My First Video Chat: An Intimate Look at the Outside and Inside of My Head

Anne M. Plant is a recent widow with two young daughters, 13 and 8, who traded their E! entourage lifestyle in Los Angeles for stability and structure in a provincial town on the Virginian peninsula. Now here's the true unfolding story of how Anne's sister and Army officer brother in law opened up their home. They have three children of their own; a girl, 13, a boy who's 10 and Baby Binkles, she is one. Taking in Anne and her two makes eight! The melding together of these two families is Operation Brady Bunch and it's high adventure.

Before leaving Los Angeles I bought a very expensive laptop computer. Only a portion of the splurge was retail therapy, the rest was a true investment in my new compact life. This computer comes with a built-in camera and microphone. I really wanted it so that I could keep in contact with the friends I was leaving behind. I have often watched my 13 year old daughter, Ms MySpace, with enchanted curiosity as she magically chatted with her friends in real time video. I was always struck by how natural they felt on camera, ready to strike a pose or to simply ignore the constant taping. I looked forward to giving it a try.

It took about a week after arriving in Virginia to get one of my very dearest friends on the line, Dr. Laserbeam. She is a cardiovascular surgeon. She doesn't like sick people. She likes making them better and it's easier when they are anesthetized. She has a laser beam focus that she applies toward any given goal and anything that slows her down in achieving it is disregarded or leveled. Don't get me wrong, she has a real tender side, too. She was the one who abandoned her life the day my husband died and sat with me for twelve hours until the word spread and others were able to come by my side. I love talking to Dr. Laserbeam. She cuts through the foggy areas of my life with her high intensity spotlight.

Dr. Laserbeam talked me through the free account sign-up and initiation of the video camera so we could "chat". When at last I got her on the screen she looked perfect, her usual self. All the time spent in the garden has given her a healthy summer tan. She is petite with taut runner's muscles. Her deep Hawaiian kukui nut eyes dominate her visage. They look at you wide and round, innocently, almost gently, without giving away any of the thoughts inside. She wears a super short, sexy, but uncompromisingly no-fuss, haircut. She looks California great!

I look like a worn out drunk. I know this because I can see it. The video chat program gives you a picture of your friend in one window and yourself in another. I am gaunt and pallid. For some reason I also have an Evard Munch elongated face.

"What's wrong with your camera?" she asks.

"Nothing, but I don't look good. I don't think I looked this bad in real life, do I?" It was very late and I was quite tired. My hair was escaping from the French twist I had thrown it in and all of my makeup had been removed. I tried talking to her with just my chin and neck in the frame. It was weird, less life like than even Max Headroom, so I returned to full frontal.

"Why are you whispering?" She wondered, stupefied as the realities of our two worlds collided. It was past midnight in Virginia and the baby was sleeping! Shhh! This conversation was occurring after curfew. Someone might hear us.

We spent considerable time trying to adjust the camera. Dr. Laserbeam provided constructive feedback with each little tweak I made to the camera's setting. In the end she blamed the poor camera quality; I knew different. We were having such fun, like our own children who spend hours talking with their friends walking around with their computers, snapping pictures, making videos and showing each other their new outfits.

"Let me see your room," Dr. Laserbeam said. I lifted up my computer, as I'd seen my daughter do many times before. I showed her the environs. The video capture was herky jerky as I scanned the blank walks of the room. What she saw through the grainy lens was a Spartan room. My single bed has bars at the foot and head. The blanket and pillow were made up in strict military form. The passing frames were pixilated as I panned across the small Korean computer desk with its Hangul label on the front. In the eerily translated light she could see the mostly empty, slightly mismatched shelving units and a few unpacked boxes. The footage was reminiscent of an underground video made for Al Qaeda broadcast.

"It looks like a cell" she says.

That cracked me up. In her Beverly Hills eyes I'm sure it did look like a cell, but honestly I don't really notice. I am in mission accomplish mode. This period of time isn't about the pursuit of luxury, this is about getting life right. I tell her that her perception was correct. The baby is in the cell block just down the hall and each morning we bang our cups against the rungs of our beds crying "Let us out! Let us out!"

We returned to chatting. The bags under my eyes were clearly visible. The video had cast me in gray. I was in button up pajamas and due to my hallowed cheeks, I actually looked like an inmate. The image struck me. I silently moved in toward the camera, filling the frame. All she could see then was my harrowed face, up close, cut off at the forehead, nostrils full open. The camera was flickering and fuzzy with its low resolution.

"Help me," I said in a raspy suppressed voice. "Heelllllllllpp me!" I whispered again with more urgency. I began blinking in code: T-O-R-T-U-R-E. We were both belly laughing. We were busting up not only at the outward hilarity, but also at the underlying metaphor in making this big transition from my home in LA to this new life in VA. We had a great time, like two school girls. But I am never video calling anyone again without wearing base.