often confused with grounds for U.S. policy making:

Thoughts?

Boop Bikes to Cougar Town (September 2, 2010)

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

Cougar Town

Due to a foot injury that has been stubbornly slow to heal, I have had to relinquish my favorite outdoor physical activity: running. Instead, after a few weeks of total rest, my good friend and devoted personal trainer Rob stopped by to give my long-dormant bicycle a once over. Rob is what you might call a bike expert – given that he lives in the city and it’s his chosen (and only) form of transportation. My old Schwinn, under utilized and weather beaten almost beyond recognition, was as good as new after a few minutes of Rob’s McGuyver treatment: brake repair, a little oil and a cleaning, and Ms. Boop was road ready.

Last evening after I returned home from the office, I set out on my second sojourn. My route thus far has been a seven mile course to my old neighborhood and back, ridden at a decidedly relaxed pace. There is some trial and error involved in selecting the right path. Last night I learned that one busy avenue has a handy stretch of bike runs that travel far to the side of traffic, increasing rider safety and allowing me to indulge in the beloved neighborhood voyeurism that is one of the hallmarks of my personality.

These one hour rides provide much time for observation and quiet reflection. I am learning to cherish them as much as I ever did my runs. However, as was the case with the thrice weekly jogs, sometimes unwanted attention or distraction breaks my stride. It seems that a certain subsection of the world’s menfolk interpret an active lady in sportswear as a potential romantic partner, even as she drips in sweat and stops for no conversation. Most of these “gentleman” confine their attentions to a simple honk of the horn or wolf whistle, easy brushed off or avoided by turning up the volume on my iPod.

But for obvious reasons, I do not wear headphones while melding with the street traffic. I try to be a good citizen and observe all the same rules that guide automobiles. I stop at stop signs, use the turn lanes and brake for red lights. As I sat at a long light at the crosswalk of a busy intersection on my way back home, I encountered some suitors who were a little extra obnoxious.

A group of young gentlemen, who could not have been more than 13 or 14 years old, were congregating at the nearby bus stop, trying their luck with a range of ladies that struck their fancy. Most of these “women” were proximate to their own age. Of course that is to be expected. Boys will always be boys, right? But as I waited for the green light, stuck in thoughtful reverie, it suddenly became apparent that these kids actually had the audacity to notice old, sweaty me.

And let’s just say that their use of suggestive language was not the stuff of which a nun might approve. I did my best to tune them out, really I did. Initially, I felt rather flattered (Oh come on boys! Me?). However, as their overtures became increasingly crass, I felt my old Italian temper start to flare up.

And then it happened…

Before I could stop the words from coming out of my mouth, there they were: “Shut up you little assholes! I am old enough to be your mother!”

No. She. Didn’t.

Yes. She. Did.

With two sentences, Becky Boop lowered herself from potentially hot cougar to old, ill-humored and crabby. But the worst crime of all, I say the worst, is that I resorted to the most stereotypical of language, the vernacular of the Mrs. Ropers of the world. While it may in fact be true that I was old enough to be the boys’ mother (had I given birth at 18), why did my cool points betray me by loudly declaring so?

Suddenly the young men didn’t find me so sexy anymore. Blissfully, the light finally turned green and I pedaled away with burning cheeks, the former catcalls having now turned snide laughter.

Moral of the story? The red lights of city streets are clearly way too long.

The Waning Days of Summer (August 31, 2010)

Becky SarwateLeave a comment

sad

The annual battle with Seasonal Affective Disorder has arrived early for me in 2010. Typically, my serotonin levels begin to drop as the days grow shorter and colder, but this year, my brain is slipping into despondency before the heat even dies. It has been a hot, wet season and that’s my wheelhouse, so I suppose it seems curious that I have chosen to take up residence in Chicago. It seems logical that if you want to fight the winter blues, maybe leaving a City that is damp and dark for nine months of the year would be your first step. What can I say? My masochism is twofold. Apparently I require the bracing, biting cold to remind me of summer’s beauty and value, and I can’t shake this morbid fascination with Illinois politics and all the carnivalesque oddities it brings.

This year, early onset SAD is hitting me in profound ways. I don’t want to let go – of the beach, the street festivals, the outdoor restaurant seating. One of my favorite sights this year has been the scene of children playing and riding bicycles until 10:00 PM, as I sit and quietly sip wine on my balcony. The season of fun and frivolity is now behind these kids. Do they feel the loss as I do?

I am also in no humor to welcome the Fall, for reasons that have nothing to do with a Peter Pan-like desire to extend fun in the sun. If it’s September, than that means we have to start taking the November elections seriously. One need not actively participate in the gamesmanship and punditry to feel the effects. Watching the evening news, picking up the paper before your morning commute, then the often frustrating act of voting, which usually means choosing the lesser of two to three evils – it’s enough to make one wish they were still underage.

Though there are many obnoxious and odd matchups in elections across the country, the State of Illinois makes a great case for having the most dispiriting contests around. Though Prairie State politics are historically dicey, we do occasionally get the proverbial Paul Simon/Barack Obama bone thrown at us.

This year, I am very sad to report, there is no such luck. One candidate after another is guilty of complete and total buffoonery. Let’s take the Governor’s race as an example. In this corner, we have sitting Executive Pat Quinn. Quinn is the sad sack who had to step in rather unceremoniously and take the reins after the ignominious fall of one Rod Blagojevich. Quinn inherited an office beset by felony convictions and deplorable fiscal irresponsibility. However, he is a good, if boring fellow, who has spent the last two years watching every plea for reform fall on a large crowd of deaf ears. Thus Illinois now carries the title of “Most Debt Ridden, Least Business Attractive,” State in the Union. This is far from Quinn’s fault in entirety, yet it is clear that it is he who must wear the crown of thorns [cue video of vociferous booing of Governor Quinn at June’s Stanley Cup rally].

Quinn’s competition for the Governor’s mansion arrives in the form of State Senator Bill Brady, a man whose strategy thus far consists of relying on the incumbent’s low polling numbers as a path to victory. Brady has adopted any means necessary to avoid the hassle of actually discussing the issues in public. The Republican’s plan to address the shortfall in revenue and human services, according to his website, includes a resolve to “cut taxes by a billion dollars, as well as reduce spending throughout the state.” With a budget deficit currently hovering around the $13 billion dollar mark, how can Brady justify cutting taxes, and what specific programs would he cut to begin to offset the already terrific revenue imbalance? Don’t know. He won’t say. Like every other good politician in Illinois, he is going to await being voted in before delineating his plans to drag us further into the red.

In the spirit of comic relief, I will briefly mention the third party, Independent Candidate for Governor, Scott Lee Cohen. Cohen had a brief flirtation with political shame and notoriety earlier this year, after winning, then promptly resigning the Democratic nomination for Lt. Governor. The pawn broker was chased away from the Quinn ticket after surfacing allegations of domestic violence, prostitution, drug abuse and rage filled outbursts. Deviant behavior from a pawn shop proprietor? Never saw it coming!

I am almost too exhausted at this point to get into the Senate contest. On the left we have the Democratic Alexi Giannoulias, a once good friend of Barack Obama’s who has begun to see his calls go to voicemail since his business venture, Broadway Bank, was shut down by the FDIC this past January. What, you mean a Wall Street charlatan might not be the kind of ally for which the President is looking? Well why ever not? A man who previously failed to protect the State’s finances in his elected role as Treasurer, while simultaneously running a bank into the ground may be good at malfunction multi-tasking, but this hardly qualifies him to make decisions for the voting public on a greater scale.

Republican challenger Mark Kirk, a current U.S. Congressmen, has experienced PR infractions that appear relatively minor compared to the rest of this lot. He has since backtracked from a statement made at a 2002 House Committee hearing, where Kirk declared himself a recipient of the Navy’s “Intelligence Officer of the Year” award. The politician’s fib was exposed by the Washington Post in May of this year. Not so smart now, are we Kirk?

Oh and by the way, both Giannoulias and Kirk are running to fill the seat of Roland Burris, the half term Senator who may or may not have cut a deal with Blago to take the chair of newly elected President Barack Obama. Though Burris could not be prevailed upon to resign after allegations surfaced in early 2009, he has decided to decline seeking re-election in order to make room for a younger, less experienced goofball.

Pass the melatonin and another glass of wine my friends. It’s going to be a rough autumn.