The Gift of Scars

I have an 8-inch scar running down the middle of my chest. A keloid scar that is bumpy, not smooth. It is a reminder of my open heart surgery on March 12, 2008 for my aortic valve replacement. I hid that scar for 2 years and one month. And then, I got better and I decided to celebrate it.

I started wearing camisole shirts and shirts with V-neck collars. I was no longer afraid of my scar. I was no longer afraid of people's reactions to my imperfection. I finally came to the realization that my scar stood for everything I'd been through in the first 47 years of my life and celebrated everything that has happened, since.

I was about a week away from death by the time I had my operation. I could not even walk 8 feet, from one end of a hallway to another, without becoming dizzy. As I have said before, I was ready to die and did not have any attachment to the outcome of the operation. As I look back on the months leading up to the surgery, I realize that I tied up loose ends. I got into contact with the one man I had once truly loved and opened myself up to him - and he made the final rejection, choosing instead, his life of duplicity and dishonesty. I put my favorite photos in a small album and organized them. I had almost no possessions, what I owned fit into a studio apartment. I knew that my life would not be too difficult to clean up, should I die. My friends were few. I had close friends but I felt they would recover from my loss. My illness had shut me down, systematically, for years. Little-by-little, due to self-preservation, I let go of my small joys and pleasures. I could not listen to music anymore - it took too much energy and effort. I stopped going for walks, because I could not breathe anymore. My cat, Saturn, had passed away in June of 2007. And, I think that when he did, he took away the strongest part of my heart that I had left. After losing him, there really wasn't any point to keeping that wounded organ alive anymore.

But, I lived. The operation, while difficult, was a success. I made it through the grueling process. I survived the nearly unbearable physical pain. I made it through the financial impossibility - after collecting documents and writing a beautiful letter, the hospital covered all but $5000 of my costs. I even made it through Prednisone, god help me. My sisters made it through Prednisone, too. Evil, evil drug. I survived family dysfunction in the aftermath.

Then, slowly, doors began to open. I was given an amazing chance to learn from the greatest minds of my time, by producing a national talk show. I learned how to glean information about religion, psychology, science, the cosmos and global conspiracies from people I would only meet over the telephone. Due to necessity, I returned, on air, to the radio and found my voice again. I found a beautiful little apartment in a neighborhood by the water and started going for daily walks again. I rediscovered the joy of movement. I rediscovered the tranquility of mist on my face as I moved through rain. I began to see the world as art, instead of drudgery.

The final gift has been the rediscovery of music. Particularly the music of one man, and he knows who he is. Whatever remained of the shackles and walls encasing my heart were blown away by his music. The very sound of his voice resonated with my soul. And, I was reborn. I am not clear why his voice and music have had this effect on me. Some say it might be karmic. Others say we all have a healing resonance vibration and that it was just good luck that I also enjoyed the songs he wrote.

Whatever the case, once that music opened me up, I truly became whole. Every last bit of fear and pain that I clung to fell by the wayside. I became bold. I started speaking my truth. I started feeling the love of an entire planet inside of my body. And, I started showing off my scar. For, if it were not for that scar I might still be afraid of what might happen in my life. I have been through hell and back and I will not back down now from the potential for heaven on earth.

My scar is truly a gift.

An Ode to Madagascar Chocolate Truffles and Hersheypark

One two-dollar Madagascar chocolate truffle from Theo's chocolates, in Fremont, can take you on a priceless nostalgic odyssey.

I think the day I was fired from my producing job, I discovered these delicacies. Went to Theo's right after that fateful phone call, in search of comfort. Theo's Chocolates is an artisan chocolate maker - they buy the best, fair trade beans they can find from around the world and make small batches. They have dark chocolate bars with up to 91% cacao content. They also have smaller chocolate bars with flavors. Chai Tea Latte is my favorite of the milk chocolate variety. When I have no money, I go to the factory store and scarf up samples and hope nobody is paying attention!

Luckily, I live about a mile and a half away from the little plant, housed in the brick building that used to be the original home of the Red Hook Brewery. So, I justify my cocoa purchase by saying I'll "walk off" the calories. However, in my mind, I don't really think the calories produced by Madagascar Chocolate Truffles are harmful in any way at all. My taste buds and brain are so busy dissecting the complex flavor combination, and my endorphins are going wild with all of that theobroma cacao that I think these things provide a life-affirming essence.

Why Anne! You know so much about chocolate! I'm so impressed that you know the word "theobroma cacao"!

Well, there's a reason for that. My mother was born and raised in Hershey, Pennsylvania, the land of chocolate. My younger sister, Linda, was also born in Hershey (Lisa and I were welcomed to the world in Baltimore). My mother was a tour guide at the original Hershey's Chocolate Factory. She would lead groups through the candy-making process and charm them with her perfect smile and easy laugh. One summer, my father worked at the chocolate factory between semesters. He became smitten with my mother but they would not date until years later.

When Lisa and I were 15, we started working summers at Hersheypark, the big theme park located near the chocolate plant. We wore unbelievably ugly German-inspired uniforms with blue sneakers. She was a shop girl in the area known as "Lower Rhineland", near the park entrance, and I manned the registers in "Upper Rhineland", just up the hill. Upper Rhineland had 3 stores: a general merchandise (more trinkets, wooden spears, Spode plates and giant lolly pops than you can imagine), A small jewelry shop that carried Hershey's Kiss earrings and necklaces and a "Plush" shop that sold stuffed animals!

As you might imagine, I LOVED working in the Plush shop. I wasn't allowed to stock the merchandise and open the shop until after I was 16 and "more mature". It was the best! ESPECIALLY when I got to open the shop with my boyfriend, Bruce Ebersole. We got to the store at 10 am and lugged the unwieldy critter-filled boxes into the store. Then for 3 glorious and fun-filled hours, we would laugh and re-stock the shelves with 5 and 15-foot snakes, Cookie Monsters, incredibly soft and snugly walruses and my favorite toy, "Harry the Hound". Since it was just us, occasionally, we would steal a kiss. Anyhow, Harry, I think, was just a brown and white cuddly long-eared puppy. But he was so much fun to hold. When I wasn't working the cash register and was on "shoplift patrol duty", I would stand by the front door and cradle Harry in my arms. I would also cradle a bag of Hershey's kisses inside my dress' left front pocket. I learned how to surreptitiously unwrap them with only my left hand and sneak them into my mouth, without anybody ever finding out.

Every morning, when I walked through the employees gate of Hersheypark, my nostrils were greeted by a barrage of aromas coming from the cocoa mulch landscape covering. Overnight, crews had watered the plants, soaking those bean husks. The smells were renewed by the water and the morning sunshine caused a cocoa mist to permeate the air. The entire park smelled like chocolate.

Walking by Theo's chocolates, I smell the same thing. They also use cocoa mulch as a ground covering. That smell really takes me back.

Takes me on a priceless nostalgic odyssey back to some very good memories. Can I get another Madagascar truffle, please?

Redneck White Trash Karaoke

During my musical upheaval, I've been experiencing all kinds of performance environments.

Last night was hang-with-the-regular-folk-in-a-dive-bar-karaoke-night. What fun!!

My former radio friend, Julie, is now working at a Home Depot. Previously, she had dedicated many, many years to a thankless corporate radio drug-addict who never appreciated her hard work. Julie programmed the music, scheduled the part-timers, created promos and soothed the fragile egos of the on-air folk, among other tasks. I don't think she ever made more than $27K a year. She RAN that top-5 Seattle Classic Rock station and made everybody else look good. Then, one day, the axe fell. After her unemployment and the chance of gainful employment in the radio biz ran out, Julie took a job in the Big Box Hardware store.

Last night she invited me along to blow off some steam with her co-workers at a total dive bar near Seattle's White Center neighborhood, called Tug.

Tug is the kind of place that has colorful pull-tab banners lining the mirrors behind the bar. The gray carpet is covered with brown beer blotches. Jello shots are a buck a piece. There is a pool room in back, and karaoke every Wednesday and Sunday nights. No stage for karaoke performers. The screens surround the tables and chairs and you get up in the middle of the room with a cordless mic and belt out the tunes. Most of the people could NOT sing, either.

They couldn't sing, but they sure had passion. BEST tune of the night, "Cheater, Cheater" aka "White Trash Ho" - a country tune shouted in a monotone drone by a portly brown-haired diva. Made me want to search out the song and do my own version at karaoke one day! Another favorite performer, Julie's sweet young handsome chocolate co-worker, who had all the rock star poses and none of the vocal abilities while singing his own version of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'". There was one girl, who could really sing and who had fantastic stage presence. And I kept wishing she would leave the bar, while she was singing her Shania Twain tune. Redneck White Trash Karaoke is not about slick performance. (of course, try and tell that to me, when I beat myself up for screwing up Martha and The Vandella's "Nowhere to Run"!)

The big surprise of the night, for me, was the mechanic (still dressed in his gas-station attire) who melted my heart with Bobby Darin's "Mac the Knife" and "Beyond the Sea". Sure his voice wasn't perfect but that soul singing the songs was liquid gold. SIGH.

Julie's longtime friend, Kara and I did a duet on Joan Jett's "I Hate Myself for Lovin' You" and I became MICK JAGGER!!! Singing? Who cares what I sounded like. I strutted around that bar like a pompous cock-of-the-walk. (Apparently, one and a half jello shots made an impact on a lightweight like myself). Oh my god. So much fun. I hate being ladylike sometimes and just need to let my hair DOWN!


Putting Redneck White Trash Karaoke on the list of things in life I MUST do again!

I'm NOT in Control

For sure, I have never, ever been in any kind of situation like this, in my life.

I don't know which way is up, which way is down. I've avoided topsy-turvy romantic emotional upheavals for an entire life. It is probably an act of self-preservation. Why do humans do this to each other?

I am leaping to the wrong conclusions, bashing my head against the wall and crying a lot. I'm also experiencing a kind of elation and joy I've never felt before. What the fuck, people??? Is THIS what all of those songs are about? Is THIS what has inspired artists throughout human history? THIS IS INSANE!

Wait a minute - I'm also tapering off of anti-depressants. Have been taking them off and on since 1990. But, the depression lifted and my heart was finally re-opened two and a half months ago, with the reappearance of music into my life.

Maybe this is all just a chemical reaction or withdrawal symptoms? That is what my dispassionate shrink would say. That man is like a stone, yet he never gives me a straight answer. I don't want to tell him what I've been feeling. I'm afraid he'll tell me I'm bi-polar and put me on lithium.

IS THIS LOVE?????

Why in the hell do people want to get married when they feel like THIS?