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What Every Girl Must Learn: Advice for Balls and Sex

Masked Ball in Palace of High Nobility, 1740

Masked Ball in Palace of High Nobility, 1740

If my puddle jumper plane ever touched down on a green patch in the middle of nowhere and Mr. Roarke and Tattoo stood welcoming me with open arms and lifted glasses, I would request tea and crumpets with the well-versed etiquette author, Emily Post, and candid tip giver, never one to withhold her opinion, sex therapist, Dr. Ruth Westheimer .

Mr. Roarke may raise an eyebrow in concern but you won’t because admit it. You’re intrigued. Still reading. You’d come too if invited. Or beg to be a fly on the wall, if we were uncouth enough to allow flies to attend. Because you know it’d be an interesting afternoon. Particularly if the hour drew late and tea and crumpets turned to tequila and tapas.

Emily Post may look all prim and proper, but her seemingly innocent nuggets of advice for young debutantes attending a ball could have just as easily come from Dr. Ruth giving very different advice for different firsts.

But I paused, I admit. Like you’re doing now. Emily Post and Dr. Ruth? Really, KC? Really? Sure you’re not indulging in a bit too many schnaps while typing away at that blog of yours? Could the lady once considered the Mistress of American Manners exchange pleasant banter with the woman who the Wall Street Journal described as a “cross between Henry Kissinger and Minnie Mouse?”

Truly. I believe the two would have had a ball together!

Sorry. Not funny– squeezing the ball thing in there but you know what a mean. Both ladies gave men and women advice on how to act, and not act in order to have a good time and be successful at the venture at hand. Albeit, often very different ventures, but with a little tweaking here and there, the advice of one could have easily been advice by the other. And I’m sure Dr. Ruth would agree that a good time at one could lead to the other. (Although I think this might make Ms. Post choke a bit on her crumpet).

“There is one thing every girl … must learn—self-unconsciousness! The best advice might be to follow somewhat the precepts of mental science and make herself believe that a good time exists in her own mind. If she can become possessed with the idea that she is having a good time and look as though she were, the psychological effect is astonishing…”

I can see Dr. Ruth slapping down her tea cup in agreement. “Ms. Post, I’ve been saying the same exact things for years.” Then she might continue to talk about how she always says a woman has to take responsibility for own or—… well – suffice to say, she’s referring to her pinnacle of good time. So here we see how the two ladies are basically saying, it is up to the woman to make her own good time – in the ballroom and in the bedroom.

Add to that, Dr. Ruth’s, “When it comes to [the activity], the most important six inches are the ones between the ears.” Now with that, I think both ladies would agree full-heartedly.

Dr. Ruth continues her good advice, which I am sure Emily Post would second that, “Say to yourself, you know, I’m not going to be afraid of a little work, or a little challenge. I’m not going to take the easy way out.”

In a very similar strain, Ms. Post explains, “…for…success… especial talents are needed just as they are for art or sport or any other accomplishment,” and “do not drag through [the activity] as if you found [it] wearisome, it is an insult to your partner, but while you are cheerful and animated; be lady-like and dignified in your deportment.”

Dr. Ruth realizes that comparison is never a good thing and I think Emily Post would agree that such actions are not conducive to a good time for anyone.

Kaffeesiederball Vienna Palace

Kaffeesiederball Vienna Palace

So when engaging in the activity, “Don’t criticize…. Discuss constructively later” because “If you tell a partner about past [partners], he or she is automatically going to make comparisons with them. That’s not going to be helpful.”

As the old saying goes, it takes two to tango so Dr. Ruth advises and Ms. Post would not object that couples need to, “…be attuned to their partner, recognizing that he or she is sending a signal that should be respected.”

And Dr. Ruth would certainly not argue with Ms. Post’s 1922 words of wisdom that “. ..the old idea also has passed that measure a girl’s popular success by the number of trousered figures around her. It is quality, not quantity that counts.”

But I do worry a little, and it might explain Mr. Roarke’s initial show of concern that as the tequila drains, things could get a bit out of hand. Afterall, Roarke’s fantasies were not without peril and he always made it quite clear that he was powerless to stop a fantasy once it had begun. So the three of us are forced to play out our soirée to its conclusion.

So when Ms. Post sighs and explains that the “… gilded youth likes to [engage in the activity] when the impulse moves him; he also likes to be able to stay or leave when he pleases,” Dr. Ruth sees this as an open invitation to add her own two cents on the matter.

“Some things belong in the privacy of the bedroom,” Dr. Ruth will say. Ms. Post will be in the midst of a full on nod of agreement, when Dr. Ruth will add, “or living room or kitchen floor.”

How long will Ms. Post retain her perfectly balanced consummate grace? Particularly when Dr. Ruth starts talking about how the time has come for women to pay for young beautiful men (taxi dancers, anyone?) and asks, “Why should only rich men have young, beautiful women?”

But if I am any kind of judge of people based on their writing, tidbits like, some of the greatest belles ever known have been as stupid as sheep, but they have had happy dispositions and charming and un-self-conscious manners evidence Emily Post’s spunk. So when Dr. Ruth comes right out and claims, “Skiers make the best lovers because they don’t sit in front of a television like couch potatoes. They take a risk and they wiggle their behinds. They also meet new people on the ski lift.” I’m expecting Ms. Post, her words no longer so measured, might just answer, “But my good Dr. Ruth, you obviously never met a dancer. They not only wiggle their own behind but force you to wiggle yours as well.”

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Delve into further Reading:

Post, Emily. Etiquette; New York: Funk & Wagnalls, 1922. Print. – available online via the Gutenberg Project under: http://www.gutenberg.org/files/14314/14314-h/14314-h.htm

Dr. Ruth Interview in Esquire, January 2011 “meaning of Life” issue available online under http://www.esquire.com/features/what-ive-learned/meaning-of-life-2011/dr-ruth-quotes-0111

Dr. Ruth’s Website

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Life and das Ding an sich: How are You Interpreting Your Life? As Eeyore or Beethoven?

“… you’re not getting paid for living a life, but transforming it, interpreting it and giving it meaning.”
– Jane Alison, author of The Love Artist, discussing historical fiction writing in coursera.org University of Virginia Historical Fiction course, Plagues, Witches and War

Which is your world?

Grumpyland Poster

Grumpyland?

OR

Life is good

Happyland?

Sometimes the most obvious truths are the most enlightening. But what Jane Alison said got me thinking.

Not just writers, but everyone, is not just living a life, but transforming it, interpreting and giving it meaning.

Maybe we can’t choose if it is sunny or rainy, but we do choose if this will influence our view of the morning.

“There are those who will wish you good morning. If it is a good morning, which I doubt.”
Eeyore, A.A. Milne’s Winne-the-Pooh

And on a grander scale, we choose every single minute of our lives, what meaning we will give to life’s everyday challenges.

Will we think, “Oh, I’m a failure, because I haven’t got a brain,” like Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz?

Or will we write one of history’s most moving musical pieces at a time when we are almost completely deaf, like Beethoven? In fact, when the 9th premiered in Vienna on May 7, 1824, the composer could not hear the enthusiastic applause of the strict Viennese audience and remained turned toward the stage until a singer went to where he was sitting and had him turn to bathe in their adoration.

So what meaning are you giving your life?

Are you the born loser? Like Charlie Brown who sometimes lies awake at night and asks, “Where have I gone wrong?” Only to have the voice inside his head answer, “This is going to take more than one night.”

Or are you Ned Flanders? A person who exudes so much contentment with life that everyone, and especially Homer Simpson, automatically assumes he has a charmed existence.

There is no objective reality in this world.

Every action, reaction, and experience is subject to interpretation. Like the German philosopher, Immanuel Kant, argues in his Critique of Pure Reason “things in themselves” (das Ding an sich) are unknowable. We interpret our experiences.  A passive knowledge or observation does not exist.

When the times are a-changin and the waters are grown and you’re drenched to the bone, are you gonna start swimmin’ or sink like a stone?

And afterwards, will you look back and say, “I learned how to swim because of that” or “Woe is me. Who wouldn’t end up a drenched miserable rat with all that water”?

Up to you.

Transformation, interpretation, meaning.

We are all transcribing our life experiences, not on paper but in our own self-perceptions.

To my fellow writers, struggling to get published or write the next best seller, I think we have to remind ourselves that we decide how we handle our setbacks. We can write our best possible book but in the end, we ultimately can’t control if an agent or publisher is interested. We can’t influence the particular tastes and preconceived notions of particular readers. But we can decide how we will interpret the long waits, countless rejection letters or critical reviews.

Will they strengthen or break us?

If only Charlie Brown, Eeyore and the Scarecrow had taken the following advice:

Give it all and ask for no return
And very soon you’ll see and you’ll begin to learn
That it’s alright, it’s alright
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It’s Alright, Guns N Roses

 

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Eternally Vienna

Roses in Burggarten

Roses in Burggarten

Wien, Wien

Heart pounding, cheeks flushing

Like the very first time

cafe and Kebab, Fiaker and Schnitzel

treading lightly into an unwritten future through streets trodden with the  past

lanes orchestrating

Prater's Riesenrad

Prater’s Riesenrad

life encounters

arteries pulsating

joy and sorrow

Donaukanal’s winter wind stinging,

Augarten’s black ravens singing,

Burggarten’s roses soothing

Fiaker, Horse drawn carriages, in Vienna

Fiaker at St. Stephan’s Cathedral

and Gloriette’s morning view

Bahr, Kraus, Altenberg, Schnitzler

Who has defined you?

all and none

being what you want to be

when the time comes to be it

I come to you and you leave with me

Vienna's Imperial Palace

Vienna’s Imperial Palace

to love you, impossible

to not, unthinkable

you give, you take

you heal, you break

Tombstone in Central Cemetery

Tombstone in Central Cemetery – “I love you, my Vienna”

you taunt, you charm

and go on and on

Immerwährende Wien. Immerwährende Wien. Print This Post

 

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The Treasures We Leave Behind and Always Carry with Us

When you leave your childhood home, no matter how far and wide you roam, you leave many things behind, but some you carry with you forever.

For me, Grandma-Next-Door is one of those things.

Postcards and Letters collected by Grandma Next Door

My letters and postcards that Grandma Next Door collected over the years

Grandma-Next-Door lived beside my family and me ever since I could remember. She lived in what I thought was the coziest house with the loveliest garden in the world. And ever since I could remember, she was my Grandma. And even though I already had two grandmothers, my childhood brain never stopped to do the math and my childhood heart never knew why it should.

How many days, too many to count, did I ring her bell to find her in her lounge chair, cigarette in hand and a stack of saltine crackers by her side?

“Can we go visit your garden?” I would ask. And she would always respond, “Sure,” stub out her cigarette, lift herself from the chair and tell me to fetch her shoes.

I would hold her arm as we descended the five wooden stairs to the backyard and did not let it go during the thirty some steps more to that magical place tucked under the pines.

In spring when the daffodils rose from their frost beddings, I helped Grandma-Next-Door unveil her ceramic frogs, dwarfs and Snow White. Together we would rouse them from their winter slumber in the cellar, carry them outside, clean them and place them– stepping oh so carefully amongst the plants – back into their summer dwellings.

“But I think last year, we placed Dopey over here,” I would say.

“Well, then, that’s where Dopey needs to go,” Grandma-Next-Door would respond.

In summer we went fern hunting in the Shades. And the annual outing was particularly successful if we sighted a Jack in the Pulpit. I don’t know why. I just loved those plants.

And when the trillium blanketed the woods, we’d take a trip to pick those too — a bouquet for Grandma-Next-Door and another for my mom. And as the years passed, and Grandma-Next-Door’s legs could no longer carry her to the Shades, I gathered the trillium alone. I’d return from my outing to find Grandma-Next-Door waiting for me with some freshly cooked Louisiana Put-Together, my favorite, and together we would dine on her front porch, her on the chair and I on the swing, and there we would chat until my parents returned from work and it was time to head home.

When I returned home at age 17, after being abroad for a year, Grandma-Next-Door had an American flag extended from her porch in my honor. And though my life path then led me far away from our neighborhood in PA, anytime I returned back home, as soon as my father stopped the car and before I removed the suitcase from the trunk, I always went straight over to see her.

When Grandma-Next-Door passed, I was no longer living at home. I had been gone many years and my parents called me with the news. I was surprised to learn she had a nephew. But he didn’t seem too interested in coming for her funeral. Grandma-Next-Door had her house and garden but not too much else. Or so he thought. But I found many treasures – her marriage certificate, her rosary, photos of her and her husband, and neatly tucked away in her bedroom dresser, all the photos, postcards, and letters I had sent her throughout the years.

And in her night stand drawer I found a journal. Filled with pages of poems written by a woman that I obviously never completely knew. I thought of her husband, who had passed long before I was born. I thought of her living alone so many years in her cozy house with the magical garden and I missed her.

A Poem from Grandma Next Door’s Journal:

My Dream was Real

Come, kill my love, but

let illusion live.

Do not destroy yourself as I

believed you,

For if I dreamed too deep, if I

believed you

Sum of all things the heart can

ask or give,

If I declared you constant,

though you roved,

Kind, though you hurt me,

Certain, though you faltered

Say not that I was wrong, but

that you altered.

Do not deny that image I so

loved.

While I could trust, I

mirrored each for each

A truer lie than ever truth could be

My faith made real each unreality

My heart found heights no

grounded feet could reach

Then do not judge me

blinded or deceived,

But swear my dream was real,

while I believed.

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