This is My Body, This is My Blood

Little Bird

The other day M and I were chatting about our fathers. Mine was a fundamentalist pastor; hers a successful businessman. Both our fathers loved his girls (although mine had to spread it thinner, given the fact he had six of them) and we, in turn, dearly loved our fathers. As is often the case, my father had nicknames for each of his children. Sharon was called queenie, for her statuesque height, Luanne was  Lulu, and he called Mari Beth, Izzy, short for Isabel, for reasons yet unknown to me. My sister Anita was "Nete" and LaVonne was called Ree--a shortened version of her middle name, Marie. My baby brother became Gassy Gus, due to his incessant burping.

I don't remember having a nickname. Sometimes my mother called me monkey-doodle (on account of my climbing up everything from trees to doorways to flagpoles) but other than that, I don't recall an affectionate paternal moniker, unless you include how Dad used to insert "forget-it-lose-it-or-break-it" between my first and last name-- in reference to my habit of, well, forgetting, losing, and breaking things. They weren't purposeful acts of destruction-- I suffered from what is now known as ADD, back when we were just called lazy kids who can't sit still or keep quiet. Who don't work up to their potential. And who can't resist the urge to climb things.

Upon hearing my story, M looked at me with pity in her eyes. "Aw," she said. And then almost apologetically, added, "My dad called me Little Bird."

Little Bird. It's almost too sweet for words. What little girl wouldn't melt at the sound of such a  precious name spoken by her adoring father?

And yet, I don't covet M's childhood name because it would never have fit me. If someone calls you Little Bird, do you not feel obligated to behave like a delicate, fuzzy chick rather than an exuberant, wild and raucus creature who prefers lofty crooks and crannies to a warm nest? 

Maybe my father did me a favor by not asking me to fit into the predetermined qualities a title like princess or muffin demands. Maybe he knew I could never conform to someone else's idea of who I am--especially when I'm still figuring that our for myself 46 years after he gave me his name.

thank you gods for most this amazing life

(with apologies to e.e. cummings)

thank you gods for most this amazing
life: for the laughing wildly soul of boy
and the yellow mellow poetry of man; and for everything
which is complete which is still growing which is maybe

(i who have slept am awake again today,
and this is the moon’s holiday; this is the death
of yesterday and what was and wasn’t: and of the excited
empty everlasting unbelievable ocean)

how should living loving dancing singing
howling all-knowing from the mother
of all non-mothers barely breathing
question unforeseen Us?

(now the tongue of my tongues alive and
now the word of my words are unraveled)

happy thanksgiving, my dear ones.

Reefer Madness

I am not a pothead. In fact, I don't really even like being high all that much. Hold your gag reflex because the following will sound like a sickening cliche, but I truly am one of those annoying people who is high on life most of the time. Even when depression hits, I prefer to sit with that sadness rather than numb myself with drugs (prescription or otherwise) and/or alcohol. 

That said,  I've learned  an ocassional toke before bedtime has three beneficial effects, all of which are worth the embarassing coughing fit (I'm such a wimp) and bizarre dreams. Pot acts as a muscle relaxer, which helps when my tendonitis flares up after doing too many massages. It also serves as a sleeping aid. Added bonus: Marijuana makes it easier to climax for some reason, and we all know orgasms are good for you.

As a middle-aged woman with few hip connections, I rarely have access to weed,  so I hardly ever use it. But recently a friend (who shall remain nameless for obvious reasons) offered to gift me with a few buds during a particular painful bout of tendonitis and chronic insomnia. Trouble is, she lives a long way from me so I had no way to collect her generous offerering.

"Not to worry," she assured me. "I'll send it FedEx overnight.."

"Don't they check for illegal drugs?"

"Nah. People do it all the time.  You're thinking of the Post Office."

"Oh. Well, if you're sure it's safe."

"It'll be there tomorrow. No need for you to suffer, El. It's just a little weed."

The package arrived, as promised the next afternoon. Several minutes later, five cops--yes five--stormed my home, waving a search warrant. Turns out (probably thanks to the Patriot Act) drug-sniffing dogs routinely inspect incoming packages from all carriers, including UPS and FedEx.  Although California is notably a liberal state when it comes to marijuana, I live in a fairly small town and my package must have shown up on a slow day for the folks who make a living protecting the rest of us from Bad People.

I cannot begin to tell you how mortifying it is to be grilled by undercover cops (who it turns out had followed me all day) while others ransack your bedroom for "evidence." All they found was the package containing less than 1/8 ounce of weed, and a tiny pipe. Well, that and a stash of money I was saving  toward J's tuition payment due the end of the month.

"What's with the cash?" The burly one said.

"It's for my kid's boarding school."

He leaned across the table. "You're lying!"

I showed him the invoice. From the other side of the kitchen, a bearded undercover cop leered at me as he mentally dressed and undressed me in every undergarment they'd rummaged through while looking for a non-existent stash of heroin. Not to mention the "accessories" in my nightstand. Ew. Just ew.

"It's the truth," I said.  "I've been saving for months. As you can see, I'm still a little short."

The other three appeared in the doorway looking bored after finding  the camper in the driveway was not a meth lab, and I hardly fit the profile of a drug dealer. Burly Cop snapped a photo of me with his digital camera before they left without a word. They didn't even bother to take the pipe. I later found out the amount of pot I had is a misdemeanor in California, and they'd wasted five man-hours for however long they'd followed me around all day.

I've decided it's not worth the trouble to score a little weed. Besides, the adrenalin rush ought to last for at least another week.

Directory Assistance

While waiting for the barista to foam my chai latte yesterday morning,  I called a client to confirm our appointment later in the day. I'm an insufferable multi-tasker which often results in mistakes as this story intends to illustrate. However, sometimes what initially appears to be a clumsy blunder turns out to be a synchronistic moment of backhanded clarity.

Because A and I had made our appointment through email exchanges, I wanted to be sure we were on the same page as we'd changed the time and day several times already. When she answered the phone, I said, "Hey! I got you for real--as in a real person talking to another person in real time."

She said, "This is A."

"I know. This Ellie. I called you."

"But I don't have email."

It took me a moment to realize I'd clicked on a different A in my phone book, one I thought I'd deleted after two years of trying to repair a friendship that at one time was all love and light then suddenly pulled out of my grasp for reasons I may never understand.

"Oh. A. I'm sorry. I was trying to reach a client who has the same name and I must have..."

"I was just thinking about you."

"You were?"

"Yeah."

"So, how are you?"

"Great. Selling off the business and retiring next year."

"That's wonderful. Are you and J moving to Greece?"

A tiny silence interrupted our awkward conversation as we separately tasted a memory of three weeks spent traveling through ancient lands.

" I think we both need to exhale for a bit."

"Well, good. That's good. You should rest. Maybe cash in on the massages I owe you."

"You don't owe me any massages."

"I know. But the Universe does, and I happen to be a provider."

An awkward silence ensued as I struggled to wrap my brain around the breakdown of what I thought was the kind of love built to withstand anything or anyone, let alone a simple difference of opinion.

"I was just saying to J how good a massage would feel and how good yours were and, well, you know."

"I know." I took a sip of my drink. "They still are, Sweetheart."

Like the warm chai running down my throat, I felt something melt between us, soften just a enough to let in a little light. It reminded me of that first morning in Athens, where we watched the sun rise over the Acropolis from our hotel rooftop.

"It's good to hear your voice."

"Yeah. You, too."

"You better call the other A."

"Right. Well you take care. Give my love to J."

"I will. Bye, Ellie."

I drove home thinking about how I thought I'd let that whole thing go--forgiven A for her judgments of me, forgiven myself for allowing them to have so much power over my well-being at the time. But letting go doesn't usually happen in one big chunk. We carry heartbreak around like a tumor, breaking off little pieces one at a time then waiting for the scab to heal before releasing another piece. Sometimes you get lucky. Sometimes someone reaches out and snaps off a jagged edge when you least expect it, then kisses the exposed wound with a soft word or two before you have a chance to cry out.

Sometimes all it takes is dialing a wrong number.

Relative Stranger

Recently I received a letter from my oldest sister, who lives in Michigan. Not an email. A letter. As in five handwritten pages articulated in the familiar up-and-down script that looks more like printed letters connected by tiny sweeps of a fine point pencil than cursive. S likes pencils. Maybe it's because she was a teacher all those years. Or maybe she likes the grainy sound of lead leaving its temporary mark on flimsy paper.

Getting an old-fashioned letter via snail mail  is an extraordinary gift. Unlike hastily-written emails or shorthand text messages on your cell phone, a handwritten letter demands more from the receiver. Like making a cup of tea, turning off the phone, curling up in your favorite chair to savor every single word. Which is exactly what I did the afternoon my mail carrier handed me the envelope with my sister's return address in the upper left hand corner.

I've read the letter several times since its arrival. Partly because it's so precious, and partly because I keep meaning to respond but don't feel as though I could do her letter justice. I want to write back--really I do--but my handwriting is so godawful I have a hard time deciphering it myself. Even my signature has gone from my full name to an initial followed by a scribble. And who has the time, really? There's a reason my hand written journals leave off in the Spring of 2000. That's when I acquired my first laptop. I'm now on number three. Thanks to online banking, email, and blogging, I may forget how to hold a pen by next year.

Letter writing is fast becoming a lost art thanks to technology. However, each time I open TypePad and begin tracing my thoughts across the screen, I feel as though I am writing a letter. To you. And to you. And to you. It might not be presented in fancy calligraphy and it isn't on purdy paper but it's almost always straight from the heart and that's what counts, right?  It's not the writing that matters, but what's written--even if those words are formed by keystrokes rather than curved lines arching for each other across monogrammed stationery.

I think S will forgive me for sending a letter printed from my laptop rather than writing it out longhand. I like to think she might even brew a cup of tea, curl up in her overstuffed chair near the window overlooking Lake Michigan, maybe drape the afghan our mom crocheted over her lap as she settles in to read news from her wild little sister who left home at sixteen and left the Midwest twenty years later. We harldy know each other yet somewhere between the fifteen hundred miles and thirteen years that separates these two sisters, is an invisible connection that binds us like marrow to shared bone. A soft, forgiving substance shaped nothing like a helix and everything like family.

Moving Day

I've decided to import entries from Prose and Cons into  this site because  I can no longer keep up two blogs on a regular basis. Besides, when it comes right down to it, everything I write can be traced back to my relationship with Self, including my ADD. Especially my ADD.

I should probably warn P& C readers that some TIMB/TIMB entries are rated PG-13 and a few are racy enough to be considered  R--probably not safe for kids/work. I don't try to be provocative, I just prefer to write from the core and sometimes the core is full of raw truths that aren't as pretty as the surface of one's life.

I want to thank the readers who hung in there even after I abandoned ship for several months. Many of you wrote privately to ask if I were okay and I can't tell you how lovely it has been to have felt the reach of your care and concern. The blogosphere is an amazing community.  I feel fortunate to be part of that creative web of readers and writers.

I hope those of you who regularly read Prose & Cons will join me here at TIMB,TIMB. The coffee's on, the company's  great, and the door's always open.

 

Guess Who Stayed for Dessert

Have you ever met someone and known instantly you were meant to be good friends? I mean, he's really soft-spoken (unlike you) but you're both writers, both love 100% cotton, and you both believe in things like compassion, simplicity, and three-breath hugs. He's kind of old-fashioned in the way he opens doors for you and always moves to the street side when you're on the sidewalk, however, it's a welcome chivalry. Plus he's a librarian so there's the advantage of getting first dibs on great books as soon as they come in.

As he walks you to your car after coffee at Cafe Luna one night, he stops in the middle of the parking lot and howls at the full moon. You can tell by the way his voice travels in the darkness he's done this before. This surprises you in a good way, because you thought he was all quiet and reserved and maybe even gay. You've even worried you'd drown him out with your constant talking, laughing, and silliness and now he's the one leaving you wordless. Huh.

Your platonic friendship evolves through sharing poetry, drinking Two-Buck Chuck, and philosophizing free will vs. fate. Except there's this tension growing each time you meet. You have lots of male friends, but  find yourself looking at this man's beautiful, full lips and long, slender hands; start imagining what it would be like to kiss those lips, be touched by those hands.

Then one evening he cooks dinner for you at his place. You refer to his apartment as The Rabbit Hole because it has a tiny door with stairs that lead to a cozy, partially below-ground studio. He plays a CD he's made just for the occasion while you eat. When your favorite song queues up, he grins and extends his hand.  As he guides you  around the tiny living room, one hand in the middle of your back, it becomes clear that he's been thinking about your lips, too. Probably more than your lips. So you look at him and nod and he immediately knows every unsaid thing in the gentle tipping of one's chin.

His lips are even more wonderful than you imagined. His hands, like a pianist stroking new ivory as they move from your shoulder to your cheek. You don't know if the wine has made you a little drunk or if it's his intoxicating scent, but you feel yourself falling, falling. Eventually the two of you land in the soft center of a secret place where you take turns reading chapters from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Pablo Neruda, and Where the Wild Things Are. For three months you ignore invitations from the queen or anyone else for that matter.

Until one day you wake up and realize the Rabbit Hole is wonderful, but you miss your friends, miss your writing, miss being in the world.The two of you emerge like aliens from the center of the earth, nearly blinding the world with your smiles. Life returns to normal except that normal now includes a temporary pass to the little door that appears on command and leads to a place reserved for lovers' banquets.

And howling at the moon.

Venus Envy

Remember when I was whining about hot flashes, short-term memory lapse, bloating, lack of energy, and a libido that was sagging even lower than my sorry ass? No? Well, I'm sure I did. And if I didn't, I meant to but forgot, due to the above-mentioned memory loss.

Over the past year, I've endured the challenges of peri-menopause after having decided this is a natural process my body needs to go through on its transformation from goddess to crone. To combat the symptoms, I made friends with Astro-Glide, became a Keeper of Lists, bought a ceiling fan for my bedroom and lived in cotton tees and comfortable yoga pants while waiting for my body to find homeostasis.

Except things didn't improve, and, in fact, got worse.  I tried Chinese medicine but unfortunately, the same herbs that help hot flashes also tend to kill one's sex drive--not a good thing for someone in a new relationship. When I complained to my  gynecologist, she ordered a three-part saliva test to check my hormone levels because they're apparently more accurate than blood tests. I'm theoretically opposed to HRT, but she told me about a local pharmacy that mixes natural hormone compounds, so I agreed to spend the next morning drooling over test tubes.

Turns out my progesterone was in the basement and my testosterone (yes, women need some) also scored below normal. The nice pharmacist dispensed a personalized recipe based on my results and told me to apply 1/4 teaspoon of the cream twice a day to my thunder thighs. Okay he didn't say that but he was probably thinking it. I was.

Thanks to the natural hormone compound, the hot flashes disappeared overnight and my energy level increased 100%.  Almost immediately, my libido perked up and I was hornier than I'd ever been in my life. Within a month I went from feeling like a dried-up prune to a nubile teenager. In fact, I even had a pimple breakouts, but I decided occasional blemishes were a bagain price for my reawakened sexuality. My dreams were also permeated by sexual themes--though, strangely, most featured women.  And oddly, I found myself  browsing lesbian p0rn sites from time to time. However, despite the sudden interest in nekkid wymen, by the time S got home from work, I was like a gas-infused log begging him for a match.

I thought I'd found the perfect solution to my menopausal crisis. That is, until other stuff began to happen. Like my voice cracking when I sang and a certain part of my anatomy becoming more pronounced--as in the little man was getting too big for the boat ifyouknowwhatimean. I decided to discuss the issue with a woman friend who had once been prescribed testosterone for other reasons I no longer remember.

As we stood on the sidewalk in front of a local nail salon I asked her about the latest side effect.  "Oh, you mean rhino clit*," she said, matter-of-factly.

I immediately stopped flexing my flowered toes and screamed. Actually it was more like a squeak, given the effect the male hormone was having on my vocal chords. "What???"

She grinned. "You know the only difference between a clitoris and a penis is that  female genitals stop developing in utero once sex is determined,"

"Yeah, but..."

"Have you noticed any changes in your level of aggression?"

"You mean like going from Miss Congeniality at the 4-way stop to gunning the gas while yelling 'You fucking cowards! ?" I resisted the urge to spit on the asphalt.

"You might want to back off before the mustache shows up."

I rubbed my upper lip, relieved to find it still hairless.

"That and the extra camel toe," she added.

"Why didn't you warn me about this before?" I asked, crossing my legs.

She blew on her french manicure then held out her hand to admire a set delicate white-tipped nails. "I was waiting to see if you'd hit on me."

I scratched my ass and hiked up my jeans as she walked to her car. "Just out of curiosity, would you have taken the hit?"

She ignored my question and watched  as  I fondled the chrome, wiped a smear off the bumper of her car.

"Ellie, is that a wallet in your back pocket?"

The next day I cut the hormone application in half. It was fun for a while, but I don't need feel sixteen again. I don't even need to feel thirty. However, this 46 year-old goddess isn't ready for crone-dom either. For now, I've managed to find the minimum dosage to keep the engine running smoothly (and under the hood)--at least until we reach the next pit stop.

*I'm already dreading the google hits I'll get on this phrase. Yuck.