THE FIGHTER is About Way More Than Boxing

The true story about welter-weight boxer "Irish" Micky Ward as captured in a riveting movie, The Fighter, is definitely not a story about boxing.

Yes, there is plenty of footage of boxing activity: Micky (Mark Wahlberg) training, Micky sparring, Micky getting the snot beaten out of him. There is enough violence and gore to satisfy any ravenous fan of humanity's most confounding sport. I have never been able to figure out why any man or woman would willingly enter an elevated, mis-named "ring," wearing gigantic leather mittens loaded with padding, to face an identically equipped person of the same size and gender for the purpose of striking one another until one is either knocked unconscious or is too slap happy to continue.

The Fighter, more than anything else, provides answers to that question.

Lowell, Massachusetts, where Micky and his large Irish family reside, provides a bleak backdrop for the antics of Micky's family of six half-siblings, his hen-pecked father, and a mother who puts the "bitch" into the word ambitchious.

Micky's older half-brother, Dicky Eklund (an emaciated Christian Bale) had once been known as The Pride of Lowell for his boxing career that spanned 10 years in the 1980s and 90s. His biggest claim to fame? Going the distance with the great Sugar Ray Leonard in 1978, only to lose in a unanimous decision. Eklund later succumbed to his intractable crack cocaine addiction, and was sentenced to 10-15 years in prison for an array of concurrent crimes.

The Fighter uses the story of Micky Ward's journey through his own career to peel the layers of the onion known as family dynamics in a working class, unsophisticated and hard-scrabble environment.

A young boy, raised in the shadow of his larger-than-life, charismatic brother, who is the son of another man, becomes the sparring partner of that older brother and learns the sport in the process.

In the midst of his success, Dicky Eklund becomes hooked on crack and the crime required to feed his habit. His career is destroyed, but he retains his inflated ego, blown even larger by the drugs.

Dicky and their mother, Alice (Melissa Leo,) connive and cajole until Micky agrees to pursue his own career in the ring. But Micky is constantly caught between his love for his sadly comical family and his feeling of being used and betrayed, of always coming in second to The Pride of Lowell.

Also front and center in this film is the hard-edged culture of that one-time mill town called Lowell. An occasional peace breaks out among the family brawls, street fights and verbal one-upsmanship, while the family matriarch battles Micky's girlfriend Charlene (Amy Adams) for primary influence.

Director David O. Russell does a masterful job of pulling the audience into Micky Ward's corner. Eventually, love and determination to do things on his own terms prevail and this writer was throwing phantom punches in her theater seat.

I predict at least three Academy Award nominations.

Your Wedding is When?!?

You would think they would have said something. Isn't that what grown-ups are supposed to do when they see their children headed to the brink of disaster?

Not our parents.

Not that we would have listened. Our wedding was set for December 17, 1966. That's it. That's all. End of discussion.

Brad and I were "set up" (talk about a double entendre!) by one of my new co-workers and his girlfriend. I had just graduated from Ripon (WI) College in June 1966 and was hired for A. O. Smith Corporation's Milwaukee-based Management Training Program.

The blind date was one of the very few I've heard of that worked out. Brad and I were "together" from that evening on.

WHIRLWIND*

1. a small rotating windstorm of limited extent

2.a : a confused rush

b : a violent or destructive force or agency

What was our hurry, you might ask. Unlike a couple of the dozen or so sorority sisters who graduated with me that June and had weddings the following weekend, a shotgun was not needed for my nuptials. Readers who are my contemporaries will remember what the pressure was like back then for a girl to get a ring on her finger before it was too late. In my family, at 22, I was on the verge of being declared an Old Maid.

Besides, young love was not to be complicated with rational thought. Never mind that Brad was a year younger and still in his senior year at Carleton College (Northfield, MN.) Never mind that he had no job and I was making a staggering $5,500 a year. We were in love and we wanted to live together openly (instead of the way we were -- on the down low.)

CLUELESS*

1. having or providing no clue

2. completely or hopelessly bewildered, unaware, ignorant, or foolish

And so it was. Dumb and Dumber were set to marry exactly one week before Christmas Eve, the dead of winter in my hometown of Maywood, Illinois.

My indulgent mother, bless her heart, fired up the Singer as soon as I had designed my bride's maids dresses. Of course I chose the thickest deep blue velvet I could find, and it broke a record number of sewing machine needles as she whipped up lovely empire-waisted gowns for my sister and my best friend. She booked the hall, cajoled the priest into accelerating the marriage classes for my non-Catholic fiancé, pulled in favors in the community for a deal on cut-rate flowers, and planned a reception on a shoestring budget.

When the invitations went out six weeks before the wedding, many recipients were unable to hide their surprise. "The week before Christmas, Lezlie? Really? How...um, unusual." Did I even consider for a moment that their surprise was really covering annoyance for having yet another gift to buy at Christmastime and, for many, having to travel during the busiest and most treacherous time of the year? Of course not.

INCONSIDERATE*

1a . heedless, thoughtless

b : careless of the rights or feelings of others

2. not adequately considered : ill-advised

Omens of the future of this union? Were there any? Oh yes.

ψ On Friday, December 16, 1966, during the wedding rehearsal at St. James Catholic Church and just before the groom's scheduled bachelor party, a lake-effect snowstorm blew in.

ψ I felt queasy standing at the altar and immediately attributed it to nerves. I WAS getting married, after all. However, the queasiness persisted and my legendary propensity for car sickness kicked in with a vengeance. While my dad cleaned off the car outside the back window I used to lose my lunch, my mom found the Pepto Bismol. She managed to get the spoon within an inch of my mouth before it became crystal clear this was something other than car sickness.

ψ The Big Day dawned, it was still snowing and my temperature was 101 degrees. My head ached, my throat was raw and a nagging cough was becoming more and more bronchial as the day progressed. My dogged determination to go through with the wedding as planned was admired and applauded by all.

ψ After sneaking into the side door wearing my notoriously ugly *golashes* under my snow white wedding gown, I peeked into the sanctuary, where amazingly, considering the weather, the church was filled with all the faces I loved. Except one. The best man was nowhere to be found and, in the days before cell phones, there was no way of determining his whereabouts. Drill sargeant Lezlie barked, "Let's start without him. I will not keep everybody waiting." When my father had walked me half-way down the aisle, I saw the best man in a full sprint down the side aisle, dropping his hat, coat and gloves behind him.

ψ When the groom reached up to lift the veil from my feverish face, he swayed foward and backward, side to side; eyes practically crossed. He was clearly still drunk from the night before, the bachelor party that apparently never ended. When the priest got to the part that required him to say "I will," I had to poke him in the ribs to make him respond. The laughter in the church told me I hadn't done it very discreetly.

ψ Somehow we got through the day, but we had to postpone our honeymoon. The day after the wedding I was diagnosed with walking pneumonia and ordered to bed for at least a week. On Christmas Day, I coughed myself into the ER, where the diagnosis was a cough-induced sprained back.

Why do I call these omens? This marriage was doomed to fail. We were divorced in 1970, but not before we had a fabulous son the third year in. If you're not tired of laughing yet, you can read the sorry details here.

*from the Free Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary

Image from St. Nicholas Center

Dear Mr. Claus:

It has been a very long time since I've thought about you as someone to ask for favors. Our relationship, while it lasted, was magical, wasn't it?

Your indulgence of my childhood dreams of giant, silver-painted trees glowing in celestial blue lights materializing out of nowhere on Christmas Eve; of owning the toy du jour as well as those I never dreamed of; and of piles of hard candies, raw nuts and pfeffernusse, made for vivid memories of enduring delight.

And when we parted ways, I winked at you at Marshall Field’s each year while my little sister completed her association with your mystique, so as not to ruin the magic for her.

You undoubtedly know how difficult this is for me, a grown-ass woman, to petition you for help, but I sure could use some. Actually, I'm not asking just for me, but for ordinary people like me all over the world.

You've probably noticed that parents are avoiding you again this year. When those parents cut back on deliveries last year and the year before that, they never dreamed things wouldn't have become better by now. Sadly, they haven't.

The global economy sucks, Santa, if you'll excuse my French. And it's not just the loss of jobs and the associated incomes. It's not just the foreclosed houses and repossessed cars, or eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner every night. The world just can't seem to grasp the whole idea of the Christmas season.

You know better than anyone that we are supposed to be working to bring peace to Earth and good will toward our fellow men and women. Instead, my country's government has us involved in two seemingly pointless wars in the Middle East. I swear to you, Santa, I don't even know what we're fighting about, but I know my fellow taxpayers and I are spending about $380,000,000 each day to do it.

There are these people we've sent to Washington to run our nation's business who have lost all kinds of things, not the least of which is the spirit of the Christmas season. Although I'm sure you could probably point out a dozen or two who are there trying to do their constituents' work, for the most part they each seem to be consumed by their desire to be re-elected in the next term. This makes their decision-making more than a little suspect, don't you think?

Now, Santa, I realize you might be a saint, but you are not God. I know you can't work miracles other than the one you pull of every Christmas Eve. But I figure, since you spend too much time flying around in the heavens, you might have a more direct line to the Big Guy Himself. So, if you could, I would love it if you'd submit this for His consideration:

L's 2010 Christmas List

2-year's supply of starch for President Obama's backbone

1 average-sized brain for each member of the U.S. Congress

1 jumbo-sized conscience for every Wall Street operative

1 moratorium on partisan politics for six months, starting Jan.1, 2011

2 cease-fire orders, one in Iraq, one in Afghanistan,

 which apply to Taliban, Al-Qaeda, and all armed forces from all countries involved

Daily injections of grace for every person on Earth for life

Mr. Claus, I know you are extra busy during this pre-Christmas rush, but I'm feeling like this is an emergency. Anything you can do to intervene on behalf of the people of the world will be eternally appreciated.

Merry Christmas, Santa.

Love,
L.

A Men's Guide to Gift-Buying Safety

There are guys who are notorious for waiting until Christmas Eve at 3 p.m. to rush to the mall in search of a gift for the women in their lives. There are many reasons for this seemingly self-defeating behavior, but I believe the most prevalent reason is pure, unadulterated FEAR.

The quest for the perfect gift for a man's female significant other is studded with IEDs, land mines and stink bombs. Many men have just not been able to figure out where those hazards are located. Let me help.

But before I do, I need to acknowledge all my fellow bloggers here in Open Salon who have mastered the art of, not only hazard-free gift selection, but also the ability to strike a somewhat romantic chord in the process. This guide is not meant for you, but feel free to read along with your less accomplished brethren.

I will start with the DON'TS.

1. Back away from the urge to shop in the large and/or small appliance stores or departments. I understand. I get that you are simply making an effort to make her life a little easier. But, trust me; no woman wants to be reminded that you see her primary role as Chief Cook and Bottle Washer of the family. Just don't do it. No washers, no dryers, no irons, no George Foreman grills, no vacuum cleaners (not even Dysons!)

2. Remember for whom the gift is intended. Before you swerve into Victoria's Secret, ask yourself who will benefit from whichever diaphanous, skimpy or crotchless "garment" you select in there. I understand. I get that men are visually stimulated, and the very idea of seeing your beloved wrapped in a red chiffon teddy makes your scalp tingle. Just stop and think first. How will she interpret this gift?

3. Beware of edible gifts. If your woman is spending hundreds of dollars a week buying Jenny Craig or Nutri-System Meal Plan foods; if she is walking around the house with a measuring tape tied around her waist, you are going to get no points whatsoever for buying the most expensive Belgian Chocolate Truffles on the planet. I understand. I get that you think spending large sums of money signals the level of your love. Just don't do it. No chocolates, no Kansas City Steaks, no candy-studded caramel apples as big as your head, and no Harry and David towers of calories. No.

4. Gift cards are too easy. Sure, your kids will love you for them. They enjoy taking their gigantic (to them) sum of credited money to their retailer of choice and selecting those items that absolutely no adult would ever think of buying for them. I understand. I get that you think the gift card is the key to a win-win proposition. Just don't do it; not for your female significant other. She'll just smile and remind herself how clueless you are about letting her know how much she means to you. Or, even worse, she'll get the message that she doesn't mean enough to you for you to make an effort.

Okay. Land mines and other hazards are out of the way. What's a man to DO then?

1. Ask your woman to provide you with a complete list of her sizes; i.e., shirts, pants, bras, panties, dresses, shoes, Spanx, hats, gloves, belts, bracelets, necklaces and rings. If you keep that list in your wallet at all times, you will be able to select an entire wardrobe for your lady love without having to ask the sales associate what size she wears. The chances that the sales associate is actually the same size as your amour are slim to none.

2. Ask your woman what her favorite color is. Of course, this is something you should already know. If you don't, you don't. Ask. You will be amazed how much more traction you'll get out of that cashmere sweater if it's in her favorite color. No amount of cashmere will help if it is in the color that makes the lady look like she is seasick.

3. Pay attention to how she spends her spare time (Hah! Only we retired women really know what that is.) Does she watch figure skating on Sunday afternoons? A pair of tickets to a live show will have her nibbling your ear lobe. Is she into scrapbooking? Buy a blank scrapbook or two. Is she an art collector? A lithograph (even a small one) by her favorite artist will have her bragging to her girlfriends about how utterly wonderful you are.


4. Plan ahead just a little bit more. When you are armed with all this knowledge, you won't feel afraid to make a selection, so there will be no need to procrastinate. You can actually save yourself a few bucks by buying a gift bag and tissue yourself instead of paying for gift wrapping services at the department store.

So, guys, if you truly want

Peace On your section of Earth, and Good Will toward You,

this guide's for you.

L Gets Her Groove Back

I needed an adventure; a break from the daily reminders of my second failed marriage and the weight of my responsibilities. Club Med, Playa Blanca, was the chosen crime scene.

It had been difficult to crawl out of the divorce-induced doldrums this time.  I had been dumped for a friend of mine.  Sad but true.  That story will be told another time, but suffice it to say the double betrayal sent me to the hospital and cost me nearly twenty pounds.

Some good news came out of the bad news, though.  Missing those twenty pounds made my body bikini worthy for the first time in ages.  I had just turned 40.  In my mind, I had one foot in the nursing home and the other in a convent.  What man would be interested in an "older" woman with a teenaged kid?  An inadvertent glance in the closet mirror as I stepped out of my shower one day made me think "Well, maybe...."

 Friends insisted that my prospects for new romance would materialize if I just "put myself out there."  What did that mean?  Should I place a Woman Seeking Man ad in the personal classifieds?  Should I find a barstool in a local bar to have my butt-print memorialized?

 I am the product of the 1950s and 60s.  Young ladies did a lot of waiting in those days.  We waited to be asked to dance.  We waited to be asked out on a date.  We waited to be asked to marry some guy.    We also never did anything alone.  Ever.  

Since I was so convinced I was doomed to be alone for the rest of my life, I devised a recovery plan for myself so I could get on with what would pass for a life.  For example, I forced myself to go to the movies alone.  Big deal?  Yes, it was.  I felt as if every person in line for tickets was watching for my "date/husband/boyfriend" to join me in the line after he parked the car.  When I chose a seat, it was always in the last row, partially because of my far-sightedness, but mostly so that I could be observed in my aloneness by the fewest number of judging eyes.

When I traveled on business trips I would eat every evening meal in my hotel room via room service rather than sit solo in a restaurant attracting questioning stares from happy couples, or so I imagined.  My recovery plan required me to take all meals in public in order to overcome my discomfort.  I always took a book to the table to keep my mind and eyes busy as I ate my meal.

Things were progressing nicely after a few months.  I found myself actually preferring to go to the movies alone.  No need to strain to listen to someone trying to whisper asides during the film when one is alone.  Eating solo was no longer uncomfortable.  Now it was time to really strike out.

I booked my vacation for early June of 1986.  I was budget-conscious, given my new single-parent status, so the all-expense-covered aspect of Club Med was appealing.  I chose Mexico for its proximity to my California residence.  And rather than incur the expense for a single occupancy, I agreed to take a random roommate assignment.

It was at that point that I decided I would become somebody else.  Anybody else.  It didn't matter, so long as I could leave all my emotional baggage, boring history and real identity on the ground at San Francisco International Airport.

By the time I landed in Puerto Vallarta I had shed all memory of Lezlie.  When I met my roommate in the airport bus line, I introduced myself as LeeLee.  (I have no idea.)  I was a San Francisco lawyer, single and worldly.

Have I mentioned that I don't drink?  I drank enough beer during my four years at a Wisconsin college to fill an Olympic swimming pool.  When I turned 21 as a senior and started adding shots of extra sharp ginger brandy to the mix, I realized that I hated being drunk.  Control freak that I am, I freaked out and swore off all alcohol for life when I couldn't stop the dry heaves for two days after a game of Gotcha one night. 

LeeLee, on the other hand, didn't have that problem.  She was a party girl, so drinking Diet Coke with a slice of lime, Lezlie's usual, just was not going to cut it.  LeeLee started nursing Mexican beers the first night at The Club.  Short hitter that she was, it wasn't long before she was high and flying.   She told a different story to every new person she met.  To John she was a bartender.  She told Phyllis she was a socialite from New York.  By midnight, when she was pulled into the swimming pool by the handsome doctor from Mexico City, she was a stripper.

The next night, after recovering from her mild hangover, LeeLee and her roommate joined a group of guys they had met the night before at dinner.  They were a lot of fun and Lezlie easily slipped back into the LeeLee persona.  Gamely, LeeLee decided to try a Long Island Iced Tea.  The LIT is deceptively easy to drink.  It tastes identical to a well-brewed, restaurant iced tea, but it is made of the following:

 1 part vodka
1 part 1800® Tequila
1 part rum
1 part gin
1 part triple sec
1 1/2 parts sweet and sour mix
1 splash Coca-Cola®

Unfortunately, no one bothered to tell LeeLee what was in the drink, so when she began to sip her third one, she slid effortlessly off the barstool and onto the pool deck.  The roommate informed her the next morning that she had been carried to their room over the shoulder of one of the guys. 

I woke up with the expected side effects.  I wanted to stay in bed the rest of the day to avoid moving my heads (no typo there), but LeeLee had agreed to go with the group on a boat trip to an island picnic.  I had no choice but to soldier on.  I wish I hadn't. 

The group took a bus to a remote beach located about an hour away from Club Med. We would return to Playa Blanca via boat.

The first thing we saw as we reached the beach party setup was a galvanized steel tub filled with sangria.  Since I was a non-drinker, I had no idea that this refreshing punch-like drink was alcoholic.  That didn't matter, though, because LeeLee didn't care if it was or not.  She was determined to maintain her party-girl character.  

Club Med staffers had planned all kinds of games for the beach.  It was hot and humid, as usual, and the sangria was chilled and refreshing.  Even the sliced citrus fruits floating on top soothed the relentless heat.  

                                             BEFORE SANGRIA>

A whistle blew and another relay race was announced.  Each woman was paired with a man as a single leg of the race.  The object of the game was to run into the ocean up to one's neck and switch bathing suits with your partner.  LeeLee was all for it, because she was drunk again.  But Lezlie had decided to wear a one-piece swimsuit for this event, which meant that switching with what's-his-name would cause LeeLee to emerge from the surf topless.  Clash of the alter egos!  This was definitely not something Lezlie would do, no matter how drunk.  But LeeLee?  

I would have posted the photo of LeeLee stumbling onto the beach in her teammate's trunks, but I destroyed it and the negative (remember, that was long before digital cameras).  I should have packed some tassels!