Dianne Pearce's Blog, page 2

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Give Me Back My Patriotism

From the time I can remember, whenever I belonged to any group, I was, what my brother would call, a rah! rah!

My brother was definitely not a rah! rah! But, in his defense, organized things, like church and school, weren’t always that welcoming to the distracted kid who looked like he would have preferred to be anywhere other than there, and he would have.

I remember so clearly many aspects of 1976. I wore one of those mop hats Betsy Ross and the like wore, because my class was so often engaged in colonial reenactments at malls and nursing homes. I remember my friend, Krissi, who had Mr. Griffin instead of Mrs. Wentz, and her whole class did a huge lip-syncing performance, and Krissi got to be Elton John while another girl, who I was very jealous of, got to be Kiki Dee. Damn!

But my class was relegated to what Mrs. Wentz liked, and that was patriotism.

Well, that wasn’t that hard for me. I loved fireworks, something which, I must admit, years of dog ownership as an adult have soured for me. I loved barbecues in the back field with all the dads playing softball against all the sons, even if it did mean that the other daughters and I were stuck being beer-bringers, cheerleaders, and trash-picker-uppers. I was so proud a few years earlier for the Battle of the Sexes, where Billie Jean King roundly kicked Bobby Riggs’ old ass. I believed in feminism from the door, as much as a new human could. But the guys were not at all happy about Billie Jean King. They were pissed, and embarrassed, as if each one of them was Bobby Riggs. When our working class neighborhood had those ball games in the field I had an understanding that the guys needed those ball games. Those dads needed to clobber their young sons, and they needed their wives and daughters to cheer them on. 

I have the photo of Converse at the top because we wore Converse and Keds, my brother and me, and I had a pair of Converse, I think they were Converse, in 1976 that were stars and stripes, and I loved them. I had a patriotic T, and I put crepe paper in my spokes, and biked in the 4th of July parade, learned all the patriotic songs (I was able to sing all the words to “When Johnny Comes Marching Home” just last night at the Hollywood Bowl), and I loved America. 

My parents were blue-collar, a machinist (later a gunsmith) and a telephone operator, and they raised us on church, and baseball games, and love and respect of elders, and turkey with stuffing, and all that stuff.

As I grew up, though, that fit me less and less. 

Sometimes, in my childhood, boys were just jerks, mean, violent. I never had a group of girls surround me on bikes and spit all over me, or throw worms in my long hair when it rained, or pick on my friend Richard, who was probably gay, and hit him, and hit me if I tried to stop them. But the boys did that. The boys told me I couldn’t play run-the-bases, or go in their fort, or go with them to the creek. Not my brother, my brother was always nice, but the boys the same age as me. In school the boys got angry when I got a higher score on the test, like it was a crime, and then would do something, “Race you to that pole!” to prove they could beat me. Or just knock into me in the hall, or hold my locker door closed when I was trying to get my books out. I loved my father and brother. I loved baseball and hockey and boxing. I wanted to hang out with the guys and the girls, but the guys weren’t usually welcoming, and they really didn’t want to hear my ideas on how to do things, at church or at school. And there were plenty of girls who were always ready to defend the guys being just as jerky as they wanted to be, if it meant they got asked to the prom. I also wanted to go to prom, but not that much.

As I grew up I was always more of a reader than most, and so I read the Sunday paper, and the Bible, and the school textbooks, and the encyclopedias that we had (I think we had through J), and the Atlas. I knew what the books said, and I knew what I thought about what I read. A lot of the guys hadn’t read, but they knew with certainty what they thought, and I had better not say different. And their girlfriends agreed.

In college, when I was living in an apartment near University of Pennsylvania, the neighbor guys threw ketchup and mustard on my apartment door, and banged up my bike locked up in the hall, because of my Geraldine Ferraro poster, which they tore down and tore up.  Guys were always telling me I had too much to say, and too many opinions, and read too much.

Much later, when I signed up to adopt from China, I joined a Yahoo group for adopters-to-be, and quickly learned that a vocal group of waiting parents were fundamentalist Christians, and they didn’t want anyone using rainbows for anything, or to adopt while gay, or to really like China at all, which was, in the views they often espoused, a bad place full of bad people whose children needed rescuing.

I watched the Watergate hearings as a small child. When the cartoons were over on Saturday mornings, I stayed for the hearings until my mom shooed me away. I was so disappointed in Nixon. I thought Ford was a kindly but ineffective man. I thought Carter was great; I wanted to meet him. I despised Reagan, and both Bushes, and I was thrilled about Clinton, but more thrilled about Mrs. Clinton. I was devasted when Bill cheated on his wife. 

I don’t know where I’m going with this except that, when I was young, I loved being a USA booster, and as I aged, I have felt more and more pushed out, like my kind of person wasn’t the right kind of American, and I’m white and straight! For those who aren’t, the pushing must feel so much more constant.

When I went to see Hamilton last fall, all my patriotism was re-awakened. My god what they did to get this country made! What they had the imaginations to plan for in the future, and what they were willing to give up to make this dream country!

But then, less than a month after I saw it, so many people voted for the wrong person. Now, I agree, we can compare and agree to disagree on John McCain and Mitt Romney vs. Barak Obama or the like. But we cannot do that on the current occupant of the White House. The man elected in 2024 has done nothing but egregious activities his entire adult life, and yet he brings out the patriotism in so many people, people, I would argue, who have no idea what patriotism is, and what it means to be an American in the America created by those founders whose stories are told in Hamilton. My father, who taught me to love baseball and boxing, and my brother, who taught me to love hockey and catch tadpoles, would have been horrified by elected officials being shot in their homes by a fake cop, and would have been disappointed in a president who could not bring himself to offer condolences to their governor. Where are men like them? Where are the real patriots? I feel like I’ve been in states of disbelief, grief, confusion, amazement, and panic since the fall election. I have moments where I want to take my small family, and our friends, and run for another country. But when you’re from the country that kicks everyone out, can you really ask another country to let you in?

I haven’t put out a flag for Flag Day or the 4th of July in years. I am an American patriot, but not for this version of America. And I wish I could have my pride and patriotism back. For me, it’s almost like the 4thof July has been sucked into “the upside down,” where everything I’ve loved about this country has been changed to its most perverse opposite. I know that what people like me lost from our country we lost in tiny little pieces, from, in my lifetime, the pardoning of Nixon foreword, in the name of trying to give space to two sides that are really not equal at all. As the short and fantastic film Here Be Dragons says, “Math class doesn’t give equal time to 2+2=5.” But we did. I lost my patriotism, and many lost much much more. I don’t think it’s something barbecue or patriotic sneakers or colored explosions can fix.

I Buy Myself Flowers: Iris!

Today my beautiful lady head is holding iris and Veronica. I once saw neighbors rip up an enitre patch of iris and throw them away I asked if I could have them, but they said no because they didn’t like them, so they didn’t want to see them anywhere. Can you imagine? They put in something foul, like geraniums. When I return from the temporary status as renter back to home owner, iris are absolutely in the plan. Veronica I wasn’t aware of until this year, which is painful to admit. They are absolutely brilliant flowers, long lasting, straight and tall with sometimes a graceful curve to them. They’re a real eye-catcher. A friend once took a plant pot filling class, and was told that if you plant a pot you shoul have a filler, and spiller, and a thriller. Veronica is the thriller. Cost for flowers, about $11 at Trader Joe’s.
Also pictured… future Chex mix!

Clothes: Today’s Outfit: I Dream in Madras

A gazillion years ago now I spotted a pair of madras pants at a Goodwill. Man, I wanted them. Unfortunately, based on their size or mine, it wasn’t happening. I remember standing there, thinking, What sewing skills can I unleash to make these work? I do have sewing skills, and they are universally unimpressive, so there’s that. I talked myself out of them, which was a good idea, but I’ve been longing for them ever since.

Facebook puts clothing ads up in my feed all the time. It knows me, and, in this case, I don’t mind, because here came a golf store (last month) with a huge sale on men’s madras pants. Score! Now, what the hell do you wear with madras pants if you don’t golf, and you don’t want to look more dork than usual? T-shirts just seemed to add to the wrong vibe, so I went with this shirt, from Old Navy, I think, during the pandemic, and I believe it is a women’s shirt, because it is a petite, as you can tell because it doesn’t come down to below my butt. I am short, really short, so short my favorite HS teacher called me Shorty instead of my name, and my waist is also short. And, while I’m outing myself, I might as well go all the way and reveal that, also during HS, the costume lady informed me that my arms are shorter than they’re supposed to be, which explains a lot of yoga challenges, and why my daughter says I am a T-Rex. Add into all that my usual chest size of 38D, and it’s been a work-in-progress, sometimes, to find what I want, like a good men’s shirt to wear with ties that fits waist and boobs, and this petite version does the trick so well that you cannot imagine how carefully I launder it. This shirt has to last me to death, folks, and I ain’t planning on going anytime soon.

Lastly the tie is, like all my ties, from Goodwill, but, until today, it had been living in my closet, unworn, for probably 8 or more years. Listen, I commit to clothes I love. I think it works with the slightly preppy vibe.

I have on Seavees sneakers, and, pro tip, every August Seavees has a massive online sale on most of their sneakers that is often 50% off, which these were. They are not as comfy as Vans, IMHO, but they do have that retro beach feel. I have had this pair about five years, bought on sale one August. I am obsessed with my favorite color, green, and really have to hold myself back from buying nothing but green clothes.

Dave has off today, and is sleeping in. I got up (even though I was up late, one!) at my usual pre-6 time, mostly because I was sooo hot, which was, I think, not a function of the weather, but more of the time of life, and had to get in a nice cool shower. Then I thought I would try to wear these pants, and put this look together, and took Oliver for a walk so he wouldn’t bother Dave. As we were heading back we pulled ourselves over to make room for another pedestrian, and we said hello, and she said, “I love your look!” So, you know, I’m pretty much on cloud 9 right now: day slayed. I only dress for me, so that I think, OMGosh, woman, I love it! and tell myself how clever I am. But, having another person comment, before 7 in the morning too, is a great surprise.

These pants are comfy, and got looser just on the walk, which was nice. They have four pockets too, cool, as I often walk with my hands in my back pockets for some reason. I’m all in on the pants, and also happy to be undercutting that golf, country club thing. Golfers… I just don’t know. Someone out there is giving golfing a very bad reputation these days. You know what I’m talking about. Imagine how authors would feel if I golfed instead of helping them edit and sell their books! So Ima sit my madras butt down on the porch before Los Angeles gets scorching at noon, and do some editing. And if it needs saying again, there are no riots here. Just hot days and hard-working people being nice to each other. Los Angeles is one of the best places to merge onto the highway, because they’re nice here. I mean, you know, I’m from Philly. I can drive freaking anywhere in the world because I could easily merge onto the Schuylkill Expressway from the left lane, coming down a ramp into the fast lane at 65. It’s a thing. Los Angeles is so much more forgiving. So, yeah, if you like nice weather, really nice, 9 or more months of the year (a teensy bit too hot other times), if you like happy people to interact with at stores and on the street, if you like diversity for your kids and your own general weirdness, and a more chill vibe overall, and especially if you like international food, this is a pretty good place to be. And if you want some super soft comfortable pants with lots of pockets that could, truly, go with almost anything, get some madras. Geek out!

IT SHOULD BE LIKE A HALF AN HOUR VOLUME 15: WILL YOU REMEMBER?

This is a strange one.

And no, neither of them is in drag.

That is the wonderful duo of Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy.

My mother loved musicals when I was a kid, so I heard a lot of them. I used to ride my bike up and down our blue collar alley singing “Climb Every Mountain” at the top of my lungs…, you know, like all the cool kids. I once was a very high soprano, but now I am definitly a mezzo-soprano, if not a baritone.

Jeanette MacDonald went to school with my grandmother (one year ahead of her), which is what every old person in Philadelphia used to claim, but in our case it was true, and I know this because my grandmother, Sara, who never lied, and could not sing, told me she thought it was dumb, Jeanette doing all those “La la las” after school. My grandmother also told us that stolen flowers grow best, so there you go. My grandmother never knew her father, who ran off and joined the Canadian (French?) foreign Legion while my grandmother was still incubating inside her mother. Story goes her father got a new Canadian family, and died in WWI. So, of course, my grandmother had nothing to sing about and stole flowers. Of course. And so she walked home each day past Jeanette’s house where she could hear Jeanette singing. My grandmother wanted to play the piano more than anything, and knew a few tunes (“Jesus Loves Me,” “Cowslips,” and two-thirds of “Rose of Waikiki.”), but did not have the resources Jeanette had, and was certainly envious of those singing lessons, and the piano in the house.

In any case, family history and legend aside, my mother quite liked Jeanette MacDonald, and my mother was also a soprano. I remember the movies Jeanette made with Nelson Eddy were so corny, but she also made the movie about the San Francisco earthquake with Clark Cable, which was tragic and maybe a bit less corny, and had the stirring song about San Franciso in it.

In any case, I was a huge fan of her work, and I just loved this song that the duo did together, and “Indian Love Call,” (probably racist film and movie… but loved the song!)

and I also loved Rosemarie by Nelson on his own.

As corny as everything about them is, they had a tragic love life, if you read their Wikipedia pages, all brought about by the Hollywood studios trying to control them not getting divorced, which put Jeanette, who suffered with a weak heart, into a marriage of domestic violence. Really as tragic as their films often seemed! And they both died in their early 60s, which is also sad. They had money, fame, and privilege, but were denied the thing they wanted the most, each other.

“Will You Remember,” the first song inserted at the top of this post, has a habit of popping into my head on random, and I end up singing it for an entire week, in the shower, in the car, in my dreams. Hopefully you’ll find something to enjoy in these fantastic old tunes, and, if you do, join in, and see if you can hit those high notes!

May they be clasped in each others’ arms in the great beyond….

I Buy Myself Flowers: Pride Flowers

Back when Target was still DEI-cool, I bought myself this head planter. I never quite had the right plant to put in it though, and I decided to use it as a vase instead. I especially like the way the flowers come out the the head and look almost like hair, or a fancy hat.

I buy myself flowers. All the time. I byu them at least twice a month, depending on how long they last. I admit to really loving them and not wanting to throw them away or compost them until they’re really spent. Today I went into my local Vons (I usually get pretty and inexpensive flowers from Trader Joe’s, but they had nothing interesting a few days ag o when I stopped in for half and half.), and found these cool tie-dyed roses. I thought they were perfect for celebrating Pride. I’m straight and cis, and a very much in support of Pride, and trans rights, and gay marriage, and all that good stuff. And I love flowers, and fun, colorful, or heavily-scented , off-bat, exotic, just about any kind. (Except geraniums, but that’s a post for another day!)

I just thought these were so pretty and uplifting.

My mother has always considered flowers a waste of money, which seems to sad to me. This bunch of roses and the yellow “filler” cost me ten dollars. That means I’m spending around about 20 bucks a month for a little hit of joy every time I walk into my perpetually untidy kitchen.

Get yourself some flowers and enjoy the color. This is your one life: make it beautiful. Don’t wait for someone else to do it.

And go Miley!

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Clothes: Today’s Outfit (Actually AWC’s Outfit)

I have been taking photos of myself in clothes (lucky for us all! Not naked!) because I love clothes, and I figured I could be brave enough to share that side of myself which you would not know unless you knew me in person.

I also snap a lot of photos of pets, flowers, and, when she lets me, my kid, so the phone gets pretty full. I finally got around to downloading a bunch, and here, for my second (?) clothes post is what I wore back in March to the Atlanta Writer’s conference. It’s a Lucy and Yak Ragan, and my, what are they? Snake? Leopard? I think snake, boots. and some sory of cropped black sweater.

Having been a fat woman for most of my adult life, I often go black in professional situations because it feels safer, cleaner, slimmer. This L&Y Ragan is a USA size 10, as an FYI, so I think I’m down in average size for that, not plus, but I still see me as large, too large, and probably always will.

It was a wonderful day, though, as I had someone come sit at my table with me:

The fantastic Emilie Khair.

The moment I met Emilie I was in big-time girl love. LOL. Emilie and I are in the same age range, and that’s all anyone needs to know abut that, and she is a person who, the moment we saw each other in person, I felt like I’d known forever. So, even though we’d worked together for many months, to meet her and just hang out was so much fun. Honestly, and I know this is going to sound really dorky to say, but when I work on a book with an author I get really attached to the book, well, because usually I had to likethe book a lot to begin with to want t publish it, and then, because I am a gigantic super-nerd, I am very very excited when I get to meet the author in person. I didn’t ask Emilie for her autograph on her book, but I wanted to. I was really sorry to leave Atlanta. I wished I could have hung out the rest of the week with Emilie. Does anyone else out there feel like there’s never enough time for connection and just fun? Back on the plane, and, that week, home to a huge amount of chaos as an exchange student had come while I was in Atlanta, and the exchange student was a delight, but she was only staying for a week, and it happened to be the same week (the school, IMHO, arranged it badly) the kids the vsiting students were staying with all had all their midterm stuff due, and my chronically procrastinating child was losing her mind when I arrived back in the house, much to the chagrin of the poor the exchange student. So Mom was on immediate duty, and, oh, how I thought back fondly on hanging out with Emilie. Being a mom to my daughter is one of the best joys in my life, but it is not lost on me that when you become a spouse, and then a parent, you are giving up most of your allowance of fun. So you have to get it in where you can. I would love to escape to Atlanta with Emilie again, or anywhere. She felt like a lifelong friend right away, and she’s also an interesting and talented author.

And, I veered a bit off of my outfit, but, what can I say? I’m a veerer.

It’s getting dark outside as I write this, and I have the door open. We live one block off of the restaurant street, and sometimes, like tonight, there are people who are rambunctious in the street. I’ve heard yelling, some fireworks, sirens, dogs barking. Everyone wants to be seen, to matter, to have some attention, and we get squeezed too thin sometimes, and we get loud, when we get a chance to have some fun, to loosen up the reigns. Everyone is guilty of some loud times, but the breeze and the temperature are too nice to allow a little noise to make me close the door. Whever you are, I hope it’s a nice, if slightly loud, spring evening. Sleep tight.

Clothes: Today’s Outfit

One thing you might not know about me is that I love clothes. Absolutely love them, and (usually) like getting dressed. I have had, throughout my long life, mixed success in this area, largely due, IMHO, to the size I was wearing at any given time. I have fought my weight for most of my adult life, but, long before I knew it was something I needed to fight, people were telling me I needed to: my mother made comments, especially when my two best friends in HS also turned out to be… not skinny. My mother and my sister were skinny, so my mom was flummoxed about where my “trouble” came from. So she often said things to me about my weight, mostly asking, like a person new to this planet, why I thought I was heavy, and where it came from. If only she had voiced that question while looking in a mirror, she’d have found her answer looking at her. And then there were my two Irish grandmas, who looked as potato-fed as they were. So, why was weight trouble for me? Anxiety from my narcissistic mom, and genetics. No one else in my family ever said anything, and certainly not my size 22 grandmas, but there were others. I remember the gym teachers in HS, male and female, told me I was very pretty, and I just needed to lose 20 pounds. I believe I weighed 118 then; I hadn’t yet begun to stress eat enough to be considered self-medicating. I know I hated gym, and never spoke to gym teachers if I didn’t have to, so the fact that 2 from each gender felt the need to tell me I was attractive and losing weight could make me more so is, I now see, weird. But when you feel guilty (I am guilty for being too large) you often don’t realize inapproprate behavior. Between them and my mother I was taught that my weight was a problem before I saw it as one. I don’t think I’ll ever make it to 118 again in this lifetime (at least not while healthy), but I have done many things to try and get smaller. I’m going to say that I feel better smaller too, which is not to accept body-shaming or anything like that. I am, and have always been, petite, short, short legs, short waist, small bones. In HS when I bought my class ring it was a size 5, so skinny fingers (although now the joints are a bit lumpy). It feels better in my body to be smaller in pounds. And with a smaller body I can buy more fitted clothing that suits me better. Even though there are a lot of stores that carry clothes for larger female bodies, they are often not scaled for a petite person: the legs are too long, the waist is too long, the sleeves are too long, the shoulders too broad. They expect a larger woman to be large in height, in bone structure, shoes size 9 or higher, just all-around large. I remember my mother telling me I could wear big flowery prints because I was large, when I thought the opposite was true, but the stores agreed with her, and often the prints are gigantic. To be a combo of large and petite is really hard when trying to find clothes.

How did I get “large” to begin with? I think now, looking back, it was anxiety that I could neither rid myself of, or live with. It had to go somewhere, and it went into my stomach where it gnawed, and I was simply trying to give it something else to chew on. Not being a sweets person, that usually meant a second sandwich. Too much pasta really took up space, and gave the anxiety hours of distraction, much like my dog with a chew. These things worked on the uncomfortable feelings, but stretched my body.

In any case, I love clothes, and I love getting dressed. Though I have worked from home exclusively since just after the pandemic, I still get up and shower and dress and fix my hair, every day. And put on shoes usually too. I know some people won’t wear shoes in their house that they wear outside of their house, but shoes are part of the outfit, my friends.

In this photo I am wearing the first jumpsuit, coverall, whatever you want to call it that I’d ever bought for myself. It’s from Wildfang, and I am wearing it with an old Old Navy sweater in sort of an acid yellow, with my yellow specs, yellow socks, and my beloved Basquiat Pez Dispenser Doc Martens that Dave and Sophie got me for my birthday a few years back. I tend to keep clothes I love a long time. I have a pair of Bass Weejuns from 1983 (that I have had resoled at least three times), and they’re probably my oldest article of clothing.

So when I get dressed, though I’m often not going anywhere, and no one sees me but me and the fam (and the fam has long ago stopped noticing me), I still do it. And I do it, like the weightloss, 100% for me. Now that we’ve settled in our little rented house I’m back to running too, which I do alone, and also just for me. I’d love to be able to get back to doing a 5K again, and, hopefully, with a less embarrassing time. In the future. Not today. But for today I also have with me, in the photo, tied with Oliver the Dog for my most ardent fan, Patrick, the fluffy alergen who loves me. I am willing to swear he can actually say “Mom.” Pets don’t care what I am wearing, or how much their hair messes with the outfit. This fluffy white fellow here has recently had a haircut, and is still fairly fluffy. He was a gift from my crazy cat lady brother, and he loves me like my brother did, which is awesome as I miss my brother, gone some years now, still almost every day. So, from time to time I’ll post something I have on that I particularly like, as I get more used to seeing photos of me, and having other people see them too. And I’ll always know that Patrick thinks I look, as my brother would have said, “Marvelous.”