Beauty and the Beast

First of all, if you think I’m writing about anything besides the movie Beauty and the Beast, stop reading now. You get what you get.

In 1976, George C. Scott – General Patton himself – starred in a Hallmark Hall of Fame production of Beauty and the Beast, which aired on my very own television in my very own house. I was five, and my mom let all us kids stay up late and watch it, probably because she and her siblings had acted out the opera when they were younger or something like that. Have I ever mentioned that my mom grew up in a house where they acted out operas for big fun? She did.

Anyway, at the end of the movie ***spoiler alert on the way!!!***** when the Beast becomes a handsome prince, I cried my fucking eyes out. Like, as despondent as a five-year-old child could get. Right now, decades later, I remember this being one of the saddest moments of my life. Why? Because I liked the Beast way better, and I missed him.

In early 1993, when my niece and nephew were visiting my parents, and I was pregnant, I saw the animated Disney version. Cried my goddamn eyes out again. Same reason. I wanted the Beast back. Years later, my son was in a production of the musical in high school, and I….okay, I didn’t cry for that one, but mostly because the Beast was OBVIOUSLY Caleb Baker in a badly-fitting hair suit, which I never really understood, because that production had some METICULOUS freaking silverware costumes and a life-sized walking globe, but they couldn’t keep the Beast costume from ripping in the ass halfway through the Beast’s big moment? Makes no sense.

But I WOULD have cried if the bad fur suit hadn’t happened, for the same reason. What is an eminence front? It’s a put on!*  And to me, the handsome prince is just a shackled Beast with better clothes and the murder of the best part of himself on his conscience.

Now, in full disclosure, this is the part where my shrink might step in and remind me of the time that I sat in her waiting room, reading Sports Illustrated, and bawling my eyes out over athletes from East Timor, who didn’t win any Olympic medals. (“They just competed for the love of sport!” I sobbed, while she looked on, trying not to laugh.) She would gently remind me that I get a little bit sensitive about the left-out, left-behind, also-ran, jersey-over-the-face-at-the-end-of-the-game-to-hide-the-pain types. But I disagree. I don’t think this has anything to do with my sadness over the Beast being left behind. While I’m not an expert on Beasts morphing into human form, I totally got that this was supposed to represent the transformation that the Beast underwent, from a spoiled, selfish young man to loving, caring man. So I get that.

What I don’t get is that, to my mind, the Beast represented love, and how, as humans, as we love other people, we grow more and more into our true selves – and not the dressed up, smoothed out, perfumed, and perfectly coiffed selves, either. I’m talking about our insecure, troubled, wearing-the-same-sweatpants-around-for-an-entire-weekend, vulnerable, beastly selves. The ones who get irrationally angry, and bitterly disappointed, and intensely emotional about things for some reason that has to be explained, but maybe can’t. The beasts who have to be spoken gently to sometimes, and kicked in the ass sometimes, and left alone sometimes, for the good of everyone around. The complex, mysterious, fascinating people whose faces we stopped seeing long ago, anyway, because what do faces mean when you can see someone’s soul?

So to me, the appropriate transformation in this movie would have been for Belle and the Prince to peel off the unnecessary outer layers of title, and polish, and sparkle, possessions, and all of those exterior trappings, and for both of them to expose, gradually, their true selves – beastly parts and all.

OK, now that I think of it, maybe that’s Shrek.

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* If you don’t get this reference, you were born too late and/or you need more Pete Townshend in your life.

Sour Thoughts (aka Hook Hands)

The other night I was having dinner with some friends, and we started talking about one friend’s effort to raise money for a community organization that is strongly supported by my company. Every year, we raise money through a number of charitable events, like raffles, donation drives, potlucks, and other events. We were casually brainstorming ideas for how she could get a really big score to round out the donation drive.

“We have to get something everyone wants, like sweet Ohio State/Michigan football tickets or a date with Aaron Craft,” I suggested. Aaron Craft plays basketball for Ohio State and is basically the Justin Bieber of the over-thirty set. Women love him.

Predictably, one of my friends said, “He has a girlfriend,” as if that were the only obstacle to my brilliant plan to pimp out Aaron Craft. And then she added, “He’s had the same one since high school.” Like I said: Justin Bieber of the cougar set. Obviously, she’d been doing her homework.

“People always talk about men who stay with their high school girlfriend like they’ve done something special,” I commented. “I say they’re just lazy fuckers.” To which my friends looked at me like I’d suggested that we go stuff some puppies in a garbage disposal and turn it on.

“Too harsh?” I asked. They nodded.

But here’s the thing: we all have our sour thoughts. My philosophy is, when you have a sour thought, you should set it free, like a Japanese beetle that you find in your house, because otherwise, in short time, you’ll start finding those suckers on your pillow, in your cereal, flying around all of your light bulbs, and biting the back of your neck with their tiny, sharp little beetle teeth when you least expect it.

And, when you think about it, you know I’m right. How many people do you know who stuff all of their negative thoughts down in that secret space in their soul, only to have them burble up in any manner of unpleasant ways? Like they insist on thinking all Muslims are terrorists, or they hate-devour pizzas in the dark every night while watching reruns of Oprah’s Next Chapter, or they get themselves so wound up, trying to say and feel the right thing all the time that they lose their ability to make real human connections, and instead, end up with a partner who doesn’t understand them, whiny children with an unsophisticated understanding of the myriad ways the word “douchebag” can be used, and a life that gets smaller and smaller with each passing day. Horrifying!

I made that mistake a couple weeks ago. Some troller made an anonymous comment on my blog that, essentially, it was the worst and stupidest thing s/he’d ever read. Afraid of losing my significant cool by immediately lashing back, I thanked Anonymous for the sweet comment, and then lightly seethed for a couple of weeks. Had I simply responded with my initial reaction, “Well, your mother is a whore,” I would have felt MUCH better immediately, and would have then had the freedom to consider that, perhaps the anonymous troller was just having a bad day. Maybe the anonymous troller had lost both of his or her arms in a tragic lobster-fishing accident, and the only thing s/he knew how to type on his hooks were “Your blog sucks.” But, since I hadn’t yet expressed my fleeting, negative thought, all of my kind and charitable thoughts were stuck, and couldn’t be released until the hate-wagon rolled through. And that didn’t do anybody any good.

So, Anonymous, let me correct the situation: your mother IS a whore, and I’m very sorry about your hook hands. Thank you for putting lobster on our table. 

That’s much better.

Studying for the Bar: 17 Truths

I have some friends taking the July Bar exam, and if they are anything like me, they have already started Googling, “Will I pass the Bar exam?” every half hour. I was in the same boat a year ago, and despite my certainty that I, in fact, would NOT pass the Bar, I did, and it was all fine. But for those who are worried, I offer you these words of consolation and advice:

1. The rash that has just shown up on your face and arms? Normal. Don’t count on it going away until August.

2. Your friends who say they are studying 16 hours a day are way above the curve.

3. Normal people study 8 – 12 hours a day. Some less.

4. There will be people who will insist on telling you that they’re “sure it will be fine.” It’s okay to punch them right in the kidneys.

5. Likewise with the fuckwads who took the Bar themselves and claim they barely studied. They are liars AND have poor memories, and frankly, I wouldn’t trust their legal representation.

6. EVERYTHING will seem more interesting than studying. Grouting your tub. Cleaning out the refrigerator. Parenting your children. Watching Larry King reruns. It is all a trap, designed to keep you away from your outlines. Those children will be fine. Let them raise themselves for a while. It’ll toughen them up.

7. You will develop an insane, obsessive-compulsive habit. For me, it was showering 3 to 4 times a day and wearing shorty shorts. For you it might be counting, drumming, walking a certain pattern, eating a certain kind of food, or anything else in a long list of crazy. Just go with it. It will go away after the Bar. Okay, maybe it won’t, but there’s medicine for that.

8. MBEs will make you cry and doubt your self-worth. You WILL do horribly on some or all of your practice sets. Just keep plugging away.

9. An out-of-control Bar Studies instructor will send you increasingly long, manic emails as the time for the Bar draws nearer. Those emails will have titles like, “Courage,” and “Dedication.” Craft interesting cocktails based on those email titles, and drink them.

10. Somebody who took the Bar recently will tell you a story about how, a week before the Bar, they got chicken pox, had a leg traumatically amputated, had a baby, got food poisoning, or was questioned by the government in a dark cell for 72 hours based on a horrible case of mistaken identity, but they STILL TOTALLY ROCKED THE BAR. Cross them off of your Christmas card list. This is not the time for those stories.

11. As the time draws nearer, you will stop Googling, “Will I pass the Bar exam?” and start Googling, “I failed the Bar exam.” Totally normal.

12. Memorize this phrase: “Now is NOT the time to test me, because I WILL freak out on you.” Use it wherever and whenever you want. Seriously. That’s pretty much the way I answered the phone every time my son called me.

13. You will receive offers of kindness. Take them. Somebody wants to go to the grocery store for you? Let them. Make you dinner? Yes. Walk your dog? You bet. Now is the time to be a selfish bastard, not a hero. Make the most of it. You don’t get extra points for being a martyr.

14. You will wonder how many pencils/pens/highlighters/watches, etc. to take into the bar. In fact, you will agonize over it and consult with your friends on the correct number. Answer: all of them. ALL OF THEM. Start packing them now.

15. Close to the Bar, you will create a complicated algorithm that explains who flunks the bar. I think it goes something like this: If 80% of all Bar-takers pass, of the 20% who fail, 5% are hopelessly stupid and can’t even spell their own name right. 5% never wanted to be a lawyer, and self-sabotaged by not studying. 5% fail to manage their time appropriately. 2% have a computer malfunction. 2% freak out or get sick. 1% just make a couple of mistakes and miss it by a few points. You will then try to figure out if you fit into any of those percentages.

16. You WILL consider quitting. You will pray for Ebola or SARS. Sadly, you will not get them.

17. You’ll be okay. No matter what, you really will. I promise.