This is My Body, This is My Blood

Fool on the Hill

There are two kinds of bathers in this world: sprinklers and soakers. Sprinklers prefer to stand upright under a pulsating spray, while soakers like submerging their bodies in a pool of steaming water. My wusband was a sprinkler. He can't understand why people choose to "soak in their own filth," as he puts it, over rinsing themselves clean, right down to the last bubble of soap. This makes me laugh. Because the thing is, soakers don't soak just to get clean, they do it for the unrivaled experience of coming as close to being back in the womb as any of us will ever get.

In case you hadn't guessed, I'm a soaker. The photo above was taken when my granddaughter, E, was visiting a couple summers ago. We bathed under moonlight, in the claw foot tub that sits under a sequoia in my back yard, next to the fish pond. She and her mother, A,  are both soakers, as are my son and my other daughter, M. It wasn't unusual to find all of us in the same bathtub when they were growing up. In fact, when I first became a single parent, I purchased a new mobile home, purely due to the size of the tub in the master suite. It was big enough for all of us, and for my youngest, a virtual swimming pool.

I love my old bathtub. S and I light candles on a table next to it, wash each other's backs with scented salt scrubs, lounge under the full moon watching the steam rise into the night while sipping a glass of wine. We try to drag our soak-time out as long as possible, until the temperature cools and the water heater runs out of a fresh supply, before grabbing our robes and barefooting it back to the house.

Once in a while, we splurge on a tub at Sycamore Mineral Springs, where a dozen hot tubs fed by natural mineral springs dot the hilly landscape.Unfortunately, the old redwood tubs were recently replaced by newer plastic ones with lights inside. This, to me, defeats the purpose of bathing under the stars, stealing grace from the exhibition of one's aging body, magnified by ripples of water. Moonlight is much kinder than underwater light bulbs, but you still can't beat the healing properties of hot sulfur pumped straight from the Mother's belly into a little tub under a canopy of Sycamores, where mating owls chase each other in the foliage.

Last month, we booked a tub on a windy mid-week night, while the kid was home on break. One can't walk around the back yard naked when there's a teenager nearby-- especially when one of the naked people is his mother. So we headed for Sycamore with a bottle of wine, a couple of thick towels, and hopes for a luxurious evening out. Lucky for us, we scored the highest, most secluded tub on the hill--well worth climbing five flights of stairs to get there. Dropping our clothes, we slipped into the water and poured a glass of wine, while the wind whipped through the branches above us.

Then the best thing that can happen while you're soaking, happened: a light rain started  to fall. A few minutes later, the lights flickered off, along with the whirlpool jets. The Universe was suddenly dark and silent, save for a mix of appreciative "oohs" and disappointed "awws" from nearby tubbers. I was one of the former commenters, having bemoaned the lights in the first place. Somewhere, a generator kicked in, and the lights/jets came back on. Five minutes later, they went off again, this time to a cacaphony of applause mixed with disgruntled whines.

I, for one, couldn't imagine being disappointed by the sudden gift of darkness and silence. It was back to the way Sycamore Springs used to be in the old days. Except without the jets, in front of which many a female bather has gleefully worshipped in the glory of pulsating water. There's a local saying (okay, I'm the local who said it) that if you had a nickle for every orgasm had on Sycamore Hill, you could buy your own resort. This thought was immediately followed by a flood of sudden understanding. How many of my sister-bathers must have been this close to the Big O, just before the electricity went out. I'm betting at least a dollar's worth.

Which just goes to show you how old I'm getting. I actually had positioned one of those jets against my aching back. That, my friends, is just plain sad.

Technorati Tags: hot springs, body image, menopausehot flashes, sexuality, relationshipshot tubs

Oh No You Di-in't!

If you stopped by TIMB, TIMB today expecting brilliant writing about an intriguing topic upon which I wax eloquent, you will most likely be very disappointed. If, however, you're whoring around the blogoshphere, simply because you're bored, uninspired, or hoping for a mediocre laugh, then maybe, just maybe this post is for you. Because I sweartogod the following link taken from today's Sitemeter stats, shows that my blog appears in the Number One Slot for people looking to have their faces washed. With pubic hair. Accompanied by farting. Whilst something chubby and brown lingers nearby. I am not making this up.

See for yourself. (No image but NOT work-safe text.)

Based on the bulk of recent Sitemeter Stats, we're obviously on the downside of that slippery slope called de-evolution. I'm visualizing a ginormous, world-sized handbasket, folks. No need to fasten your seatbelts. As far as I can tell, it'll be a fairly short ride to the steaming pot of primordial soup.

This Ol' House

Five years ago I stood in front of an old stucco house surrounded by waist-high weeds, trying to imagine  creating a nest beneath her leaky ceilings and between her peeling-paint walls. Inside, creaky wood floors were stained with animal urine and littered with seven dump-runs of trash, a gift from the previous tenant The overgrown back yard had overtaken the ancient fence, which bowed under the weight of trees that had outgrown their shrubbery cuteness years ago. The attached granny unit was even worse than the house, where a bathtub boasted  blackened soap scum , a layer of grease coated  kitchen walls, and rat turds far outnumbered the coffee beans left behind in an old metal cupboard.

Most people would have run the other way, waited for a more appetizing invitation from the curb, let alone its smelly interior. And if the house didn't immediately turn them off, the cantankerous old man with whiskey-breath and roving hands would certainly have weighted the already-lopsided scale against buying his dilapidated old excuse for a house. But I wasn't Most People. I was a self-employed, newly-divorced, single parent with no chance of buying in a market that had suddenly burst forward like it was stolen. If I rented an apartment, I'd be completely shut out of any possibility of home ownership within six months.

So I took that man's lease-option, took his abusive rants and drunken innuendos, and I took his broken-down little house to be my lawfully-wedded home until earthquake do we part. Thanks to a heap of help from generous friends who taught me everything from how to wield a sledgehammer (while wearing flowered flip-flops) to the fine art of wet-sanding fresh drywall, we whupped that house into livable shape within two month's time. Although it was still a work-in-progress, J and I moved into the granny unit and rented the house so I could use my income to continue restorations. A year later, we moved next door, and leased the apartment to a college student.

I've moved 37 times in my life--never stayed long enough to become fully invested in my living quarters. Prior to now, the longest I ever lived in one spot since leaving home, was three years. Yet, here I am, looking toward next month, when my five-year option comes up, and this house will officially belong to me. (Well, me and the bank.) And although I admit to twitching a bit at the idea of selling it and buying something newer--a condo, maybe--I've decided to stay put. Why? Because five years later, the spaces between these freshly-painted walls represent a lot more than just a house.

Of all the places I've lived, no other home has born witness to so many changes in my life, withstood the wails of heartbreak, echoed the boisterous laughter of uncontained joy, absorbed wracking sobs of grief and loss, mirrored the excited welcomes and the teary good-byes of misfit lovers, and sheltered the growing-up pain and pleasure of a wild young boy as he morphed into a wild young man. If these walls could talk, their stories would fill a fat volume of Chicken Soup for the Self-Employed Single Mother's Soul. If these walls could sing, they'd rock the house off its crooked foundation, and the neighbors along with it.

As my sweet S says in one of his favorite poems, I Am Here! And unless the cranky earth tumbles my address down the street  in the relative future, I'm staying put.

What Would Jesus Read?

We watched the first episode of The Book of Daniel last night, hoping to find a replacement to the much-grieved ending of Six Feet Under in terms of good writing and development. I'm not writing to join in the controversy over some people's issues with content, I have no problem with spiritually incorrect humor because I think Jesus had a great sense of humor. And although the show was a little over-packed with drama and some of the characters were a little over the top, I found myself laughing out loud more than once.

My favorite scenes were those where Daniel (an Episcopal Priest) has conversations with Jesus, who appears to him at various moments of need. The best of these was a an exchange where Daniel and Jesus were  trying to best the other with  "altered book titles".  For example:

I'm Okay, You're Divine
Men Are From Venus, Jesus is From Heaven
Tuesdays With Jesus

You get the idea. Anyway, as we were lying in bed last night, my brain refused to rest and I continued the banter with my own private Jesus. Every few seconds I'd blurt out another title, keeping poor S awake as I tend to laugh loudly at my own jokes. Fortunately he found them funny, too, and we giggled ourselves to sleep well after we'd hit the pillow. I was worried I forget them all by the time I woke this morning, but I was too lazy to write them down, so I had to rely on memory. I think I recovered most of them and added several more as I was typing up the list. Here's my list of altered book titles for your reading pleasure. Feel free to add your own in the comments section.

The Importance of Being Jesus
Everything You wanted to Know About Jesus But Were Afraid to Ask
Jesus's Ashes
Brokeback Mount Calvary
Memoirs of a Messiah
Lord Jesus of the Rings
Women Who Run With Jesus
The Saint Peter Principle
When Bad Things Happen to Good Prophets
The Jesus Code
J is For Jesus
One of The Five People You Meet in Heaven
MacJesus
Jesus at Tinker Creek
Black Like Jesus
The Son Also Rises
Tao Te Jesus
The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Messiahs
Who Moved My Jesus?
The Dead Sea Diet
What to Expect When You're Expecting Jesus
The Girlfriend's Guide to Jesus
Lord Jesus of The Flies
Jesus Shrugged
I, Jesus
Goodbye, Mr. Jesus

Of course, I couldn't leave well enough alone, and went on to create a list of movie titles (Yes, I know some of these were also books, but I didn't come up with them until I started thinking movies):

There's Something About Jesus

Jesus's Day Off

Silence of the Lamb of God

Rosemary's Baby Jesus

Being Jesus

Walk Softly and Carry a Big Cross

Peggy Sue Got Married to Jesus

Three Men and a Baby Jesus

Jesus's List

A Fish Called Jesus

Jesus Gump

Guess Who's Coming to the Last Supper

Million Dollar Baby Jesus

All the Messiah's Men

Around the World in 40 Days and 40 Nights

Barefoot in the Desert

Dead Prophets Society

Fast Times at Jerusalem High

Scent of a Jew

Jesus and Louise

What Ever Happened to Baby Jesus?

Kill Jesus: Volume 1

Coach Jesus

Mr. Congeniality

And that led me to TV shows:

Jesus Gone Wild!

Leave it To Jesus

Little Red Tent on the Prairie

Laverne and Jesus

Welcome Back, Jesus

I Dream of Jesus

The J-Files

Unmarried--Without Children

Jesus's Angels

Bethlehem Vice

No, I didn't stop there. Song titles:

Born to Be Jesus

If A Picture Paints a Thousand Words, Why Can't I Paint Jesus?

You Picked a Fine Time To Leave Me, Jesus

Dueling Citars

Go Ask Jesus

Big Bad John the Baptist

Blue Suede Sandals

Hey Jesus

A Camel With No Name

House of the Rising Son

Every Crown Has Its Thorns

Mammas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Messiahs

I know, it's a curse. Once I get started I can't stop myself. How about a radio show?

The Palestine Home Companion

And, finally, to show my impartiality to deities:

Das Buddha

Okay, I'm done. For now. However, I have a feeling you're just getting started.

The All New Fool Proof "I See Dead People" Diet

Although I've never been more then ten or so pounds over my ideal weight (pregnancies excluded) I have, like most women, gotten sucked into fad diets to lose those same proverbial inches that keep me from wearing the stack of old jeans stored in my closet.  I refuse to give them away because I'm sure I'll get back into them--if I can just summon enough self-discipline to turn away from the occasional candy bar, say no to second helpings of S's famous turkey enchilladas, not order Indian take-out, skip the mid-afternoon caramel macchiato.

It's not like I pig out. In fact, I probably eat a less than the average person.  A lot less than the average American. And it's not that I'm a fat-phobe--many of my favorite people are twice my size and I don't judge them based on the girth of their packages. It's just that I feel my best physically and emotionally when my weight is within a certain range. This knowledge, however, is apparently not enough to move my ass in the direction of the nearest gym.  I hate gyms. I've joined three  fitness centers over the past five years and stopped going after the first few weeks every time.

So that leaves me with adjusting my food intake. A couple years ago I tried Atkins with surprisingly good success--lost nine pounds in 90 days. Unfortunately, what I lost was mostly muscle. My arms felt mooshy--like there was a layer of bacon grease under my skin--and I had little energy. Needing energy to practice massage, I went back to eating less fat and more carbs. The weight was back within a year. Not only that, thanks to perimenopause, my metabolism has slowed to a sloth's pace and I can almost feel the bulge in my butt before a bite of frozen yogurt is completely swallowed.

Enter CSI. I'm not much of a TV watcher, but I own one in order to watch DVD's and record The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, my news source of choice. However, one night my son rented the first season of C.S.I. and I got hooked into the characters and became fascinated by the unraveling of time and events through forensic science. Of course, once we finished the first set of DVD's, I set the DVR to record all episodes and because I don't have a lot of time to sit in front of the tube, began watching them at dinner time--the only time I sit still long enough to get through a show.

This seemed like a good idea at the time, until the enchilladas lost their appeal halfway between the plate and my mouth, thanks to a maggot-infested skull, say, or a severed foot, or, well, you get the picture. CSI is fascinating to be sure, but it can also be gross Really gross. Enough to make one forego seconds, not clean her plate, skip dessert. Okay, maybe not that last thing, but I'm definitely eating less thanks to the All New Fool Proof I See Dead People Eat Less Plan. Plus, I'm learning new things, so there's a bonus nugget of rationalization for my gross-out diet. Not that I need one.

So, if anyone cares to join me in losing a few post-holiday pounds, grab your plate and the remote. No talking, though. It's bad enough watching blood and guts without seeing whats in your mouth. Oh, and may I suggest we leave palak paneer off the menu?

 

Pearls Before Swine

Sometimes I play music while I'm writing. Certains songs conjure up memories, shadowy images of the past, prompting vivid embellishments of the missing pieces. Yesterday a familiar tune sprang from the shiny new computer in J's bedroom, stopping me in mid-sweep as I cleared empty sunflower seed shells in the hallway. Like me, J has a thing for seeding. Difference is he's like Hansel on a witch hunt, scattering spit-soaked shells along every step from his bedroom to the ktichen and back again (and again and again, as teenagers are wont to do).

In addition, to our munching favorites, J and I also share an appreciation for eclectic music--much of it from the past. Elo, Janis Joplin, Heart, Nina Simore, Radiohead,  Beatles, and many other odds and ends of various music styles often fill his playlist. Unlike my parents, it's not uncommon for me to ask my son to "turn it up" instead of threating to take a hammer to that "infernal racket." Which brings us back to me leaning on the broom, poking my thoughts through that viscous membrane of time to watch myself sitting crosslegged on the floor of my bedroom, incense burning, Jim Croce on the 8-track, scribbling in my diary. I had no idea then just how much time you could cram into a bottle and how hard it is to break open years later.

So, yeah, music inspires. Sets the mood. Or in some cases, shatters it into ragged fragments of a night not soon forgotten. As in the time my new lover and I were in the midst of a passion-filled evening wherein the two of you make every moment linger into the next, linger so long the CD changer moves to the next disc, just as he makes his way down to the center of heaven. It's like, only the second time you''ve made love and you're both still a little nervous, a little shy. But it's all going well, candles burning, wine on the nightstand, his mouth all warm and wonderful against you as the next song begins.

And you gasp. Not in bliss, but because your heightened sensory perceptors have just slammed head-on into  the first familiar notes of Dueling Fucking Banjos.

No matter how you frame it my friends, scenes from Deliverance playing across your eyelids in the midst of lovemaking is not sexy.  I fully exepected S to politely excuse himself and change the music, but then I remembered that I was the one who'd given him the CD, appropriately titled "Fun Mix." He must have thought I'd be pleased knowing he liked it enough to play during our "fun" times. Obviously, he either hadn't listened to it, or forgot it was in there.

In any case, he made no move to change the music, kept on doing what he was doing as if he were so involved with pleasuring my body he didn't notice.  Not wanting to break his perfect rhythm, I did my best to block out the song, and eventually found my way back to ecstasy, dropping all pretense of shyness as I woke the neighbors upstairs with my squeals of delight.

Afterwards, we lay together, tangled in the sheets and around each other. I sighed as he pulled me close and kissed the top of my head. S is a quiet, rather serious man, easily embarassed, which is why I'm almost sure he he thought I was asleep before whispering, "Goodnight, my little Piggy."

Almost.