How Reputations Get Made...

How time flies! Three weeks ago today, I was on my way back from a women’s writers’ retreat I had been looking forward to for months. In the blink of an eye, it was over. You may recall I blogged about the retreat last year—in particular the fun we had at the Martini Bar on Saturday night. The coordinator enjoyed my post so much she posted it on her website to help promote the retreat—which, by the way, was filled to capacity and a huge success this year, as well.

So this year several new attendees came to the retreat, apparently looking forward to a martini, in addition to reading, rest, relaxation, and a wealth of information about writing. When I had I registered, the coordinator had told me there was another woman from my area registered, as well. I recognized her name as someone from church, so I called her and we traveled together.

Thank God, because it was another blizzardous weekend, and if I had been traveling alone, I’m afraid I wouldn’t have gone. Been there, done that, wasn’t too eager to do it again.

But my friend was from this area, and well-used to winter driving conditions, so off we went in her minivan. Good thing, too, because 20 minutes out of town, the weather cleared up and we had no trouble at all. We even arrived a bit early, got her checked into her hotel down the way—the B&B was full up—and managed to stop at Malley’s Chocolates and stock up before heading off to the retreat.

Imagine my surprise, when on a whim I asked the desk clerk at the hotel if there was a chocolate shop around, and he said yes, right down the street. A clear example of ask and ye shall receive J.

So without my friend I wouldn’t have gone. Turns out that without me, she wouldn’t have gone, either, as she’d learned about the retreat from reading my blog. She was looking for one of those martinis. I’ll admit I went back looking forward to a repeat of the experience, myself. I hadn’t ever had a martini before, and haven’t had one since, but suddenly I found myself dubbed “The Martini Lady” and on Friday night was called up to the front of the room and presented with a lovely framed pastel portrait of a martini, complete with olives.

Writing is such a solitary occupation that I have it posted up above my desk, to remind me that yes, writers do indeed get together and have fun every now and again J.

But my, how quickly reputations are born! The others told me I'd made it sound like such a wonderful time they wanted to experience it for themselves, and having a martini was the talk of the retreat. Unfortunately, this year, the Martini Bar was full, so the group I was with visited an Irish pub instead. Seven or eight of us pulled a few tables together at the back of the room, and proceeded to order drinks I hadn’t heard of in years, since my twenties, when ordering such drinks were the norm—white Russian, Fuzzy Navel, Slo Gin Fizz…and my own simple but straightforward vodka tonic.

Not so simple and straightforward, I realized, as in the intervening years, vodka has apparently taken on flavors, and a lot of them. “What kind of vodka do you want?” the bartender asked. “Just vodka,” I said. She indicated the bar behind her, with a couple dozen flavors of vodka lined up in a colorful row. “I know, but which kind?” “Just vodka, I repeated. Don’t you have any kind of vodka that isn’t flavored? The last time I had vodka, Smirnoff’s was the one you got. Don’t they make that any more?”

"You haven’t tasted flavored vodka?” she asked, in amazement. Then treated me to a sample of espresso-flavored vodka. It being after nine already, and me not used to drinking, no way was I going to mix alcohol and caffeine—I’d be up all night!!—so I thanked her ask if she minded if I shared it with the others.

Which is exactly what I did…I never did find out what it tasted like.

Fortunately, she managed to find a bottle of plain vodka under the counter, and fixed me a drink.

We were the oldest patrons in the bar. As it slowly filled with people half our age we listened to a lone guitar player strumming Irish tunes and happily chatted about children and colleges and the things menopausal women discuss when we get together. And, being writers, we observed the room around us. The pick ups, the hook ups, the couples getting friendly as they flirted with each other before moving on to the main event later.

At one point I saw the bartender pull out a fishbowl and fill it with ice. Her hands expertly holding two bottles each, she poured and poured until the ice cubes were covered, then added (in this case) some red liquid to the bowl and stuffed six big red straws in it. The bowl was almost ceremoniously carried to a back table by three young men and one young woman, who was apparently the designated driver, as she didn’t drink. I noticed one of the young men leaning on her heavily as they shuffled out of the bar less than an hour later, the fishbowl completely empty.

I went to ask the bartender about it. Yes, she said, it was called a fishbowl, and was made with gin, rum, vodka, and tequila, and cost $20. Was I interested? No, thank you, I all but gasped, waving my hands in front of me—I just wanted to know what it was. She smiled indulgently and patted my arm reassuringly, treating me like the fish out of water that I was, and kindly fixed this little old church lady another plain vodka tonic.

Around eleven, with the bar packed and the songs getting less and less Irish, the ladies and I happily trundled back to the B&B, where we sat in the foyer next to a cozy fireplace, the area lit only by the small white lights of a still-decorated Christmas tree, and sipped glasses of Bailey’s Irish Cream from a bottle I had brought along. I might not drink often, but I know how it’s done J. The Bailey’s added a nice, quiet nightcap to the evening.

I wonder if this means next year I’ll be awarded a picture of Bailey’s?

Taking Time to Listen to Your Body

I'm going to have this post do double duty, since I'm still recovering from vacation. This will also be posted on my PMDD site, but applies to women's hormonal health and the need to listen to and take care of our bodies in general. That said, here goes:

I’ve been scanning the PMDD loops and forums, and there are so many women out there crying out for help. As I read the posts, I can pinpoint some things they are doing to make their PMDD worse, without even realizing it. Nobody intentionally wants to make themselves feel badly, especially a PMDD woman. We know—even if at times it seems only like a distant memory—what it feels like to feel good, and we want to feel that way all the time.

As I said last week, the information is out there. The problem is it’s scattered all over the place, and some of it isn’t quite true. Some of it is slanted toward getting us to purchase products in which the author of that information has a financial interest. In the interests of my research I’ve bought several books and tapes and products designed to make me feel better, even “cure” my PMDD. Most have failed, because the information they are based upon is faulty to start with.

For instance, there is one doctor who insists over and over again in his literature that PMDD is caused by using birth control pills and hormone replacement therapy. If that is the case, I shouldn’t have it, because I’ve never used either. But a vast majority of women have used one or the other, and so by claiming that they cause PMDD, he is guaranteed to have a wide range of women wondering if that is the cause of their PMDD and flocking to buy his products. Instant consumer base.

Based on the scientific information I have read, in particular the information produced in the past five years—information which is not referred to at all in this doctor’s literature--it’s clear that birth control pills and hormone replacement therapies worsen your PMDD, but do not cause it. The studies I have read indicate that overall there is some relief in the initial months when using these methods to treat your symptoms of PMDD—and that is all you can do with these methods—treat the symptoms—because neither of these treatment methods address the underlying cause of PMDD.

But after a certain period of time—usually several months—both clinical studies and anecdotal stories show that birth control pills and hormone replacement therapies make your PMDD worse. And if that’s not enough misery for you, when you stop taking these drugs for your PMDD, your PMDD worsens even more. Because your body has to do all that additional work to recover from the damage that was done to your hormonal balance through using these methods of treatment. The bottom line is you end up feeling worse than you did before you started these treatments.

Realize now that the failure was not yours. The failure was in the treatment, which is at best a one-size fits all treatment for what is a highly individualized disorder.

I have not used bio-identical hormone replacement treatment, so can not address that subject here. At this point I’m still on the fence about that. I have been able to manage my PMDD symptoms through rest, diet, nutritional supplements, and exercise. I still have episodes, but they are mild compared to what they once were, and more than manageable. I would like to make them go away completely, and in the interests of doing so (and research!) hope to try bio-identical hormone replacement therapy in time, but have yet to find a doctor in my area who will prescribe them. So for now I muddle along, but again, my symptoms are mild and more than manageable.

Two other things that make your PMDD worse are:

Any prescribed drug, including anti-depressants.
Any over the counter drug, including NSAIDs, or non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs—that’s right—ibuprofen. That wonderful substance that does wonders for our cramps and sore joints only adds to our PMDD burden.

I’m not saying to never take drugs again. There are genuine disorders, diseases, and conditions that can not be managed any other way. I’m saying you need to be aware that these things make your PMDD worse, and that it’s not just you and you’re not crazy.

For instance when you reach for that bottle of ibuprofen, you need to reach for it knowing you’re making a trade off…relief from your cramps now, or relief from your PMDD later.

Just knowing this makes me pause, and decide whether my cramps and aches are really bad enough for me to need that ibuprofen. Or do I really just need some rest and relaxation to give my body the time it needs to deal with the inflammation on its own?

Dealing with PMDD is more about awareness than anything else. It’s making ourselves aware of what our body is trying to tell us. For example, we need magnesium—chocolate craving—we need carbs—to boost the level of serotonin in our brain—we need sleep—to allow our brains can naturally re-regulate themselves.

Our bodies are designed to heal themselves naturally, given the right nutrients and rest. In our busy society, more often than not, we don’t have the time to stop and listen to what our bodies are telling us. We’ve been conditioned to carry on, no matter what, and consume whatever pill, food, or drink is handy to get us through. Recently I heard an ad on the radio for some kind of product you can puff into your mouth that brings you up to five more hours of energy. It has some nutrients in it to make it sound healthy, but it also has a heavy dose of caffeine—which cancels out any questionable benefits of the nutrients added. Never mind that a PMDD woman needs to avoid caffeine like the plague.

This company promotes their product as something you can take in the afternoon to get you through the rest of the day. So you can be even more productive than you already are. It’s touted as a good thing. Something to make you virtually indefatigable. In our case, a superwoman.

But if you’re tired, your body is telling you that you need rest, not that you need something to override your body’s natural warning system that you’re heading for a breakdown.

So sure, if you use this product--or any of the countless ones just like it you can find next to cash registers at any number of stores--you get the added boost for that particular afternoon. But what about the damage you are doing to your body, which is already screaming for relief? What about the price you will pay with a whopper of a PMDD episode down the line?

Is it really worth it? Or don’t you deserve any better?

Learning to Listen

I skipped Friday’s FWL post for two reasons…one, I was so busy working on my new PMDD website I didn’t even realize it was Friday until mid-afternoon and two, I already had it in my mind I wanted to continue this theme of listening. Last Sunday I talked about the importance of having one, just one person who will listen to you, your joys and sorrows, hopes and dreams. More than one is always great, if only to give your listener a break (smile), but also to provide different perspectives on whatever it is you are sharing.

But only one will do, if that person is a true friend and a good listener. Still, there are so many people who don’t even one person in their lives they can count on to listen to them, just listen. So if you have one, consider yourself blessed beyond measure. And if you don’t—be the change you want to see in your life. Try listening, really listening, to someone else first. I think you’ll be surprised at the results :).

I find that talking things out with a listener helps to clarify things in my own mind. They don’t even have to do anything but listen, either in person, or on the phone. The same is true of writing. When you journal, your “listener” can be anyone you choose. I like to think of mine as God. I’m sharing my thoughts with God, who has proven to me many times over that He does indeed listen.

Then, on Wednesday, I talked about listening to your body. I think a lot of us forget we even have bodies, unless some part of that body is making life uncomfortable or inconveniencing us. We operate mostly in our heads, and ignore the needs of our bodies for healthy food, rest, relaxation, and exercise. Instead we fill our bodies with whatever food is handy, quick and convenient, load up on caffeine and energy drinks to keep us going, and give lip service to wanting to relax and exercise more.

I don’t exercise because I want to, trust me. I exercise because if I don’t, my body will let me know it with aches and pains and stiffness and creaky knees. Oh, and an overall sluggish feeling that makes me long to lay around and just do nothing. Which, when I give in, gets me nothing but more aches and pains and stiffness and creaky knees.

Just another example of how our bodies speak to us, letting us know what we need to stay strong and healthy. So listening to them is important if we want them to serve us well.

But today I want to talk about another kind of listening. Listening to that voice within. Some call it God, some call it Tao, some call it Mother Wisdom. Whatever you call it, it is vital that you take some time out every day to listen to it. Otherwise you’re nothing more than a hamster on a wheel, running, running, running, with no sense of where you’re going, and getting nowhere. Every moment of your day is filled with doing, not being. And when you fall into bed exhausted at the end of the day, you have no sense of being further ahead than you were the day before…whatever your “ahead” might consist of.

My favorite time for listening is just before and right after I open my eyes after sleeping. I tend to rise to consciousness slowly, and find my best thoughts of the day are the ones that float into my mind before my brain takes over, kicking in with my mental to-do list for the day. Some of my most creative thoughts occur then, but unless I write them down, once my day starts, almost always those thoughts are forgotten within minutes of getting out of bed. Still, I know that’s when I listen best. I also know that if I don’t wake up that way, if the alarm or phone startles me awake, I miss out on that early morning moment of peace and feel grumpy. So I try to go to sleep at the same time each night and wake up naturally.

Another time I listen well is while driving. To do this I need to turn off the CD player and drive in silence. (Talking on the phone while driving, for me, is not an option.) For those of us who can’t seem to make the time to sit still and listen for a few moments each day, listening while driving might work. You bring yourself into the moment and focus on nothing but what you are doing right then—driving. For most of us, driving is automatic, so our minds are free to listen. The same can be done while doing dishes, or folding laundry, gardening, or cleaning.

You don’t have to stop and literally sit still to hear your inner voice. Nor do you have to take up meditation or yoga to hear what’s in your heart. Life gives us many opportunities to listen throughout our days. We just have to learn to relax and accept them.

Silence is a great source of strength. ~ Lao Tzu

P.S. I wrote this post yesterday morning. Imagine my surprise when last night I went to Mass, and the priest who substituted for our regular priest gave his homily on this very subject. He talked about turning off our phones and ipods and all those things that supposedly keep us ‘connected’ and taking time to just listen, instead. I'll take that as a message that I'm on track :)

Taking Time Out To Read, Rest, Relax, and Laugh

Today I want to write about the importance of getting away and treating yourself as a break to your overstressed life. Over the weekend I attended Deanna Adams' annual Women’s Writers Retreat at a lovely Victorian bed and breakfast in Willoughby, Ohio, The Homestead House, where each room was decorated with comfort and serenity in mind. They came with names…the Sanctuary, the Fine Arts Room, The Victorian Rose, the Speakeasy, the Railroad. Mine was the Railroad room, and boasted a train motif and a genuine pot-bellied stove. Others had canopied beds, gas fireplaces, claw-footed tubs, and heart-shaped Jacuzzis.

About twenty women attended the retreat, some driving in for the speaker sessions, and others staying in the B&B. The sessions included tips on public speaking, inspiration for your writing, including on-the-spot creativity exercises, and how to fill your writing with suspense, as in how to keep your reader wondering what’s going to happen next.

The atmosphere was casual and relaxed, with an assortment of wine available each evening. Oh, and chocolate. Plenty of chocolate. Some of us staying in the B&B attended the sessions wearing slippers, while the cold wind and snow blew endlessly outside. But inside we were having pizza and salad, and sharing stories and offering tips to each other on how to craft and market a better story, article, or essay. One woman had also taken up beading, and invited us to her room to show us what she'd been working on over the past three years. More than a few of us, I suspect, returned downstairs in awe of her creativity, and wearing a sparkly little souvenir of the weekend.

When the evening ended, we retreated to our rooms to relax and refresh our minds and bodies after the stressful drive to get there during one of the worst snowstorms of the season. In the morning we were treated to a four-course gourmet breakfast before launching into the day’s program, which included a roundtable discussion of our work and feedback on any problems we might be having in our writing.

I didn’t know any of the women at the retreat. Had never met any of them before, including my roommate, who generously offered to share her room with me so I wouldn’t have to stay at a hotel down the road. But conversation flowed. At tables and in artfully arranged sitting areas and in our various rooms—being the curious lot that we are, everyone had to go and check out everyone else’s room--we talked writing and editing and marketing and promotion and exchanged tidbits about our families and the endless amount of balance it takes to juggle all the roles we fulfill: wife, mother, daughter, sister, aunt, family caretaker and often breadwinner, in addition to being a writer.

What impressed me most about the group was the enormous amount of creativity and determination that existed in that one room alone. At the end of the second evening, we had an open mic session, which is best described as karaoke for writers. Whoever wanted to could step up to the podium and share something they had written with the others. We heard humor, irony, drama, history, angst, and pain. So much pain. I’d say most writers are drawn to writing as a means to express their innermost emotions. It’s a gift we have, that allows us to share our joys and our sorrows, our triumphs and tragedies, and in doing so inspire others to have hope, carry on, or even take up the pen themselves.

As I looked around the room at this marvelous pool of talent, I found it sad that women in our society are still treated as second class citizens with little to offer outside of our sexuality. In that room I witnessed kindness, compassion, creativity, courage, inspiration, intelligence, wit, and grace, and a kind of enduring strength that made me feel blessed beyond belief for the opportunity to meet and get to know these amazing women, most of whom I will probably never see again.

But for that brief moment in time we all came together, united in one goal, to improve our craft and share our love of writing with someone outside of our families, who quite often don’t understand the need to write and resent the time it takes away from our roles as listed above.

I think every woman, whether you’re a writer or not, needs a getaway weekend like that now and then, to help you to appreciate who you are and what you have to offer the world, and to help the people in your life who depend on you appreciate you a little more in your absence. I know when I get back my family is always happy to see me, and they wouldn’t have that eye-opening opportunity to miss me if I didn’t disappear every now and then for a few days of mental and emotional recharging.

Also, just to have a little fun. At the end of the second evening, those of us staying in the B&B decided to trundle through the snow-filled night into town and visit one of four drinking establishments available—including a wine shop, an Irish pub, and a martini bar. We chose the martini bar, where we each ordered a generous-sized martini from a menu of almost 40 varieties of martinis and, being responsible drinkers, a sampling of appetizers to go with it. Amid toasts and laughter, we shared pumpkin ravioli, fruit and cheese and crackers, bruschetta, and toasted pita bread with blue cheese buffalo chicken dip. For my martini, I settled on something called a Campfiretini, which was made up of Bailey’s Irish Cream, vodka, Godiva chocolate and toasted marshmallow syrup.

It was supposed to taste like S’mores. Instead it tasted like Bailey’s, which was no hardship :).

I didn’t even feel the effects, but knew better than to order a second one. All I know is I laughed and laughed, and at the seemingly dumbest things, just because it felt so good to be out and in the company of so many women I admired. Strong, independent women, with wit and intelligence and the ability to turn any story into one that had us hooting. Then we walked back to the B&B, still laughing and joking, and retired to our special rooms again, where my roommate and I stayed up a while longer, talking and getting to know one another.

The following morning breakfast was light—only three courses—but enough to keep me from getting hungry again until well past dinner time. More invaluable advice on how to make our writing shine followed, and then it was time to load up our bags, dig our cars out of the snow, hug everyone goodbye and head home, filled with renewed energy and inspiration and a determination to see our writing goals achieved.

I made a lot of professional contacts over the weekend, but also made some new friends. Friends I hope to see again and again as we return each year to be renewed and refreshed by good food, good wine, good conversation, good speakers, good writing, the soft glow of a gas fireplace and the warm hum of a Jacuzzi.

And maybe another one of those Campfiretinis :).