The End of Shame Part 3 – Bad Dead Dad

Most of the people who know me have no idea that my father died last November. The reason they don’t know is because I don’t mention it, and the reason I don’t mention it is that I expect my reaction will disappoint them. The strongest emotion I felt in the days following his death was relief. No remorse. No sadness. No joy - just this gently dawning sense of peace within myself. As I told Dan, I was just so glad to know that I really didn’t have to see him again.

As I have mentioned before, my father was a mean, paranoid, misogynistic, drunk gambler. He was cruel and at times violent toward his children. I know this description fits a lot of dads – I’m not trying to say that mine was the worst. I’m just saying that he was a dick of a person. Especially as he aged and allowed his body to be eaten up by various addictions, poor diet, lethargy and depression, he really had no charms, other than an impressively acidic sarcasm that I seem to have inherited to some degree. That quality on its own isn’t too endearing. And, seeing as he had never shown me any tenderness or affection or concern for my well-being, I eventually decided that I didn’t owe him any daughterly loyalty.

Several years ago, I secretly encouraged my mother to leave my father and the last time I saw him was the day I helped her move out of the house where I was raised. He and I didn’t speak much that day. He made a few attempts to contact me over the next two years, including once when he showed up at my workplace unannounced (thankfully, I wasn’t there). These half-hearted attempts to reconcile an empty relationship really pissed me off. I was also pissed at the rest of my family for pretending to see some secret, redeeming greatness in him, just like the proverbial emperor’s new clothes. So, I stopped talking to the lot of them for a while.

After the surprise visit at my job, I didn’t hear anything from or about my father for well over a year. Then, about three years ago, a flurry of in-family group emails informed me that he had disappeared from his apartment in Nevada. He was missing for several days before my mother tracked him down in a Vegas hospital. He had suffered brain damage when he drunkenly fell and hit his head at a casino. After a couple of decades of steadily deteriorating health, including a stroke, two heart attacks, and quadruple bypass surgery, he had finally drunk himself into a nursing home.

That time he went missing was a turning point for me. I happened to be really unhappy then and had been drinking a ton all summer. Hearing about my father’s disappearance made me slow down and sober up. His reappearance as a vegetable was an even bigger eye-opener. But the unexpected happy part was that I also had the relief of knowing he was physically incapable of popping up in my world. And that was about the time I stopped hating my father so much.

A lot of people don’t understand that’s the best part of estranging yourself from someone you despise – you don’t have to hate them anymore. I don’t enjoy hating anyone, walking around with that shit in my soul. I’d rather let it go. Turns out, letting go is a lot easier when your foe is gone.

When my father’s life ended, he left behind a pretty meager version of himself. Even I can admit that he once cast a much brighter light – never from his heart, but definitely from his brain. I can’t see that his death was so bad for anyone, even himself. Given that, and my void of love for the man, I find myself occasionally referring to his death quite nonchalantly. And you know what? People can’t handle that shit. I have had the following interaction twice this summer: someone asks me, “Hey Tara, where does your father live?” and I casually respond, “He’s dead”. Then that person says, “What? Huh?” so I repeat, a bit louder, “He’s dead”. But then, that person continues to pretend they can’t hear me until I say, in a soft tone, “He passed away” and they say, “Oh, I’m so sorry!” and I say, “Thank you” or “It’s okay” or some other thing that will make them feel more comfortable about my bad dad’s death. I guess that, because I’m generally a pretty nice person, they don’t want to think of me as being so callous. What they don’t know is that the day I decided I wanted my father out of my life was the day I started to really live.

Ode to Freddy

Freddy, please come back. I need you to cut my hair.

I met my favorite hairdresser in March of 2002. I'll call him Freddy. He was the guy who happened to catch me when I walked into the salon on Main Street in Ann Arbor. I don't know if I had ever been to a salon before. After years of scoring free cuts from ambitious friends with varying levels of skill, and a few trips to some very confused barbers, I was ready for a real lady's coif. This was because I was going to a party that evening where I was sure to run into a much-mourned and recent ex. My desire to look fabulous actually trumped both my frugality and fear of feminine grooming combined.

You see, I never learned how to do hair or makeup, beyond the basic application of lipstick to mouth or elastic band to ponytail. For the most part, I never really cared to learn. I think I had always feared the salon because I anticipated that my life would temporarily become a montage makeover scene from a 1980's teen comedy flick and then I would be responsible for blow-drying, styling, spraying or rubbing mousse into some unwanted monster on top of my head. I wanted to look good, but not at the price of having to do a lot of extra stuff in front of a mirror. I told Freddy right off the bat, "I don't do anything with my hair, ever" and asked for a no-maintenance bob. He simply nodded and got to work.

I think the first thing that struck me about Freddy was that he didn't seem to be gay. It didn't matter, but it was curious. I mean, he was definitely excited about hair, particularly his own rockabilly pompadour. But aside from that, I didn't get much of a gay vibe from him. When he started telling me about his fiancée (who had a woman's name), my suspicion was confirmed. Half a second later, he said, "Yeah, I know. I'm a hairdresser and I'm not gay. How weird is that?" After mocking himself, he moved on to me. "I think I'm going to give you one of those really severe bobs, the kind where it's super short and buzzed in the back and really long up front. You can be like one of those chicks in high school who listened to The Smiths a little too much". I'm sure he had already figured out that I was that chick in high school (minus the severe bob).

That was the best thing about Freddy. He was hilarious. I think he sensed that I was uncomfortable with the feminine grooming ritual, so he distracted me with a lot of funny stories and smart-ass observations about pop culture. Or maybe he just liked that I cracked up at all of his jokes. Anyway, I actually enjoyed my visits to him because he entertained me. He had good taste in music and movies and would ask me what was happening at the theater where I worked. He liked to talk about how fucked up his family was and we would compare notes on dysfunctional upbringings. It was so much fun. Getting an awesome haircut at the end of the half hour seemed like a special and unrelated bonus.

And the haircuts were awesome, exactly what I wanted. I didn't need to do a thing to make it look good and they always grew out really nicely. That last part was the key, since I am incredibly lazy about getting my hair cut. Sometimes I would run into him on the street and I could tell from his curt greeting that he thought I was cheating on him with some other hairdresser, simply because he hadn't seen me in ages. Then he would catch a glimpse of my split ends, roll his eyes and say "I'll see you soon". He was very proud of his work.

One time I ran into him when I was on a date with a guy I'll call Lucas. Lucas was an ex-Marine who was really into being masculine. I think he expected to frighten me with his motorcycle and his cigars and his tattooed buddies, but I just thought of him as a maven of manly pastimes, which is just a fancy way of saying that he was a big nerd. Anyway, Lucas took me to the home of one of his muscleman pals for a televised boxing match. It was a sausage fest. There was a lot of smoking and cursing and one dude showed up with his bull dog. Needless to say, I was the only girl, that is, until Freddy arrived with his fiancée (Freddy's best friend happened to be our host). His initial shock in seeing me there was surpassed only by his bitterness in not having seen me in his chair for at least nine months. I kept saying, "I know, I know, it looks terrible!" He groaned and said, "Come on, let me see it". I pulled out my hair band and let my shaggy mane fall to my shoulders. He inspected my locks, grinning smugly and saying, "Actually, it still looks pretty awesome". Lucas stood by, looking very confused. I think I successfully upturned his grand show of pugilism and pit bulls.

When I found myself in Freddy's chair a week later, he grumbled, "How do you know that guy Lucas, anyway?" I didn't need for Freddy to point out that Lucas wasn't the right guy for me, as I had already sensed it myself. But, I was sort of touched by his subtle concern (the funny thing is that I think he and Lucas later became good friends). In fact, I feel like Freddy often, inadvertently shined a light on the worst aspect of whatever dumb relationship I was in at the time. About a year later, I was telling him about another dude I was dating, who I'll call Jeff Howard. He merely joked, "Oh, he's one of those 'last name is a first name' guys". I picked up his lead and started joking about the number of serial killers who have first name last names, and then said, "Yeah, for all I know, he is a serial killer! I hardly ever see him!" I suddenly realized, while Freddy was rinsing my hair, that although I had been dating Jeff for months, I really didn't know anything about him. I broke up with him shortly thereafter.

My next visit with Freddy would be my last. I was about to move to Detroit and wanted one last cut before I left town. I remember sitting in that salon on State Street (by that time, he had moved to the younger hipster salon by the UM campus) assuring him that I would be faithful to his service even though I was moving. Actually, I didn’t get my hair cut once while I was living in Detroit. Poverty and laziness conspired with the sense of security that comes from looking like a shaggy weirdo in the gritty city (I liked to think of my dressed-down style as “crackhead repellant”). But when I got a job in Ann Arbor, and moved to Ypsi, and was ready to return to a better groomed version of myself, I gleefully galloped down to State Street to make an appointment on an early autumn day.

The hipster receptionist’s eyes were heavy with the suggestion of juicy gossip when she drawled, “Freddy doesn’t work here anymore,” but she wasn’t willing to give me the full story behind his departure. She merely implied that a bridge had been burned. “I don’t know… I mean, I really don’t know where he is,” she paused for the final blow. “I don’t even have his cell phone number”.

And just like that, I lost my hairdresser. I made an appointment with another stylist and then cancelled it. I tried to find Freddy, in vain. A couple months later, I gave up and scored a free haircut from a friend. And in the sticky heat of last week, I finally booked an appointment at the salon on Main Street, hoping that I might strike gold twice. There, I met a boisterous chatterbox who I’ll call Trudy. Trudy was clearly appalled by my lack of maintenance. Again, I began by saying, “I really don’t do anything with my hair,” but before I could tell her exactly how I wanted my bangs cut, she was off and running with her scheme. “Sideswept bangs!... they’re all the rage!... after all, who wants short bangs right away?.. you can always cut more later, but you can’t put back what’s gone… and don’t worry, I’ll show you exactly what you need to do at home to make it look AMAZING!!!”

Well, my 1980’s teen movie montage nightmare came to life, but it wasn’t that bad. Learning is a lot more interesting to me than it used to be. It was kind of nice to finally get a lesson in hair care. The 25 year old me would have been mortified by the experience, especially when Trudy cooed, “Oh my god! It’s going to be so fun for you to have an actual hairstyle instead of just long hair hanging!!”

Before I went to that appointment, I told Dan that I felt like a despondent parent who had finally given up on recovering their kidnapped child. I thought that going to Trudy would make me feel better, and it did in the sense that I got a really nice hair cut. She did a great job, but I won’t be going back. It wasn’t her pushiness that deterred me as much as the fact that she didn’t listen to a thing I said, and worse than that, she didn’t make me laugh even once. The experience made me miss old Freddy even more. I walked away from the salon with a lighter head, but my heart was a bit sunken with melancholy – not unlike a high school girl who listens to The Smiths a bit too much.

The End of Shame, Part 2 - Sex on the First Date

Sex on the first date gets a bad rap. There's this popular notion that it somehow cheapens the relationship that follows, that, in fact, no very good relationship can evolve from such an impulsive act of intimacy. I've even heard the claim (from various people and on different occasions) that one should wait until third 3rd date to consummate. Or maybe I just know a lot of square people. In any case, I just want to say that I think this taboo is based on a very dumb and illogical assumption- that mutual sexual pleasure is not the most important component of a healthy relationship. Now, I grant that sexual compatibility alone does not make a great match. But the sting that comes from discovering you have nothing in common with your mate beside your desire to get it on doesn't suck as much as the dull ache of sexual incompatibility, especially when he or she had seemed to be your perfect soul mate on those chaste dates 1 and 2. In such a case, chaste dates waste time.

I'm not saying that people should always have sex on the first date - I mean, certainly not if it’s a bad date or even if you like the person but you just don't feel comfortable. I just think it’s silly for two eager and willing people to hold off on the deed just because of some retarded convention. Yeah, there's the risk of making yourself more vulnerable to heartache, like when you really like the person that you're sleeping with, but that person is only interested in sex. I've been in that situation and it was a little bitter and painful in the end. But I don't have any regrets. It was fun while it lasted and I definitely don't think that the situation would have been much different if I had waited longer to have sex. It wouldn't have made that person more interested in a real relationship.

On the other hand, imagine the convenience of discovering that your favorite bedmate is also the person you want to marry! It can happen. Ultimately, I suppose that my marriage will best test my belief that sex on the first date can be the foundation of a very strong bond. Not only did Dan and I have sex within hours of our initial dinner plan, we spent most of the following four days together. We agreed to meet on a Thursday evening for sushi and stayed up until the wee hours in my apartment. I called in sick to work on Friday and we spent most of that day lying in bed, naked, either having sex or watching Beavis and Butthead dvds, with occasional breaks for food. On Saturday morning, Dan drove back to Detroit where I met him that evening for an outdoor concert, after which we went back to his apartment and had more sex until his weird roommate got home. Then we went to Union Street and split the fish and chips and laughed hysterically at each other's jokes. The waiter gave us free pie, which put us in an even better mood. Even better than that, we found that the weird roommate had left the apartment again, so we took advantage of our privacy. Dan's friend Jorge (pronounced "George") from Georgia randomly drove into town at 6am on Sunday morning, which interrupted our activity, but that was okay. We all got breakfast and then Dan dropped me off in Ann Arbor and we were separated again, but only until he picked me up on Monday afternoon. Then we went to another outdoor concert and later had more sex. But before that latter part, we met up with my old friend Meredith, who was very impressed by Dan and assumed that we had been dating for months. It was actually our 3rd date, but then so much had happened. Between Thursday and Tuesday, Dan and I had essentially decided that I would move into his Detroit apartment at the end of the summer, when the weird roommate was expected to leave for good. We also decided that we would eventually get married.

Well, the weird roommate did leave and I moved in as planned. The rest is blog history. Most of my peers thought at the time (and maybe still believe now) that those actions were insane, or at least highly irrational. I don’t regret the outcome and furthermore, I contend that, aside from our wedding weekend, those first few days were the most fun I've ever had in my life. And even if our life together hasn’t always been easy, I’ve never felt disillusioned or unhappy about the big choices we made. All told, I guess that sex on the first date is a pretty mild impulse compared to all of the other decisions I made about Dan. That’s just another reason why I find this “no sex” rule so arbitrary and inane.

The End of Shame, Part 1 - Body Fat

A friend of mine recently observed, "I love bellies... I love bellies except my own". I think the saddest part of this statement is how well I relate to it. I do love bellies. I love Buddha's belly. I love the shape of that faceless guy from The Big Lebowski opening credit montage - you know him only from the profile of his enormous gut, which he wags victoriously after bowling a strike. My favorite Detroit tummy belongs to Tigers' third base coach Gene Lamont. His pot o' plenty is like a joyous beacon, congratulating a lucky slugger as he makes his way home.

All these big bellies always make me smile. So why do I feel so sad when I glance down upon my abundant abdomen?

It's funny that I've only mentioned men's tubby stomachs, but maybe that's because it's so rare for a woman to display her paunch as prominently. It's tough for us thick ladies to pass as attractive in this society, but I don't think it's much easier for guys to feel good about their girth. I also have to acknowledge that this issue seems far less troublesome to black people, who tend to wear their weight with a lot more pride. Ultimately, I think that self-respect is the key to becoming comely. I generally find miserable people unattractive, so if someone is ashamed of their shape, it follows that they won't look pretty to the rest of us. On the flip side, a happy and confident fatty can be quite dashing. Take it from me - I'm fatter than I've ever been and since I got married a month ago, I've been catching more admiring glances than in the whole rest of my life put together!

So, in the spirit of taking pride in my lipids, I have started referring to my body fat as ranch dressing. Now, as much as I love the taste of ranch dressing, it isn't my favorite form of fat. Cheese is, by far, the winner, but when I think of cheese in the context of a woman's body, I think of a yeast infection. That's not very sexy. Rather, I think that ranch dressing is the most feminine of fats. For one thing, we women love to eat it. Even the most health-conscious, Diet Coke-drinking, only-salad-for-lunch ladies among us eat ranch dressing, though they may always ask for it on the side. Ranch dressing is also quite pretty, with it's thick, buttermilky texture and cheerful flecks of green herbs and black pepper. I also like that it is fluid, that it doesn't coagulate like once-warm butter. I guess I like to think that my body fat is similarly fluid, that I can lose some and gain some, that I can squeeze in my jeans or (if I should ever be so adventurous!) up into a girdle. But mostly, I get excited when I imagine these rolls on my stomach as little sacs of ranchy goodness, because it makes my mouth water, just thinking about that exquisite, tangy flavor.

If I were a sculptor, I would make a ceramic figure on the scale of my twenty-two year old body, from when I was so skinny and frail. Then I would wrap it's belly and thighs and ass with clear glass to make it look like the shape of my thirty-one year old body and I would fill those glass voids with - you guessed it - ranch dressing. Then I'd place my awesome dressing decanter on the dinner table with a huge batch of extra greasy, double deep-fried potatoes and invite all my friends to eat. They could bring their own edible body fat self portraits, too. It would be our potluck celebration of our potbellies, and our true selves.

Cat Sigh

It was another dreamy spring morning when I stepped out of my reverie and onto the no. 3 bus out of Ypsilanti. I had come to count on the 3 being the least sketchy ride to Ann Arbor, but I had a weird feeling when I greeted the driver. As I turned the corner and headed toward an empty rows of seats, I noticed a couple of teenage girls sprawled out on one of the sideways benches at the front. They pointed at me and laughed as I passed them and I immediately became flustered and self-conscious. Was there something on my face? Was my belly sticking out from my sweater? When I sat down, I quickly buried my face in a novel and pretended to not notice them noticing me. Of course, I was hyper-aware of their ridicule, which they heaped on every new passenger who boarded after me. When another woman walked by, they snorted and chortled and one of them muttered, "We should have tripped her!" For a moment, I was calmer. There wasn't anything wrong with me. These were just a couple of catty bitches... on a mission.

I knew the situation would escalate and since I was the nearest passenger, I would inevitably become a target. The bigger of the two girls - clearly the alpha bitch - turned to me and said, "Excuse me, don't you ever get out in the sun?"

"Well, that's a very rude question." I squinted my eyes as I peered into her smooth, womanly face. "How old are you?"

"Sixteen".

I gave her a dubious look and returned to my book. She tried to talk to me again, but I ignored her. I hoped that I wouldn't have to ignore them for long. Fortunately, their next victim arrived a minute later. A young man stepped on the bus and as he passed the jailbait duo, one of the girls tripped him and laughed. He told them they had no respect and headed to the back of the bus. They were on him in two seconds. Alpha bitch screamed, "You can't talk that way to us, faggot! Faggot!" She had really perfected the rage behind that slur, really enunciated the hell out of it. What a gutteral term- so fittingly mouthed by such a trashy young woman.

I won't lie. I took part in similar dumb pranks when I was a teenage girl. I remember when Megan Rossi and I were thirteen, we went to Fairlane mall and spent a whole afternoon riding the elevator at Hudson's, getting into fake fights in front of complete strangers. We thought it was really hilarious to make other people feel uncomfortable. It's the one power we ladies have had in all these centuries of male supremacy. We may not get paid what we deserve and we may be considered nothing more than baby-birthing chattle, but all of us are well versed in methods of emotional torture. All of us, at one time or another, flex that muscle, so I understand the thrill that comes with these sort of adolescent capers.

I'd like to think I outgrew that impulse. I don't think Megan ever did, but by age sixteen she was far more adept at her craft than the girls on the no. 3 bus. I mean, at sixteen, shouldn't they be sleeping with each other's boyfriends or something? Shit, Megan was slashing guys' tires by then. These pointing, laughing and tripping antics are diaper tactics compared to what most girls their age would do for some mean-spirited fun.

But the bus bitches were at least as persistent as they were immature. They ragged on that guy for a good five minutes. I don't know where the driver's mind was during all this activity. Eventually, a couple moved from the back of the bus to the front and apha bitch squealed, "Ooh, they're gonna' tell the driver!" but they didn't. She and her pal must have been disappointed, because they got off at the next stop.

And then, at that very stop, two incredibly aggressive, loud, mentally retarded men boarded. They sat exactly where those girls had been sitting and just like their predecessors, they said rude things to people who walked past them. And just like everyone (except "faggot" man) who had to deal with those mean girls, we ignored them, because that's what you do with retarded people who say mean things. Conventional knowledge tells us that it isn't their fault that they're assholes. They can't help it.

I remember in eighth grade catechism, Mr. St. John told our class that "retards are the only people who are guaranteed to get into heaven, because they don't know the difference between right and wrong." This was the definitive moment when I realized that Catholicism (religion in general, really) is a crock of shit. But, let's say we follow that logic for a moment. Are ghetto teenage girls any more accountable for their sins? Can these girls help being as awful as they are? Who could love them? Probably no one does. And I even considered mentioning that to them, along with some unsolicited advice about going to school, as that would probably be their one and only shot at a future.

It seems that I haven't completely outgrown the impulse, after all.

A Late Blooming Notion

Ever since I turned thirty, I keep experiencing these striking moments of self-awareness. A random example: the whole time I was growing up in Dearborn, there was this kid who lived around the corner, who I’ll call Chris Murphy. We were the same age and went to the same schools from Kindergarten through Fordson high. Other than in the third grade, when we were apt to pal around in class because we sat in the same block of desks, we were never really friends. He was just a guy who hung in the periphery of my girlhood from way before I had any interest in being around boys. I was also very shy, and tried my best to be invisible.

Being introverted, bespectacled and an aggressively good student, I was naturally considered a giant nerd. Junior high was, of course, a social nightmare, but I was also dealing with an explosive and depressing home life as well as the realization that Megan Rossi, my best (and only) friend from age five onward had fully blossomed into a catty and manipulative bitch. I was pretty hardened by the end of eighth grade, as the burn of being called a “dork” by my classmates was pretty mild in comparison to the rest of my life. I consciously decided to embrace my awkwardness and just be myself, because it seemed like that was the only way I was ever going to have fun. I began wearing strange and brightly colored clothes and started responding sarcastically to the more popular kids who picked on me. I was transforming from a nerd to a “weird” kid.

Meanwhile, Chris Murphy was blazing a different path of rebellion. He was becoming a “bad” kid, the kind who sometimes smoked cigarettes and probably shoplifted at Kmart. He and some of the other neighborhood hoodlums created a “gang” called the PFC, which was CFP (Cash Flow Posse) backwards and stood for Pimp-Fucking Crew. Well, I guess it was supposed to be Pimp, Fucking, Crew, but it isn’t quite as funny that way. Anyway, the PFC started tagging the new plastic slides and swing sets down at Geer Park, and when they got bored with that, they would beat up on little kids, or at least one little kid - my eight-year-old brother.

On two or three occasions, my little brother came home from the playground in tears because a bunch of scary teenage boys had shoved him around. This ended as soon as my 6’5” older brother paid a visit to the PFC. Incensed by the injustice of it all, I remained furious about those incidents. My fury erupted one day when Chris cornered me at my locker. I think he called me an ugly loser, or something like that. I said, “At least I don’t pick on little kids who are half my size,” or something to that effect, but what I remember most is what happened next; he shoved me, which I found very startling, especially when the palm of his left hand, en route to my right shoulder, landed exactly on my boob. My face turned red and he scurried past me. I ran to my Life Science class and felt distracted and weird for the rest of the hour. It was a classic uncomfortable moment in the age of puberty.

Starting high school that fall was like starting a new life. Life at home was less rocky and I’d figured out that if I didn’t make any noise, I could do whatever I wanted without my parents noticing. Mrs. Rossi sent her daughter to the whiter school across town and Megan, perhaps fearing her “new kid” status, took notice that I was her only remaining friend and stopped being such a bitch to me . I quickly found a new crew of friends at Fordson and toward the end of my freshman year, I started dating Sam, my first boyfriend. Sam was really good at being the weird kid. He wore combat boots and sometimes smoked joints while skipping class. I knew him from his scathing, anti-establishment column in the school paper, but we met in the drama club. Our first date was a They Might Be Giants concert. We were that couple. Other than my being a good four inches taller than him, we were a pretty well-matched pair of outcasts.

About two months into our relationship, Chris Murphy randomly decided to get the old gang together and beat up my new boyfriend. I was so hurt and confused by that sudden reverse in my suddenly happy life as a teenage girl. I was already reeling from the fact that I had a boyfriend, because I honestly didn’t think that would ever happen. I wondered, quite earnestly, why Chris had to come along and fuck it all up. It’s taken another 15 years of dating and relationships for me to figure out that Chris Murphy probably had a crush on me. I don’t know if it began with the Freudian slip of a boob-pushing experience or at Jamie Brown’s seventh birthday party, when one of the other parent drivers bailed and Jamie’s nutty white trash mother shoved me and Chris and Jamie and a bunch of other little kids in the back of her clankety-ass Ford on the way home from Showbiz Pizza and made all the girls sit on the boys’ laps, shrieking, “It’s so romantic!” That ride from Telegraph Road on Chris’s lap was a classic uncomfortable moment in the age of “girls rule, boys drool”.

But who knows, right? I mean, are these memories any realer than dreams, and what does it matter, anyway? After Chris and his buddies stopped threatening my boyfriend, he faded into the periphery. The public school system had tracked us into different spheres and I don’t even remember seeing him around the neighborhood. Yet, if I were to see Chris Murphy today, I could honestly say that he’s known me longer than any of my friends. Beside my mom, who was pretty distracted with other drama at the time, I don’t talk to anyone who knew me before my adolescence. That’s why I get so excited about understanding these rudimentary pieces of my life, because, at least in this situation, I really like this new idea that I wasn’t actually invisible.

Jane Addiction Part 10 - Sense and Sensibility Vol II

Welcome to my 10 week critique of films based on the works of Jane Austen. I will review each installment of PBS's "Masterpiece: The Complete Jane Austen" and also take a look at other adaptations of the same novel. Enjoy!

Note: Masterpiece just finished its two week presentation of the 2008 "Sense and Sensibility" mini-series. This week, I will look at the second half of this series and also examine Rodney Bennet's 1981 mini-series adaptation.

Sense and Sensibility Vol II

Shortly after Willoughby's abrupt departure, Edward Ferrars pays a visit to the Dashwood ladies at Barton Cottage. But, Edward is unexpectedly morose and standoffish. He stays for only a night, leaving Elinor puzzled about his feelings for her.

Barton Park soon sees the arrival of more visitors - Mrs. Jennings’s daughter Charlotte and son-in-law Mr. Palmer, as well as distant cousins Lucy and Ann Steele. Upon meeting the Miss Dashwoods, Lucy tells Elinor in private that she has longed to meet her, as Edward Ferrars has spoken so fondly of her. Elinor is surprised that Lucy and Edward are acquainted, but is completely stunned when Lucy confides that she has been secretly engaged to Edward for four years. Though heartbroken, Elinor promises to keep Lucy's secret safe.

Mrs. Jennings announces her upcoming trip to London and invites Elinor and Marianne to accompany her. Though Elinor is hesitant, Marianne jumps at this chance to reunite with Willoughby. Mrs. Dashwood gives her blessing and her daughters soon depart.

Once they arrive in London, Marianne writes to Willoughby and waits impatiently for his visit. When their first gentleman caller happens to be Colonel Brandon, she storms out of the room, frustrated and disappointed. A dismal Brandon then asks Elinor if Marianne is engaged to Willoughby and though she cannot verify it, she admits to the expectation. Brandon mysteriously comments that he wishes Marianne well and hopes that Willoughby "will endeavor to deserve her".

The Miss Steeles come to London with the Palmers. John Dashwood and Fanny are in town, too. Along with Colonel Brandon and the Miss Dashwoods, they all gather at a neighborhood ball. Marianne finally spots the elusive Willoughby there and greets him with great warmth. He is inexplicably frigid and barely shakes her hand before returning to his throng of admiring women. Brandon and Elinor escort a stupefied Marianne back to Mrs. Jennings’s place, but cannot convince her to go to bed before she has written to Willoughby again. His response arrives in the morning. In it, he curtly apologizes for having unintentionally misled her but makes it clear that his interests lie elsewhere. Marianne then learns that he is engaged to another woman.

News of Willoughby's cruel gesture travels around London. Colonel Brandon consoles Elinor by telling her of the terrible business that brought him to town; his fifteen-year-old ward Eliza (the daughter of his once lost love) had become pregnant with the child of a ruthless and irresponsible cad, and that cad was Willoughby. Elinor shares the story with her sister. Though Marianne is at last assured of Willoughby's villainy, it is no balm for her shattered heart.

In the following days, John and Fanny invite Elinor and Marianne to a gathering at their London apartment, along with the Miss Steeles. Fanny flaunts her disrespect for her sisters-in-law by fawning over Lucy and Ann, even inviting the Steeles to stay at their home. Lucy grows confident that Fanny and Mrs. Ferrars will approve of her engagement to Edward once it is revealed, but Elinor is incredulous, knowing that Lucy is too poor for their high standards.

During one of Lucy’s visits to Elinor, Edward makes a surprise appearance. Before he sees Lucy in the room, he tells Elinor that he must discuss something important with her. As he is about to open his heart, Elinor introduces him to Lucy. Edward is clearly discombobulated and barely says a word before excusing himself. Lucy asks him to escort her to his sister’s home and Elinor sadly watches them walk out the door together.

In short time, Ann Steele unwittingly reveals Edward and Lucy’s engagement to Fanny and Mrs. Ferrars. Mrs. Ferrars furiously insists that Edward rescind his proposal to Lucy, but he refuses to go back on his word. Fanny throws Edward and the Miss Steeles out of her home and Mrs. Ferrars transfers his inheritance to his younger brother, Robert. With no income, Edward and Lucy’s future together appears bleaker than ever.

Colonel Brandon is sympathetic to Edward’s situation and decides to offer him a living as the minister of his estate’s chapel. Since Brandon doesn’t know Edward well, he asks Elinor to deliver the “good” news. She does so with a heavy heart and a miserable Edward accepts the offer.

The Palmers decide to go back to their home in Cleveland and invite the Colonel and the Miss Dashwoods to come with them. During the visit, Marianne takes a long walk in the rain. She is already weak from depression and becomes terribly ill. Elinor asks Brandon to fetch their mother, because she fears that Marianne may not survive. After many hours of Elinor’s diligent nursing, Marianne recovers, even before Mrs. Dashwood arrives.

As Elinor rejoices in Marianne’s revival, a servant tells her of a gentleman caller, who is none other than Willoughby. He confesses to Elinor all of his wrongdoings and admits that when he first met Marianne, he only wanted to seduce her. But he did fall in love and would have married her if he hadn’t had to face the fallout from his indiscretion with Eliza. Marianne learns of his visit and rests a little easier knowing that she hadn’t misread his feelings.

The ladies return to Barton Cottage. Marianne decides to follow calm and temperate Elinor’s example and begins a self-imposed course of serious study. She also spends more time with the Colonel, who quietly woos her with books and music. Elinor tries to forget Edward, but is saddened to hear a servant’s news about running into Mrs. Lucy Ferrars. Assuming she has lost him forever, Elinor is startled when Edward rides up to the cottage alone, with another urgent message.

The second half of John Alexander’s 2008 Sense and Sensibility mini-series further demonstrates screenwriter Andrew Davies’s outstanding ability to interpret Austen’s texts. He covers a good two-thirds of the story in one ninety minute package without skipping any crucial plot turns or characters. He’s even able to salvage Lucy’s sister (known only as Miss Steele in this version), who was dropped from the 1995 feature-length film. Daisy Haggard’s performance as the gossipy older sister of Elinor’s rival is as deliciously repugnant as Claire Skinner’s Fanny. Her constant jabbering about “beaux” is as funny in this version as it is in the original text.

As I stated in last week’s review, the women continue to outshine the men in the finale. What a shame, considering that Edward, Brandon and Willoughby’s best moments occur in part two. David Morrissey’s Brandon barely registers any emotion, even in his most conflicted moments. One can hardly blame Marianne for judging him dull. Likewise, Dominic Cooper’s Willoughby, with his rat eyes and his permasneer, surprises no one by being revealed as a cad. One can hardly understand what Marianne saw in him anyway. Still, I will credit Dan Stevens for delivering an almost perfectly miserable Edward. He’s too gregarious in happy moments too really fit the bill that Austen created, but when he is sad – such as the moment when he says goodbye to Elinor after accepting the Colonel’s offer – the hurt in his eyes is really quite moving. This makes the climactic scene with Hattie Morahan’s Elinor all the more enjoyable. Certainly, it isn’t Emma Thompson/ Hugh Grant caliber, but it’s pretty damned close.

And despite the sub par male performances, this S&S does dangle near the 1995 version’s level of quality. But there is one glaring flaw I cannot forgive and it’s all Andrew Davies’s fault. He completely butchers the role of Mr. Palmer. This tiny character is one of my favorite personalities from all of Jane’s work. At first, he comes off as an asshole, the kind of guy who gets off on putting down his wife (a woman who lacks the intelligence to know when she is being insulted). But when you come to understand that Charlotte is as self-absorbed as she is stupid, he appears sympathetic. His eventual kindness to the Dashwood daughters (a detail left out of this script) goes to show that even a very good man or woman can become terribly embittered by a bad marriage.

Davies sketches Palmer very differently. This Palmer really is just an asshole – he’s more like Fanny in the way he scoffs at the Miss Dashwoods’ apartment. And though his appearance is small (to the point of being unnecessary), it exemplifies a strange trend among Austen adaptors of mischaracterizing, miscasting and oversimplifying her complex male figures. I’m afraid this trend has finally infected Mr. Davies’s writing, as well.

On the other hand, Rodney Bennet’s 1981 Sense and Sensibility mini-series – a far less dazzling production – fails mainly because of the women portraying our dear heroines. No other duo could better exemplify quintessential British hideousness. Irene Richard’s Elinor is distractingly weird looking. The big dirty teeth, those bulging eyes, that beak of a nose – I don’t write this to be cruel, but rather because I couldn’t help marveling. These are worthwhile details in any production involving close-up photography and the casting director ought to have known better. The shame of it is that Richard is a wonderful actress and a fine Elinor. It’s clear that Emma Thompson modeled her speech and delivery from this performance. Truly, Richard wows us most when she is speaking, but beware of her reaction shots. You’ll be expecting to see some drool falling from that lazy-eyed gawk.

Even with her sallow flesh and baggy eyes, Tracey Childs’s Marianne has a slightly less unnerving appearance. But she is an awful actress. She conveys “passion” by delivering every line as if she just ran out of breath. She tries to play off petulance as determination. Her worst moments are when she’s near death, tossing about the bed and moaning in unnaturally rhythmic fits of fever. The only reason you’re happy to see her live is that she falls asleep, shuts her mouth and stops acting. Her every waking moment is unbearable.

Yet, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to really enjoying this production. It features some of the best scenery of any Austen adaptation, not due to any artiness or particular skill in the camera work. Rather, the producers set up shop in a really gorgeous and bucolic bit of English countryside and let the cameras roll. It’s the exact sort of thing I want to watch in the middle of a summer day, when the sun is too hot and all I want is to soak myself in the pastoral beauty of a Jane Austen scenario. The pace is as pleasantly slow and gentle as a stroll down a country lane. It isn’t the kind of series I want to watch in one sitting, but each of the seven episodes is less than thirty minutes, which means you can take those funny British faces in small doses.

Additionally, some members of the supporting cast are skilled, even attractive. Bosco Hogan’s Edward looks like a less frightening Sam Donaldson, which is about as alluring as Edward should be. He is humble and kind, completely believable. And, his long-awaited pursuit of Elinor is more faithful to the book than either of the other versions of the tale. Their exchange is so befitting of their characters and even Irene Richard is resplendent in that beautiful scene. Robert Swann’s Colonel Brandon, with his Wolverine style muttonchops, would be almost too handsome and dashing if this production were not so wanting of eye candy. But, as always, I like best the actors who convincingly portray the jerks of the story and Hetty Baynes’s performance as Charlotte wins my favor. Her nasal giggle will make you understand what I meant about Mr. Palmer’s bitterness.

Thank goodness that the filmic canon of Jane Austen stories contains such less-than-perfect interpretations. Almost every adaptation will glean one or two details that the others missed. I have yet to see a Persuasion that features the funny and uncomfortable scene in which a stoic Wentworth rescues his estranged Anne from the evil clutches of her bratty nephew’s filthy little hands. Maybe I’ll write my own version, just to include that. Until the next adaptation arrives, there’s nothing left for me to do with Jane Austen. The woman only wrote six novels!