The Habanera Effect

In just about everyone's life, there come moments of great awareness of one's true self. Some people have these epiphanies in mid conversation, others just in mid thought. I have them in mid car drive.

On March 21st, I awoke at 2 AM sharp. I was soaked from head to toe in a blindingly hot sweat, reeling from the events that had just transpired, in my subconscious. For years, now, I've had a recurring dream or Gene Raymond, one of my "dead movie stars," enlisting my help in finding his wife, Jeanette MacDonald. I'd had that dream, again. Usually, there is no supporting cast, just an open field where Gene and I talk about Jeanette's health, and his concern for her, followed by a series of scenes where I desperately search for her. I've never once found her. In this dream, however, there was a supporting player- one Miss Risë Stevens, Metropolitan Opera Star.

As I shook the feeling of terror from my body, I took solace in the idea that she was in this dream because I had just mentioned her on my Jeanette MacDonald blog. It made perfect sense that I'd have the stress dream, after having, once again, seen the asinine comments from the peanut gallery who believe Gene and Jeanette lived through a fraud marriage while she cavorted with Nelson Eddy.

It was eight hours later, when I got the e-mail to tell me that Risë had died.

Sure, it could all be coincidence. After all, she was old. She was 99, to be exact. My dreaming about her and talking about her the very day she died can be chalked up to nothingness.

On March 22nd, I was on my way to work, listening to Risë's Habanera, when it truly dawned on me that this is not the first time something like this has happened. Something inside of my brain knows when people have died. I don't always know who, until I see it the next day. I just know.

Back up a few more days to Tuesday, March 20th. Driving to the bank, I was hit with a sudden wave of panic. I didn't know why it was happening, but my brain told me it was somehow related to Jeanette MacDonald. It just didn't make much sense, seeing as she's long been gone from the earth. I took a pill and made the panic go away. I didn't have the luxury of pills, though, in November of 2004, when I had an attack while driving to Best Buy, listening to Kathryn Grayson's Habanera. I pulled over to the side of the road to try to let it all out, but I just knew that something was wrong, not with, but somewhere close to Kathryn Grayson. By this time, I talked with her, regularly, so my immediate desire was to call her. I resisted the urge, though, because I didn't want to sound as crazy as I actually am, to my favorite movie star. Later that day, I learned that her co-star and friend, Howard Keel, had died.

On March 21st, I learned that Risë had died. She was a friend of Jeanette MacDonald's.

Somehow, some way, I know when my divas' friends have died. Either that, or I'm the harbinger of death. I prefer to believe that's not the case.

Weight for it...

Something I've always struggled with is my weight. I must have been in fourth grade when I first noticed that I was fatter than the other kids. I've never forgotten the feeling I got when I noticed that, while my legs were rolling over the sides of the small Christian school desk seat, the other girls' were perfectly centered. It wasn't long after, that the boys, fat as they were, started to notice that I was different, too, and made fun of me, in their oh so Christian ways. Other than for a short time, where I was close to dying from Crohn's Disease, I've never been skinny. Even then, I was a size 8, the smallest I've ever been, in my adult life. I still thought I was fat. And no matter what I do, I can't be that "fat" again.
I once had someone ask me if I thought part of my body issues had to do with being a fan of "tiny people." Because, let's face it, the closest star to me, in size, is Marie Dressler. I quickly said no, and dismissed the idea as nonsense, but it's a question that lingers with me. Do I look at Jeanette MacDonald and wish I could be that size? Well, sure I do. Kathryn Grayson? Of course. Mary Astor? Hell yes. But that doesn't bother me at all. The fact that "my girls" were perfection doesn't affect how I connect with them. I know what they went through, too. I know that Jeanette hated her figure. I know Kathryn struggled with her own weight, and was made fun of by that troll of a human worm baby, Donald O'Connor, later in life. I know that Mary had costumers tell her that her hips were impossible, and not in a good way. The fact that they were today's sizes 0-4 means nothing to me. It's just a feeling that I get that my girls weren't superficial, and I can readily ignore the fact that young Jeanette thought ugly people were mean. It's a fact I know about Kathryn Grayson, who allowed me to be a part of her "family," for the last 10 years of her life. She didn't look at me and say, "ew, get it away from me."
I recently had a birthday party, and invited one of my childhood best friends, who grew up to be a very beautiful and petite woman. I also invited a few guy friends. Guess who got the attention. It certainly wasn't the birthday girl. So please, don't bother to wonder. It's not the people I aspire to be like that make me feel hideous. It's the people that ask silly questions like that, that do.

"Once you start asking questions, innocence is gone."

As far back as I can remember, and from what stories I've heard told to my friends, I've always been one to ask questions. I've been fascinated by stories of others, and felt as though I really lived through my curiosity. While probably not my earliest question, one I have a rather dim memory of is asking what the strange little wrapped product was, in the bathroom. It was long and cylindrical, and I was quite enamored with what treasures it may hold. I took one to my dad and asked what it might be. "Rabbit bullets," he said, quite seriously. "Put it back." It would be another few years before I didn't fear that any passing bunny might be slaughtered in my bathroom, for that wonder of wonders was actually a tampon. It was a white lie, an innocent one that didn't hurt anyone, and seemed logical, at the time.
That sort of curiosity has stuck with me, all my life. I've always been the one to question the whys and hows of things, though I've never really had the chance or inclination to actually take something apart and find out how it works. I'm much too logical, for that. If I should take something apart and not be able to get it back to working order, I may either get in trouble or have to waste money buying a new thing. Instead of dismantling objects, I dismantled life histories of people long since gone. That's not to say that I tore anyone apart and was left with a shattered view of his or her life, but rather a respect for what I came to understand to be true and logical. Again, with the logic.
While my actresses, divas, stars, and what have you didn't come along until I was 12, I don't recall a time where I wasn't fascinated by someone or something. The first time I remember finding myself with a rather advanced question for a bit of pop culture was when I was 9, and really into The Flintstones. But really, what did Betty see in Barney? Betty was a stone cold fox, could have had anyone she wanted, but there he was. Barney Rubble.
Those kinds of questions gave my mind something to do, and would soon advance, as I got into real people. As I look back, I sometimes wonder if the fascinations and the wonder built me up or tore me down.