This is My Body, This is My Blood

Garden of Friends

A couple of months ago I planted a few sparse poppies and other misc. flowers in my front yard to fill in the barren weeds. Much to my delight, what was once a boring slope is now an explosion of color. I've even had to start pulling some of the poppies as they were crowding each other in competition for space.

That's kind of how blogging feels. I planted a few seeds and suddenly my life expanded with freinds I've never met but who have taken the time to nurture my little "garden of essays" with their presence. This feels like a good time to use this space to thank those bloggers who have supported me both with their words of encouragement and through ordering my books . I know this is a long list, so you may want to bookmark this post and return, but please take a moment to stroll through these lovely blogs and leave a comment:

In no particular order...

Wanderlust
Dave's Not Here
A Mindful Life
Fast Eddie's Bullet
Dragon Blog
Killing the Angel in the House
Fatshadow
Squoogy
Epitaph
Not For Sheep

Blogjazz
Joe Territo
Flummer, Flummel, Flummo
Infinite Jess
The Me Yet To Come
Dry Bones Dance
Light and Darkness
Spangle Monkey
Pomegranites & Paper
Evidentiary: Alchemy

Under a Bell
Amber Bamberboo
Van Ramblings
Dancin' Flame
Naked Jen
Kat's Paws
Chandrasutra
I Speak of Dreams
Pragmatik

Twilight Cafe
Picasso Dreams
The Quiet One
White Pebble
Debra Galant Explains the Universe
Sacred Ordinary
Fear Not
Purple Goddess in Frog Pyjamas
Dakota Today
Ianua

Digital Art Dude
Groove Raccoon
Ripples
Chasing Daisy
Adventures of a Snowball in Hell
Mismatched Shoes
Dot Moms
Blog Collective
Super Nova Scotian
Mismatched Shoes

Father Jake Stops the World
Nina Turns 40
Mom in the Mirror
Agnese
Ever So Humble
Que Sera
Quick Story
Spinning
Ellen's Nest
Scary Mamma

Bill True
Sweet Jezebel
Lace Magicke
Homoesque
Aethele
Connections
Five Acres with a View
Fiberguy
Seashe
Loudgirl
I Spy Gemini

Also, Lu, Paula, Rumi, John, Michael, and Melinda (non-bloggers) --you know who you are. Thank you one and all for your feedback, support, and linkage. If I've missed anyone, I apologize.  Please send me a note and I'll add you to the list.

The Vagina Fairies

As I skimmed through my photographs of Greece looking for the American Smile picture, I came across this one, taken through the windshield of our rental car. Given that I was traveling with two lesbians there's no question the truck ahead of us triggered all number of jokes about what items the truck contained that the Vergina Ferries or the "Vagina Fairies" (American Spelling) might leave under one's pilllow. I can't remember them now and they probably wouldn't be as funny out of context as they were after three nights without sleep, but the photo provides a convenient segue into a subject I've been meaning to write about for some time.

I grew up in a family of seven children--six of them girls--yet I never learned the real word for my genitalia until I was thirteen. My sisters and I most commonly referred to "that area" as our privates. When I hear the word now, I picture camouflouge panties worn by a honeymooning bride. "Private Vagina reporting for duty. Sir!" Okay I don't really picture that but now you do.

We had other names, even more ridiculous. My mother, bless her soul, called it our "peewaddle." I have no idea where she got this other than from watching seven children waddle toward the bathroom trying to hold their pee. I still cringe writing that word, such an awful name for a lovely part of our bodies. She didn't get it from her mother, I know that. My grandma, when supervising our baths, never neglected to remind us to "wash your oonka." Oonka? Unka? Maybe it's Dutch, like she was. If you speak Dutch and you know, I'd love to hear the literal translation.

As I got older I learned all the "other' names, many of them derogatory, from girls at school. My least favorite is the C word. My daughter, A, on the other hand, can't stand the P word. So much so that her younger sister used to sneak up behind her and whisper it into her ear just to irritate her.

Just for a moment, imagine yourself standing in the kitchen, washing dishes, your mind wandering off about oh, I don't know, this, maybe, when suddenly your sixteen year-old daughter comes flying through the room with her hands over her ears, going "nyah, nyah, nyah! I can't hear you!" followed closely behind by a bratty thirteen year-old shouting, "PussyPussyPussyPusssssssssy!" at which point your three year-old son who is sitting at the table finishing his dinner claps his hands excitedly, joining in the chorus. "PussyPussyPussy!"

A:(Burying her head in my back) Mom, tell her to stop!
ME: M, stop bugging your sister.
M: What? It's just a name for a cat.
J: Banging his fork on the table, euphoric. "PussyPussyPussy!"
A: AAAAARGH! Now he's doing it.
ME: J, quiet down and finish your spaghetti. A, grab a towel and help me with these dishes. M, you can put them away.
A: But, Mom.
ME: Glaring.
M: Gloating
A: Grabs towel, dramatic sigh.

We stand at the kitchen sink, shoulder to shoulder, washing, drying, putting away. When the last dish is clean, I sit at the table next to J, the slowest eater in the entire Universe. A drapes her wet towel over the arm of the faucet then stands behind me, her hands on my shoulders. I reach behind and pat her fingers, smiling. Not to be outdone, M approaches from the other side. They both lean forward and I ready myself for a kiss on each cheek. When their sweet faces are inches from mine they utter a single word in unison before running out of the room, high-fiving each other, giggling hysterically.

J grins at me, a slimey orange-noodle framing his upper lip. Dropping his fork, he claps his hands together, singing gleefully. Peewaddle! Peewaddle! Peewaddle! Peewaddle!

Flash Back

I remember the thermostat wars well. Dad, wearing a sweater over and long johns under his white shirt and polyester slacks, would sidle over to the living room wall and twist the dial until the familiar whoomph of the gas-ignited flames kicked in--at which point my young sisters and I would dive for nearby floor registers, anxiously awaiting the hot, dusty breath as our old furnace wheezed from a dark corner in the basement. Huddled over a metal grate behind the bathroom door, I'd pull my dress down over my knees, creating a warm tent for my chilled legs. For a few precious moments I basked in the glow of my own private hearth, deliriously content until Mom appeared from out of the kitchen were she'd been slaving over our dinner and promptly turn the thermostat down. Eventually my father got cold and turned it up again, and the whole thing started over as they battled over room tempature in a silly adult game of furnace tag.

My parents' Sunday afternoon ritual lasted almost into my teens, even after we moved out of the old two-story parsonage and into a house with a more efficient furnace and better insulation. By then some of the house rules had relaxed and I was allowed to change into slacks after church, yet winter was winter and Dad's blood still ran thin so I continued to enjoy sitting by the register reading the Sunday comics, sometimes falling asleep curled next to the vent with a blanket and a pillow.

Then one day everything changed. Smack dab in the middle of a glorious furnace-induced nap, Mom marched across the living room and flipped the thermostat all the way off. Not down. Off. With sweat beading on her furrowed brow, she crossed her arms, daring my father to eject himself from the Easy-Boy and challenge her. He took one look at his flushed wife and grabbed an aghan off the back of the chair. Victorious, she walked back to the kitchen, but as soon as she was out of sight, he tip-toed over to the thermostat and notched it back up. A few minutes later, Mom stomped back into the room and turned it down so forcefully the lid popped off. Dad leapt to his feet and snapped the cover back in place before turning it up. She opened a window. He closed it. She opened two more. He closed and locked them. From opposite sides of the living room they stared each other down without a word. Ours was a fundamentalist Christian home where swearing wasn't allowed, but if looks were cuss words, they were both damned to hell for sure.

Suddenly my mother smiled. Without taking her eyes off my dad, she stripped down to her bra and panties, then walked past her stunned husband and opened the front door where she stood facing our neighbor's house. I looked at my dad, who normally ran his household with a firm but loving omnipotence, wondering how he would handle my obviously half-crazed mom without causing a stir--another thing we Midwesterners weren't supposed to do--and that my Dad reserved for crucial times. I figured this was one of those times and was about to slink down the hall to my bedroom when he answered my gaze with a shrug and I instantly knew that for the first time in my life, she had beaten him. I watched in amazement as he slowly walked over to my mother and gently kissed her on the back of her wet neck before quietly closing the door. Mom put her clothes back on and Dad put on another sweater. From then on, the thermostat remained at 62.

I take after my Dad. I moved to California when I was thirty-nine in order to escape the blustery cold winters and long months of chill that froze me to the bone year after year. Three short months of summer was never long enough to completely warm my body fully before the dark clouds of October drew an icy arm around my shivering shoulders, threatening to bury jack-o-lanterns in a foot of snow. It's taken seven warm winters for me to completly thaw out, and up until this year, I have basked in the glow of this sunny state with no seeming limit to my enjoyment of even the hottest days.

Then one day everything changed. Somewhere in the middle of my back, a fire started, crept up my spine and flushed my cheeks with a prickly heat that sent me to the nearest open window. I began waking in the night with my comforter kicked off the bed, drowning in soaked sheets. Once a died-in-the-goosedown cuddler, I now hug my side of the mattress rather than stick to M's skin like gum on a hot sidewalk.

Recently I soaked my cotton top in water before meeting a massage client at the door, in an attempt to keep cool for the hour-long session ahead of us. When I answered the door, P looked at me, puzzled.

"I didn't know we were having a wet t-shirt contest today," she wise-cracked.

"Yeah, well, sorry," I said, herding her toward my studio. "I win."

Lately I'm drawn to fans. There are no less than four of them oscillating from the coolest corners of the house on any given day. Sometimes I pull my sundress over the box fan, creating a cool tent for my sweaty legs as I bask in the comfort of my own private breeze, deliriously content for a few precious moments between hot flashes of perspir...um, inspiration.

What the Futz?

When I was a little girl I'd sometimes lay my head in my mother's lap in hopes that she'd fiddle with my ears, a thing that felt too good for words but which my mother understood completely. I know this because my younger sister and I often sat on the back of the sofa while combing our parents' hair this way or that, laughing at each other's ridiculous hairdo creations as they watched Lawrence Welk or Petticoat Junction. Not only did we get to stay up past bedtime on "beauty parlor" nights, they rewarded us each with a nickel for the time we spent fussing with their heads. Back then a nickel went a long way at Vanderven's Market.

Later, after we were tucked snugly into our bed, my sister and I took turns scratching each other's backs before falling asleep. We wrote words with our fingers, made guesses, pretended not to get it right the first time in order to extend the feel-goodness of the other's touch as she rewrote the word or drew another fingernail-picture.

"Your turn to do me," I'd say when she finally guessed correctly.

Yeah, I come from a family of futzers. It's as if we descended directly from flea-eating apes to hairless groomers, the way we constantly looked for ways to enjoy the delights of each other's tactile attention. Sometimes we'd go to extreme lengths--as in the time my older sister slathered herself in baby oil and iodine so she'd burn badly enough to guarantee hours spent under attentive fingers as we peeled sheets and strips of dead skin from her body. I don't know why my family had such a great appetite for touch, but I do know that the hunger has stayed with me. Little did my parents know when they paid me to futz with their heads, I'd one day get a hundred times that for bringing pleasure to other touch-lovers.

Fortunately I've been lucky enough to attract other futzers (or skin sluts, as we like to call each other) into my life. My friend, J, always rubs my shoulders when she visits and M spends hours rubbing my feet when we watch videos. Sometimes he even scratches my back until I fall asleep at night. So far he's never wakened me to say Your turn to do me.

But I've got me a roll of nickels, just in case.

Dreamcatcher

Last night I wandered to the back yard with three-year-old A on my left hip. When we reached the bush next to the pond, my tiny daughter stiffened and clung to me frantically. I asked why she was frightened but she refused to answer, burying her blond head in my neck. 

I tried again. "What happened here?" 

No answer. I knew if I closed my eyes I would see what she saw so I did. Instantly images of an entire village flooding then sinking into the earth filled my head. I watched as people and houses disappeared into the ground, frozen in time. There had been no warning, whatever it was.

Sensing something sinister, I opened my eyes to find a snake slithering toward us, an evil grin on his warty face. He slipped behind me then sunk his fangs into my right hand. I held tightly onto A, refusing to let go of her no matter how badly it hurt. Surprisingly, (though I wonder why I'm surprised since I'm the one making up the damn dream) the snake released my hand just long enough for me to run into the house, but I knew he would beat me to the side door, and he did. This time as he again approached, I held out my hand and said, "Go ahead, but I'm not letting go of her." I woke myself screaming in pain as my hand disappeared into his mouth.

And so it goes, another night of terror, dreams filled with shadowy creatures and menacing men who threaten, chase, and taunt me.  I keep wondering what they are trying to tell me and why I can't seem to make them go away. I've taken all the remedies, kept journals, tried to interpret them--and still they haunt my nights. Some days I wake more tired than when I went to bed. Today is one of them. 

Yet I refuse to take a pill. I know my subconscious is trying to tell me something. Any day now a hundred bells will go off and I'll get whatever it is I'm supposed to understand. Until then, I sleep with the lights on, which probably only makes the Boogie Man more interested in fucking with me. Not that I believe in a Boogie Man.  I'm just sayin.

Note: Photo of grumpy rattler compliments of Bill.

Grin and Wear It

When I was in Greece a with a couple of friends a few years ago, we met a street vendor in Athens who went out of his way to tell us that we did not have the typical "American Smile." When asked to elaborate, he explained how he can instantly tell an American by the way they flash a fake smile that disappears before it's fully released. He then demonstrated the American Smile, which was more like a twitch than an emotional expression, and challenged me to snap a photograph of the smile. As you can see by the photo I was unsuccessful, although I tried several times.

I like the way that man described it as releasing a smile. From as far back as I can remember, I have always played a secret smiling game with unsuspecting strangers. Lately, it's been harder to score points than usual. Not because I'm not good at the game--as a matter of fact I'm probably the all-time champion since I made it up--but because people in general seem further away from joy than ever before. All the more reason to keep the game going.

Wanna play? It's very simple. Next time you're in public, go out of your way to make eye contact with people. Whether you're in the grocery store, pumping gas, waiting in line at the bank, or passing on a sidewalk, look around and smile. You'd be amazed at how good it feels to see a sour expression transformed by this tiny act of kindness. What's even more amazing is how this simple gift can transform a lonely or sad person's entire day simply because for a brief moment they were not alone in the world, thanks to the reach of your greeting.

I admit The Smiling Game is one of "enlightened self-interest" (as M likes to call it) to be sure. Partly because it makes me aware of the power we all have to affect others and partly because it feels so damn good. Anyone who has suffered emotional abuse knows that a mere look can shatter the victim of that look in a matter of seconds. The Smiling Game is an opportunity to balance all the meanness in the world. Plus, as soon as you begin playing you'll realize how good it feels to smile--especially on days when you don't feel like smiling. So you force yourself to smile at one person and suddenly it's like you're looking into a mirror of the joy you couldn't find until you released it.

Go ahead and call me touchy-feely, pollyanna, airy-fairy, whatever name you have stored for delusional people like me who still believe we can change the world one person at a time. You're exactly the person I seek out when I leave my house. So far I've been successful about 90% of the time, but I need a few more players to work on the other ten percent. Anybody with me? I'm officially calling this weekend the Smile Olympics. Game opens on Friday and ends Sunday night. Report back with your results. You get one point for each unsmiling stranger (people you know don't count) that returns your smile. No fair showing your tits or anything like that. Everybody wins in this game, but I will send a pack of Smiley Stickers to the top 3 scorers.

Okay, brush those choppers and smile like team spirit.

Hippie for a Day

I've always resented being born too late to experience the revolutionary sixties. Wedged squarely between hip gen-xers and mellowed boomers, I often feel like a flower child with plastic petals.  I have hippie ideals tarnished by techno needs, organic principals spoiled by starbucks cravings, liberal politics tainted by a loss of optimism, cotton preferences that make exceptions for anything pink or sparkly. I'm a gen-xy, waiting for my assignment on any given day, depending upon circumstance and prevailing tides.

Last Friday a rogue wave snuck up behind me and pulled me into a sea of tie-dye and patchouli. The truth is, I went willingly. It's been a few years since my last weekend music festival so when my friend, Paulette, offered me a free ticket in exchange for helping her at her booth, I said yes. Maybe I should have thought it out a bit, given that the festival was happening in the desert and my van has no AC, but I was ripe for a freak fix and there was a three day dose on tap just six hours away. I invited M--who couldn't pass for a hippie if you wrapped him in rolling papers--and he surprised me by agreeing to come along (translation: drive so I could lie in the back of the van and write).

We arrived late Friday afternoon, just as cars were lining up outside the campground. Got wristbands at the Airstream trailer before securing a campsite and connecting with Paulette, who was already setting up--though the wind was blowing down most of what she'd hung. She spat a mouthful of dust, then enveloped me a warm hug where I nearly got lost between her mountainous mammaries. Everyone does. You have to see them to believe them and believe me, you will see them before you see her 4-foot voluptuous frame hiding behind them.

After chowing down an organic burrito, the three of us sat in lawn chairs watching the sun set over San Jacinto, which is still topped with snow, as groups of sandal- and sari-wearing festival goers began to wander by. They took in Paulette's cleavage, nodded at me, glanced nervously at M, who I'm sure they assumed was either security or a narc. A few curious souls stopped to admire Paulette's paintings and prints, but they didn't strike me as people equipped to shell out C-notes for art. Knowing this, Paulette came prepared with glow sticks and blinking rings to sell after dark. Little did I know when I showed up wanting to be hippie for a day I'd end up glow-lady for a night.

The neon sold like crazy baby. These folks came to dance and to be seen dancing. Our booth was one over from the second stage so everyone had to walk past us to get to the music. Paulette planted a neon halo on my head and hung another around my neck before handing me a few to twirl over my head in order to attract the attention of potential buyers. It worked. Before I knew it I was totally into it, swinging green and purple ropes like a seasoned carnie. My flowers might have been plastic, but they glowed, damn it, and that's something. By the time the night ended I boasted a cross-your-heart-neon bra and matching ankle and arm bracelets as well as blinky rings on every finger.  For a few hours, I felt like just another twirling deadhead, minus the drugs, plus the sense to go to bed at a decent hour. I forgot myself. Forgot about finances and agents and teenagers as I danced to the nearby music, hawking Paulette's colorful goods until we met the night's quota.

M snapped a picture so I could remember the wild young woman who lives inside this middle-aged grandmother when I'm feeling old and uncool.  We said goodnight to Paulette and walked back to our campsite just as a car full of loud party-goers pulled up in the next spot. Four doors sprung open and five filthy dreadlocked stoners stumbled out. One of them looked at me, smiled, then puked at my feet. I took one look at M and said, "This is not going to work for me."  We packed up the cooler and moved to the furthest end of the campground where I would hopefully not have to walk though vomit on my way to the john. Then we crawled inside the back of the van hoping to get a good night's sleep before staffing the booth for ten hours on Saturday--further proof that neither of us are authentic festival-ites or we would have known that sleep is not an option when the bands play until 4:00 AM and the party goes on until sunrise.

Fortunately, we did come prepared with earplugs, which we tucked into our ears before tucking ourselves into sleeping bags for the night. I could still hear muffled drums, but was glad to be able to relieve myself of the building burrito fallout, knowing M's ears were plugged. A few minutes passed (along with a few gas bubbles) before M mentioned that he might not be able to hear all that well but his nose was working just fine.