Repost: Whatever became of Margaret, my worst ever roommate?

I wrote this post on June 14, 2017. It appears here mostly as/is. Names, certain locations, details, and dates have been changed to protect the guilty. A follow up post from June 15, 2017 is available here.

Sometimes, when I get bored, I go into “obsessed fan” mode. For some reason, last night I decided to look up my very first roommate at Longwood College. After some determined sleuthing, I found her. Apologies in advance, because this is going to be a long post.

I mentioned this ex roommate a few years ago, when I discovered that my final college roommate, Latissia, had died of a heart ailment. It was probably because of my experience with my first ex roommate that Latissia and I lived together. Latissia had decided to move on campus because she could no longer afford to pay rent off campus. She ran into a bunch of rejections by potential roommates on campus. She claimed it was because she was black. For all I know, that very well may have been the case. Racism is still alive and well in Virginia.

Truth be told, I didn’t want a roommate for my final semester in school. I like living alone (or with Bill). But thanks to ex roommate #1, a hideous woman I’ll call Margaret, I relented and agreed to live with Latissia. That turned out to be a good decision. Latissia was a nice person and a considerate roommate. I’m truly sorry she died so young. She may have had heart disease, but she also had a big, warm heart.

I distinctly remember my very first day at Longwood College. It was August 1990. I had talked to Margaret on the phone. She was coming from Richmond, although she had graduated from a private boarding school. Her parents were wealthy. She and her brother had both been adopted by their attractive and well connected parents. Margaret’s father had graduated from the University of Virginia and had grown up in Charlottesville. Margaret told me all of this during our first communication, in between asking me what appliances I intended to bring with me and letting me know that she was bringing a 25 inch TV, a fridge, and a microwave. I also learned that Margaret is exactly 10 days older than me. That’s probably why we got paired by the housing office.

We were assigned a room in Curry Hall. At that time, most freshmen were being housed three to a room because Longwood was short on dormitory space. Each of the rooms in the high rise buildings had bunk beds, and a single bed in them. For some reason, Margaret and I did not have a third roommate. Curry was, in 1990, one of the newest dorms at Longwood. It had been constructed in 1970 or so and was air conditioned. Next to it was an identical high rise building called Frazer. Because Virginia summers are insanely hot, in 1990, it was considered a good thing to get to live in Curry. More dorms and apartments have since been built at Longwood. It’s probably downright cushy now. (ETA: Both Curry and Frazer have since been gutted, renovated, and renamed, since their former namesakes had ties to racism.)

So there I was in August 1990. I opened the door to my dorm room. There was Margaret. She was about 5’10” and morbidly obese. Besides being very large, Margaret wore braces. She had frizzy dark hair that had been bleached and badly needed a touch up. It was pushed back from her face with a padded hairband. I remember my mouth dropped open at the sight of her. I know it’s unkind to write this, but given the way she ultimately treated me, I think it’s fair. She was downright ugly, both inside and out.

Margaret had already claimed the single bed in the corner of the room. I took the bottom of the bunk bed. I had brought a horse blanket (it was never actually used on my horse, since I already had one for him) that I won in 1988 and draped it over the vacant top bed, so I had a makeshift curtain. Margaret had also put her huge TV on my dresser.

At first, Margaret was nice to me. She liked James Taylor, as do I. She had what was then Taylor’s latest album, Never Die Young. I distinctly remember her playing it, followed by “I Shot the Sheriff” by Bob Marley. To this day, when I hear songs from Never Die Young, I think of Margaret. Strangely enough, I like that album despite the negative connection with my least favorite roommate of all time.

I remember we sat around and chatted a bit. It seemed like we would get along. She told me that her mother had just spent a couple thousand dollars on her wardrobe. I remember thinking the clothes weren’t all that special– certainly not a couple thousand dollars worth. Perhaps the money went toward the sheer volume of fabric required to make them. I don’t know.

Margaret also told me that she’d been hospitalized for some reason, and that had cost her parents a lot of money. But, she added, they had plenty of money, so it was no problem. Money, it seemed, was Margaret’s main contribution to any relationship. Money, and food, that is. Later, when I said I didn’t feel like going to the dining hall, Margaret said we should go because that was our dinner. Then, I’m pretty sure she ordered a meat lovers pizza from Pizza Hut, which in those days was still pretty good.

On that first day, Margaret told me she had traveled a lot as a child and wanted to spend her life traveling. She was majoring in political science. Her dad worked a lot in South Carolina and had a home there, as well as in Charlottesville. Margaret had also been accepted into the University of South Carolina. She had decided on Longwood because, according to her, “Anyone can get into USC.” Then, she said she’d like to go to the University of Virginia, but was willing to “try to fall in love with Longwood.” Funny that I eventually went on to earn two master’s degrees at USC– a school that “anyone can get into”.

In 1990, all new freshmen at Longwood had to take a class called Longwood Seminar. Introduced in 1987, it was a college orientation course. In 1990, Longwood was still a very residential school and most students, even the seniors, lived in dorms on campus. Most people got to know their roommates and hallmates pretty well. By the time I finished college at Longwood, I knew most of my classmates.

Longwood Seminar sections were divided by residence halls or, if you were a commuter, you’d go to a section with commuters. Everyone in my Seminar class was from our floor in Curry. Margaret and I were in the same section. There was another woman in our Seminar group I’ll call Marie. Appearance wise, Marie was everything Margaret was not. Tall and slim, she had big brown eyes, adorable dimples, porcelain skin, a giggly Marilyn Monroe-ish voice, and beautiful strawberry blonde hair. I remember she was striking, very friendly, and popular with the men. She lived across the hall from us with two roommates.

Somehow, in the very first couple of days of our college careers, Margaret and Marie befriended each other. Marie was suddenly inviting her new bestie, Margaret, to attend fraternity parties with her. I stayed alone in the dorm room and went to bed early. One night during our very first week of school, Margaret and Marie went to a frat floor (there was one next door in Frazer) and stayed out until about 3:00am. They barged into the dorm room, turned on the overhead light, and very rudely and unapologetically woke me up.

Although it would have been wise for Marie to go back to her room for some sleep, it became clear that these two bitches intended to stay up and party some more, even though we had classes in the morning. Later that day, Margaret boldly proposed that I move out of our room and into Marie’s, so Marie could room with Margaret. I remember being absolutely floored at her nerve, expecting me to move out just days after I’d moved into a room that was rightfully as much mine as it was hers.

Naturally, Marie’s two roommates also didn’t want me moving in with them because, like all of us, they were in a room that had originally been intended for two. If Marie was moving out, they wanted the room to themselves. I can’t blame them for that.

I remember chatting with the peer advisor on our floor, a nice girl I’ll call Samantha. Samantha’s job was to help freshmen settle into college life. She tried to smooth things over between Margaret and me, but it became very clear that our rooming situation was not going to work. Margaret wanted to live with Marie and had made it very plain that she expected me to leave. If I didn’t leave, the two of them were going to make it their mission to make me miserable. Marie made some crack about my dated tastes in music, then very frankly told me how much her twat itched (this part of the story is not made up). I couldn’t help thinking that her itching was probably due to her extracurricular activities on the frat floors.

Days into my college career, I went to the housing office, which was overwhelmed with trying to deal with all of the new students. I explained the situation. They told me I should try to stick it out with Margaret. I don’t remember exactly what I said, because it seems to me that it was a policy that freshmen weren’t allowed to switch rooms so early in the year. I probably cried, because I cried easily in those days, and I was definitely frustrated and overwhelmed by the situation.

The housing people gave me a list of names of upperclassmen in dorms who didn’t have roommates. They told me I needed to go see if one of them would let me move in with them. There I was, my first week of college, knocking on doors. Naturally, none of them wanted me living with them. I distinctly remember one woman I talked to, a pretty black woman who lived in Frazer, telling me honestly, but somewhat kindly, that she didn’t want a roommate. But, unlike the others, who wouldn’t even deign to talk to me, she did say that if I couldn’t find anyone to live with, I could come back and we’d discuss it. Of course, having been told to my face that I wasn’t welcome, I didn’t relish the idea of crawling back and begging to be allowed the dorm space that my parents had paid for.

I went back to the housing office and explained that none of the people on the list wanted to share a room with me. They said quite firmly that those people were going to have roommates eventually, which gave me small comfort, but still didn’t solve my problem.

Then, after a little searching through their files, the housing officer said I could move to the second floor in Tabb Hall. Tabb was considered one of the “worst” dorms. It was not air conditioned and had communal bathrooms. Because of the bathrooms, everyone on that floor was female, while there were guys living on the first floor. I wasn’t too thrilled to move to Tabb, but the housing people did tell me the room I was getting was vacant. The woman who had been living there had applied to move to another room and supposedly had left.

So, that weekend, the residence education coordinator (REC), an affable guy I’ll call Joe, helped me move my stuff out of Curry and into Tabb, which was across campus. When Joe got a look at Margaret, he asked me “Was that your roommate?”

“Yes.” I said glumly.

Then he said, “Wow. A little bit of her goes a looong way.”

That comment cracked me up! So many years later, I still haven’t forgotten it. Joe later nominated me for some leadership training in Virginia Beach that I unwisely passed on taking. I’m not sure why he nominated me, but for some reason, he liked me. I probably should have taken the training. Maybe my ultimate fate as the Overeducated Housewife might have been changed.

Anyway, I opened the door to my new room, which was smaller and less modern than the one in Curry. I was puzzled, because the person who was supposed to have moved out clearly had not. She had gone home for the weekend, though.

I looked on the wall, where she’d taped her schedule. To my shock, her name was also “Margaret” (not her real name), although she spelled it differently and went by Maggy. She also had the same last name as the first Margaret, although they had different middle names. I remember thinking that was a freaky coincidence.

Sunday evening, Maggy came back to find me sitting there in the room she had previously occupied alone. Although I know she wasn’t thrilled with the situation, Maggy made the best of it. Like Marie, Maggy was physically everything Margaret was not. She was thin and very attractive, a second semester freshman who had designs on joining a sorority. Maggy also smoked. But unlike Margaret and Marie, Maggy was not mean to me and even hung out with me at times. Once, she and one of her pledge sisters even took me to her house in Chesterfield. We were not best friends, but we were mostly civil to each other until we parted ways.

Maggy joined one of the most popular sororities on campus and her time was taken up with her Greek activities and hanging out with her boyfriend. Because of her popularity and activities, I pretty much enjoyed a room to myself that fall. Then, during the Christmas break, Maggy moved into Stubbs, which was the sorority dorm. She left her crappy black and white TV, which she later tried to reclaim the following year, but never actually picked up. No one else moved in during the spring, so I had my own room.

As for Margaret, I soon noticed that she stopped attending our Longwood Seminar class, as did Marie. I later heard that they were constantly partying and had basically given Longwood the finger. A few weeks later, my parents and one of my sisters came to visit me for parents’ weekend. We happened to pass Margaret. I had told my sister all about her, so when she saw her, my sister immediately recognized her by my description. She elbowed me and whispered, “Oh my God… is that her?”

I nodded affirmatively.

“She’s disgusting!” my sister said. “And even if she wasn’t huge, she’d still be ugly. I mean, if you lost some weight, you’d be really cute. Losing weight would not make her look better.”

I make no apologies for my sisters’ unkind and very frank observations about Margaret and me. I mean, yes, I know it was a mean thing to say, but what she said was truthful. Margaret was not only physically unattractive, she was also an unpleasant, inconsiderate, and very entitled person. She did not have inner beauty to compensate for her hideous appearance. Moreover, my sister wears a size two and is unabashed about fat shaming. She’s done it to me my whole life.

Margaret eventually left school– I’m not sure if she was gone after the fall semester. I later heard from our peer advisor, Samantha, that she had moved to Charlottesville and attended community college. Then, after a semester or two, Samantha claimed Margaret’s father got her a spot at UVa. I remember thinking that was pretty shitty, since she had pretty much flunked out of our less prestigious school and UVa’s standards were supposedly very high. I do know that Margaret’s dad contributed a lot of money to UVa. It’s possible they altered the standards for her. On the other hand, maybe she just led Samantha to believe she was going there. I don’t know.

I also heard from my former suitemate that they’d all hated living with Margaret because she was very inconsiderate and evidently smelled bad. The former suitemate, a very snooty sorority girl who sang with me in the college’s Camerata Singers, also told me that she hadn’t liked me, either. Fortunately, she only had to deal with living with me for a few days. After she made that comment, I couldn’t help laughing to myself that she’d been stuck living with Margaret and Marie. I also never spoke to her again.

Last night, I got curious about whatever became of Margaret and Marie. I went looking for both of them and managed to find them. I learned that Margaret now lives in South Carolina, having previously lived in Dublin, Ireland. It appears that she often works from home. It looks like she currently isn’t married and doesn’t have any kids. It’s possible that she has at least one ex husband, though I can’t confirm it (and don’t really care, except to pity the poor guy). I have seen her listed by at least two other last names.

Margaret’s dad is apparently still wealthy and involved with UVa. I see that his son, Margaret’s adopted brother, works with their dad in Columbia, South Carolina. He is married and has kids. Amazingly enough, although it’s very clear that Margaret’s family is very pro-Republican, Margaret’s dad was once a Peace Corps country director.

I was blown away by that realization, especially since I was a Peace Corps Volunteer myself and I am absolutely certain that Margaret would have never made it as a Volunteer. Not only would the lifestyle have been too hard for her, she would not have been medically cleared due to her extreme weight issues. But then, I also know that many country directors live in plush circumstances and sometimes those jobs are political. My own Peace Corps Country Director lived and acted like a queen, even though she had twice been a Volunteer herself.

I also learned that Margaret’s brother, despite having attended a posh boarding school in Virginia, got his degree from Midlands Tech (basically a community college in Columbia). Although I have nothing against Midlands Tech, I am kind of puzzled as to why he went there when his family obviously had the means and was image conscious enough to send him somewhere more notable. Maybe it was his preference, though.

Looking closely at Margaret’s recent pictures, it appears that she may have had weight loss surgery. She is noticeably thinner than she used to be, but has the appearance of someone who lost a lot of weight very rapidly. Although we are ten days apart in age, she looks a lot older than I do. It also looks like she might be wearing a wig. Her hair looks unnatural. If she had weight loss surgery, that would make sense. I know hair loss is one side effect of not getting enough protein, which often happens in people who have surgery to lose weight. It’s not that I would necessarily criticize her for having surgery, by the way. She would have definitely been an appropriate candidate. On the other hand, it’s possible that she lost weight for another reason. My guess is that she went under the knife, though.

I looked at old pictures Margaret had made public. In her younger days, her mother was a very beautiful woman. I remember her telling me that her mom was of Balkan descent, although she was born and raised in the southern United States. In the late 60s and early 70s, she definitely looked like a Greek goddess. She was thin, exotic, and very elegant… again, not at all like Margaret. I kind of wonder if maybe that was why Margaret and her brother went to boarding schools. In fact, maybe that was why Margaret turned out to be so shitty. Maybe her parents were disappointed in her. I can relate to that to some degree. Maybe Margaret was treated badly by her family and peers and that’s why she was so unabashedly nasty to me.

My experience with Margaret and Marie definitely affected me. When my final Longwood roommate, Latissia, came knocking on my door senior year, I decided not to give her a hard time about being my roommate. She moved in and we ended up being pretty compatible. It was actually a pleasure to know Latissia. She was a good person with a kind heart. Margaret was not.

I see that as she had predicted, Margaret travels a lot, but it looks like she mostly does so alone to very expensive places in Europe. Margaret and Marie (whom I also found last night) are clearly no longer besties. Marie is still pretty, but it looks like she’s had a few marriages. She now lives in Ohio. Curiously, I see that she both worked for a church (in sales of all things) and managing a bar. I could see Marie managing bars, actually… and in a Jessica Hahn-ish sort of way, I could also see her working in a church.

As for me, I still have friends that I got to know while living in crummy Tabb Hall. One of my friends is a guy who lived on the first floor. Over thirty years later, we’re still good buddies. When we were sophomores, first and second floor Tabb saved a hall in adjoining French Hall (which is no longer a dorm). We all lived together sophomore year, which was also tumultuous due to my roommate(s) that year. I doubt I would have made such good friends if I had stayed in Curry. There’s something about having to share a bathroom that builds friendships. In fact, I’d say that living in what was supposedly the “worst” dorm on campus probably turned out to be a coup. I even grew to like Tabb for its convenient location and character.

It occurs to me that I might be sitting in prison today, because I might have been driven to kill Margaret. She was an astonishingly rude and inconsiderate person who is likely abusive to her friends and family members. I am pretty saturated with abuse, so I doubt I would have been able to stand it for long. On the other hand, Virginia is (thanks to Ralph Northam– was) a big death penalty state. Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten life.

Anyway… I suppose the point of this long-ass story is that things usually work out for the best. It all turned out fine and this was probably the way it was supposed to be in the long run. I’m glad I don’t know Margaret anymore, although it’s weird that our lives are kind of paralleled. I hope our lives stay parallel and we never run into each other again. The REC was right. A little bit of her goes a looooong way. I’ve had enough to last me the rest of my life.

memories, obits

“Christ on the cross! Who are we waiting for?”

I’ve been waiting for today for weeks. Sometime tonight or perhaps tomorrow morning, Bill will come home from his latest business trip. I’ve really missed him. I always miss him when he goes away, but this time has been more difficult than usual. I was feeling like I just might make it without any major catastrophes last night, when I got a private message from the very first Armenian language teacher I had when I was in the Peace Corps. She was looking for information about one of the Volunteers who had served with me. I put her on the right track; she had forgotten the Volunteer’s name and site location.

This particular teacher, name of Armine, was brand new to the Peace Corps when my group arrived in the wee hours of June 2, 1995. I always really liked her. She was tiny, had a high pitched voice, and a wonderful sense of humor. We used to laugh a lot in our classes. I was among her very first four Peace Corps students, and she taught me for four weeks, until we all rotated to new teachers.

We were the third group of Volunteers to serve in the Republic of Armenia, and in those days, things were still pretty rough over there. I remember being completely exhausted upon arrival in Armenia. We had gathered in Washington, DC for staging, which lasted a night and all day May 31st. Then, we boarded a United Airlines flight to Paris. We spent all day in Paris– in my case, the day was spent in horrible Charles de Gaulle airport, because I didn’t know how to get to the city and hadn’t made any friends on the flight. That was my first flight in many years, although I did live in England when I was very young. It was also my first overseas experience without my parents.

My parents were definitely over the kid thing by the time I arrived, so they would take vacations and leave me at home with my older sisters or a house sitter. I remember they went all over the place… to Barbados, the Bahamas, Europe, Morocco (to visit my sister when she was in the Peace Corps), and to several places in the States. Given the way I was when I was a teenager, it actually might have been better that they didn’t take me with them. But not traveling so much when I was growing up had left me very inexperienced when I joined the Peace Corps. I was 22 years old… about to turn 23 in 1995. You’d think the first overseas trip I’d take as an adult, I’d go to a place like France or Germany. That’s what a sane person would do. But no… I joined the Peace Corps, and it forever changed me in countless ways.

As Armine and I were chatting last night, she asked me if I’d heard the tragic news about one of my former colleagues, Matt Jensen. I hadn’t, because I wasn’t one of the popular people when I was a Volunteer, and am not in any of the Facebook groups. She told me that Matt died the other night in a terrible hit and run accident. He had been trying to cross a busy intersection against the traffic light, in the wee hours of the morning. A black Rolls Royce struck him, and he was later found by police, gravely injured. He was rushed to a hospital, but his injuries were so severe that he could not be saved.

*A3 in 1995… we were still in training.*

I thought about the calendar and realized that he had just celebrated his 58th birthday. I remember how, when we were in the Peace Corps, I once made him a birthday cake. In storage, I have two photo albums full of Peace Corps photos, including a picture of Matt hugging the cake I made for him for his 34th birthday in 1997, just a few months before we finished our service and left Armenia. Although he had originally been assigned to a different area when we were Volunteers, he came to live in Yerevan for a good portion of our second year. Matt was a master’s level teacher in the TEFL (teaching English as a Foreign Language) program and, for some reason, he had come to the capital, where I was assigned, and temporarily lived with my friend, Ginny.

I got to be friends with Ginny because all of the Peace Corps teachers were required to have side projects. Ginny, who was a business Volunteer, was working with the USDA to develop products made with dried Armenian produce. I was a good cook, so I was recruited to help Ginny develop recipes that could help farmers market the produce internationally. That project was a lot of fun, and led to us hanging out a lot during her first year of service and my second. Ginny and Matt were unlikely roommates. Matt was about 14 years younger than she was and very liberal. Ginny was from Missouri and kind of country. I remember they had a few fights. But because they were roommates, I got a chance to know Matt better than I otherwise might have, and we became friends… at least during that time.

Matt was unique in that he was in his mid 30s during our time in Armenia. Most of the people in our group were either just out of college, or were older folks living out a lifelong ambition. Matt was also unique in that it was his second time as a Volunteer. He had served in Senegal in the 1980s, right after he finished his years at Hartwick College. He was always very outspoken during our training, and a leader in everything. He was also a talented artist, having designed the t-shirt we had made for our training group. I remember when we had our swearing in, I was in a skit we put on for our host families. Matt had recruited me to play a woman named թագուհի (t’aguhi– it means queen). I sang my lines, opera style, in Armenian as Matt and several other freshly sworn in Volunteers put on a comedy sketch about two women who meet at a hair salon and find out they love the same man.

I remember during our close of service training, he famously announced that if any of us saw him headed to a Peace Corps recruiting office, we should tell the recruiter that he was “not well”. We all had a good laugh at that, because by the time our service was ending, a lot of us were getting a bit antsy about the next big thing in life. For me, it was to be a month long train trip through Europe. I had planned it thinking I might not ever have the chance to come back… little did I know what the future would hold, huh?

After we left the Peace Corps, Matt and I eventually lost touch. I never forgot about him, though. That would have been impossible. Matt was the kind of person who completely defied being forgotten. I even thought of him yesterday morning, before I knew what had happened. I heard his voice in my head, which isn’t unusual for me. I often rehash memories of people long after they’ve left my life. But, for many reasons, Matt was especially memorable.

Personality wise, Matt was kind of like a much younger and male Bea Arthur crossed with George Carlin– maybe if Bea and George had ever had a son together, he’d be kind of like Matt was. Then there was his towering height. He was of Danish and Swedish stock, and he stood at 6 feet 4 inches. He had blond hair and blue eyes and a heavily Yankee-accented, gravelly voice that quickly betrayed his Connecticut roots. At one point, he’d let his hair grow long, and he looked like a regal Viking. I used to enjoy mimicking him, because his voice had so much character. He was often profane, which I admired a lot, and he was very witty, which I admired even more. To this day, I still sometimes say things that I heard him say first. I still say them because they make me laugh, even after many years. And when I say them, I say them the way he used to, because it’s even funnier that way.

Matt was a great teacher, very artistic, and a natural leader. His students all loved him. However, he could also be cranky and impatient. It was the kind of impatience one might expect from a no-nonsense New Yorker. For instance, one time we were walking somewhere together, and there was a woman ahead of us who was moving kind of slowly. Matt blurted out, “Oh, come on! Walk like you mean it!” Naturally, I busted out laughing, because it was just so unexpected and hilarious… and rude!

Another time in May 1996, our group was on a bus, headed for mid-service training. It was summertime, and hotter than Hell outside. We were parked in Yerevan, waiting for some people to get on the bus so we could make our way to Lake Sevan. I didn’t enjoy trainings that much, particularly during that middle point of my service. I didn’t know it then, but at that time, I was suffering a pretty severe bout of clinical depression, and was feeling kind of persecuted and paranoid. Anyway, there we were on the bus, feeling uncomfortable in the heat. Everyone was quiet, waiting for the lone person who was due to join us. Suddenly, Matt blurted out with his characteristic New York bluntness, “CHRIST on the cross!! WHO are we waiting for? Let’s just leave ’em!”

*Matt is in this picture, taken just a few months before we finished our service.*

Once again, I just about died laughing, because it was just such an irreverent, blasphemous, and obnoxious thing to say! I turned around to look at him and we both cracked up. It was exactly how I was feeling, too… kind of cranky and irreverent and totally over it. That point in time was a low point in my Peace Corps career. I was having a hard time with my service and giving serious thought to quitting, although I knew if I quit, my parents would probably disown me… or, at least that’s what I was thinking at the time. Remember, I was legitimately mentally ill then.

I’m glad I didn’t quit the Peace Corps, although I do have some regrets about those days. I was very young and naive, and I did things back then that I would not do today… and behaved in ways then, that I wouldn’t today. In those days, I was also a proud Republican voter, which is especially embarrassing– although at least in the 90s, there was no one like Donald Trump representing the party so openly. Sometimes, those memories are cringeworthy for me. But then I remember some of the good times, and times I spent hanging out with Matt were among the best.

When Matt was in Yerevan, living with Ginny, I would come over and we’d often have dinner. One night, he cooked cabbage. I have never been one for eating a lot of cabbage because it makes me fart like a whirlwind. But I do remember having cabbage with Matt, and now I think of him whenever someone tries to serve it to me. He hadn’t used a lot of salt, explaining that his mother had high blood pressure and wasn’t allowed to cook with a lot of salt. He’d learned not to use it, either. It was a very windy night at my house that evening.

As he did with a lot of subjects, Matt used to talk about food with a lot of excitement. He’d get animated over anything, even lentils and dill. That was another thing about him that I can’t forget. He was an incredibly energetic, charismatic, and enthusiastic person, when the mood suited him. I remember he loved to dance and had even taken lessons. I can’t dance at all, but I do remember him twirling me around the dance floor at some of our Peace Corps parties. I remember, even as I clumsily stumbled around with Matt, who was so much taller, lighter on his feet, and a confident leader on the dance floor, I felt pretty and had so much fun.

*Ararat as viewed from a window at my school in Yerevan.*

Matt Jensen even influenced me to make a music purchase once. One of the last times I saw him alive was in January 1998, a few months after we came home from our service. I went to his sparsely appointed apartment in Washington, DC and spent the night. I remember on the way to his place, we were talking about Mariah Carey’s latest single, “Butterfly”, which he didn’t like at all. He was hilariously going off about the lyrics, which he found inane. I remember the tone of our conversation– it was very sarcastic and hysterically funny. I had to agree with him about Mariah’s song. When we got to his place, he immediately pointed out the bathroom, because he knew I’d need to pee. I don’t remember a whole lot more about that evening, except that he had ABBA’s box set. He played it while we talked. I have always liked ABBA, but was more of a casual fan. I later ended up buying the box set myself, and every time I hear it, I remember how much Matt liked ABBA.

I also remember having a funny conversation with him about Kathie Lee Gifford. For some reason, I was telling him about how she had done some kind of mother’s day variety show special. I want to say she had some guest stars with her– I seem to remember Cindy Williams was among them. And Matt said his mother, who was quite elderly, had seen Kathie Lee Gifford on television and was describing it to him. I will never forget hearing his highly characterized New York accent as he imitated what his mother said about Kathie Lee’s show… “It was SICKENING!” Again… I laughed my substantial ass off at that– just the very disgusted, yet hilarious tone he used that really drove home the point. I could easily picture a female version of Matt saying that.

Matt went back to Armenia during the summer of 1998 to be the TEFL trainer for that year’s group of Peace Corps TEFL trainees. We traded letters and gossip for awhile, but then eventually lost touch. I think the last time I saw him alive was at the Peace Corps office in Washington, DC. I was with another former Volunteer, a guy named Albert. Albert and I were both headed to graduate school in the fall of 1999. He was going to New York University, and I was going to be off to the University of South Carolina. We went into the career center, and Matt just happened to be there, too. We had kind of an awkward exchange; Matt told me to enjoy being represented by Strom Thurmond, and that was the last time I ever saw Matt.

Incidentally, I have a weird habit of either running into people I used to know, or strangers who know people I know. One time, I went to the Peace Corps office in Washington, DC and ran into a guy who had been a Volunteer in Bulgaria. My friend and fellow Volunteer, Elaine, and I stayed with him in Sofia for about a week. No, we didn’t know him before we stayed with him– she just called him up and he graciously let us crash. And a couple of years later, I ran into him, completely by chance, in Washington, DC… the same way Albert and I ran into Matt by chance.

Years later, I saw Matt on Facebook, but I never felt comfortable friending him. I don’t exactly remember why we quit writing to each other. The late 1990s were a rough time for me. I lost touch with a lot of people at that point and went through some hard times. I finally got better when I got treatment for my depression and anxiety, but I’m afraid that people probably remember me for being a bit crazy back then. I’m still a bit crazy, but not like I used to be. I’m also a lot more mature. I wish I could have been friendlier with Matt in his last days. I think he might have enjoyed knowing that I finally came over to the liberal side and voted all blue last November. Matt was a very devout Democrat, and I remember when we were in the Peace Corps, he used to wear a Barbara Boxer t-shirt and pick on the lone staunch Republican in our group, a guy named Frank.

Not long ago, I ran into Matt on Facebook. We were involved in a Peace Corps related exchange, probably involving a mutual friend, but I don’t remember what it was about. He wrote, “I always liked you.” That made me feel good. I’m so glad that is the last thing he ever said to me, because it almost gave me closure. If I’m honest, there were times when he wasn’t nice. He had a short temper and could be grumpy and even kind of mean, when the mood struck him. But overall, he was just a larger than life kind of person, both literally and figuratively. He was a wonderful and gifted teacher, a warm friend, and he really loved his work and was dedicated to doing it well. Based on the comments left by the people who knew him more recently, I can see that he touched a lot of lives and has left his unique and indelible mark on so many hearts… especially young and impressionable ones.

Godspeed, Matt. I’ll never forget you. Thank you for making me laugh so many times… especially when I needed it the most. You have inspired me, and so many others, in so many ways. In that way, you’ll always live on.

I felt like singing this for Matt.

LDS, psychology

The “princess treatment”…

About ten years ago, I was a big fan of the Project Rant series on YouTube. This channel featured actors who would take the most entertaining rants from Craig’s List and recite them as if they were the people who wrote them. I can’t remember which rant attracted me first, but I was hooked after I saw my first video– which wasn’t actually their first video. I have a habit of catching on to things after they’ve been established for awhile. For instance, it took me four years to discover Desperate Housewives. I never got into Nurse Jackie until long after it was off TV.

This morning, I discovered a video by Project Rant that I hadn’t yet seen. It’s entitled “Bully”, and appears below…

This one is a bit darker than most of them… I had somehow missed its release. I like her parting shot.

I hate bullies. I understand on a cognitive level that bullies exist because they have unmet psychological needs, and they take out their angst on people they perceive to be different and/or weaker than they are. I still hate them, though. I have been on the receiving end of bullies for most of my life, and it’s caused me a lot of pain. It’s also made me surprisingly resilient and resolute about some things. As I watched the above Project Rant video, I related to the actress as she describes mean people provoking her to take action.

What is a bully? Simply put, a bully is “a person who habitually seeks to harm or intimidate those whom they perceive as vulnerable”. I’ve seen some people and behaviors described as “bullying”, when they don’t actually fit the definition of “bully”. For instance, I don’t think mere criticism of someone counts as bullying. There has to be a threat or intimidation involved. There also has to be a perceived power imbalance– whether or not there is an actual power imbalance– which causes the bully to act.

This morning, Bill and I were discussing a sad and distressing situation involving a female bully and her victims. For years, we were the only ones who seemed to see what was happening. Other people have now noticed the bully and the bad behavior perpetrated by this person.

Having a relationship with a bully, particularly when it’s someone as close as one’s parent, is like falling into quicksand or being caught in an undertow. It’s very troublesome and exhausting to extricate oneself from those situations. Once you’re out of that metaphorical quicksand or undertow, you’re wise to stay out of the morass and avoid the area. That’s what going “no contact” is about. A person can go “no contact” with a bully and still forgive them, and even wish the best for them.

But, as the actress in the above Project Rant video points out, sometimes you have to take bullies down a notch. There are times when it’s appropriate and even necessary to take action against them. Sometimes, you have to fight back. Sometimes, the smallest and most subtle and obscure clues can be profound in how they illustrate an actual scenario of how a bully is operating. Context is important.

The above video is pretty funny… especially at the beginning, as the missionaries ring the doorbells to the stars.

This morning, Bill related a story he’d heard from someone who had served as a Mormon missionary. Mormon missionaries, as you may or may not know, are not often treated well by the public. They tend to get a lot of doors slammed in their faces. But every once in awhile, they run into people who offer unexpected kindness to them. It’s those people who are the most memorable, and who often have a profound affect on the missionary’s experiences in the field.

I have kind of a special affinity for missionaries. I spent two years as a Peace Corps Volunteer, which isn’t the same as being a Mormon missionary in terms of my purposes for being away, or the day to day lifestyle. How the experience is similar, however, is that Peace Corps Volunteers and missionaries are far away from home and typically don’t have a lot of money. Both groups of people can be somewhat vulnerable in a number of ways. And since they are so far from the comforts of home, some situations are magnified in terms of how they are experienced and remembered.

Sometimes, people are cruel, but sometimes they’re not. I think the LDS missionary and Peace Corps situations are also similar in that, a lot of times, missionaries and Volunteers find themselves daydreaming about being at home and feeling comfortable among material possessions and loved ones. However, it’s possible for a PCV to visit home during their service. It’s generally not possible for LDS missionaries to go home while they are “serving the Lord”, even if there’s an emergency. Being a Mormon missionary can be very tough, unpleasant, and uncomfortable.

Imagine my surprise, then, when Bill said that this missionary had been treated like a “princess” by a couple she and her companion met when they were missionaries. The couple, who were members of the church, helped them out by giving them a place to stay for a couple of weeks. For some reason, the sister missionaries had nowhere to stay, so the couple had taken them in on a temporary basis. Years later, she remembers the experience of staying with the couple and describes their treatment of her as “like a princess”.

It’s my understanding that the church arranges apartments for the missionaries. The apartments tend to be cheap and spartan in nature, and sometimes they aren’t in the best or safest neighborhoods. But supposedly, the onus is not on the missionary to go out and find an apartment on their own. I am left thinking that the missionary in this story was waiting for a spot to open in an existing apartment, but I’m not sure exactly what the situation was.

I was just awestruck that the former missionary felt this couple who had taken her and her companion into their home– strangers to them, except for being fellow church members– had treated her so well that she felt like a princess. Either the couple who had offered hospitality are extraordinary people who weren’t aware of the concept of what missionary life is supposed to be like, or the missionary’s life at home was extraordinarily terrible. Bill happens to know something about this particular missionary’s home life. Indeed, he knows about it quite intimately. And he can attest that life at home was probably pretty horrible for her.

Still… hearing that story this morning really gobsmacked me. Over the years, I’ve read a lot of accounts from former LDS missionaries. I know that for a lot of them, the mission is pretty tough. It’s physically, emotionally, and mentally uncomfortable. Sometimes, it’s even dangerous. Sometimes missionaries come home with lifelong health issues related to their missions, or lose limbs or senses.

A number of missionaries have even died while serving. Some get sick with diseases like dysentery, or they become seriously ill because they don’t get adequate medical treatment. That tends to happen when the missionaries are in remote areas in developing countries. Some missionaries are victims of crimes. I remember in 2006, an “elder” (male missionary) from Utah was killed in Virginia when he and his companion stumbled across a criminal in the process of committing an offense. The criminal shot the missionaries, and one of them– Morgan Young– died, while the other was wounded.

Church members tend to regard those who die while serving a mission as somehow blessed– they had a special purpose that God needed them for in the Celestial Kingdom, or something. I remember, in particular, the missionary who died in Virginia, since that’s my home state and where I was living at the time of the death. His mother said her son had “died with his boots on”. Below is a quote from Gordon B. Hinckley, who was president of the LDS church when the missionary was murdered:

“I’m impressed with the thought that Elder Young has joined the ranks of a very select group who stand so very, very high in the estimate of God,” he said. “There is some special place and some special work for them to do under our Father’s plan.”

Some missionaries have accidents, which run the gamut from the garden variety car crash, to falling off cliffs while hiking, or even being mauled by animals. Many missionaries make it through the experience just fine, although some are left with emotional scars that haunt them. I’ve read a lot of stories by people who have been LDS missionaries and have left the experience worse for wear. But sometimes, the mission– as tough as it can be– is even better than being at home.

It’s not that different for Peace Corps Volunteers. Sometimes, PCVs die, have accidents, are victims of crimes, or contract exotic illnesses that affect them for the rest of their lives. I think that PCVs may have access to better healthcare. I know that they can be “medevacked” to the States or a western country for treatment, if it’s necessary. The LDS church, on the other hand, tends to do things as cheaply as possible. A lot of times, church members are tapped for help– donations of skills or material things, like a room in a house. So, say a church member is a doctor or a dentist. The church might call on that person to offer treatment for an ailing missionary free of charge, or at a much reduced rate. Sometimes people are glad to help, but other times, it’s an imposition.

I would think hosting two young women in a home, particularly since missionaries have to live by rather strict standards and rules, could be an imposition. I would not expect a missionary to be treated like royalty. But then, I also know that sometimes, just being treated with basic kindness, dignity, and respect when one has spent their whole lives being abused, can feel like royal treatment. So, knowing what we do about this situation, I guess I can understand why it felt like “princess treatment” for the missionary in question. She was getting treated like someone with value. And now, she wants to help others who are not being treated with value escape the morass, and get away from the bully who has victimized them for years.

It’s very satisfying to escape the toxic clutches of a bully. It’s even more satisfying to help someone else escape, and to help them realize that they can and should be treated with basic respect. But it’s absolutely mind blowing when someone describes being treated with dignity and decency as “the princess treatment”. I have no words for that. It’s possible that this missionary was really treated as if she was a princess, but I doubt it. I think being treated with warmth, friendliness, fairness, and love was so foreign and comforting to her that it felt like “the princess treatment”, much like a plate of bland vegetables or saltines tastes like the best food in the world to a starving person. It’s all about perspective.

Anyway… we hope we can help her take the bully down a notch. Maybe not with a literal baseball bat… but with something just as devastating and powerful. Time will tell.

book reviews, funny stories, memories

Repost: My very brief flirtation with multi-level marketing…

Here’s a repost about my experience with multi-level marking schemes. I posted it on my old blog in March 2015 and am reposting it because I just wrote about Plexus. Enjoy.

Though I’m sure I could find plenty of things to write about that might piss people off today, I’ve decided I’d rather share a memory from 1994. It was late August and I was a brand new college graduate. I had spent the summer working at a Presbyterian church camp, living in a platform tent. Then I went back to my small hometown and lived with my parents, who were none too pleased to have me back in their house.

I needed to find a job. I wanted a job that would pay enough for me to move, but I definitely needed a job that would allow me to pay my bills. Back in 1994, we didn’t have Internet. While I had taken part in job search seminars and job fairs, nothing had panned out. I was armed with a degree in English with minors in speech and communications. I wanted to find a job that would allow me to use my writing skills, but I didn’t know where to start. And my parents were really piling on the pressure for me to GTFO.

I picked up the newspaper and saw a couple of ads for “public relations” jobs in Richmond, Virginia, which was about 90 miles from where my parents lived. The ads were kind of vague, but I was desperate. I picked up the phone and called and scored two interviews, one at 9:00am and the other at 1:00pm. Happy about my success, I went out and bought a new suit (it was red and black) and a pair of heels. It didn’t occur to me to be suspicious about the “jobs” I was applying for, even though the first guy I spoke to said he wanted me to come in and meet him so “we could see if we liked each other”. The second guy told me to make sure I told the receptionist that “Kevin” had sent me.

Bright and early the next morning, I got in the ugly beige pickup truck my dad let me drive. It was a hideous Nissan with a camper shell and a non-functioning cassette/radio, but it ran surprisingly well. I drove to the first appointment. The place was an outfit called United Consumer Club (UCC) and it was located in a strip mall. I had never heard of UCC before and went into the showroom like an innocent lamb. Unfortunately, I was about 15 minutes early. The proprietor, a slim built man with dark, beady eyes, and a receding hairline invited me to leave and come back at 9:00. He didn’t seem very friendly. That probably should have been my first clue.

DirectBuy… seemed shady in 1994, when it was called United Consumer Club.

I came back at 9:00 and was given a standard job application to fill out. Looking around, I could see there were a number of other people there for an “interview” for the “public relations” job that paid $22,000 a year. There were whiteboards everywhere. I started to get suspicious.

We were all invited to sit at a table, where we watched a video about United Consumer Club. You may know this business better as DirectBuy– a few years ago, their ads were all over TV. In the cheaply produced video, we listened to people talk about how much they loved being members of UCC, where they could pay several thousand dollars for the privilege of buying furniture and building supplies at wholesale prices. I noticed a couple of people got up and left while the video was running, but I had driven 90 miles and needed a job. I was also curious.

After the video, the proprietor gave us a spiel about UCC and talked about the position he sought to fill. Basically, it would be the successful candidate’s job to schmooze with potential club members, trying to get them to sign up. The entire presentation was about money. I didn’t like the proprietor and had a feeling I wouldn’t want to work for him because he seemed sleazy. But I stuck around for the actual interview, anyway.

When I finally sat down across from him, he shook my hand, looked me in the eye with his beady little peepers and asked, “Why should I hire you?”

Feeling uncomfortable, I asked “Uh, before we get started, is this some kind of hard sell operation?”

The guy immediately got pissy and said “I REALLY don’t have time to answer your questions right now. Do you want to interview for this position or not?”

I said, “I really would like to ask a couple of questions first.”

He said, “Well, based on what I’m seeing, you won’t be a good fit for this job.”

“I guess you’re right.” I said as I got up to leave, thinking I had just totally wasted my time. Years later, I realize that it wasn’t actually a total waste of time, since I learned something from the experience and came away with a good story. I forgot all about UCC until years later when I saw all the DirectBuy ads on TV. Back in 1994, UCC prided itself on not using advertising. I guess they changed their minds.

Glad I didn’t get the job.

I went to a local mall to pass the time before my 1:00 “interview”. I was feeling bewildered and a little stung. Little did I know that the morning interview would seem positively normal compared to what was in store for me that afternoon.

The “interview” I was attending was for a multi-level marketing firm called Equinox International. Equinox has long since been out of business, but back in the 1990s, it was a burgeoning company that had celebrities like Kenny Loggins and Ted Danson shilling for it. Of course, I didn’t know this when I arrived at the very respectable looking high rise office building for my “interview”.

I walked into the posh looking office and told the receptionist that Kevin had sent me. She invited me to sign in and take a seat. Once again, I noticed that others were there to be interviewed, too.

Kevin came out to meet me. He was tall, handsome, and very Nordic looking. I noticed he wore an expensive looking suit. He asked how much money I hoped to make. I said “Low 20’s.” Remember, this was 1994. Kevin just smiled at me as he led me to a room where there were rows of chairs set up.

At 1:00, Kevin and his very attractive partner, Karen, got up to make their presentation. I noticed that Kevin and Karen were both really good looking and well spoken as they talked about Equinox, a company that made environmentally safe cleaning products and water filters. They expertly explained why products one could buy in the store were unsafe.

First came the water filter demonstration. Kevin showed us two containers of tap water, one filled with ordinary water and the other filled with water that had been run through an Equinox water filter. Kevin put a chemical in the ordinary tap water that turned it yellow, while the filtered water stayed clear. I had to admit it was an impressive display. Kevin told us that we were poisoning ourselves everyday with ordinary substances like tap water. Equinox had products that would keep us and our loved ones safe. And we could help save humanity by making the products available to the world! Who wouldn’t want that job?

Then Karen took the helm. She sprayed ordinary breath spray into a lighter. The alcohol in the spray caused the flame to torch out impressively. Then she did the same thing with water-based breath spray made by Equinox. The flame was doused in a second. Hmmm… not quite as cool as Kevin’s presentation, but still worth looking at.

Karen and Kevin took turns telling us about how we’d make money signing up other people, and how they’d make money signing up people. I distinctly remember them telling us it wasn’t a pyramid scheme. Only it was. Equinox has been shut down and was sued by more than six states for being an illegal pryramid scheme. Virginia is among those states.

Next came the videos. First, we learned about Bill Gouldd, the company’s multi-millionaire founder. He lived in a huge mansion, drove expensive cars, spent time with beautiful women… and all of this and more was within reach if we sold his products. Gouldd himself had started out as a lowly salesman who had found the secret to success. We could learn the secrets by taking (and paying big bucks for) his seminars. The American dream could be ours by believing in the program and investing our money in Equinox.

Next, there was a video by Kenny Loggins, who told us of his now ex wife and her many medical problems that were alleviated by alternative medicine, a healthy environment, and all natural products like those peddled by Equinox distributors. I have always enjoyed Kenny Loggins’ music, but I have no idea why he got tangled up with this organization. It kind of makes me wonder what kind of person he is. Still, I have to admit that at the time I was really impressed… but still skeptical. I knew they were going to ask me for money and money was something I REALLY didn’t have.

Kenny Loggins pitches Equinox.

I noticed there were people laughing at all the “right” times. It became clear to me after the video that there were, indeed, Equinox people interspersed in the audience to “help” the facilitators. The meeting was getting very long and bizarre… and towards the end, it seemed almost cultish. There were even a few people jumping up and dancing around, cheering, singing the praises of Equinox… very weird. Other distributors approached me and asked me what I thought. They were friendly– too friendly– and most of them were attractive. I liked it and found myself trying to think of a way I could come up with the $500 I would need to get started by “renting a desk” (people paid $500 simply to be allowed to rent a desk in the office). Thank God I have common sense, and that there was a healthy measure of it on hand that day. I could have landed in some real trouble. Equinox is the only “job” I’ve ever considered that actually required applicants to pay a $20 “application fee”.

As I was leaving, Kevin asked me if I wanted to sign up. He was very charismatic and I have to admit, I was still thinking about it. But that’s exactly what I told him. I said I had to think about it. He winked at me, as if he just knew he was God’s gift to women.

Then he said, “Well, if I don’t hear from you in a couple of weeks, I’ll give you a call…” As if perhaps I’d be waiting by the phone for the sound of his voice.

Thankfully, he never called and I was too afraid to risk borrowing money to get involved in Equinox. I hate selling things anyway, and the idea of trying to get people to join that program left me cold. But I have to admit, it was a sexy organization and the presentation was very seductive. I could have been sucked in. I can see how people might leave $60,000 jobs to go to work for multi-level marketing firms.

Years later, I researched Equinox International online and came to realize what a big bullet I dodged by not getting involved. People lost their shirts.

In 2003, I read and reviewed Robert Morgan Styler’s book Spellbound: My Journey Through a Tangled Web of Success. I am reposting part of that review below for your edification.

Part of a book review…

Rob Styler, like me, is a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer. At the beginning of this book, he had just come back from his stint in Guatemala, where he met and married his first wife, Marina. Styler had come back to the States with his wife with the intention of earning more money so that he could move back to Guatemala, because he had bought fifty acres of land there. However, Marina had some medical problems that required two surgeries. Because the couple had no health insurance, they quickly found themselves $25,000 in debt. One of Marina’s medical problems would be improved if she got pregnant, which she quickly did. But pregnancy required prenatal care and Marina’s OB-GYN refused to take care of her because she lacked health insurance. Styler decided that he needed quick cash. Like me, Styler consulted the want ads. Like me, Styler saw several ads that looked promising. He called and left a message. Later, he was invited to an evening meeting for his “interview” at an international environmental marketing firm.

Styler showed up for his interview with long hair, a beard, wearing Birkenstocks and his best Peace Corps T-shirt. He was confused when he saw about sixty other people milling around the reception area, also there to be interviewed. But then they were all ushered into a big room where they were told they would be given a group interview. A jovial man stood up and gave an impressive demonstration of some of the products the “firm” sells. He also explained the concept of the pyramid scheme (although the man is careful to emphasize that this is NOT a pyramid scheme).

By the way, for those of you who don’t know what a pyramid scheme is, here is dictionary.com’s definition of the term:

Pyramid Scheme

A fraudulent money-making scheme in which people are recruited to make payments to others above them in a hierarchy while expecting to receive payments from people recruited below them. Eventually the number of new recruits fails to sustain the payment structure, and the scheme collapses with most people losing the money they paid in.

“Multi-level marketing” seems to be the more politically correct term for the pyramid scheme nowadays. After reading Styler’s account of what happened to him– he was recruited to join the company and asked to pay a huge amount of money– and what he did to others– asked others to join the company and pay huge amounts of money– I would conclude that Equinox International most certainly did qualify as a pyramid scheme!

After the explanation of how individuals “make money”, the group watched videos highlighting the company’s president, Bill Gouldd (the extra d is for dollars- he added it on the advice of a psychic). Styler noticed the energy and excitement in the room and caught it himself. After the presentation, he wanted to know how to sign up. Then he was told it cost twenty dollars to apply for the “job” and $5000 to start out as a “Manager” with a lot of product or $500 to be a “Dealer”. Styler said…”But I don’t have any money.” The enthusiastic people at Equinox International say, “That’s okay, Rob. You’ve got OPM.” That’s other people’s money. The company encouraged enrollees to hit up family members, take out loans, max out credit cards… do whatever they had to do to get that money.

Styler got the money and went into business. He found a couple of Spanish speaking guys to hit the Spanish speaking market and, after a great deal of concentrated effort and lots of OPM, ended up being among the rare people who actually made money at Equinox. But along the way, he saw people lose their shirts. He also pulled some amazing financial stunts himself, especially considering his terrible credit. Equinox encouraged its people to exude the illusion of wealth, even if they were days away from eviction from their apartments, they had no idea where their next meal was coming from, and their cars were running on fumes.

People working at Equinox rented their desks for $500 a month, paid for their own newspaper ads, and paid for their own phone lines. Those who opened up offices had to pay for the leases themselves; nothing was covered by the company. Moreover, enrollees had to attend and pay for training seminars put on by Bill Gouldd. Bill Gouldd was frequently abusive to Equinox enrollees, never hesitating to humiliate them publicly. Styler himself was the victim of Gouldd’s abusive barbs several times. I was shocked reading what this man endured. And yet, here he was, writing about how he was an academic all star, former athlete, Returned Peace Corps Volunteer, the son of a doctor and stepson of a professor, and now he was in this huge mess.

Styler divorced Marina and married another Equinox enrollee. Bill Gouldd performed the ceremony. Styler sent $50 to the Universal Life Church so that Gouldd could become an ordained minister. Gouldd was late for the ceremony and treated Styler with contempt on his wedding day. The second marriage lasted about six months; however, Styler managed to remain friends with both his first and second wives. At one point, he lives with both of his ex wives, his first ex wife’s new husband, his son, and his son’s half-brother. Very weird, in my opinion, but great for them if they can be friendly enough to live together.

Gouldd also made a point of sleeping with the female significant others of top earners within the company. When anyone questioned Gouldd’s abusive tactics, Gouldd would immediately cut them down. Like an overly controlling lover, Gouldd was quick to keep his people in line. As a reader I was both fascinated and horrified by Gouldd’s abusive treatment of fellow human beings. I was also shocked that people would allow him to treat them that way… and PAY for the privilege! Then I was eternally grateful that I didn’t get involved with this outfit myself.

Styler fortunately managed to pull out of Equinox before its big downfall. When he informed Gouldd of his decision, he stated that the business plan was too hard for most people to make any money. Also, Styler was sent to Mexico to start an Equinox program there; however the chances of the program succeeding there were nil since the economy in Mexico was so weak. Gouldd was expecting Mexicans to purchase company products at the same prices they were selling for in the United States and he had similar expectations of distributors.

In 2000, Equinox International was sued in at least eight states for illegal pyramid scheme operation. Bill Gouldd has been barred from ever having anything to do with a multi-level marketing business in the United States again.

I found this book very interesting and timely. How many of us have looked in the employment section and seen those vaguely worded ads for jobs that say “Wild and crazy, rock and roll atmosphere! Need twenty-five people today!” and wondered what they were for? I read the book in about two nights; since I actually went through an “interview” with Equinox, I could relate to Styler’s initial experience. In fact, I remember being very impressed with the slick presentation I saw. Thank God I had a healthy measure of common sense on hand that day as I sat through the Equinox presentation and didn’t get involved with with that scam. Instead, I got out of my parents’ house by joining the Peace Corps!

It’s pretty obvious to me that this book was published inexpensively. The font used is large, the paper is cheap, and the artwork is kind of cheesy. It looks like maybe Styler self-published the book– not such a bad thing, but obvious that he’s not an established writer. However, the book is well-written and his story serves as a great warning about multi-level marketing schemes. It’s definitely a revealing book on a subject you might not otherwise think to read about.

As an Amazon Associate, I get a small commission on sales made through my site.

Bill, nostalgia

Big proposals, and the big picture…

Last night, as we were enjoying German Father’s Day and Asuncion Day, as well as the sublime weather we’ve been having lately, I was reminded of a woman I used to know in Armenia. She is American and was in the group who came to Armenia before ours did.

I didn’t actually know her very well. I remember she was from Illinois, as a lot of people who were in the Peace Corps during that time seemed to be. She had trained to be a teacher, and helped during our “TEFL” training. TEFL, for those who don’t know, stands for “teaching English as a foreign language”. I was kind of glad they called it TEFL as opposed to TESL, which is the older term, “teaching English as a second language”. In Armenia, that wouldn’t have been accurate. Almost every Armenian, especially in those days, also spoke Russian. So English would have been at least their third language.

Anyway, last night I remembered this woman, I’ll call her Tracey, but that’s not her real name, was very driven and accomplished. She once did a really cool presentation on teaching Armenian kids critical thinking skills. I remember being so impressed by the lesson and excited by things I might get to do when I became a teacher myself. Of course, in my case, the reality of the difficulty of trying to teach in an Armenian school overcame my ambitions. I’ll also admit that I probably didn’t try as hard as I could have. Teaching was never one of my passions.

Besides being smart, driven, and accomplished, Tracey was also very pretty. She dated an equally handsome guy who had come to Armenia with her in their group. This handsome guy, I’ll call Al, had written a funny open letter to all of the new Volunteers in my group. I remember sitting at home in Gloucester, Virginia, reading all of the letters the “A2s” had written. They were all about the challenges that awaited us in Armenia. Some of it was shocking. There were a few letters that issued warnings. I specifically remember one letter warned vegetarians to stay away, because vegetarianism wasn’t a “thing” in Armenia. Another warned alcoholics that the drinking culture was strong in Armenia. While I agree that alcoholics may have trouble in Armenia, I disagree that it would be hard to be a vegetarian there. In fact, I knew several vegetarians in my group. Armenia has really beautiful produce.

But I remember that Al’s letter was especially entertaining… He wrote about “breaking in” his overprotective host mom. If I recall correctly, that woman also hosted a guy from my group. He still keeps in touch with her, but I doubt Al does. Al was handsome and charming. He played a twelve string guitar. He was popular with the ladies, and knew it.

One night, a Peace Corps friend and I were sitting at a bar and Al came in, looking roguishly handsome. He approached the two of us, bought us a round, and struck up a conversation. My friend was warming to him, but I kind of stayed aloof. There was something about him that I just didn’t trust. He was a very good looking man, and I had come to distrust guys like him. I found that they were usually glib and insincere. I wondered why he’d want to talk to someone like me.

Al noticed that I wasn’t reacting to him like my friend was. He was bold enough to address it. I don’t remember how he approached it… he may have just asked me what was wrong. I do distinctly remember that he said I was “standoffish”. I’m not usually standoffish to people, so that was an interesting and probably accurate description. I just didn’t trust him. He said the right things and was very good looking, but there was something about him that didn’t ring true. I felt like by talking to me, he felt like he was “slumming” or something– doing me a favor by noticing me. I hasten to add that I might have been wrong in my perception. That was just how it felt to me at the time. It was like he was offended that I wasn’t reacting to him in the way he felt I should, and he had the nerve to call me on it.

I never did get to know Al very well, because he quickly found a job in Armenia and didn’t actually finish his Peace Corps assignment. But he still dated Tracey, and they were kind of the “it couple” from the A2 group. They, and all of the other, popular crew in the Peace Corps, used to get together on the weekends in Yerevan and party with the second in charge at the U.S. Embassy. I think I was invited and actually went to one of the parties the “DCM” (deputy chief of mission) threw, but as I wasn’t “popular”, I didn’t feel comfortable going to them and hanging out with the “in crowd”. They weren’t mean to me or anything, but no one wants to feel like a fifth wheel. Those parties were awkward for a “nobody” like me.

One night, sometime during my first year in Armenia and Tracey’s second, there was a big party in the city of Vanadzor (formerly known as Kirovakan in Soviet times). I had come up from Yerevan, which was where I was posted and the capital of Armenia, to go to this party. I don’t remember if there was another reason I was there… There probably was. Maybe we had some official or unofficial event there, because I remember a whole lot of other Volunteers had also come up that weekend.

Vanadzor was home to an Armenian band called Snack. One of the other A2 volunteers was also in the band. They would play at parties, and in fact, somewhere in storage, I have a cassette of their music. I remember some of the songs, which were kind of charming in their simplicity and sense of fun. If I recall correctly, most of the songs were originals. Snack was playing at this party, and many people were having a great time, dancing and drinking. I probably have pictures from that party, but they’re in storage.

Unfortunately, I have never been very good at parties. I was especially bad at them in the 90s. I remember an Armenian guy at that particular party calling me fat in Armenian, which really upset me. People in Armenia called me fat all the time, and I was… but back then, I struggled with eating disorders, so every time I was confronted by those comments, they were kind of shattering. One of my colleagues and friends defended me, which I appreciated. It was still pretty embarrassing, though.

Right after the fat shaming episode, I decided to go to the bathroom, an adventure in and of itself in Armenia back in those days. You never knew if you’d have power or running water. I opened the unlocked door, and there was Al, on the toilet. He was rip roaring drunk. He looked up at me, grinning, eyes glazed by alcohol, and laughed. He said, “Oh, excccuuuusse me…”

I backed away and slammed the door. Next thing I knew, the party had gone silent. Al, who was still very drunk, was making a speech, and everyone had shut up so he could speak. He was telling Tracey how much he loved and admired her. Her eyes were dewy with emotion as she stood there, starstruck as her drunk boyfriend proposed marriage! I distinctly remember hearing him say, slurring his words, “I wanted to ask ‘Tracey’ if she’d be my wife.”

And I remember her overwhelmed response…. “Of course!” They embraced, everybody cheered, and the party kicked back up into full swing.

Sometime later, I remember hearing Al talking to someone about their mutual career prospects, once Tracey finished her service. He talked of them moving to Africa, embarking on global careers. He said she planned to study public health, and “Africa would be wide open” for her. I knew this to be true, since my own sister, who was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Morocco back in the 1980s, also works in public health. And, like Tracey, she is very driven and accomplished, and she has a Ph.D in public health.

Tracey and Al invited ALL of the Peace Corps Armenia Volunteers to their wedding, which took place in Illinois. I couldn’t attend, of course, and wouldn’t have gone even if it had been convenient. I didn’t know them that well, and as fond as I am of drinking alcoholic beverages, I wasn’t all that impressed by Al’s drunken marriage proposal. I had a feeling their marriage might not succeed. I’m not completely sure, but I think they did eventually get divorced not too many years after their wedding.

I looked up Tracey last night. I wasn’t surprised to see that she has a doctorate in public health from a very good school. And, like me, she has master’s degrees in social work and public health, although she got hers from a more prestigious school than where I got mine. She is now the director of a MPH program at a private university. She’s still very attractive, and probably would love talking to my sister, who is the big achiever in my immediate family. They have a lot in common, including attending the same school of public health, although Tracey went there for both of her master’s degrees and my sister went there for her Ph.D.

Besides being a “doc”, my eldest sister was a ballerina who finished high school early so she could attend the Royal Ballet School in London. She moved herself to Virginia from England and went to William & Mary, then went to Morocco for two years with the Peace Corps. She has a Moroccan friend I have never met who friended me on Facebook. He still remembers her with great affection… he met my parents and recently wrote a touching story about my dad and a guide who was trying to rip him off. I have never met her friend in person, but if I ever went to Morocco, I feel sure he’d show me around. It’s really something when someone who knew you in the 80s is still so attached in 2020.

My sister went on to earn a master’s degree from Johns Hopkins University, and then got a Ph.D. from Chapel Hill. She speaks several languages, has two great grown kids, and a long, successful marriage. I look up to her, but have always felt like I kind of fell short.

Last night, I was telling Bill about all this, thinking about how my life has turned out. Looking objectively at my life, I don’t think I have anything to be ashamed of, really. There are many people out there who are much bigger losers than I am. At least I’m not sitting in prison. But the truth is, I do feel ashamed a lot of the time, because I feel like I should be doing more… It’s hard not to compare your life to other people’s lives. There are a lot of accomplished people in my life who, at least on the outside, appear to be big winners at life. Some people might look at me and think I’ve done a lot, but I feel like a lot of other people think of me as insignificant. What they think of me isn’t my business, but it’s still hard not to compare… or to wonder if they think I’m as big of a failure as I sometimes feel like I am, but objectively realize I’m really not.

For many years after my time in Armenia, I felt like I hadn’t done much. That sentiment changed somewhat a few years ago, when I spied my very first Armenian teacher on Facebook. I sent her a message and we caught up a bit. I was in this lady’s very first Armenian language class, ever. We had three teachers over that twelve week training period, and Armine was my first. And that was her first year as a Peace Corps language teacher, way back in 1995. Armine now runs the language program for Peace Corps Armenia.

Right after we friended each other, I got a private message. It was from a guy, who rather shyly asked me if I remembered him. He’d been one of my students at that school where I felt like I’d done nothing of consequence. Now, he’s a program director for Peace Corps Armenia. I doubt I had anything to do with his ultimate success. He spoke English very well when I met him, and that was when he was about 16 years old. I think he went on to get a doctorate, too. But he remembers me, and I didn’t turn him off of the American people. I guess, in a way, he’s sort of my Armenian version of my sister’s Moroccan friend. I know I made a difference to at least one person, anyway. And I probably made a difference to at least several more people, and probably even more than that.

Maybe I wasn’t as accomplished as I felt I should have been, but I did accomplish something. It’s been really fun to get to know him now. I kind of wonder what he must think, having known me when I was in my 20s and, if I’m honest, a lot simpler and less mature than I am today. Looking back on it, it’s a wonder I succeeded in spending two years in Armenia. A lot of people spend their young lives planning to join the Peace Corps. I kind of joined on a whim, and did a lot of winging it. I certainly never came up with any brilliant lessons on critical thinking skills, like Tracey did.

Back in the 90s, when I was probably at my most attractive physically, I felt like a guy like Al would be “slumming” talking to me. He was very cute, accomplished, intelligent, and talented, and a lot of women found him attractive. He was definitely used to charming the women… and to be honest, it surprises me that he didn’t charm me, even though I thought he was good looking. When I was in my 20s, I might have thought of that guy as a “catch”, but the truth is, he’s probably not as much of a catch as he appeared to be. And I’m probably much more of a catch than I know. At least, that’s what 47 year old me would tell 24 year old me.

Now that I’m in my late 40s, I look at my husband, Bill, who may not have been a stud like Al, but he was also not drunk when he proposed to me. In fact, he took me to a beautiful restaurant in Georgetown, a place that he could ill afford at the time, and pulled out a lovely marquis cut half-carat diamond ring. He never actually asked, “Will you marry me?” He was very nervous… so it came out more like “Well, how about it?”

The next day, he put me on a plane to Jamaica so I could sing at my sister’s wedding. Then, a few days later, when I came back to D.C., he was waiting at the airport with a jacket for me, because he knew I’d probably be dressed for Jamaica and D.C. was cold. I’ll bet Al wouldn’t have thought to do that for his wife. Almost 18 years later, Bill and I are still happily together, living in peace and harmony. We’re getting to see the world together and I spend most days doing pretty much whatever I want. Last night, Bill gave me an adorable grin and asked, “Can I interest you in some ice cream?”, even though a guy like Al would probably say I don’t need to be eating ice cream. Bill cares about my happiness, not his image. Choosing a husband is definitely one thing I did right.

Even though I didn’t go on to use my lofty education in the way that Tracey has, I don’t regret going back to school. That experience taught me that I’m capable of doing things I never thought I could. If I really wanted to, I probably could get a doctorate. Fortunately, I am not that driven… because although I think I am probably intellectually capable of doing the work for a terminal degree, I don’t want to spend the money or the time. There are a lot of people who are much better qualified and more willing to take on the responsibility and the massive debt. I guess, in that sense, I’m glad I’m not that driven… it’s just good to know that I’m capable. And that maybe it’s a blessing that handsome men don’t look at me as someone they’d want to marry. I’d rather have a sober, private proposal from a sweet guy who asks, “How about it?” than a drunken, public proposal in front of equally drunk friends and a possible divorce just a few years later.

Though I have met some people, even a couple of Germans, who have made it plain that they don’t think I’m any great shakes, I also know that I’ve made a difference to at least a few people I’ve met here. I’ve even made a difference to some animals. Looking at “the big picture”, I think I’ve done alright. I probably don’t need to compare myself to anyone else. At least I’m not in prison, right?

The Overeducated Housewife

Just another boring blog about a boring housewife…

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