Getting Waisted (27 page)

It took months for Remy to let us wash his hair with the shower and years longer for him to confront swimming in a pool, let alone the ocean. It took me just as long to shake the nightmares and to let my guard down pretty much anywhere. I never took parenting for granted again. The birthday parties were another reminder that we weren’t in Canada anymore: pony wranglers, reptile handlers, former Olympians, Cirque-du-Soleil acrobats, and out-of-work photojournalists taking pictures. The food, the favors, the entertainment, the outfits, the party planners, the goody bags, it was all too much. We were in need of a healthy dose of the simple life. During one summer our friend Tasha suggested we take our boys to a summer camp for both kids and adults, set in the gorgeous unspoiled wilderness of the Campbell River on Vancouver Island. What she neglected to say was that it was a camp geared toward facing one’s fears and stepping out of one’s comfort zone.

At first it was glorious to be together with our boys in such a stunning locale. The camp itself had a charming lodge, almost a throwback to another era, with its giant mess hall serving all the retro food one could eat, almost all of it unhealthy. There were team-building exercises and paddling in unison in giant Voyageur canoes, which were joyous expeditions along the heartbreakingly beautiful river until we stopped to set up camp. We were each given a tarp and some ludicrously thin ground-sponge that was supposed to be our bed.
I would rather have slept in a manger
. The object of the exercise was to see who could build a stable and habitable tent. Each person in our family aced this activity; I had my secret weapon Gilles, a.k.a. MacGyver, and Remy, the mini-MacGyver, as my coaches. The three of us built our shelters so quickly we even had time to adorn them with pinecones and twig wind chimes. There was some resentment that I had had help, so when it came time to build our fires, I was watched to make sure I did it on my own. Gilles and Remy could have made forty fires, they were that fast. I prayed for a lighter to fall from the sky. It didn’t and I failed. We had in-depth instruction on how to avoid being carried off and eaten by bears.
That made for some sound sleeping—not!
Cliff-jumping.
That was never happening.
The ropes courses were fun for mostly everyone else; for me, they were a hell reminiscent of the Jamaica cliffs but I did them, bitching and moaning every scary step of the way.

My undoing came from a simple zip line. I was strapped and clamped within an inch of my life. It was easy enough to get to the platform but once I was there and looked down, I had a private but full-on, clammy-handed anxiety attack. I could not get off that platform, and just like back in Jamaica, I could feel the mounting pressure from the line of frustrated campers, who were now all prevented from flying off a mountain because I couldn’t move. All the sweet-talking salesmanship to get me to leap was falling on my closed off ears. I was stuck. I stood there gathering sweat and realized I was also stuck in my life. This was just another big fat metaphor. I had everything a woman could want except some missing chip that would make me lift up that one foot that was still nailed fast to the floor. I snapped out of my epiphany, sure I heard hissing behind me. I looked down and died a little more, but I had to do something, otherwise I was going to be permanently welded to this platform. One of the very hunky wilderness leaders was looking up at me imploringly. I asked him to climb up to the platform, which he did, likely in the hope that I would ask him to push me off, so that the now thirty harnessed and ready zip-liners wouldn’t do it themselves.

His name was Jordy and I asked him to please look at me, in my eyes, and flirt with me as if I was his dream-girl. He looked puzzled and a touch weirded out by my request. I explained that full-on flirting was something I found quite engaging and distracting and I needed to be distracted so that I could do this. Jordy was a trooper. He locked his pretty baby-blues right on to me and went for it, as if there was no one else around. He never took his eyes off me. He was charming, funny, and really adorable and I leapt—never one to disappoint a cute guy.

Often work proved to be a great travel boon, with jobs set in exotic locales. My writing partner and I, along with our significant others, went to research the Bayou and the French Quarter as background for
All Dogs Go to Heaven
in the moody, sexy, food-filled New Orleans. New Zealand, the most open and friendly place on earth, was the location of a Ray Bradbury story in which I was cast as the last woman on Mars, desperate to hook up and marry the last man played by the incredibly talented John Glover. I wore an exact replica of Princess Diana’s wedding gown, only mine had enough silk taffeta to curtain all of Buckingham Palace. I learned to love their version of Pavlova, a hard meringue filled with cream and kiwi fruit and strawberries.
I might have learned to love it too much.

Bam!
The jobs were flowing and another opportunity arose that began to plant seeds in my psyche that would take time to blossom, but it was a beginning. After several nerve-wracking auditions, I was cast as wealthy patron Mrs. Tindermarsh—a devotee of Dr. John Henry Kellogg’s Battle Creek Sanitarium—in director Alan Parker’s (no relation)
The Road to Wellville.
The comedy was star-packed, beginning with the amazing Sir Anthony Hopkins playing the eccentric but visionary Dr. Kellogg; it also starred John Cusack, Bridget Fonda, Matthew Broderick, Camryn Manheim, and plenty of other big names. The location was extraordinary; Mohonk Mountain House in upstate New York would have been another perfect spooky location for Stephen King to have set
The Shining
. The hotel was a huge turn of the century folly, supposedly inhabited by ghosts. For me it was akin to being invited to be part of the best, most creative summer camp in the world, nestled in the Catskill Mountains, with a gorgeous lake and so much talent. The story took place at the turn of the century and focused on Dr. Kellogg’s seemingly wacky beliefs about the correct way to eat and exercise. He was so far ahead of his time.

At the Battle Creek Sanitarium, Kellogg held classes on food preparation for homemakers. Sanitarium visitors engaged in breathing exercises and mealtime marches to promote proper digestion of food throughout the day. Kellogg made sure that the bowel of each and every patient was plied with water, from above and below. Every water enema was followed by a pint of yogurt–half was eaten, the other half was administered by enema, “thus planting the protective germs where they are most needed and may render most effective service.” Kellogg believed that most disease is alleviated by a change in intestinal flora; that bacteria in the intestines can either help or hinder the body; that pathogenic bacteria produce toxins during the digestion of protein that poison the blood; that a poor diet favors harmful bacteria that can then infect other tissues in the body; that the intestinal flora is changed by diet and is generally changed for the better by a well-balanced vegetarian diet favoring low-protein, laxative, and high-fiber foods.

—John Henry Kellogg, from Wikipedia

Being invited to play with that remarkable company of actors was inspirational, and even though it was far from a perfect movie, it was a gift to be a part of it and visually, it was stunning. Most inspiring was the inkling I got that Dr. Kellogg might have been a true visionary, given that here we are a century later eating and doing pretty much everything he believed was the road to health. Of course colonic has become the new word for enema. I hoped to never become familiar with either. And, I prefer my yogurt travelling south rather than his prescribed northern route.

I was sad and going through a kind of postpartum depression when the film wrapped. I had just boarded a flight back to Los Angeles, feeling a bit weepy, when an incredibly handsome man sat down beside me. Having always been a fan of the pretty, I thought I could at least get some joy from stealing quick looks at his lovely face. He spoke to me about nothing in particular but from that first minor exchange I commented on his being from Australia and that’s where our nonstop conversation began. Gary was as charming and clever as he was good looking, and when the flight attendant came by to ask if we wanted a drink, Gary responded that we didn’t need one. Not for a second did I feel there was anything improper or flirtatious in our tennis match-like exchange, but a couple of hours into the flight, after having shared our political, religious and social views, we were feeling pretty fortunate to be passing the time in each other’s company.

Out of nowhere, Gary took my hand. In an instant I was no longer comfortable, and then he placed my hand over his heart.
Okay
—
getting weird . . .
“Tell me what you feel?”
Oh my, I felt a bra!
I felt my face flush but I soon recovered. “We have two hours left on this flight and I want you to think of me as Oprah and you are my only guest. What’s up with the bra? Explain please.” Gary told me he was a cross-dresser. He didn’t know why but he loved wearing women’s clothes, he always had. His wife and two daughters were not quite as thrilled. He added that his wife had left him, but his daughters were trying to find a way to accept it all. He told me he was the CEO of a very big engineering firm, and when hiring people, he would always alert them that he may appear as Gretchen at certain times. If they couldn’t handle it, they should consider finding work elsewhere. I had many more questions, wanting to understand a slice of life that was completely foreign to me, but the time just flew. It seemed that we were landing only minutes after Gary’s surprise confession. As we taxied to the gate I asked him what made him tell me something so personal after knowing me for such a short time? I already knew the answer. People tell me things; they always have. Gary told me he trusted me because he sensed I wasn’t judgmental about the choices people made. It was true. I had never cared what people did as long as they didn’t intentionally hurt others. It was none of my business. I knew a thing or two about being judged by my cover, not my content.

Gary helped me with my bags and asked if I would ever consider having dinner with him when he was dressed as his alter ego, Gretchen. Once again, the writer in me leapt at the chance. Not only did I have an appetite for food; I also loved the banquet of unique people who dared to be different.

When I told Gilles, he was awestruck at my ability to have total strangers share their deepest secrets with me and he was with me all the way. If you weren’t hurting anyone, life was yours to take on in any way that brought about happiness. Then he threatened to hide behind a plant or dress as a girl and join us. Even knowing he was kidding, I refused to tell him where we were meeting. That being said, I wasn’t quite prepared for “Gretchen” when I met “her” in the restaurant of my choosing, one that I was sure no one I knew went to.
Wrong!

I was sitting in the lobby bar waiting for Gretchen to arrive, when in walked a six-foot-tall woman, wearing a really bad outfit accessorized by the largest pearly-beige shoes I had ever seen. That, and a heavy-handed makeup job, made the formerly gorgeous Gary into one really ugly woman. As we walked toward our corner, I saw a table filled with people I knew far too well to avoid. With Gretchen in tow, I took a deep breath and crossed over to say hello and to introduce my dinner companion. Gary did nothing to change his voice, but no one seemed to bat an eye. They took it all in stride; it was Los Angeles, a place filled with all kinds of fruits and nuts. We sat down and the strangest thing happened; this attractive man, who I had found so engaging, was now sitting across from me dressed as a woman and he/she began flirting with me. It was more than flirting. This man, dressed as a woman, was using his “girlfriend” intimacy chit to come on to me. This was a brain dance I couldn’t get my head around
.
I realized Gary had taken my openness as potential for something far more. My curiosity went out the window and I was no longer into him or her. He/she had become like some weird date that I couldn’t wait to get rid of: a wolf on the prowl, dressed in really bad sheep’s clothing.
Aaaarghh. No thanks!
All I had wanted was a wee bit of voyeurism and a good dinner. I already had a person I loved, waiting at home for me.

That night I snuggled in bed with my husband, when at 4:31 in the morning the house began to shake violently. I remember little of the beginnings of what was soon to be called the Northridge quake, but I do remember leaping out of bed and racing to Remy’s room to get him. Gilles told me later that the bookshelves lining the hall were falling, and flying books had bombarded me as I ran past, but the adrenalin protected me from feeling any of it. We huddled together in our central stairway. It was the sound I will always remember; the shaking from all around produced something like a “freight train going off its rails” kind of sound that mingled with the many car alarms, the crashing of dishes and glasses, and the brick fireplaces tumbling down. The craziness was interrupted by our ringing phone. It wasn’t even close to dawn and it was my sister in Toronto wanting to make sure we were okay. How did she know? She said to turn on our television. Of course, CNN, that’s how she knew: it was after seven in Toronto and she had been watching the morning news. Unbelievably, our TV still worked, even though it was now on the other side of the room. Our piano was upended, but we were okay.

We had many friends in the neighborhood and our house became the designated gathering place. By five in the morning, there were at least half a dozen neighbors all comparing notes on their jarring wake-up calls. The enormity of the quake was just beginning to sink in; it had been a 6.7 on the Richter scale. Gilles had climbed over the broken dishes and condiments and was already serving up coffee and pastries. The TV was playing in the background, and in a glance I thought I recognized a heavily decimated apartment building. I had only been there once to visit my eighty-something Uncle Arthur, my mother’s brother, and his wife Erna. It looked like Godzilla had stepped on it, as it was completely pancaked. Out front stood an old couple in their pajamas, looking stunned and dazed, being interviewed by a reporter already on the scene. It was them. I was in disbelief. I heard him say they had been asleep in their second floor bedroom and then they weren’t. They woke up and they were on the first floor. The one below them lay crushed with everything and everyone in it, gone. I then heard my uncle, his eyes filled with tears, speaking in shock: “We survived the hell of war and now we have to start over?”
They never really recovered.