This is My Body, This is My Blood

Awkward Moments

Last night I went to see Cold Mountain with B. Although we've been divorced for over two years, we have somehow managed to recreate a friendship based on love, respect for our differences, and a mutual enjoyment of one another's company. Plus we both like movies.

Halfway through the film, B got up to pee.  When he returned, he rested his hand on my knee, which was crossed over my other leg. I smiled in the dark, because I knew he had momentarily forgotten the present, somehow slipped under the membrane of our past, a time when we were nearly always physically connected with a hand or a shoulder. It took him about ten seconds to realize I was not P (his current girlfriend) and relocate his hand to his own lap.

Part of me wanted to lay my hand over his, stay connected. Not as his wife or a girlfriend, but as two people who love each other in a way that transcends the definition of relationship. I suppose I could have, but what if he thought I was coming on to him?  What if it was all just too weird? Being the skin slut that I am, I hate sacrificing a warm hand for the sake of convention. But I did. Although I did hide my face in his shoulder during the violent war scenes. I wasn't prepared for the gore.  I never am.

It wasn't so long ago that B and I were party to our own war.  We shot at each other with bullets of blame and criticism. He felt powerless in our changing relationship.  I felt betrayed when he reached for someone other than me to help him reclaim that power. Each of us retreated to our separate battlefields. Bloody. Wounded.

It has taken a couple of years and some serious self-work on both our parts to heal those wounds. Every once in a while, when I am reminded of man's inhumanity to man (the Civil War, e.g.) I take heart in the fact that there is this wonderful thing called forgiveness, that has the ability to change everything, if only we allow it.

I didn't mean to go all woo-woo on you.  Maybe it was the movie. Maybe it was the recent earthquake.  Or maybe...just maybe...there's hope for this world if we each do our part on a micro-level.

Hey B--if you're reading this--I love you. Always will.

Wax On, Wax Off

I'm stuck on the hair thing. There's another piece to yesterday's post, but I'd already gone over my self-imposed word limit, so I saved it for today. It has to do with body hair.

One of the benefits of having fine blond hair, is that I hardly ever have to shave. Neither of my parents were very hairy, and I'm thankful for that. My eyebrows are so light they're almost non-existent. Men have often remarked on how smooth my body is--especially my legs. Whenever I covet those dark-haired beauties with hairdowntothere, I remind myself that they probably have prickly thighs. In my flower child years (yeah--like they ever ended) I didn't even bother to shave my legs or underarms. For someone like me, this was not a big deal.

We Americans are neurotic about body hair. When I asked a British friend how he felt about (most of) their women not shaving, he told me that underarm hair is sexy.

Sexy?

Yeah. When we're in bed and she throws her arms up over her head, my mind sees two more pussies.

Hmm. Never thought of it that way. Which brings me to the subject of pubic hair, and the story I really wanted to tell.

The same friend who sent my to Betty Purify for the braidfest--is a licensed cosmetologist. One day she convinced me to go Brazilan. I feel another hunk of irony creeping in here as I realize this was during the time I had 168 braids. Add a little here, take some off there...

Does it hurt? asked I. Just a little, answered she. But it's over quickly.

You know, time is a relative thing. When you're getting a massage, an hour passes at warp speed. When someone is ripping wax from your genitalia, it's more like, I don't know, 56 hours of labor condensed into one contraction? Several times over. Yeah. It's kinda like that.

For those of you who have never had a Brazilian wax job, I'll try to convey the experience as best I can.

First, J did herself, while I watched, so I could get an idea of what to expect. She dropped her pants, then sat on a towel on the floor cross-legged and painted wax from a crock pot onto her labia. Then she held one side tight while she grabbed an edge of wax and tore the cooled mixture off. If I had paid more attention to the contortions on her face than the actual procedure, I never would have dropped my own pants.

It was excruciating.

You're just very delicate she said, as I held my hand over my crotch after she'd done one side. Tears spilled onto my towel. Wait, I said. Okay, but we have to finish, said she. Not wanting to look like a wimp (I was going to say pussy, but, well, I hate the obvious) I finally relented. And set a record of the most cuss words repeated in one breath since I gave birth.

Now we have to do the back.

The back?

Yeah. You need to turn over and get on your knees.

My knees.

Yeah.

So there I was, with my ass in J's face while she matter of factly felt around, brushing wax over the hair in my crack.

You're not very hairy, she said from where no woman's voice has ever traveled to my ears before. Most women have a lot more back here, she said.

Oh please. As if that is any consolation while crouching doggie-style in my living room, bare-assed and bleeding from my "spa treatment."

After she left I took a bath in baking soda to soothe my stinging flesh, then stood naked in front of my mirror. I looked like a little girl with breasts, except for the tiny tuft she'd shaped, just above my pubic bone. It looked a little like Hitler's mustache. But she was right. It felt really, really smooth.

For about two weeks. As new pubic hair began to poke back through my skin, I considered having J re-wax me. For about one second I considered it. I'd sooner shave my head. Besides, the man I was seeing said he preferred my womanly look, which is one of the reasons I was originally attracted to him. He's one of the few men I know who appreciates a seasoned woman over a perfect youthful body on someone with whom he can't have a soulful conversation. You gotta love that.

The thing is, although I liked the smooth feeling, I felt the same kind of shift I'd experienced with the braids. Adding hair made me feel stronger. Taking it away--especially from my vagina--made me feel less powerful. Maybe I imposed expectations on both of these acts, but I don't think so. Other women, like J, may have a different experience.

What I do know is that I have developed a pathological fear of crockpots.

Hair Apparent

When I was two, my six year-old sister chopped off my tiny pony tail with a pair of scissors. I don't know if she did it out of spite or curiosity, but I suspect the former. She'd been the baby for four sweet years until I came along. My mother wrote in my baby book, "...but it looks cute. Think we'll keep it short."

As if my mother had sentenced my body at its roots, from that day forward my hair refused to grow. For all of my life I have had baby-fine, thin hair that breaks off as soon as it reaches my shoulders. Oh how I've envied women with full heads of bouncing Prell locks or wild manes of kinky tendrils! Why not me? I curse. I want to drape Heidi braids across my chest, thread a pony-tail through my baseball cap, sweep it all up, leaving romantic tendrils hanging around my face as if they fell there by accident.

What is it about hair that defines a woman? Or a man, for that matter, come to think about it. Look what happened to Samson when his hair was shorn. I can relate, Sammy.

Last summer I had 168 braids woven into my hair. It was fake hair, bought at a beauty supply store, in packages that looked like horse tails encased in plastic sleeves. I chose light and dark blond so it would look more natural. As if suddenly sprouting 168 braids would look natural on my elfin-shaped head.

My friend J referred me to Betty Purify to do the deed. I swear to God that's her real name. A big, black, beautiful woman married to a gospel preacher, she and her husband sing together in church and have even recorded a few CD's. She braids hair on the side for extra money.

I met Betty in her garage where she'd set up a chair facing the street, with the door open so we could look out for the ten (yes, ten!) hours it would take to weave all that hair into my sparse locks. Before she started she prayed over my head. I'm not a religious person, but I'll take a blessing any way I can get it, especially when it comes to my head. Then she grabbed the first hunk of fake hair and started in, long, red nails clicking together like busy insects as she worked.

I've never seen a pair of fingers move so fast. We were a team, Betty and I: she started 'em and as soon as they reached my shoulder, I braided the rest of the way. We only broke our rhythm once--a short lunch of strawberries, almonds, and cheese--before going right back at it. Over those hours we talked a lot, listened to some of her music, sometimes sang along, while I felt my ass flatten into trucker-butt. But by the end of the day, we had turned my sad, mousy hair into a full head of beautiful, long braids that tickled the small of my back.

The first time I looked in the mirror, I was ecstatic. I was Rapunzel, Lady Godiva, and Medusa all wrapped up into one exotic woman. I hugged and thanked Betty Purify for her blessing., then went straight to the grocery store to try out my new look.

It worked. My God, I lost count of how many people commented on my hair. Little children asked to touch it. Men drooled. Women smiled. I beamed. It was true what they said about the power of hair. I felt grounded and so very female. I felt the weight of it on my head, the way it tickled my waist, fell over one eye. Yes! I am woman, I roared (but not until I got to my car).

Despite the wonder of all those braids, there were a few drawbacks. Sleeping, for one. I had to stuff all the braids into a nylon stocking at night to keep them from getting messy. There was only one sleeping position: on my side with the leg-o-hair hanging over the side of the bed. And for the first couple weeks I suffered headaches from the weight pulling on my scalp. But I didn't mind. I was Aphrodite. Beautiful. Exotic. Sexy.

Until we (as in my hair and I) had sex for the first time. I'd been communicating with a man who first saw my picture with short, fine, blond hair. I sent him a picture of the new me, warning him that it was a temporary spell so not to get too excited. The braids last two, maybe three months, at best, before your own hair will start to dreadlock. He said he liked me both ways.

I couldn't wait to explore my newfound sexuality via The Hair. I fantasized about sensually dragging the ends along his back, my naked body draped in all that hair via candlelight. When the time finally arrived, it didn't quite live up to the fantasy. Although I looked great, the hair got in the way. The braids kept getting stuck under one of us, pulling my scalp, messing up the flow of lovemaking. And then there was the nylon thing to consider. I put it on in the bathroom afterwards, then wrapped it around my head and covered it with a scarf. I looked like Ali Babba, but he was sweet about it. It fell off during the night so he woke to Nylon Head anyway. So much for sexy.

I really grew into those braids. When the time came to take them out, I panicked. I didn't want to go back to spindly short hair, but already a couple of braids had fallen out, which meant I had bald spots waiting for me when I de-tressed. Not having much hair to begin with, I didn't want to risk losing any more. It had to be done.

In a rather symbolic moment, I snipped the first braid just as it was announced that Ah-nold would be our new governor. I cut them all chin length first, leaving me with a blond Egyptian look. Then one by one, I unraveled them. It took five hours to unbraid and comb them out. I cried in the bathtub as I washed what was left of my hair after what I would normally have shed over three months, all fell out in one sitting. The only thing that made me feel better was getting on the scale--I'd lost two and a half pounds!

I still miss my braids. But I've learned something about myself through this process: I am not my hair.

And yet, my hair is part of me. I can choose different ways to express my uniqueness without benefit of three pounds of fake hair. I wear lots of silly hats. Last week I died it pink. I've been thinking about buying some fun wigs.

But come summer, I have a date with Betty Purify to accept the blessing of her miraculous hands once again.

Sierra Secrets

This is what we woke to on Christmas morning.  Sometimes it's difficult finding words to convey a feeling, but if you look closely at the trees, you will see a group of old women standing together, draped in white shawls, sturdy, patient, unmoving. I can almost hear them mumbling to one another, describing the first snow, talking about how many more birds used to rest in their branches, and how they've looked forward to the quiet of winter when the most of the tourons stay home.

Tree One: You see those morons trying to put chains on their tires? Didn't even bother to check and see if they fit before they left.  Sheesh. Stupid city-slickers.

Tree Two: No kidding.  And what is with that woman and her stupid pink hat with the tassels?  She's got to be in her forties, for Christ's sake.

Tree One: Yeah, reminds me of that guy last summer.

Tree Two: The one with the toupee!  You snagged it when he walked by. God that was a good one. Scared the woman he was with pretty good, didn't you?

Tree One: You mean girl he was with. She must have been at least 30 years younger than him.

Tree Two: At least.

Tree One: Shhh.  The pink bunny's coming out on the deck.

Tree Two: What's she doing out there with no coat on?  She'll freeze.

Tree One: I don't know. Hey--do you see that?

Tree Two: The wings? Yeah. She thinks she's a fairy or something. Look at her dancing and twirling around out there.

Tree One: Barefoot! What a nutcase.

Tree Two: You said it.

Tree One: Um...do you get the feeling she's looking at us?

Tree Two: Uh huh. You don't think...

Tree One: Just because she's wearing a pair of cardboard wings with feathers glued on and her ears are pointy doesn't mean...

Tree Two: Look!  She blew us a kiss! 

Tree One: And winked.  Maybe...

Tree One and Tree Two: (simultaneously) Nah.

Male Order Bride

Sixteen year-old eyes peek out from under the veil, as if I could hide the future behind a thin wall of lace.

Sixteen.  Imagine yourself married at sixteen. My youngest son is fifteen. I can barely imagine him at boarding school, let alone running his own life. My God. What was I thinking as I posed in the kitchen, the one in which I'd spent innumerable mornings wearing flannel nighties and munching Cap'n Crunch while reading the back of the box? Did I think this was a game, that I could wake up one day and be a grown up? 

Look at her.  No makeup. No shoes. No idea.

We were married on a deck overlooking the grassy meadow I'd run through nearly every day of my childhood. Over the hill lay the school where I won spelling bees, jumped rope, swung so high on the swings I once went all the way over the bar.

I was barefoot that day because my older sister's borrowed dress two inches too short, a convenient excuse for a last rebellion against tradition. My father performed the ceremony. My brother-in-law gave me away. My mother cried. It's for the best, they'd said.  Who could know what was best for a spirited young girl who refused to play by the rules? Certainly not the girl.

I wasn't pregnant, (although I did end up that way a couple of years later) I was incorrigible.

in·cor·ri·gi·ble    ( P )  Pronunciation Key  (n-kôr-j-bl, -kr-)
adj.

1.Incapable of being corrected or reformed: an incorrigible criminal.
2.Firmly rooted; ineradicable: incorrigible faults.
3.Difficult or impossible to control or manage: an incorrigible, spoiled child.

Looking at her (she seems more like a daughter to me now than myself) I don't see what they saw.  I see a young girl not unlike any other teenager, maybe a little lost, angst-ridden, and very naive.  What you can't see is her lively spirit, the one who could not bend in ways they tried to pose her. She spit out their spoon-fed religion at thirteen. At fourteen she swam nude in the ponds beyond the trees, then sat on a rock and played a beat-up guitar. In her fifteenth year she lost her innocence to rock and roll, her poetry to marijuana, and her virginity to a boy who smelled like leaves and leather.

And so, at sixteen, after she ran away and lived in a tent for two weeks, The Pastor and His Wife agreed to let her marry a boy she'd dated for a summer rather than suffer any more sleepless nights over the One Who Wouldn't Play by the Rules. Like Pilate before the crucifixion, my parents washed their hands of their wayward lamb and went on with their lives. I never resented their decision, because I didn't know I had a choice. It was just the way it was. I knew they loved me, despite their inability to handle someone like me.

My groom and I spent the night at the Holiday Inn. I don't remember my wedding night. What I remember most clearly about that day is my mother sitting on the edge of the bathtub, washing my back after I'd called her to the bathroom just hours before taking a husband. With my knees to my chest she ran a soapy washcloth across my young skin and I drank in the memory of her touch, knowing it would be the last time it would ever be like this. When she left the room I soaked the washcloth with my tears.  I couldn't name my grief, only knew it was there, like her hand on my back, then gone.

Our daughter was born in the spring of my senior high school year, two months after I turned 18. The boy I'd married turned out to be an alcoholic. One day he chased me around the house and hit me with a stick. That night as I held my baby girl in my arms I realized I did have a choice.  I left the next day. 

If I could stand next to the girl in the photograph today, I would gently remove the veil from her head and take her by the hand to the rock next to the pond, where I would hold her in my arms and rock every last tear out of her.  I would tell her it is her uniqueness, her brave spirit, that makes her special. I would remind her that no matter where she is, what road she chooses, what mistakes she makes, it does not make her any less lovable.  And then I would swim naked with her until the sun set on the pond and all the wedding guests had long since given up and gone home.

Holy Mother

(Photo by Joe Johnson at The Tribune.)

I was standing in my driveway when the camper started shaking and rattling.  My fist thought was that a couple of horny college kids had snuck in there to freak in privacy. But then I realized the earth was moving beneath my feet. Remember those carnival fun houses where you have to walk across a shifting floor? it was kind of like that.  Only much louder.

Afterwards I was more shaken by the awareness of the powerful forces beneath my feet than the actual event. I felt something loosen in my core along with the earth. Something akin to an illusion that I am in control of my life. Ha.

Until yesterday, I was an earthquake virgin. Having moved here from the Midwest nearly 7 years ago, I've experienced the terror of mother nature in the sky rather than under my feet: how the August sky sometimes turned a pinkish shade of gray and the atmosphere became thick with foreboding. The stillness made you stop and notice the nothingness of your breath. Humidity hung in the air like dangling raindrops just waiting for the word from above for permission to let go. People spilled out of houses onto front porches and lawns. Farmers and townsfolk gazed up at the ominous clouds, scanning the horizon for telltale funnels. Children stopped playing, fear curdling the lunch in their bellies. The landscape transformed into a still photograph, the kind that has faded to yellow. This was the quiet that preceded "weather". It could be a severe thunderstorm or a bout of pounding hail, but in our guts we all thought tornado.

As a child, I felt the power in our collective fear of twisters. At our rural elementary school we practiced tornado drills, guaranteeing a new generation of storm-phobics. We huddled under our desks until given the "all clear" from the principal. I always felt sorry for the kids who sat against the far wall. One of them was chosen each year to be responsible for opening the windows to ward off implosion. I took care in choosing my seat on the first day of school.

On any given day from June on, somebody would tell somebody that a tornado cloud had been sighted. Immediately children, weighted down with blankets and board games, were shuffled down basement stairs or into storm shelters. The adults carried radios and a few probably had a flask hidden in their overalls or apron pocket. I can’t remember now which corner we were supposed to take refuge in, the one that would offer us the most protection.

We huddled together in our musty-smelling basement armed with Monopoly and Scrabble to keep us occupied. The rain fell in dollops outside, filling the window wells with muddy water. My mother kept her ear to the radio listening for news of the impending storm. Eventually Dad would come scurrying in from his office across the street. My sisters and I passed the time sneaking past Boardwalk and trying to scare each other. Every once in a while my father would creep up the back stairs for a peek at the threatening sky. We’d wait quietly for his return, shivering at the howling wind that vibrated the basement windows.

One of my older sisters told me that a tornado sounds like a train roaring overhead. Fortunately for us, that frightening sound had never punctuated the safety of our cellar. Although I sometimes felt afraid, I took comfort in the fact that we were all together-a rare thing in a family of nine-and I knew that if we were going to die, we’d be going together, so I didn’t feel I had all that much to lose.

Eventually the world outside our basement windows became quiet once again and we headed upstairs to gawk at the aftermath of the wind’s fury:cars demolished by fallen trees and roofs missing most of their shingles. That day’s weather would be the topic of grocery line conversation for weeks to come.

Until November, when the sky turned dark once more and the word blizzard passed from mouth to mouth.

A New Leaf

This photo--taken in my front yard on the Winter Solstice--reminds me of the variegated layers of my life. Today I reflect on the past year, what I have learned, and what I want hope for in the coming year.

2003 Remembered

Finished revising novel
Grieved the war, the unnecessary loss of lives, and the shameful attitude of our arrogant administration
Let go of a burdening relationship with D
Adopted Bella at the flea market
Watched my baby give graduation address to his 8th grade classmates
Spent 5 short but glorious days with my pregnant daughter and oldest grandchild
Had 168 exotic braids woven into my hair
Began an odd but strangely comfortable long-distance relationship with M
Hit with the worst seasonal depression thus far
Skipped four periods, exchanged them for four extras later on
Sent J to boarding school
Floundered like a lost bird in this empty nest
Lost a dear friend who chose her principles over the joy of our friendship
Painted said nest in Tuscan colors to warm my cave
Nearly finished revising second novel

What I Have Learned

Writing is much more fun than revising
Letting go of what's not working is harder than clinging to it long after you know it's not working
War sucks
Waking up with a puppy on your pillow is better than waking up with a dead relationship on it
All those times I longed for quiet? I got them and now I miss the noise of J bouncing around the rooms
Being a grandmother does not mean being old
I'm a sucker for a man with a tender touch and a kind heart
I have S.A.D but it doesn't define me
Perimenopause is not a disease
I'm always stronger than I think I am

What I Hope for in 2004

Finish memoir
Begin new novel
Live in the moment rather than the past/future
Become more active in the movement to remove the Bush Regime
Listen to more music
Dance more often
Attract more women friends into my life
Take a digital photography class
Laugh.  A lot.
Meet S on Oprah
Learn to love my maturing body
Plant more flowers in the yard
Spend more time with the poopies
Take a summer road trip and meet my Collective Journeyers
Publish WITB
Sing
Take guitar lessons
Stay connected to those I love
Remember this list (and keep adding to it)

The Texture of Memory

My mother was sick a lot when I was young, so my sisters and I were often shipped off to families that would have us. My favorite was Krause's. Because the farm was my sisters' least favorite place, I usually got my way when the time came to divy up my sisters and me. The Krause homestead harbored three milk cows, a pond, several beehives, two old horses, 100 head of sheep, and a dozen kids. One extra pair of hands and legs was hardly noticed.

We rode in the back of a rusty blue truck, a sea of heads bobbing up and down along that dusty gravel road, our feet all tangled together in the center of the truck bed. Virginia--that fattest of the Krause kids--sat up on the wheel cover, shiny black hair blowing across her face. Every once in a while she'd pluck a few strands from her mouth and tuck them behind her ear where they stayed for about six seconds

In the story books I'd read, sheep were gentle, fluffy-white creatures. After several visits to the farm, I learned they were not the docile Lambs of God as previously advertised. These sheep were dirty, noisy, and nervous as a bunch of potheads in a donut shop. They ran around bleating, crawling over one another to get wherever it was they seemed to be in a very big hurry to get to, all the while spewing kernels of sheep shit from one end of the farm to the other.

As a prissy little townie, I never imagined walking shoeless among sheep turds. Nevertheless, on my second visit to the farm, I chased a kitten from the front porch of the house out to the barn. About halfway between the chicken coop and the horse coral, I paused in midstep as pertinent information was transferred from the plantar epidermal surface of my feet to my nine-year-old brain--which was that several nuggets of sheep excrement were lodged between my pristine toes. My stomach heaved and for a moment I was certain breakfast was on it's way back up, but that thought was surprisingly exchanged for observance and, oddly enough, eventual delight. It felt good.

There's something to be said for the way sheep droppings flatten beneath one's foot on a summer afternoon. Think mud-colored peas that pop then squish beneath your feet. From a curious child's point of view, running through sheep shit is not all that a high price for finding a kitten and holding it against your chest while stitting upon a bale of hay stacked high in a barn where sun rays play on dust particles that dance among the weathered beams.

What nakes a farm a farm, you might ask? To me, it's the smell of manure, soured milk, and freshly cut alfalfa. It's the texture of prickly hay on the back of your neck and the silky sweat-bathed bareback of Midnight, the oldest mare, against my legs. It's the sweet taste of that first dollop of honey melting on my tongue, stolen from the comb at dusk. It's the symphony of children laughing, coon dogs crooning, a screen door banging, sheep bleating, and a mother's call to supper.

Over the well-worn path we ran to her voice, upon calloused feet over stones and twigs and sheep droppings spread throughout the landscape like marbles on a huge playing field. We ate food we'd recently petted or plucked eggs from under, with milk that had fresh cream floating on top.

Eventually--sometimes a few days, sometimes weeks--I was returned to my family and my clean house with white sheets and a mowed lawn. I told myself back then that one day I would drive a rusty truck and have a barn full of cats with a rope for swinging from hayloft to hayloft. I'd raise a dozen kids and make all their clothes. And at the end of summer days I'd sit on my porch and watch fireflies blinking in the distant fields.

I don't live on a farm, drive a truck, or own a cat and I'd be hard-pressed to string a few stitches together. But every once in a while I drive to the country, roll down the windows, and breathe in the memory of a shoeless summer.

Walking on Glass

On any given day--doesn't matter if it's summer or winter--you'll likely find me barefoot. I think it's probably due to my propensity toward spaciness. For those of us who have always been called daydreamers, it helps to feel the surface beneath our feet. It grounds us. The downside is that, with our heads in the clouds, we sometimes step on (or in) things we wish we hadn't. Use your imagination.

A lot of people have ugly feet, but I happen to like mine. They're narrow size eights with long, slender toes and nicely shaped nails. I've worn a ring on my right second toe since long before it came into fashion. Sometimes I wear an ankle bracelet, too, but I think it draws attention to my thick ankles--Mother Nature's plan to keep me from getting too conceited about my pretty feet.

As a massage therapist, I see lots of feet up close. Some people wonder how I deal with all those ugly, stinky, feet, but truly, it's an honor to rub someone's feet. Think Mary Magdalene without the hair and less expensive oils (and no Jesus). To massage someone's feet is to bless the person who walks on them.

Take for instance, Eloise, who has been coming to me since she turned 81. She's 86 now. Every time I hold one of her feet in my hands, I can't help but think about all the miles they've walked, places they've been. Last month on her birthday I took her to one of those Vietnamese nail spas for a pedicure. You should have seen her--all four feet eleven inches of her--propped up in that chair like a queen. She walked out wearing a pair of my flip-flops, carrying her sensible pumps in one hand.

Last Friday I asked if she wanted me to remove the polish, knowing it might be quite a chore for her to bend over for as long as it takes to get it all off.

"I think I'll keep it a while longer," she said, wiggling her mauve toes and smiling.

Best $20 I've ever spent.

When I do wear shoes, they're usually flip-flops--the kind with flowers on the toes. Because my hands remain ringless and clipped for the sake of my clients, I decorate my feet instead. The one exception to this is my Uggs which I stick my bare feet into on really cold days. I brought them with me when I moved to California from Michigan six years ago, where I was known to run barefoot through the snow to the mailbox and back.

When my teenager was a toddler, I used to snuggle with him, cupping his tiny foot in my hand until he fell asleep. Now he wears an extra-wide size 11. He got his father's feet. Could be worse. My friend Debby was born with an extra toe on one foot. She called it "God's little boo-boo." I called it Mother Nature's plan to keep her from letting those great breasts go to her head.

Buried

Every fall when the light slips out of reach earlier and earlier each day, I slip inside myself, forget my summer sister and become a bear in my cave where I pound my bones against the wall of time, waiting. Tick, tick, tick.  Tap, tap, tap.

Even here, in sunny California where I escaped to from the Midwest six years ago, I couldn't outrun the shadows.

I was born to water, a Pisces fish, swimming in two directions.  The sound of waves  beating against my heart on a hot summer day fills me with a boundless sense of power.  I kick off my flip-flops, run along the shore in my colorful sarong like an actress in a douche commercial.  I'm a braless Marlo Thomas with an attitude, tossing her hat in the air, la-de-da!  I feel as if I could kick winter's ass in a west coast minute, bring him on.

Until he shows up unexpectedly, like a period between cycles that ruins your favorite pair of underwear, hey, what the hell?  Summer can't possibly be over yet, can it? Wait!  I'm not ready! But its too late.  He's swiped the smile from my face, stolen the dance out of my bare feet, filched my pink cat-eye sunglasses, and draped me in dusk at 4:00 in the afternoon. Go on home, Honey, he says.

So I do, hanging my hatless head, beaten again. Damn.

But this time I have a plan. Not Lexapro.  Not St. Johns wort.  Not even one of those expensive lamps that shower you with rays equivalent to a day in the sun.  No, I'm meeting the icy demon straight on this year. Got me some mittens, a pair of cross country skis, and a full-blown down-armored jacket because I've got a date with winter smack dab in the middle of Gods hand: Yosemite National Park. He's meeting me there at 6 0'clock sharp on the day after the solstice, in a cabin with a brick fireplace and beamed ceilings. I'm calling his bluff at Badger's Pass at first light.

And one more thing. I'm wearing a batik sarong under my coat and sparkly pink shades. Because you can take summer away from the girl, but you can't take it out of her.