This is My Body, This is My Blood

Room to Breathe

It's raining again. Just when I think the knee-high grass weeds have dried out enough to hit with the Whack-O-Matic, we're slammed with another batch of showers. If you've been a reader for some time, you'll remember that although I'm fond of rain, I'm not so fond of what happens to my yard when it falls. In a nutshell, I have a grading problem that causes the back bedroom of my attached apartment to flood when water wicks up through the concrete pad. However, today it's raining buckets, and I'm not the least bit stressed about it, because when my  tenant moved out last month, I closed off the bedroom and rented the place out as a studio only. This way I no longer have to deal with the dreaded knock on the door, followed by, "My bedroom carpet is soaked".

I've thought about turning the former bedroom into a massage space as it's much larger than my camper-studio, but then clients would have to walk through my house or go through the gate and past two over-zealous dogs. Plus, on days like this, the back yard is a virtual mud bath. So I gave the room to S instead. Recently, S, who has been sharing this little house with me since August, wrote about needing a room of one's own. After mulling it over, we agreed he'd take the room to use as an office, to practice yoga, or just to have a space he can call his own. He's already begun browsing paint chips, made plans to vapor-seal the floor, and put up lattice on which to grow flowering vines.

Yesterday I created a pathway through the yard  with red and gray stone blocks to where the gate will be. Looking at the crooked little path out the living room window this morning, I felt a twang of envy. Although this was my home before S moved in, none of the rooms are just for me. We share them all, save for J's bedroom, which lays in wait for his return from Mexico in a couple of weeks.

As the rain picks up intensity, I decide I'd better get my butt in gear and prepare for my next client. Inside my little camper, I turn on the heater, plug in the table warmer, put on some music, light a candle or two. After dressing the table with flannel sheets and covering the face cradle with a cotton protector, I lean back against pillows on the sofa/daybed to take a few deep breaths before E's arrival. Looking around the room, I begin to relax. Burlap on the ceiling, wooden shades over the windows, the smell of lavender and sage and rosemary wafting up from the oil as it warms. And the rain. Fat drops tink-tinking on the roof, splashing onto the driveway, nudging the wind chimes into a clunky little woodsong.

This is my room, I think to myself. A place I can come to--even when I don't have a client--to rest, to write, or just to soak up the leftover bits of sweetness bouncing off  paneled walls. As Brendan Kennelly asks in his poem, "We Are Living," What is this room, but the moments we have lived in it? 

This moment right here? Lived perfectly.

Technorati Tags: relationships, essay, blog, self image, baby boomers, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, massage

Full Circle

So help me jesus, I tried to talk myself out of writing about this, but as posterity and propriety duked it out, the memoirist took up her pen keyboard and began scribing herstory even before a clear winner had been determined. Because when it comes right down to it, one must never sacrifice creativity for the sake of conduct. Says who? Says me. Right there on page mumblemumble (I'm too lazy to look it up) of my book, Journaling from the Heart. A book, by the way, I wish you'd order so I can work on my damn novel because it contains a bunch of really great writing prompts to jump-start your blog/journal.

Back to the story I mean to tell. Understand this: I am a clean person with excellent hygiene, bathe daily, blah blah blah. In fact, I'm sitting in my robe as I write this, wet hair in a towel, having just languished for almost an hour in my outdoor claw foot tub under a light Spring rain.

The one exception to my cleanliness is that I love my animals enormously, enough to let them sleep in my bed, sometimes under the covers where the kittens enjoys curling up between us. A few mornings ago I got out of bed and drew a hot bath to ward off the cold air. S wandered into the bathroom to take a pee while I was in the tub. Wait. Let me try that again. S stood over the toilet, which is next to the tub, in which I was enjoying my bath. Taking advantage of the view, he glanced over and smiled, then wrinkled his forehead.

"Baby, did you scratch yourself?"

"What? Where?"

(Pointing to my pubic bone) "There."

I looked down and sure enough, there was a red blotch right above my hoo-hoo.  "Huh. I must have gotten carried away with the loofah."

"It looks like one those wax seals, the kind you stamp on an envelope."

"Are you finished?"

"Looking at you?"

"Peeing. Are you done in here?"

"Oh. Yeah, sorry."

As soon as S left the room, I examined the moon-shaped scratch more closely. Like my cats, I am infinitely fascinated by my body. So intrigued was I by the symmetry of the mark, I grabbed my razor and shaved off the hair so I could get a better look.

This is the point where any other woman would have run screaming from the bathroom, driven straight to the nearest pharmacy for Lotramin, but I am not any other woman. I am special. I know this because aliens have chosen me, me, on which to emblazon a perfectly round crop circle, right there under my pubic hair, probably while I was sleeping. Definitely because I am one of the Chosen Ones.

Or, possibly, it might be because a couple weeks ago, the kittens came down with some kind of skin infection after an overnight visit to the vet where they were spayed. I'm assuming the razor used to shave their bellies wasn't disinfected between cats, and this is how the infection was spread. First to them. Then to me. I know. Gross. Makes me itch just thinking about it. Not as bad as the the hair growing back, though. Now that itches.

You may, after reading this, believe I have no boundaries, but I do. For example, I could have posted a picture of the amazing crotch crop circle, but I have more class than that. Not to mention I'm out of batteries again. Lucky you.

Technorati Tags: body image,  essay, blog, self image, writing, writers, pets, fungus, humor, weblog

My Big Fat Geek Evening

When my son, J, was no more than six years old, he'd already chosen his bride. Every night he'd watch her glide gracefully across the stage, blond hair swept into a loose knot, teardrop diamonds dangling from her delicate ears as she waved to the audience. When she smiled, he smiled back.  I think he believed she'd been saving that toothy show all day just for him.

"Why do you want to marry her?" I asked him once as we competed to guess the first puzzle.

He looked at me from behind thick glasses as if I were retarded. "Because she wears such beautiful gowns, whaddya think?"

"Oh," I said. "Of course."

His love for Vanna may have been secondary to his love for words, yet I can't help but wonder if his exceptional vocabulary was due in part to his infatuation with the woman in the sparkly dresses. It wasn't uncommon for him to solve the puzzles before me, even back in elementary school, where, like when I was a kid, he won most spelling bees. By the time he'd reached the eighth grade, he'd placed in almost every writing contest he entered. 

Over the years, my son found better things to do than watch Wheel of Fortune with his mother and I found other ways to fill my evenings. As much as I enjoyed playing along with him, now that he's away at boarding school, I no longer fritter away my time watching spinning wheels and silly people who jump up and down upon command.

However, truth be known, my nerdy little boy came by his penchant for word games naturally. Every weeknight around 6:55, S and I meander toward the sofa, as if by accident.

"So, you wanna watch something?" he'll ask.

I shrug. "I dunno."

"Hey look," he says, scrolling through the channels, "Jeopardy! is just starting."

"Huh. I suppose we could watch that."

Minutes later, we're both yelling out answers, cursing our lagging memories, high-fiving each other when one of us beats the contestants. By the time Final Jeopardy plays its last familiar note, my brain is exhausted and my hair hurts.

So, okay, I admit it: I'm a word geek. I love crossword puzzles and I love Scrabble and the only thing better than playing along with Jeopardy!  would be if Alex marched across the stage in an evening gown.

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, game shows, vanna white, wheel of fortune, body image, jeopardy, nerds, geeks, blog, self image, baby boomers, writing, writers, weblog

A New Leash on Life

A few years ago an email containing "Things We Can Learn From a Dog " circulated  the Internet and found its way to my mailbox on more than one occasion. It's still relevant, but then, I'm constantly suprised at how much I learn from all the the two, four, and even six-legged creatures in my life.

For example, I have two dogs who continually amaze me by how they work through their issues of jealousy, personal space, and pecking order. Bella was here first, so when the skinny little spotted alien entered her yard, she immediately made it clear who was boss by showing her teeth if the new dog went anywhere near a buried bone, one of her balls, or her supper dish. If Moxie even tries to eat first, Bella walks over and gives her the Stink Eye until she slinks back into her house and waits for Big Momma to finish her meal.

Watching them reminds me of how my older sister used to hog Dad's recliner when he wasn't home. She'd flop in the chair, tilt it until the foot part sprung open, then lean back and sigh in that way we all knew was her way of telling us how luxuriously comfortable that chair was and didn't we wish we had it. Of course we did. That's how the whole "Safety Chair" rule got started. If N needed to go to the bathroom or get something from the kitchen, she merely said, "Safety Chair," which assured ownership upon her return from the other room. My younger sister and I knew better than to go near the recliner if we wanted to live another day.

The thing is, the rule was moot, something I found out the way I figured out most things: the hard one.  I'd waited patiently for N to forget to utter the magic words until one day it finally happened. As soon as she was out of sight, I hopped into the chair, my feet barely reaching the footrest while I anticipated her return. When that moment arrived, I triumphantly announced, "You forgot to say Safety Chair!"

N looked at me, her upper lip kind of curling at one end, eyes narrowed.

"Get out."

"But you didn't--"

If N had claws she'd have stricken with one fierce swipe.  Instead, she wiped the smirk from my face with the back side of the comic book in her hand.

"No fair!" I cried. "You made the rule!"

Again with the Stink Eye.

I slunk away, an invisible tail between my legs as she reclaimed the chair, smiling like only a snotty older sister can.

Moxie puts up with Bella's bullshit, because, as the little field mice sing in the movie, Babe, it's just "The way things are." However recently she's developed a way of getting back at her yard-mate, who has a thing for tennis balls. When Bella's not close enough to hurt her, Moxie will grab one of the balls and take off, knowing she can outrun her overweight stepsister any day of the week. This drives Bella fucking nuts. She'll chase Moxie around the yard, yelping like a helpless puppy, until she finally poops out and gives up. Moxie will then drop the ball and stand there, with a huge smirk on her face, panting happily. You can almost hear her say, "You didn't say Safety Ball!"

Like Moxie, I've spent a good deal of my life subjugating my wants for the sake of others. Sometimes because they were bigger or stronger than me, sometimes because they were smaller or weaker than me, and sometimes just out of habit. Lately, I've been trying to break through these old patterns, allow myself to have the things I want, the kind of life I want to live. I'm the Alpha Female now, damn it, so everybody get the hell out of my chair because this eye has been workin' up a good stink for almost five decades.

Technorati Tags: aging, relationships, essay, blog, self image, baby boomers, writing, childhood, women, dogs, animals

Vintage Whine

"When you hit 50, you have to stop complaining about getting old, the strangeness of it, the fascination, the horror, etc., etc. That was okay in your 40's and 50's, but now that you're old, it's time to shut up on the subject." Garrison Keillor

Last Friday I turned 47. This means that, according to Garrison, I still have three years of whining left before somebody slaps me upside the head with a box of Depends and hands me an AARP card.  Okay, fair enough. But you can bet your blogging butt I plan to suck up every last drop of perimenopausal pity between now and March 3, 2009. Deal with it.

Like for instance, what the fuck happened to my triceps? The other day I was waving good-bye to S, when one of the kitties attacked the swinging flap of my upper arm, thinking it was a play-toy. That is just so unfair. I can still remember (back when I could easily zip all nine pairs of jeans in my closet and I thought only lazy people took naps) how I'd hurry through the frozen foods section  looking as if I were carrying a couple of done turkeys. Nowadays I stand in the middle of the aisle wearing a sleeveless top with a carton of Cherry Garcia held to my sweaty brow, and nary a hint of nipply temperatures.

As if reading glasses and weight gain aren't bad enough, that cute little freckle under my right eye is now officially an age spot, the result of spending hour upon hour at the beach shooting for the perfect shade of Barbie-Doll bisque. God those tan lines were sexy, weren't they? Nothing like taking off your clothes to uncover a white bikini, complete with dangly string lines.

Speaking of which, I recently went bathing suit shopping and, after a hideous one-on-one with the mirror in the dressing room, brought home one of those one-piece jobs with a little skirt like my mother used to wear. I'm not convinced the flirty skirt will do much to disguise one's expanding derriere, but if I ever want to go ice skating to kill the hot flashes, now I've got the outfit.

Nothing I have to say about aging is new, but it's all new to me, and I'm not liking it much so far. From cellulite to wrinkles to incontinence to flatulence* to hearing loss*, geriatric benchmarks aren't nearly as much fun as looking forward to, say, your first sexual experience or driving a car or giving birth. Let's face it, there are a million sucky things about getting older, and since I haven't yet used up my quota, you can bet there'll be more. For instance, I've been trying to figure out a way to slip this in: And let's not forget memory loss!

heh, heh.

And laughing at your own bad jokes.

*The one redeeming aspect of this is that old people no longer hear low frequency sounds, including their own.

Technorati Tags: aging, body image, menopausehot flashes, dieting, Garrison Keillor

An Ode to Gauchos (with apologies to e.e. cummings)

i like my body when it is with your body
of stretchy rayon knit blend. It is so quite a new
and flesh forgiving thing. wide waistband better
and legroom more. i like your body of flowing
fabric. i like what it does to hips hiding, i like its
hows of hanging.  i like not feeling the spine
of non-expanding denim and its zipper,
and the trembling of unseemly seams despite
dare defining toe of camel. no, I like my body
with your body of sweet smoothness  which
i will again and again and again wear, i like moving
behind this and that of you, slowly stroking
the unfurling pills of your nappy nitpickling,
and what-is-it expands over white thighs . . . .and
possibly i like the thrill of under me you
quite so new and loose and free.

Technorati Tags: menopause, body image, aging,dieting, ee cummings