This is My Body, This is My Blood

Out to Pasture

I was mowing the front yard with the weed whacker because it's easier to manage than the mower, when a really tall woman walked up the driveway and introduced herself. Given the fact  my perimenopausal mind tends to forget things, it took me a minute to remember I'd tentatively scheduled a showing of my little next-door apartment this afternoon.

I apologized for my confusion as I knocked on T's front door.  "I'm sorry, I never got a confirmation," I said, "so I wasn't sure you'd show up."

She seemed surprised. "You didn't?"

"It's no problem. T's not home so we can go in."

She followed me into the apartment, stopping to fawn over T's dog, Elmer. "You probably smell my animals," she said, extending her hand toward the old black lab. He sniffed her hand then wagged his tail.

"Animals?" I asked. "You have more than one?"

"Oh yes. We have dogs and cats."

"Really?"

"And goats."

Gulp. "Goats?"

"Uh-huh. They're great pets."

My ad reads: Pets welcome, owners considered. I put it that way because usually the animals are well-behaved but sometimes the owners aren't very responsible. But goats? Well, come to think of it, I really get tired of mowing the lawn, so maybe...

 

I walked the young woman through the living room toward the bedroom. "This used to be a garage. It ended here at the kitchen, before the extra room was added on."

 

"It's really nice," she said, looking around and nodding at the new cupboards I pointed out. "You did the work yourself?"

"With a lot of help from a couple friends." I walked out the back door onto the deck. "We've been clearing this so you'll have more space. Get a load of the view of Cerro San Luis from the back yard."

She stayed in the doorway, declined to come any further. I assumed she must have decided the yard wouldn't hold her goats.

"Um...I think you have me confused with someone else," she finally sputtered. "I'm here to pick up the gift certificate for 2 free scooter rentals."

My face went hot. "Oh--the thing I posted on FreeCycle. It's on the front porch. I'm sorry. I thought you were a prospective tenant."

"I just figured that out."

She followed me back through the apartment, stopping to pet Elmer again before I locked up the apartment and handed her the certificate I'd won at a Tsunami Relief concert. Back inside her car, she rolled down the window to thank me before pulling away.

"You're welcome. I'm glad someone will get some use out of it."

"By the way," she added. "Is there a glut in the rental market?"

"No--just the opposite. Why?"

"Because it's a great apartment and you seem like such a nice landlady. Seems like you wouldn't have a problem renting it out." She grinned. "Plus you were really cool even after I brought up the goats."

"Thanks. If you know of anyone looking for an apartment, feel free to give them my number."

If "duh" had a scent, it would smell like shit for brains. I took a deep breath and inhaled the essence of my cerebral fart fully before picking up the weed whacker and drowning out my embarrassment with the sweet aroma of fresh-cut weeds.

 

Boobie Prize

Have you seen the episode of "That 70's Show" where Eric accidentally walks in on his parents having sex, and he's completely disgusted/grossed out/psychically damaged by the image of his parents doing the unimaginable?  There's nothing worse than the moment you see your parents' bodies in a way that separates their grown-up parts from the naive perspective of youth's innocence.

My particular moment happened when I was about eight years old.  My dad took three of my sisters and me to Mackinac Island for a weekend. We stayed in an Indian-themed campground just south of the Mackinac Bridge (both pronounced Mak-i-Naw if you don't want to be branded a touron) that connects Lower Michigan with the Upper Peninsula, or "U.P." as Michiganders call it. They give their bathrooms  politically incorrect names like "Wee-Wee-Tee-Pee" and sell racist souvenirs. Like baby dolls wearing war paint, for instance. On the up side (pun intended), the area is also known for their delicious Pasties, (pronounced pass-tees) which--if you've never tasted one--your life is not yet complete.

My mom and another sister stayed behind that summer weekend to care for my two-year-old brother, whose peter, as we called it, was my first and only penis sighting other than the pictures of statues in our encyclopedia set. (Pictures my sisters and I poured over, until we finally got to see his rubbery little sausage the first time my mother changed D's diaper.)  It was a rare thing for us to get a vacation, given my dad's two jobs as a small church pastor and an inspector for Brunswich Corp., and my sisters and I were delighted not to have to share our dad with a whole congregation of parishioners for a change.

On our first evening of camping my dad built a little fire in the pit where we roasted marshmallows while he sat in a lawn chair reading a newspaper.When my little puff of sticky sugar was perfectly toasted, I looked up at Dad to show off my beautiful prize,  just as he crossed one pale leg over the other knee. I was used to him in navy blue suits behind the pulpit,  so it was weird seeing him in shorts. Even weirder to see that wrinkly bulge hanging out of the fabric, freckled with curly hair, and a bit of pink...oh. my. god. I was looking at me dad's peter. Eww! Eww! Eww! 

I was so shocked, so completely disgusted (while at the same time not being able to take my eyes of the grotesque sideshow), my marshmallow caught on fire. My oldest sister grabbed my stick and blew on the blackened blob, but I was oblivious to the ruination of a perfect treat. Eventually she must have followed my horrified gaze because her face contorted, mirroring my gaping stare. Within seconds, all our marshmallows were burning. My dad leaped from his chair and yelled at his four relieved daughters to watch what they were doing for crying out loud, having no clue how he'd damaged us or to what degree.

You're thinking I'm about to tell you J interrupted me in a compromising moment or walked in on me naked aren't you? Not quite. But he was definitely grossed out and possibly damaged just a little. As any self-respecting blogger in my shoes would have done, I  brought my digital camera along to my mammogram appointment last summer. I told the nurse I was a writer and wanted to document regular torture at the hands of equipment obviously designed by a man. She laughed and said it was okay so long as I didn't take any pictures of her.

I've been meaning to write about mammograms ever since that day, but just haven't gotten around to it. I find other ways to spend my writing time, like learning how to set my screen-saver to display a slide-show from my picture files and....

Stop it. You're getting ahead of me.

Okay, so yeah, J was sitting in the swivel chair by my desk and suddenly a HUGE photograph of my breast smooshed between two plates of glass appeared and before I could distract him, he looked.

Then he screamed.

"Arggghhhh! What is that?"

(Quickly moving mouse to make the photo disappear). "Um, you mean that last picture?"

(Covering his eyes as if he's been blinded.) "Yes! God! It looked like..." He opened his eyes and narrowed them at me from between  parted fingers. "No. Tell me you didn't."

"What?"

"That is not your boob on the screen and you are not posting a picture of it on your blog."

"Well, I was going to write about...I mean...um. What?"

He ejected himself from the chair and walked away, shaking his head. "Dude, that's just messed up."

"But that's my point, " I called after him. "You have no idea how awful mammograms are. That's what's messed up!" Dude?

From the next room, he chanted over my voice. "La-la-la! I can't hear you!."

In a moment of instant karma, the sight of my dad's gonads hanging out of his shorts that summer day suddenly froze on the screen in my mind. I shook my head like a human Etch-a-Sketch, but I just couldn't rid myself of the image.  And now, thanks to the miracle of photo-blogging, you're stuck with this one. (Not to mention I just ruined a moment for all the porn-hounds who got to this entry by mistake).

 

NOTE: Yeah, mammograms are uncomfortable and pancake boobs are funny, but I still get checked every year and I hope you do, too. Please educate yourself on the importance of self-exams and regular screening. --ellie

 

 

Looking for Mr. Good Bye

I know what you're looking for. I used to look for it, too. But you won't find your answer here. In fact, although I may know about it, I'm not at the root of it. Like you.

Like I once was.

Even from this distance, with the benefit of time to separate me from the initial wounds, I can feel your pain as if it were my own. Really, I can. I know what it's like to love big, to give everything you've got, then give a little more. To find your joy hidden in the creases of another's smile instead of your own. To be so in love it rides on your breath and everyone around you can taste it in your laugh.

Then to wake up one day feeling as if the air has been stolen from your lungs.

So you go looking for scraps, hoping to make sense of it all. But it doesn't. It never will. All you can do is wonder and hope and cry, because no degree of emotional or spiritual work ever fully prepares you for this. They'll tell you suffering is a choice. I'll tell you that's bullshit. They'll tell you it isn't about you. I'll tell you it doesn't matter. Somewhere in the shadowy corners of your mind you will never fully believe there wasn't something you could have done differently. Better.

It wasn't that long ago we walked behind you, in the long shadows of your light. Now you walk with us, shining the light of your experience on our shared path.

You are loved.

Where I'm From

A while back nina posted this great poem titled, "Where I'm From" by George Ella Lyons, along with a suggestion to write your own (Nina's version is lovely!). I later learned from Kay Adams that this poem is often used in poetry therapy as a way of finding one's way back to lost memories.  I don't usually follow memes or themes (other than my own) but this exercise was so delightful I decided to post mine here, and hope you'll try it, too.

WHERE I'M FROM

I am from bobby pins, from Pepto Bismo and Lifesavers. I am from  fat tree branches, knobby and cool against my sweaty back.

I am from fallen acorns, from petunias lined up like drunken soldiers along a cracked sidewalk. From saltwater taffy and ice cream socials, and dryer hoods puffy and warm.

I am from safety-chair and big butts, from VaLoyce and Lewellyn the grandson of a Welsh shoemaker. I am from the example-setters and penny pinchers. From not living up to your potential and you'll be sorry when I'm dead and gone.

I am from varnished pews and pulpits and a big pipe organ praising god from whom all blessings flow. From an nondenominational preacher with the heart of a southern Baptist encased in fire and brimstone. From cotton slips and patent leather shoes and ironed pillowcases that hissed under the weight of a mangle.

I'm from Muskegon and Holland and Wales, boiled dinner and stinky cheese on hardened Rusk. I'm from liver and onions fried black as the skillet never washed. From the coal Margaret and her sisters carried in their aprons from the train tracks and Gassy Gus's chipmunk cheeks and Izzy's falling out hair--on account of that head trauma when she was hit by a car at five years old.

I am from between the flimsy pages of a fat Bible stuffed with flattened moments and the plastic box of tears under the bed, from the keeper of the memories and closet shelves lined with faded smiles and pregnant bellies now dried up and puckered. From the boy's writing medals heavy with pride and stuffed animals waiting patiently to find their way back to chubby arms.

Photo: My mother--seven months pregnant with me--surrounded by my older sisters. She gave birth 3 more times after adding me to the family (although only 2 survived).

Going Postal

For someone who usually embraces change, I hate it when the Post Office switches mail carriers on me just about the time I've gotten them nicely trained. I really liked my last guy; he was friendly, didn't leave the Tuesday junk mail, and my dogs were used to the unique cadence of his driveway stride.

A few months ago, a knock sounded on the door and when I peeked through the peephole an unfamiliar man in a familiar blue uniform stood on my front steps. The dogs growled at as I opened the door. Her. Him. I couldn't be sure until she spoke.

"Ah, yeah, about that sign on your door saying you don't want the ad-pac? I have to continue delivering it unless you call this 800 number and officially request them to take you off the list."

I took the yellow card she held out and smiled. "Are you subbing for James?"

"No." She handed me the rest of my neatly-bundled mail. "This is my route now."

"Well, then, welcome to the neighborhood." The dogs barked furiously behind me and I kept pushing them back with my foot.  "Don't worry about these two. They're normally very friendly--once they get used to you."

She backed down a step. "Be sure and call that number. I could get fired for not obeying the rules."

I watched myself nod in the reflection of her huge sunglasses. I still wasn't completely sure this was a woman. Her dark hair was less than an inch long--except for some stubby bangs--and the short-sleeved shirt was too baggy to give any impression of breasts hiding beneath it. Plus, she was staring at mine.

"Okay, I will. Thanks."

I closed the door and watched through the peephole as she turned and pushed an envelope through my tenant's slot. His black lab, Elmer, went postal (groans noted) growling and gnashing and leaping against his side of the door. My new carrier seemed unfazed by the dog's protest against her intrusion. Wow, I thought, that's one tough woman. Elmer still scares the shit out of me sometimes, and I know what a teddy bear he is behind the grizzly facade.

After a few months of watching her march up our driveway, my roommate and I started calling her the Mail Nazi. We tried really hard to be friendly, but she's all business. If there's so much as one number off on a piece of mail or a name she doesn't recognize, we get a "talking to" framed in security measures "for our protection." She refuses to be our friend, although she is kinda like a dad or an uncle.

~~~~~

Yesterday I stopped at Smart & Final to buy sugar-free raspberry syrup for my ritual morning latte (Alberston's charges more for a bottle half the size) and got in line behind a man wearing blue shorts over muscled thighs and bulging calves, with white socks and sensible shoes. Something about him was familiar. When he turned to the side I immediately recognized our mail deliverer.

I tried to think of a way to strike up a conversation outside our carrier-annoying customer with barking dogs dynamic in hopes she'd see me in a different light and let her defenses down a bit. Something tells me she was one of those kids who ate lunch alone in high school, the girl who was always picked for team sports but never picked for a friend.

I was about to say hello, but  stopped myself before intruding on her private space. It may have been the way she kept her head down, avoided eye contact with others, or how she carefully unloaded her packages onto the conveyor belt. For whatever reason, it occurred to me that just because I wanted her to see the real me didn't mean she wanted me to see her.

In fact, everything about her body language screamed just the opposite. Kind of like when you see celebrities in public, trying to do normal things, have a normal life--until someone eventually takes a picture or asks for an autograph or points, and their moment of normalcy disappears. In a way, I guess, my mail carrier is like a mini-celebrity. You know how it is. You're out at a concert or movie and you see somebody you recognize--except that they're out of context. You can't figure out how you know them until you close your eyes and see them ringing up your groceries or taking your ticket at the theater. Or delivering your mail.

Without speaking, I put one of those rubber bars on the counter to separate my syrup from her purchases, and that's when I noticed what she was buying. Suddenly the mysterious crumbs that often show up mixed in the pile of mail in front of my door when I return home became obvious. Our Mail Nazi was buying dog biscuits. Boxes and boxes of biscuits in a half-dozen assorted flavors.

Sometimes you think you've got someone all figured out when, in reality, you really don't know them at all. Sometimes it's downright embarrassing.

Illustration Credit: "U. S. Mail" by Ritch Gaiti. Visit his gallery for more western paintings.