A New Michiganer

Water, Water Everywhere

 

They tell me that the state of Michigan has more water than any other state in the nation.  I believe them.

As the lake begins to ease closer to the deck - and the dock almost got swept away, there sure seems to be a lot of water - especially here in Lakeland. 

The water has been a topic of discussion since I moved here.  Up at the cottage we have well water - a sulphuric brew that smells pretty nasty.  My kids call it fart-water, but my husband and stepson have no hesitation about drinking it.  The alternative, for my children's drinking consumption is bathtub waer - from plastic jugs that my husband filled up in our bathtub at the apartment in Ann Arbor.  Yum!

Personally, I drink bottled water.  It's an old New York habit - even though the water in NY tasted pretty good, compared to the Water State's selection.

Chiropractor Salesman

About three weeks ago I did something really stupid.  I picked up two forty pound bags of salt and threw them into the car.  No biggie, I figured...I've been weight-training, kettlebelling and (I thought) was up for the challenge.  That night my lower back began to ache.  The next morning I needed my husband to pull me out of bed.  Then, standing, felt like my spine just wasn't able to stack right.  It felt like bone against bone - like it was going to break.  I couldn't straighten up.  He had to walk me to the toilet and put me down on it.  I have never been more freaked out (and humiliated) in my life!

The pain continued and my whole body felt contorted.  "I have to go to a chiropractor," I told my physician husband.  "Are you nuts?" was his response.  "They aren't doctors - they're voodoo guys.  You need a doctor!"

But I stubbornly resisted.  It's not that I have anything against doctors.  I even married one.  It's just, if there is any way to treat something in a non-interventive way - to strengthen myself instead of to treat myself like I'm sick - well, that's the way I want to heal.  Doctors give steriods and cortisone and operations.  I don't want any of that.  I want to know what I need to do to make things better.

So I found a chiropractor through my personal trainer.  First, I called and no one was there so I left a message.  With no response, I just bit the bullet (big ouch!) and walked around feeling and looking like Quasimodo for a day or two.  Finally, the "Dr." called back.  I told him my problem and he agreed to let me come immediately - which sounded great to me since I was set to go to NY the next day.

At his office, he listened to me describe my pain, and then he sat me in front of a TV and told me to watch something.  (OK, the New Yorker in me was just saying - the heck with the TV show - sitting hurts - please just examine me and tell me how we're gonna fix my back - PLEASE???).  But when I fidgeted, he seemed offended - so I sat through some chiropractic pitch to teach me about my back and my "Subdiction" or something like that - a condition that everyone probably has to some extent or another.

The longer I sat there (writhing in pain), the more I just wanted to leave.  Sometimes preaching to the choir is just stupid.  I didn't need to know about my "Subjugation."  I just needed to know how to make it better. 

After the film - finally - he examined me by running a little roller over my neck.  He hummed as he did it - a kind of cute (annoying) habit. 

"You definitely have a Subdivision in your neck," he told me. 

"But it's my lower back," I told him, "not my neck, that hurts." 

"Well, it's clear to me that you have a pinched nerve in your neck.  That may even be causing your lower back pain."

Huh?  I was pretty sure this was a herniated disk.

Next we took X-rays and he showed me how tilted I was standing.  You didn't need to be a rocket scientist for that.

"So what do I do?" I asked him.

"You go home and come back to the office next week," he told me.  "At that time I will let you know how bad your Sublimation is and we can begin working on it.  Meanwhile no exercise, ice it when it hurts, and do whatever it is you do for the pain.  We will deal with it next week."

So, OK, now I was completely weirded out.  He sent me home in agony.  What kind of doctor is this anyway.  Maybe my husband was right!

We went to New York, bought a new mattress for the bed at my mom's house so I would stand a chance of not making my back any worse, and when we came back, I showed up at the blue house in Saline, Michigan to hear about my back.  Their was another patient in the waiting room - a man.  The chiropractor came out and greeted us and then invited us BOTH in to what looked like a classroom.  With charts and life sized spine models, the sales pitch began anew.  I asked a few questions, more than a little annoyed by the pitch and I was told that I should just sit and listen - he would get to my questions in good time.   We were handed folders with CD's - homework - to teach us how to handle our backs before and after the treatment, which I learned was called "Adjustments."  The pitch went on for almost a half an hour, basically telling us about this "Sub" thing and how it probably started when we first fell down when we were toddlers and has gotten worse and worse every since. Then he invited the guy into his office to review his X-rays and treat him.

Maybe in Michigan people are chill with medical professionals doing a dog and pony show, but I was pretty impatient by the time he clipped my X-rays to the lightboard.  Holy cow!  Was that twisted thing my spine?  It was so clearly crooked, I was taken aback.  And not just the lower back where the disk met my spinal chord, obviously causing inflammation and pain.  The upper back, the neck - everything was out of alignment.

"This is what I've been trying to teach you," the chiropractor said factually.  Then he lay me down on a wooden table, on my side, and made the top of the table go "kerchunk" out from under my neck.  And I'll be darned if I didn't feel significantly better when he pulled me off that table! 

It was amazing.  My head felt like it was floating right where it belonged - between my two shoulders, and my spine felt - while not perfect - a whole lot better than when I walked in there.

I could have done without the sales pitch, informational program  about "Subversions" and the "bring a friend" promotion he told me about.  I'm sure most of the "education" was designed to justify the fact that he wanted to see me four times a week for starters, which is a nice way for him to finance his boat - but not in my budget, bad back or not.  But I have been going back once a week - and I have to admit - he doesn't need to sell me a thing.  I've been feeling better every time.

Facebook, et al: Open Windows

"I had sushi for dinner.  It was yum." The status update reported.

Who cares?  And why would someone want everyone to know about this?

I've been rethinking Facebook - and even my blog.  In the bad, old days, I used to call the media whenever I had a story idea.  They usually involved bigger stories and shared information that many might find helpful.  These days, media - even Facebook, where I know most of the "friends" who view my wall - seems intrusive, shallow and way too personal.

Have I aged and changed or has there been a subtle shift in how news and social banter is perceived?  With reality TV techniques taking over even mainstream shows (hand-held, jerky camera movements - loose dialogue and plots) and with the big, burning question of the day -- will bachelor Brad stay with Emily or dump her -- or whether Charlie Sheen will get his job back -- you've got to wonder if the whole world isn't just overexposed.  Even the news seems to be intrusive - with CNN begging viewers to send in their eyewitness accounts and videos.  Lengthy raw video footage - which back in my budding PR days used to be called "B-roll" and used to be edited down to mere bytes for the masses to view--is now mainstream. 

When I am preparing to throw together a status update, I'm conscious of millions of eyes and the possible ramifications.  If I post my political point of view, will it make me seem narrow minded?  Will my good news create jealousy among some?  If I post gripes, will I be perceived as a kvetch?  If I post about what I'm wearing today, will it invite unwelcome fantasy and comment?  If I post about my dinner plans, does anybody really care?

These days, it seems, the way to socialize is not by getting together with a friend for a walk or for coffee.  In fact, when I do, I frequently find myself bored - and end up checking my Facebook news feed or my email.  I think I've forgotten how to socialize in real time, face to face.

I've forgotten how to act - what to say. 

Dare I tell my friends what I had last night for dinner?  Will they really care?

Apparently, somebody does...

Slow Motion

"Leap, leap, leap!"  Laura the water aerobics instructor shouted over the echo of the steamy chlorinated room this morning, as I joined the other blobs in the pool leaping out of the water and high fiving each other as we treaded from one end of the pool to the other.

This morning as I splashed past mostly older, mostly obese people in slow motion, images of being in Manhattan - of briskly walking through fast-paced throngs of people at Grand Central Terminal, going past the big library, turning up Sixth Avenue and heading to meet someone, to work, to ultimately collect a well-earned paycheck - played through my head.  Tears collected in my eyes but no one saw them because they got lost in the water of the pool.  Some people said hello as they bumped past me.  One or two greeted me by name.  I'm staying busy.  I'm out and about - around lots of people.  So why do I still feel so alone?

How could my life have turned around so radically?  It's been ten months since I married and moved to Michigan.  I love being David's wife--words can't even describe the love that I have for him and how much I adore taking care of him and being there for him--still Michigan makes me feel trapped in a swimming pool.  Every move I make takes extra effort and may not get me exactly where I want to end up.  I look around and I wonder why everything and everyone here seems to move in slow motion.

I want to run - I want to be surrounded by busy people - I want to walk down streets and not meet anyone's eye.  I want to make appointments with everyone I know - and see friends and family that I miss - and eat healthy food for lunch in a kosher restaurant.  I want Riverside Park and Fairways and Central Park and the South Street Seaport.  Even as I bump into the gaggle of people in the crowded pool, I still miss the bustle of people all in one place. It's crowded but it just doesn't feel the same.  In New York, amid the congestion and constant motion, I feel liberated.  Here, with all the vast highways and open land, I feel trapped.

Will I ever adjust to Michigan?  My friends here must be sick of my whining.  I'm sick of my own whining.  But I really miss New York.

 

 

Fairy Dust and Therapy Rocks

Sunday found me strolling along Main Street in Ann Arbor with Kayla, a friend who was on the hunt for a birthday gift.  We started in front of the Crazy Wisdom bookstore and Tearoom (http://cwonline.squarespace.com/), staring at the displays in the window.  Before we could open the door, a 20-year old guy burst out of the store with a certain glow on his face.

"Great place!" he exclaimed, without waiting for us to even volunteer a question.  "I found the most amazing quartz rock!" he continued, enthusiastically.  "It just jumped out at me, y'know, how it is when a rock jumps."

"I've seem Mexican Jumping Beans, but never a jumping quartz," I said, the New Yorker boiling up to the surface.  I mean - hey, I minored in geology.  Rocks don't jump.  At least not in New York, they don't.

"Do they actually have jumping rocks in this place?"

"It's not like that," he responded sincerely.  "You know when a rock is right for you?  It just speaks to you, Man.  It's like - real, y'know?"

I turned to my friend.  "The rocks here jump AND talk?  We should check it out."

"Totally!" the guy said.  "I just have to get another fifty cents so I can buy mine."

"Radical, dude!" I said.  "Righteous!"

At least I got the jargon down, I figured.

He gave me the thumbs up and danced away as we entered the store.

Narly tomes lined the walls, all about past lives, Buddhist concepts and vegan cooking. 

"Very West Coast," I whispered to Kayla.  "Now where are the talking rocks?"

She laughed and introduced me to an alternative healer, homeopathic (not to be confused with psychopathic) doctor who was browsing the books at the counter.  A little container with a silver spoon sat by the cash register.  A tiny sign on it read, "Fairy Dust."

"What are the healing properties of Fairy Dust?" I asked the Homeopath.  He launched into a semi-serious explanation of what Fairy Dust can heal - and how it works. 

Either these people are nuts or they don't take themselves too seriously.

At a store next door, Kayla pointed, "They have a special door for fairies."

"That is just SO politically incorrect!"

She shook her head and pointed out a teeny, tiny little door built into the front window.  "Not what you're thinking - FAIRIES - real fairies - If you look inside, you can see them," she said.  Yep, they were there - for anyone who was 12" high or who had really good knees and could crouch that low.

"Cute."

At another store across the street, she found the birthday gift she was looking for, a beaded jewelry case.  It was one of the few items in the store that wasn't either fossilized or geologic.  There were ancient crocodile skulls, sharks teeth, geodes and hundreds of rocks for sale.  What is it with selling rocks?  Again, it offended my New York common sense.  Why would anyone pay to purchase something they could pick up along the shore of the Huron River?  One display read, "Therapy Rocks."

I've been having a difficult time lately, so I decided to see if they really work.  Would they jump, walk, talk?  The rocks in Ann Arbor must have mystical properties.  I held the rock close to me.  "You see, my problems probably began with abandonment issues when my parents left me with my aunt and uncle when my brother was born..." I told the rock. Not a word.

"OK, I'm feeling weird talking to you in the middle of the store.  This doesn't seem very private," I confided, suddenly feeling self-conscious.  The rock remained expressionless.

"I really don't think you're very good at what you do - and NO, I am not sublimating my anger onto you, believe me.  You are not a good therapist.  You didn't even ask me how it makes me FEEL!"

And then it occurred to me.  A therapy rock only works when you THROW it at the object of your anger or chagrin!  NOW, I get it. And I figured I'd better get out of the store before I tested my therapy rock theory.  We left.

What can I say?  Ann Arbor rocks!

 

 

Alone Again...(not so) Naturally

I've been married and living  in Michigan for many months now and it didn't take me long at all to get back into the swing of being one part of a couple.  I've always enjoyed being a wife - having someone to love, cherish and take care of - and having someone who does the same for me.  It's special - and I realize how lucky I am to have found a partner who is so easy to get along with - and who appreciates everything that I bring to the table.

But here I am, getting ready for the Sabbath - and he is gone.  Nothing dramatic.  He took his son skiing for the weekend - up north to some place that he says one day he will show me. He says it's stunningly beautiful up there.  To me, stunningly beautiful describes our lake home - and I'm happy with my occasional jaunts back to New York to fill in the gaps.  With his time at a premium, I'm happy to make New York my travel destination.  Whatever may be "up north" is definitely not on my "must do on a rare and spare weekend" punch list.

I realize that I'm not used to being alone.  Even back in Scarsdale, I managed to program myself so I was entertaining away the long and single weekends.  That kept my mind off of my solitude.  My daughter used to lecture me - "You need to learn to ENJOY being alone!"

What is there to enjoy about loneliness?  She told me that she enjoyed her walks by herself - it cleared her head.  I just find being alone depressing and boring.  And it's even more so when I'm in a place that I don't yet consider "home."

So, I've got some people coming over - and I'm doing what I enjoy doing - cooking up a storm during the snowstorm.  And looking forward to when he comes home and tells me all about what "up north" was like.  But in the meantime - my task for now is to try and learn to like loneliness.

The Thaw: Letting Go of the Past

I'm not sure which is greyer today - the lake or the sky.  Either way, the first thaw of winter has begun.  Last week the lake was a field of snow, except for the tracks that David & I made on our skis, some random snow angels and the trail of one brave (or psychotic) snowmobile - that ventured over the ice.  Today it's a mass of puddles, water from above and below merging to reclaim the lake.  The thaw has begun.  The snow is receding from my deck, and the packed tundra that used to be on the drive outside our house has reduced to a single layer of ice with a veneer of water across the surface.

It's warm outside - in the thirties and forties for the first time in weeks.  Birds are emerging from wherever they have been hiding their little red feathered heads and flitting about, tweeting. Yesterday the sun came out and it felt like rebirth.  Today a warm wind makes even this grey day pleasant.

This morning I went across the street to the garage that is housing all the contents of my former home.  Furniture, pots, pans, electronics, photographs, clothes that used to fit but don't anymore.  My past is all packed up.  I poked through the boxes, looking for random items.  It's been so long since I've been through my "stuff" - I've been too busy scuttling about in the present, it seems.

People in Michigan assure me that the thaw is probably a temporary respite.  At some point the temperature will drop again and the lake will freeze up for at least one more winter blast - and hopefully one more cross country ski trip along the shore of the lake.  I don't know if I should hope that this is the end of winter - the groundhog has spoken and its over at last.  Soon the ice huts will disappear, the docks will be rebuilt, the boats will be back on the lake and the excitement of almost-summer will be upon us.  Or if I should look forward to one more deep freeze - one more silent glide along the pristine, frozen, snow-coated lake, with no one but David and the swans in sight.  Letting go of the past is never easy - even when it's a cold one.

Detroit: The Angry City

I know - here I go, ragging once again on the place I now call home, however, this time it isn't all me!  According to a recent ranking in Men's Health magazine, Detroit is the angriest city in the entire U.S.A.

Detroit: The Angriest of All

The ranking, which considers the number of aggravated assaults per capita, the number of people with high blood pressure, the amount of time spent in traffic during rush hour, and the number of anger management specialists per capita - says Detroit wins the coveted title!

Let's look at this analytically...

Detroit - and it's suburbs - were developed by moguls from the automobile industry.  The powers that created southern Michigan decided there is to be no public transportation, except for bus systems - that are few and far between.  That accounts for the amount of time spent in traffic.  Thanks to the influence of Big Auto, there IS no alternative.  That was a planned move by the people who made cars.  They made highways - lots of them - and the speed limits are high, but there is no rail system to speak of.  And the distances are vast.  It's freezing for at least one quarter of the year (today it's minus 15 in my neck of the woods) - and there is ice on the road and throughout the suburbs.  Even the city isn't situated for walkers.  You must drive to stores, to malls, to parks.  Everything is an auto excursion.  Naturally, people gain weight.

Then the orient begins making cars, unions prevailed here in Detroit, and the auto industry went big fat belly up. People lost their jobs.  Combine the weight gain (which I call The Michigan 40) with the anxiety about losing jobs - and you get high blood pressure.  No jobs also means the crime rate goes up.  Add in the fact that it's OK to own and travel with guns in Michigan, add in the stress of the jobless factor and is it no surprise that we lead in aggravated assaults.

I believe there is a solution.  Build a rail system that goes from Detroit to its suburbs.  Bring jobs back to Detroit.  Give workers new hope.  And rebuild the surrounding towns and cities so people can easily access places without using the damn cars!  I guess I'm just one of those angry Michiginars!

Southern Michigan is a beautiful place and I'll bet Detroit could be a thriving Metropolis with lots of happy people.  All you need is a SUBWAY!

 

Imported from Detroit (no thanks!)

The word is out on the Superbowl commercials - and one of the big winners (besides the House promo that spoofed the Mean Joe Green coke ad) - was Eminem's "Imported from Detroit" spot for Chrysler.

"What does this city know about luxury?" the rapper asks. 

But the question doesn't get answered. 

"We're from America - but this isn't New York City," he goes on to say.  No kidding? No subway.  No Metro-North.  No going there after dark.  No luxury condos, clubs and restaurants open to bejeweled, fur-coated patrons all night long.  No, Detroit is NO New York City.

I'm all for pride - but I just don't get what Detroit--particularly downtown Detroit--has to be proud about.  Set aside the fact that it is unsafe and deemed uninhabitable by most of its residents that have flown to the surrounding suburbs - but the assertion that a car is tough - or built by people "made of steel" as the commercial says- does not in this New Yorker's mind equate to LUXURY.

Michigan - Detroit included - has many things going for it.  Lots of beautiful lakes, for example.  Wildlife and cornfields.  Amazing produce.  But LUXURY?  No, this is not luxury.  Poofy parkas, big ugly snow boots, driving EVERYWHERE because there ARE no alternatives, McMansions in the burbs, cottages on the lakes - THAT'S what I've found since I moved from New York.

Sorry, Eminem - Detroit is about as luxurious as that other product you plug - Lipton Brisk!  It ain't Moet...

The New Yorker has spoken!

 

view the spot:   

Superbowl - Shmuperbowl

What is all this hoopla about a dumb game?  I may get run out of Michigan by a bunch of guys in hunting jackets, but I officially am outing myself as someone who could care less about football.

Where in New York, it is perfectly OK to get your nails done, go to a movie and just ignore the fact that the nation is glued to the television set while eating chips and digging into hogies or "Coneys" or whatever the junk food of the region is called, in Michigan, ignoring football - even high school football - is a sacrilege.  I just don't get it.

Although I admit, I've watched the Superbowl in the past for the cool commercials, there is too much time in between the commercials - time I have to spend tolerating the view of a bunch of big, padded guys running into each other while circles and other scribbles appear on the screen and a clock counts down.  Men have tried to explain this game to me.  But it makes no sense.  There are no innings like baseball.  It's called "football" but the ball seems to be the least important part of the game.  It's the scrambling and the scrimmaging (did I get that one right?) that seems to take center stage.  And the half-time entertainment.

If the game was an interesting one to begin with, like baseball - you wouldn't NEED cool commercials and half-time entertainment to keep your audience tuned in - now WOULD you?

But the good news is this - after I tolerate the Superbowl - there will be a special episode of Glee!  Now, if I don't get my Michigan license revoked by the angry beer guzzling, deer hunting, cheerleading mob, it may be worth it to endure the stupid game!

Adjustments

I'm walking through a busy mall in a place where no one speaks my language.  Suddenly I realize that I no longer have my suitcase.  Then I notice that I've lost my pocketbook too.  I rush back past a moving walkway - where people are slowly moving in the other direction.  I feel like I'm going against the tide.  At the end of the walkway, I see some people with my empty handbag in hand, it's contents spread over the floor - as if for sale.  "That's MINE!" I tell them - but my wallet with its credit cards and ID documents are gone! Then I woke up.

Two nights later I dream again.  I'm moving.  My parents have only two boxes to lend me, but I don't want to take their last two boxes.  This means I have to selectively go through all my "stuff" and discard what cannot fit into my few suitcases.  I feel pressured to make my decisions quickly.  The moving people are coming to collect my stuff.  I'm afraid it all won't fit into the truck.  I see things that I loved, that I'm attached to - that I'm forced to leave behind.  What will happen to it?  What if there is something I'm forgetting that I can't replace - artwork, memories - intangible items that mean so much to me.  They are going to be discarded.  With great difficulty I piece through the "stuff" that represents my life.  And then I woke up.

I've been having dreams for the past few nights.  Dreams of being lost.  Dreams of losing myself and the things that are important to me.  I know enough to know that these dreams represent my innermost feelings.  My feelings of displacement - and forced adjustment. 

While I've had some of the happiest days of my life with my wonderful husband - who couldn't be more "made for me" had he been made to order, the adjustment to this new place with its own set of social mores, values and people, has been a tough one.  I feel like the foundation has been shaken from beneath me - and like the things that I hold important - except for the love and acceptance I feel from my husband - are meaningless here.  The currency has changed.  My identity is worth naught.

Yesterday David & I went skiing.  It was only my second time on skies and we went about a mile out on the frozen lake.  We emerged from one lake and started across land to another.  The hills were challenging and coming down was scary.  Even though I had skied about a mile, I didn't know how to negotiate the hill.  I fell.  And getting up was really challenging - with skies on my feet and sprawled out on the ice.  With David's help, I managed to get up - and to get back down another hill onto the first lake. That one was not a dream.  And I had a good time even though I fell.

Maybe things will be alright.