This is My Body, This is My Blood

You're In Trouble

I refuse to think of them as chin hairs.  I think of them as stray eyebrows. Janette Barber

I can't recall how we got on the subject of incontinence, but as I was giving a massage treatment to my octogenarian client yesterday, she relayed a girlhood story of how she and her mother were out for a walk one evening when they came upon an older woman wearing a long black skirt. The woman, who happened to be peeing on her shoes, pointed at the sky and said, "Isn't it a lovely sunset?" My client's mother later explained that in an attempt to cover her embarrassment, the woman was trying to divert their attention away from the puddle at her feet. From that day on when my client or her mother needed to use the restroom, they simply said, "Isn't it a lovely sunset?"

As I massaged E's back, I suddenly flashed on the day my mother stood in front of an our old O'Keefe and Merit stove, stirring a pan of tomato soup while 3 cheese sandwiches fried on a cast iron griddle. My sisters and I had walked home from school for lunch, and I was in the midst of telling a funny story when my mother suddenly clutched her belly, laughing in that way that sounded like hollow bells. "Stop!" she said. And then to our complete horror, she pissed herself, a yellow puddle forming on the linoleum as we looked on in disbelief.

As with most benchmarks of the aging process, I never expected it would happen to me. The first time I peed myself, I was facilitating a dance workshop ala Gabrielle Roth with a group of about eight women on a warm Sunday afternoon. When we reached the "lyrical" section of the five rhythms, I went into faerie mode, skipping my way across the wooden floor to the accompaniment of a Lord of the Dance CD. Mid-song, I leapt rather effortlessly, before landing on my bare feet in the center of several ecstatic women. In that moment I suddenly became profoundly aware of a lowering of my bladder, not at all unlike the end of pregnancy when one's baby drops and settles into the pelvic girdle. Before I could stop myself, I leapt again and this time felt the full weight of the last swallow of morning coffee as it escaped its leaky container.

Deeply grateful for the choice of black tights under my long skirt, I side-stepped my way toward the bathroom with as much grace as anyone who just wet their pants could possibly muster.  Mortified by my sudden loss of urinary faculties, I rinsed my tights in the sink before hiding them in my purse. I was only forty-two years old. Surely this couldn't already be the beginning of my feminine decline into crone-hood. Could it? The horrified face in the mirror said yes, it probably could. What did you expect after giving birth to three children--the last of whom weighed in at ten pounds?

Eventually I gathered what was left of my pride and rejoined the other dancers, making some silly comment about those tights being too constricting and hot. Five years later I can retell the story without blushing every shade of a lovely sunset. 

(You gotta admit this was one of my best--or worst--titles of all time. I kill myself sometimes. Heh heh.)

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, hot flashes, saliva test, dance, body image, dancing, gabrielle roth, essay, blog, self image, baby boomers, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, hormones, incontinence

Really Big Show

A couple weeks ago the overgrown succulent in my front yard threw up a spike from the center of its massive and dangerously pointed leaves. I thought it was about to flower, but as the days pass, the asparagus-like protrusion continues to pierce the air, surpassing the height of the nearest trees.The bigger it grows, the more phallic it looks; especially mid-day, when the top wilts to one side in the heat. I felt myself flush when a car slowed down as I snapped this picture the other day--as if I were purposely flaunting the vulgar plant bordering my neighbor's yard.

Eventually I searched the Internet to find out just what kind of plant suddenly sprouts a thirty-foot penis after sitting quietly all this time. Turns out it's a relative of the century plant, which only blossoms every twenty-five years (Obviously whomever named the plant couldn't count) then dies. Sad, huh?  Not really. I can't tell you how many times those needle-tipped leaves have poked me in the arms, legs, and ass while working in the yard. Besides, it's not like there aren't at least a dozen clones growing around the Big Kahuna, just waiting to take its place.

Still, I can't seem to take my eyes off it. Not just because of its thick base and prodigious size, but because the idea of something so magnificent throwing a party for itself before it dies makes me uncomfortable. It's as if it's squatted there on the bank all this time just waiting to blow its wad on one big showy display and then that's it. Poof. Done. Kaput. Normally I wouldn't be so obsessed by a silly plant, except that it makes me question my own life. What if I've already shown my best stories, written my best poems, spent my best words? What if the last best thing I did was my parting flower?

Something happens when you turn the bend toward fifty. Suddenly you feel the lifting weight of life's numbered experiences and you begin to wonder if you've made the best of them. You wonder if you've done enough, if you've tasted every bite, and if you'll appreciate the delicate spine of a succulent leaf as it reaches for your tender skin on a long-legged afternoon.

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, hot flashes, essay, blog, century plant, baby boomers, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, hormones, massage

Breaking News

"The secret of good writing is to say an old thing in a new way or to say a new thing in an old way." -Richard Harding Davis

I've been busy...

New Workshop: It's been almost four years since I offered my Online Journaling Workshop. The reason I quit was due to the time required to read and comment on every participant's journal work. Recently a friend on an email list I'm part of, wrote about the value of bearing witness to anothers' journey, without having a need to offer feedback. Her words are what freed me to once again offer my workshop without worrying I won't be able to keep up. This time I'm allowing myself to share the work without having to take on the burden of responsibility that comes with writing thoughtful responses to everyone's assignments. In the past, participants have often done a better job of cheering and supporting my journalers than I could have done myself, so I'm surrendering to this new organic process and trusting it will take care of itself. It usually does. If you'd like to participate, send me an email and I'll add your name and/or blog to the sidebar. I hope to start in June, depending upon how many people sign up in the next couple of weeks.

New Blog: In order to facilitate the workshop, I've opened a second typepad blog, titled after my second book. I'm counting on all of you to spread the word and, hopefully, sign up for the workshop. There are no "shoulds" in this workshop and you can jump in any time, do only the assignments that work for you, or just sit quietly in the corner and observe.

New Website: It's still a work-in-progress, but after accidentally deleting all the files on my Whole Heart Publications website, I've decided to combine my books, workshops, and writing on a domain I bought several years ago. Although many of my friends and clients call me Ellie, my given and professional name is Eldonna.  In addtition to my writing-related work, I'm also including a a page reserved for other women named Eldonna.

New Tip Jar: Asking for money is not easy, but I wanted to offer people the option of contributing based upon value you receive/have recieved from my blog essays. I've dedicated nearly my entire life to nurturing others through massage, volunteer positions, teaching, and inspirational writing--obviously not huge money-making activities--because I believe in the spirit of giving.  However, I also believe there is value in laughter, art, poetry, touch, and the sharing of one's gifts. I know that good karma is circular purely by its requirement of unconditional trust. I continue to trust in the good will of people like you, whether your gift comes in the form of a donation to the Tip Jar, a link to my website(s), or a comment left on my blog. Thank you for being part of this invisible yet very real circle of friendship and support.

Technorati Tags: writing, journaling, creative writing, writing prompts, memes, blog, blogging, self reflection, writing therapy, unsent letters,

Scent of a Woman

 

"The past is the only dead thing that smells sweet." Cyril Connolly, quoted in "Journals and Memoirs" by David Price-Jones.

Our weekly alternative newspaper runs a quick poll of people on the street for a column they call "Street Talk". It's usually an inane question and the answers are often even dumber than the questions.  A few months after I moved to SLO, a New Times reporter nailed me as I was leaving a downtown spa and asked if I'd answer a question for the column. At first I said no, because they always take your picture and I had that greasy post-massage hair thing going on. He promised me it wouldn't show up in black and white so I said okay.

The question was, "What one piece of advice would you give people if you could?" Blissed out from my treatment, I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind: Get a massage! Although it was fine advice, as soon the words were out of my mouth, it sounded contrite . I begged to change my answer, but the guy snapped my picture and took down my name and occupation without giving me a second chance. The photo turned out fine but I was embarrassed by what appeared opportunistic in print. Of course the silly massage therapist is going to recommend massage. How about some real advice like never pick your nose while driving over railroad tracks or white pants make your ass look bigger?

This week's poll asked, "Which of your senses could you live without?" Most everyone  answered smell.  I would have said, "common" because I don't have much anyway. heh heh. Okay not on the spot I wouldn't have but now that I've had time to ponder, I know I couldn't have chosen any of my tactile senses. That's like asking which of your kids you could live without. See?  Stupid, stupid question.

The idiocy of the question didn't stop me from imagining life without smell, however. Although it'd cut down on impulse eating after snorting the aroma of my neighbor's grilled steaks, as one who sniffs her way through the world I can't imagine life without smemories. You know what I mean, right? Those times you get a whiff of something and it brings with it a wave of memories attached to the scent. For example, sheets dried on the line bring back wonderful smemories of helping my mom bring the laundry in from the back yard and later, falling asleep to the cottony fragrance of come-summer. The smell of mail sends me back to the tiny post office in the town where I grew up. I loved reaching into the little box to retrieve the pile of hand-addressed envelopes that carried the scent of faraway places.

Recently I paid six dollars for an old, half-empty bottle of Musterole on eBay. I bought it purely for the smemory of my mother rubbing that stuff on my chest before wrapping me in torn strips of flannel. I don't remember being sick, just feeling very loved and nurtured. So much so that when the bottle arrived, I carefully removed the lid from the familiar green jar, closed my eyes, and breathed my way back through forty years. I might not be able to talk to my mom on Mother's Day anymore, but thanks to the gift of smell, she still talks to me.

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, relationships, Mother's Day, mothers, childhood, essay, blog, self image, baby boomers, writing, writers, Musterole, prose, women, smell memory, eBay

Power Staring

A regular massage client recently shared with me one of his gender's few secrets.  I say few because let's face it, most men are pretty up front with their agenda compared to most women. My sisters and I prefer the subtle shades of feminine mystique to naked truth. In other words, we're not (publicly, anyway) nearly as proud of our farts nor are we unable to wait for the privacy of a restroom to scratch a delicate itch.

Anyway, what my client told me is this: Every time a heterosexual male meets/sees a new female, he runs her through a visual "Would I*?" filter. As in, "Would I do her?" Wait--now I remember how it came up (so to speak). He was talking about a visit to Hershey, PA being the first time he could remember never getting a yes to the mental fuckability test during an entire week spent there compared to here in SLO, admittedly a college town full of beautiful coeds, where guys hunger for a mutual yes on an hourly basis.

The information divulged by my client came as no surprise. I explained that the difference between men and women (all disclaimers re: lumping and stereotyping apply--please insert most/usually where needed.) is that although women are just as guilty of sizing up men's physical appearance, it isn't until the guys open their mouths that the dude is run through our "Would I?" filter. Plus, it's usually more like, "Would I consider..."

I share this conversation with you because I'm currently in the process of looking for a used car. (Hang in there--I promise to connect the dots.) My 1994 Dodge Caravan has been running on faith for the last two years, and getting sicker by the day. She's been a good car, taken me all kinds of wonderful places, but the (replaced) tranny is slipping, and I've been feeding her a quart 50 weight oil every couple weeks just to slow down the leaky valve. At 162,000 miles, she's well past her prime, especially for a Dodge, so I've begun scouring the newspaper, PhotoAd, Trade Express, and Craigslist for a replacement car.

I've also done a ton of research on which cars get the best mileage and are rated high for dependability. Up until last week, I couldn't have told you what car-maker produces which model, and now I'm a near expert on hatchbacks and small wagons. It'd be great if I could just go out and buy a new Scion xa or Honda Fit or Toyota Yaris, but I can't afford the insurance on a new car, let alone the payment. I've got a couple of car brokers looking for a used Protege5 or Matrix or possibly even a Ford zx5.

In the meantime, I've become hyper-focused on motor vehicles to the degree that whenever I pull into a parking lot, it suddenly becomes a potential used car lot. I drive slowly, staring at the cars, passing by those I know I can't afford, gas guzzlers, and just plain ugly vehicles. The rest I scan from hood to tail, look at the profile, recalling the goods and bads via Edmunds, Kelly Blue Book, and Consumer Reports.  Eventually I try to picture myself behind the wheel of those I like best. And in my mind I ask, "Would I?"

*This phrase reminds me of a terrible joke I heard as a kid, in which a half-blind guy asks a cleft-palleted girl if she'd like to go on a date. When she says "Would I!" He immediately responds, "Harelip!"

I know, it's a very politically incorrect joke and I'm ashamed of myself for telling it. Ashamed of laughing? Not so much.

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, buying a car, test drive, essay, blog, cars, mpg, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, mileage, massage

And The First Shall Be The Last

My first love was a wicked twisted road
I hit the million mile mark at seventeen years old
I never saw the rainbow, much less a pot of gold
Yeah, my first love was a wicked twisted road (Willy Braun)

On my way back home from the library this morning I stopped to grab a soy latte before switching on the radio and pointing my van north on Highway One. Along the palm-lined freeway, acres of red-roofed houses sat perched like watchful hawks overlooking the ruffled the Pacific as she dragged the tail of yesterday's storm kicking and screaming back to sea. A crowd of camera-laden watchers lined the shore, fingers like  tiny crab claws, clicking endlessly. Over and over, the ocean curled her cold blue lips then spewed rabid foam, dotting expensive lenses with salty spray as she hissed a retreat over knuckled rocks and seashells not yet picked over by wide-eyed tourists.

I pulled into the slow lane so I could soak up the view without being run down by the Hummer behind me. Since the first time I set eyes on the Central Coast, California has become the lover whose touch sends shivers up my spine every time I’m near her. It’s all I can do to keep my attention on the road in front of me when there’s so much beauty to the west. As often as I drive this highway, the panorama of cliffs and water still takes my breath way.

Rounding the curve that tucks the water behind our still-green hills, a song came on KPIG called Twisted Wicked Road, a sweet little melody with lyrics about firsts. First love, first winding road, first ride on a motorcycle, and other firsts I can no longer remember because my mind took a little vacation as I recalled the first time I ever saw the ocean on a trip out west with my future was-band. Upon seeing the water, I climbed down a steep cliff, shed my skirt, and waded into the water with my sweater held to my waist until I finally gave up and surrendered to the salty blessing of a Pacific Baptism. When I returned to shore, we stripped off our clothes and lay behind a big rock to dry out. I remember thinking that this was where I belonged. Not just the beach, but a place where you can lie naked in the sand because that's what people do in California and I'm one of those people.

I finally left Michigan for the West Coast a few years later, surprising neither friends or family. When I told my friend, Laura, of my plans to move, she just smiled and said, "What took you so long? Everyone knows the stork dropped you on the wrong beach in 1959. Seems to me, you're going home, not leaving it."

As I pulled into the driveway upon my return this morning, I dropped the empty coffee cup in the trash and flip-flopped my way past a flood of orange poppies to the front door. I thought about the first time I opened this door, the first time I stepped barefoot onto its newly-sanded wood floors, the first time these walls smiled back at me, and suddenly I knew what I'm supposed to do. Today became another in a long line of firsts, as I made a quiet promise to stay here and conquer my demons rather than trying to outrun them by pulling up shallow roots yet again. And you, dear friend, heard it here first.

Photo Credit: Avila Morning by Bill Bouton