Lessons the "Real Housewives" Have Taught Me: An Anthropological Study

Previously published in Georgia’s Coastal Illustrated Jan. 11, 2012

One of the world’s most renowned and influential anthropologists, Jane Goodall, once said simply, but yet so poignantly, that “to be fully human; we need to have meaning in our lives.”

 I couldn’t agree more, so I search daily for that “human” connection to the world that makes this one life I have been blessed with as worthy and meaningful as possible.  For me, in this moment, my “meaning” is to guide my two girls into womanhood with a healthy balance of grit, grace, and gratitude.

Like knitting a pair of socks that turn out to be the same size or making it through a Justin Bieber video without a few eye rolls, this is not as easy as you think it’ll be when you first start out.

Take for instance, their last sleep over.  I had grand plans, I really did.  Nothing too Kardashian like a backyard fireworks display and a thousand dollar designer goodie bag, but I did have a few surprises up my plushy green-grey bath robed sleeve. I’m talking glittery mani-pedis, chocolate covered popcorn, and a 3D movie marathon with extra long red Tweezler sticks.

Alas, it didn’t turn out the way I expected. As soon as I entered the living room, movies in hand, five sets of eyes stared me down as if it were high noon at the O.K. Corral, not seven thirty p.m. in a small, family suburban neighborhood.  Now, my grandmother on my father’s side taught me to play poker before I could walk, talk, and add so I can tell when someone is bluffing.  They were not.

But it's ok, really, I know when I am not wanted… or in immediate danger…..so I quickly retreated to my bedroom and shut the door.  I felt, well, just a bit like Jane Goodall herself, at first shunned by the very subjects she had set out to observe and aid then relegated to the outskirts of the tribe, on top of a hill, with only a pair of binoculars and a notebook to guide her.

However, I did not posses binoculars, or a notebook, or a hill for that matter, so I settled for the next available thing; Direct TV, a remote to mute at will, my super comfy bed, and a glass of Chardonnay behind my slightly ajar bedroom door.  Oh yeah, and a marathon rerun on Bravo of the “Real House Wives of New York” followed by “The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.”   

Y’all I swear, this program can make even a novice in the study of human behavior fill up their field notebooks, scratch their heads, and then redraft even the sanest of cultural assumptions and theoretical suppositions of societal norms.  Even those that have been touted as fact since man and woman were able to walk in an upright position, negotiate a fair price for bread, or hail a cab.

Before I get into my own anthropological study of modern day “domestic” women, it’s important to note here exactly what Jane Goodall did and how her forty five years of studying and interacting with the chimpanzees in Tanzania changed the way we look, not only at the early socialization of pre-hominids, but at evolution as well.

Three important discoveries were found behind those binoculars on foreign African soil.  One, she discovered that chimpanzees were, in fact, meat eaters much like early humans.  This went against the conventional thinking of her time that primates were only vegetarians.  It seems they liked to indulge in a smaller monkey or two from time to time when the inkling hit….or they were trying to impress a date, or stick to the one of those new fade paleo diets or cannibalism....whatever you called it back then, I’m not really sure.

She also noticed they were able to use “tools” to procure food; for example, using small sticks to retrieve tiny termites out of mounds in the dirt.  This challenged the theory that man was the first creator of food gathering/hunting apparatuses. I’m not so sure what is appetizing about termites but they could quite possibly have also used the sticks as early back scratchers while their mate was down the road a piece and couldn’t scratch it for them.

Lastly, Goodall discovered those cute, furry alpha females could, on a dime, turn into savage and destructive beasts.   As in kill the young of other chimps and then head up a few camp time activities like female mutilation if they felt the hold on their own turf was in question, still making sure to be home in time for dinner.

It seems to me, especially after watching my Bravo marathon that these women have evolved by leaps and bounds in some regards.  Who needs a male to scourge for food when you have a driver, two maids and a personal assistant?   But sadly, it seems that in close and influential communal quarters like New York and L.A., the alpha female doesn’t fall far from the African banana tree, if you know what I mean?

 Here are the top three things I learned NOT to do from my “study (a/k/a eight hour straight viewing)” of the “Housewives”:

1.)    Never come to a party/fundraiser/lunch/fundraising planning lunch/or any get other together LATE (especially if it involves Pinot Grigio.) This is because you will, without a doubt, be talked about in a catty way before you eventually show up.  Upon arrival, you will be showered with kisses (on both cheeks), after being told you look fabulous, then gawked at as you eat a small piece of food from a tray as if it were a mortal sin that surely involves a membership to Jenny Craig and a group intervention.

2.)    Never come to a party/fundraiser/lunch/fundraising planning lunch/or any get other together EARLY (again, especially if it involves buckets of Pinot Grigio.)  This is because you will inevitably be set up to “talk to” one of the other housewives you upset at the last party/fundraising/lunch even though you don’t know what you did to make her angry or take a valium or threaten a law suit.  Besides, a finger in the chest is never fun even if its a hundred dollar French manicured one.

3.)    Never take three Xanax and then drink a bottle of champagne and two mojitos….ever…. even if you hate to fly and particularly if you plan to wear a bathing suit made out of three crochet men’s pocket squares.  Trust me.  It’s just not smart, especially if the other women’s husbands are around.

I could go on and on but chances are you have already seen all the episodes anyway (not to mention Atlanta, Orange County, D.C., etc.). At least that’s what my girl friends tell me seeing as I was the last one of us to jump on the “Real Housewife” bandwagon (or town car so to speak).  There is something strangely addictive about it: the realization and then requisite relief you feel knowing your life may not be as “fabulous” but is just fine without all the drama and self-absorption.  You don’t need fame, money, expensive clothes, cars and boats to have class or, like I want to teach my girls: grit, grace, and gratitude. 

The opposite is actually true.  It’s the search for meaning, as Jane would tell you, that make us human, not all the other superficial stuff.

I am probably being way too critical or over analytical.  The “housewives” are just people after all and who I am to be a voyeur into their world, while judging them all the same?  Because  maybe, just maybe, there is a little bit of Jane in all of us, poised on top of a hill, looking down from a distance, trying to make sense of something that puzzles, perturbs, and excites us all at once. 

As Ms. Goodall also said, “Every individual matters.  Every individual has a role to play.  Every individual makes a difference.”

Whether you agree or not with our expert, it’s hard to argue that these alpha females really don't make for some pretty, great T.V.

The Heart of the Matter

previously published in Coastal Illustrated Feb. 8, 2012

“Go to your bosom; knock there, and ask what your heart doth know.” – William Shakespeare

I don’t know about y’all, but I love to read a great love story.  Real, imagined, immortalized, tragic, you name it, and I will immerse myself in one at any given time, especially if it involves a warm bath and a good pinot.  I don’t care if “real” love will ever match up to that of Romeo and Juliet, Catherine and Heathcliff, or Sir Lancelot and Guinevere.  It will not deter me that a modern day love story will hardly play out like the love affairs of Tristan and Isolde, or Anthony and Cleopatra.

I am in love with love in all its tortured forms.  Now, I will tell you it’s not really a good idea to fall on your own sword -if you have one- or have an asp bite you- if you knew where to find one- in case something goes wretchedly wrong.  I just love the notion that there is the kind of love out there that people have abdicate thrones, waged war, and built a seventh wonder of the world for, just to be together in this world or the next. 

I will never give up thinking that true love does exist, even if people tell me it can only be found in fiction and folk lore.  See, I know it is real because of the very real love story of Gordon and Norma and what happens when it comes down to the simple matters of the heart.

Gordon Yeager, 94, and his wife Norma, 90, from Iowa, had been married 72 years last October when they left home in their car for a trip into town.  They had been teenage sweethearts and rarely, if ever, left each other's side since they were married a mere12 hours after Norma graduated high school in 1939.  That fall day was no different, except Gordon accidently pulled out in front of an oncoming car, which resulted in a collision that sent them both to the hospital in critical condition.  When the doctors realized there was nothing they could do, they moved Gordon and Norma into a room together where they held hands across their hospital beds.    

But that day didn’t turn out much differently than all their other days. They were still together till the end. 

When Gordon died at 3:38 PM that afternoon, Norma was still there, holding his hand. But even though he had passed, his heart was still beating through the heart monitor.  Norma’s heart was literally beating through his.

“Dad used to say that a woman is always worth waiting for,” Dennis Yeager, their son said.  “Dad waited an hour for her and held the door for her.”

On that day in October, Norma did not keep him waiting long.  She died at 4:48PM, precisely one hour later.

Since Aristotle and the early Greeks, the heart was believed to be the main organ that controlled all emotions including, and most importantly, love.  Because of this conviction, some of the greatest love stories, sonnets, and plays were written.  The heart wasn’t simply an organ though, but a vessel of expression, passion, heartbreak and pain.  That is why, to this day, we still wear our wedding bands on the fourth finger of our left hands- over the vena amoris.  This vein was believed to be the single one that ran directly to the heart.

We now know that all of our veins in all of fingers lead to the heart, just as we know our brain is in charge of the central nervous system and likes to tell our bodies, including our heart, what to do. 

But the brain, as logical as it may be, has no nerves- it doesn’t feel.  It might send the signals to tell the body what it is experiencing, but our hearts carry the load.

My heart, not my brain, beat faster when I met my husband for the first time.

My heart, just my heart, literally swelled when I stared into both of my children eyes after I gave birth.

My heart felt empty when I lost my friend, Bert, a few months ago.  It still does.

It has constricted and seized and grown every day since it was given to me.

If I had to pick my heart versus my head, I think I would pull for my heart every time.

And I don’t know about y’all, but when it comes to love, I hope mine turns out to be more like the love of Norma and Gordon- that it’s an eternal, flowing kind of love that can only be measured and understood by the beatings of both hearts; together, forever and always.    

Hunker It Down, One More Time

"We happy few, we band of brothers. For he to-day that sheds his blood with me, shall be my brother...."

Shakespeare, Henry the V, Act IV, 1415

Women of the South are called "Steel Magnolias," meaning we can embrace the very beauty seen in nature in our femininity, our manners, and our sense of decorum, and harness it within ourselves, but still be every bit the force that Mother Nature expects us to be: fierce, strong, resilient and, depending on our brand of mascara, waterproof.

There really isn't a term designated, as far as I know, for Southern men. When we think of women being Steel Magnolias, it almost implies our male counterparts can only excel at all things physical: a quarterback sack, chopping wood, making a grilled cheese sandwich, or taking out ten extra tall kitchen Hefties to the curb in one trip....all with one hand.

It's like if we give them an emotional task like dealing with a crying, hysterical female, they might as well be reduced to something akin to a flour sifted roux- a thin, light and simple staple that, in a matter of minutes, is required to painstakingly manipulate itself into a thick substance that will transform the bland into earth-shattering greatness. We all know the odds of that working out. Only, I don't know if that assumption is entirely fair.

Case in point: Larry Munson.

The Minnesota- born sports broadcaster who was the radio announcer, or more accurately the voice behind the Georgia Bulldogs for 43 years, passed away Sunday, November 20 at the age of 89 from complications from pneumonia. It was a sad day, as anyone who grew up listening to him on game day will tell you.Here was a man who was fanatical about a football team as most people are about their religion. He was biased, but not a fault. It was his undying loyalty for the team that drew him to his fans, and in turn, it was his enthusiasm that lifted them up in good times and the bad. His passion for the Dawgs was infectious and he wasn't scared to lay it out there for everyone to see.

Take, for instance, November 8, 1980 in Jacksonville, FL."Buck back, third down to the 25! To the 30! Lindsay Scott! 35, 40! Lindsay Scott, 45, 50! 45,40! Run Lindsay! 25! 20! 15! 10! 5! Lindsay Scott!! Lindsay Scott! I can't believe it. I broke me chair. A metal steel chair with a five inch cushion. I broke it. The booth fell apart. The stadium,well, the stadium fell down. Now, they have to renovate the thing. They'll have to rebuild it now. This is incredible....Man some property will be destroyed tonight! Dawgs on top. We were gone. I gave up, you did, too. We were out of it and gone. Miracle!

Lindsay: 93 yard touchdown. Score: Georgia 26-Florida 21.

Even though Munson was born in a state that you very well might lose your nose, a few fingers, and a key that snaps off in your car door on a blistery winter day, he really did embody what it means to be a Southern man. He was strong and unconventional. He called things as he saw them, even if the most die-hard of fans...or coaches...didn't want to hear it. He could get caught up in a whirlwind of an emotional moment and put into words a sentiment that as a Bulldog Nation we were all feeling but could never express as eloquently and sincerely as he could on a split seconds notice.

Take for instance, November 13, 1982.

"It's fourth down...ball on the 21 and they have got to get to the 4 for the first down. I know I'm asking a lot of you guys...but hunker it down, one more time! The Dawgs broke it up...23,22, and 21...clock running, running. Oh look at the sugar falling out of the sky. Look at the sugar falling out of the sky!"

Score: Georgia 19-Auburn 14, guaranteeing the Dawgs a trip to the Sugar Bowl.

People like to say men are incapable of the heavy stuff, the stuff of the heart that doesn't require actually lifting, like a sofa or a 60 pound bar bell loaded with 150 pounds of extra weight. Naw, not at all.

For me, these past few months, actually many years, have proven that assumption false.

See, like Larry and his sideline man "Loren, whatta you got?" I have seen camaraderie...men in the trenches...a band of brothers that when things get tough, they not only show up, but they say the right things. They rally around and admit, like Larry, things don't look so good right now, but I am here in the huddle with you, so let's just hunker down, get on through it.

My husband grew up with a "band of brothers" on the island. Lane Moore, Bowen Freeman, Bird Lynch, Patrick Tolleson, Jason Futch, Trey Brunson, Buddy McNeese, Brookes Haistens, Robert Malone, Paul Thompson, Doug Trowell,Kip Banker, John FitzGerald, just to name a few.

They have remained close and still get together a few times a year for weddings, baby showers, Georgia/Florida game and reunions. Now, they gather round for that real life grown up stuff we all want to avoid but inevitably have to face head on, one day. For this particular band of brothers, it's been quite an emotional past couple of years. Instead of baptisms and birthday parties, they have the unfortunate task of burying their mothers and fathers and taking on burdens they always knew would come but never realized how soon. But still, they show up.

Since Shakespeare wrote about the "warrior" band of brothers almost six hundred years ago, the meaning has become much more universal. It is about a group of men, yes, steely in exterior and conviction, but devoted and loyal to the friendships they have formed over a lifetime and unashamed to admit how much they mean to one another.

I have seen these men cancel family trips, postpone important business meetings, weep at the graves of their friends families, and simply "show up" when they needed each other the most with a beer in hand and a funny story to tell.

Case in point: November 18, 2011. Lane's mom,Sandra Shell Moore's graveside service.

As Lane and his wife, Alicia were leaving the cemetery after the service, they paused in their car one last time to look at the casket before it would be lowered into the earth.

Lane noticed the flowers all around the tent and realized the condolence cards were still attached to them. He started to worry about the notes on the flowers that people had taken the time to write about his mom and was concerned about how he would be able to thank them properly. He had never done anything like this before. He called his friend Bowen who was still at the service and, unfortunately, had been through similar circumstances when his Mom, Mari, passed away a year and a half ago.

"Don't worry," Bowen told Lane. " I'll make sure it's take care of."

It's amazing, these "brothers." They have been together through the best of times and "hunkered down" through the worst. If Southern women are Steel Magnolias, then these Southern men are Gentle Warriors and most importantly, when it counts, they know how to be, at the very core, lifelong and everlasting friends.