Copyright by Ruth Lampert March 2008
One of the ways you can tell that my memoir, “Ruth on Wry,” is true is that it is not about surviving a cruel , abusive past. And if I did embellish a bit here and there to make an anecdote more entertaining, isn’t that what story-tellers always do? O.K., so maybe every little detail isn’t totally in accord with the known facts. Maybe I wasn’t actually wearing a plaid pleated skirt and knee socks on the day I carried the garbage to school instead of dumping it into the backyard incinerator. But I did carry the garbage to school one time, and I did wear plaid pleated skirts and knee socks, lots of times.
And the story about my thinking the hot tub was for nude bathing when actually it wasn’t, isn’t the most original embarrassing moment ever recounted – apparently not only in dreams does one find oneself semi or not-at-all clothed in places where the dress code means you can’t be butt naked.
The instances of fake memoirs are increasing, or maybe they are just coming to light more frequently these days. I find myself wondering if some of those famous/classic life stories, which I will not mention here for fear of legal
consequences were – well, if not completely invented, significantly fictionalized. Michael Kinsley in his recent Time Magazine essay, says “It is time for a prestigious commission to re-examine all autobiographies, including classics like Rousseau’s Confession and The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin.” I presume he has competent legal advisors. At first I thought he was serious, but then he notes “It’s only a matter of time until Little Red Riding admits that her story is ‘exaggerated’ I have some grandmother stories myself that benefit from a touch of creative embellishment, although it is quite true that when she scolded the neighborhood children for drawing chalk pictures on the sidewalk, and they responded “The sidewalk is public!” she did actually scream at them in her memorable Hungarian accent, “Your ass be public too!” I have witnesses to this and other less-than-typical-grandma anecdotes. .
Another way you can tell that my memoir is based on truth is that it is not particularly inspirational. Not that growing up was without trials and hardships, most significantly the tragedy of my father’s early death. But I did not experience sexual molestation, hunger, or homelessness. The apartment in Chicago was indeed crowded, and I guess by today’s standards five people and one bathroom seems semi-slum, but actually, it was pretty nice.
There is one inspirational aspect to “Ruth on Wry” – it may lead you to think “If this airhead can write a book, so can I.”
Margaret Seltzer was exposed by her very own sister for her recent, best-selling, and fraudulent, Love and Consequences. As for me, I am confident my sister will not blow the whistle on my creative exaggerations and adornments. She doesn’t have a computer, so she doesn’t read my blog.
About my brother, I’m not so sure.
Friday, March 21, 2008
My Reading Disorder
copyright by Ruth Lampert
Hello. I'm Ruth and I'm a periodicaholic. Here is my story. . It all started one night many years ago in Tucson, Arizona when I discovered I had nothing to read. I searched every room in the house, including the bathroom, but all I could find was either stuff I had already read (my habit is the kind that can’t be satisfied by re-reading,) or stuff such as third-grade readers, which, thank God, I had not yet sunk so low as to ingest. And while I might read the odd cereal box of a morning, it just doesn’t do for a bedtime fix.
It was too late to knock on a neighbor’s door, and anyway most of them were addicted to different sorts of substances. The library was closed. We lived too far from a convenience store to drive out for the literary equivalent of a bottle of cheap wine; jeopardizing the kids' safety by leaving them alone for a lengthy period would mean I had indeed hit the skids, if not the bottom. I wasn’t that far gone. Yet.
It was heartbreaking to see four innocent children huddled together as I wildly searched the trash bin, the top shelves of the cupboards, and the bottom drawers of the dressers. Poor babies; their parents separated, their mother an addict. For their sakes, I got a grip and stoically went to bed with my craving unslaked. But not before I went outdoors, shook my fist at the dry desert night and bawled ala Scarlet O’Hara,
"I'll never be without reading material again!"
Like many addicts, I suffer from dual dependency. As I have confessed on other occasions, I can't resist a discount. So when those enticements arrive in the mail --First issue free! Save 75 % off newsstand price! Renew now at lowest possible price! -- my resolve weakens faster than you can say "One page at a time." A quick check mark in the appropriate box delivers a twofold rush of relief: the prospect of unlimited reading material and huge savings.
So I bite, and what hook has a more seductive tang than "the first one is free?” I can always cancel, right? So no big deal, right? I can quit anytime I want. Or better yet, I'll just cut back. I'll limit the number, exercise discipline, contain, control, be civilized about it, be a strictly recreational user. And no more hard stuff, like books. . Hey, I put in a long day, and if I want a little diversion to help me wind down, what's the harm?
The kids are grown now, and yes, some of them have inherited, or learned my compulsions. (1) But they handle it. They are functioning well. And some of the sins of the mother are offset, I hope, by her virtues. I have kept my desert night vow. I am never without something to read., although I am sometimes without a place to set down a coffee cup. (Actually, that is as much the fault of my co-dependant who has a really big classical CD habit. But I know that the only person I can control is myself.)
So that’s my story. And the truth is, I really don’t want to reform. I just want a bigger place to store all this stuff -- and I want it at a real bargain price.
Thank you for listening. And reading.
Hello. I'm Ruth and I'm a periodicaholic. Here is my story. . It all started one night many years ago in Tucson, Arizona when I discovered I had nothing to read. I searched every room in the house, including the bathroom, but all I could find was either stuff I had already read (my habit is the kind that can’t be satisfied by re-reading,) or stuff such as third-grade readers, which, thank God, I had not yet sunk so low as to ingest. And while I might read the odd cereal box of a morning, it just doesn’t do for a bedtime fix.
It was too late to knock on a neighbor’s door, and anyway most of them were addicted to different sorts of substances. The library was closed. We lived too far from a convenience store to drive out for the literary equivalent of a bottle of cheap wine; jeopardizing the kids' safety by leaving them alone for a lengthy period would mean I had indeed hit the skids, if not the bottom. I wasn’t that far gone. Yet.
It was heartbreaking to see four innocent children huddled together as I wildly searched the trash bin, the top shelves of the cupboards, and the bottom drawers of the dressers. Poor babies; their parents separated, their mother an addict. For their sakes, I got a grip and stoically went to bed with my craving unslaked. But not before I went outdoors, shook my fist at the dry desert night and bawled ala Scarlet O’Hara,
"I'll never be without reading material again!"
Like many addicts, I suffer from dual dependency. As I have confessed on other occasions, I can't resist a discount. So when those enticements arrive in the mail --First issue free! Save 75 % off newsstand price! Renew now at lowest possible price! -- my resolve weakens faster than you can say "One page at a time." A quick check mark in the appropriate box delivers a twofold rush of relief: the prospect of unlimited reading material and huge savings.
So I bite, and what hook has a more seductive tang than "the first one is free?” I can always cancel, right? So no big deal, right? I can quit anytime I want. Or better yet, I'll just cut back. I'll limit the number, exercise discipline, contain, control, be civilized about it, be a strictly recreational user. And no more hard stuff, like books. . Hey, I put in a long day, and if I want a little diversion to help me wind down, what's the harm?
The kids are grown now, and yes, some of them have inherited, or learned my compulsions. (1) But they handle it. They are functioning well. And some of the sins of the mother are offset, I hope, by her virtues. I have kept my desert night vow. I am never without something to read., although I am sometimes without a place to set down a coffee cup. (Actually, that is as much the fault of my co-dependant who has a really big classical CD habit. But I know that the only person I can control is myself.)
So that’s my story. And the truth is, I really don’t want to reform. I just want a bigger place to store all this stuff -- and I want it at a real bargain price.
Thank you for listening. And reading.
The Scarlet Letters Seniors
by Ruth Lampert
copyright December 2007
When I was young, "virtue" meant saving your virginity for your husband. Strict guidelines governed "necking" and "petting;" going all the way" meant virtue went out the window (usually a back-seat window) along with virginity.
Now that I am "of a certain age," you might think primrose paths pose no terror, but in fact only the name of the path has changed; the route itself remains wickedly similar. Today "virtue" means hanging on to a low cholesterol reading with the same determination as we once clung to that other anatomical gem.
(Fortunately, low cholesterol can be regained, and while I have heard that virginity is automatically restored after seven years of abstinence, I have my doubts.)
Thus we see the tenacity of early training, or introjects, as we call them in the psychotherapy trade. I acknowledge that as an anti-stress technique I occasionally indulge in foods with a slightly naughty fat gram content or lick my lips over a handful of potato chips. But I exercise control, knowing that regardless of the temptation, setting limits is my responsibility.
This wicked world is full of seducers who will say anything to get me to indulge my baser tastes, but it's my body that will bear testimony to moral lapses.
Refusal can be gracious: "Don't think I'm not tempted. If I was going to indulge with anyone, it would be with you." And I've been around too long to fall for that old line about how if I really cared I would submit; I know that if my saying "no" means the ends of the relationship it wasn't worth preserving. There are plenty of women (or "girls" as we called them back in those benighted days) who, desperate for affection, will gobble down a double order of fries, but I have standards and values thank you.
So while I'd like to say the devil made me do it last night, I have to accept responsibility for my downfall.
Temptations were enormous. The setting was romantic, complete with Italian food, Italian music, an Italian man. I was properly restrained with the salad, saying no to the Caesar salad dripping with egg-yolk dressing, and demurely accepting the more innocent mixed greens. I began to get a bit wayward with the foccacio, so voluptuously spread with fragrant oil. And then -- I can't explain what happened -- I could feel my resolve weakening, and it was as though a voice in my head was taunting me: "Still the good little girl, aren't you? Grow up! Everybody does it!" And down that slippery slope I went, reveling in deep-fried zucchini, lost in the rapture of fettucino alfredo, until, passing passion's point of no return I surrendered to the Double Decadent Chocolate Torte.
I had gone all the way.
The man insists he still respects me. Maybe. And maybe it's true that the scarlet letter "S" he placed around my neck stands for "Sweetheart" and not "Slut." He maintains that anything we do by mutual consent is healthy and beautiful because we love each other, and are husband and wife.
What a line.
copyright December 2007
When I was young, "virtue" meant saving your virginity for your husband. Strict guidelines governed "necking" and "petting;" going all the way" meant virtue went out the window (usually a back-seat window) along with virginity.
Now that I am "of a certain age," you might think primrose paths pose no terror, but in fact only the name of the path has changed; the route itself remains wickedly similar. Today "virtue" means hanging on to a low cholesterol reading with the same determination as we once clung to that other anatomical gem.
(Fortunately, low cholesterol can be regained, and while I have heard that virginity is automatically restored after seven years of abstinence, I have my doubts.)
Thus we see the tenacity of early training, or introjects, as we call them in the psychotherapy trade. I acknowledge that as an anti-stress technique I occasionally indulge in foods with a slightly naughty fat gram content or lick my lips over a handful of potato chips. But I exercise control, knowing that regardless of the temptation, setting limits is my responsibility.
This wicked world is full of seducers who will say anything to get me to indulge my baser tastes, but it's my body that will bear testimony to moral lapses.
Refusal can be gracious: "Don't think I'm not tempted. If I was going to indulge with anyone, it would be with you." And I've been around too long to fall for that old line about how if I really cared I would submit; I know that if my saying "no" means the ends of the relationship it wasn't worth preserving. There are plenty of women (or "girls" as we called them back in those benighted days) who, desperate for affection, will gobble down a double order of fries, but I have standards and values thank you.
So while I'd like to say the devil made me do it last night, I have to accept responsibility for my downfall.
Temptations were enormous. The setting was romantic, complete with Italian food, Italian music, an Italian man. I was properly restrained with the salad, saying no to the Caesar salad dripping with egg-yolk dressing, and demurely accepting the more innocent mixed greens. I began to get a bit wayward with the foccacio, so voluptuously spread with fragrant oil. And then -- I can't explain what happened -- I could feel my resolve weakening, and it was as though a voice in my head was taunting me: "Still the good little girl, aren't you? Grow up! Everybody does it!" And down that slippery slope I went, reveling in deep-fried zucchini, lost in the rapture of fettucino alfredo, until, passing passion's point of no return I surrendered to the Double Decadent Chocolate Torte.
I had gone all the way.
The man insists he still respects me. Maybe. And maybe it's true that the scarlet letter "S" he placed around my neck stands for "Sweetheart" and not "Slut." He maintains that anything we do by mutual consent is healthy and beautiful because we love each other, and are husband and wife.
What a line.
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