This is My Body, This is My Blood

Immortal Thoughts

I'm wild again, beguiled again
A simpering, whimpering child again
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I

Bewitched, Bothered & Bewildered by Richard Rogers & Lorenze Hart, performed by Ella Fitzgerald

If you'd asked my nine year-old self what I wanted to be when I grew up, I wouldn't have hesitated to answer, Samantha Stevens. Except for the part where I'd be married to that neurotic Darrin (both of them), I couldn't imagine a better life than twitching my nose to clean the house, flying to the moon for lunch, and enjoying Elizabeth Montgomery's wit and beauty. Plus I'd love having sweet little old Aunt Clara to balance out my bitchy mother, Endora who was too busy being Dr. Bombay's fag hag.

I've long since learned to make my own magic, but today is one of those day when I'd give up a month of coffee in exchange for a few simple nose-twinkles. As often as I'm in denial about the limits of my physical, mental and emotional output, I'm willing to admit that this past week has left me nearly drained on multiple levels and I'm in dire need of a few good spells to clean up my mess(es).

It started with S's announcement that he'd found an apartment (another day, another blog) followed by my habit of processing change via ripping shit up--in this case, the mildewy shower surround above the old, scratched bathtub I can never get clean. While S has been slowly packing up various boxes and making multiple trips to his new studio, I've been picking up heavy pieces of cast iron tub (amazing what a husky college student equipped with a sledge hammer can accomplish in ten minutes) and making multiple trips to Home Depot. Thanks to my bright idea of putting in a galvanized stock tank to replace the old tub, it's taken nearly 20-man hours of hired labor to deal with the wood rot/termite damage behind the shower wall, install wood laminate flooring, change out rusty plumbing, and replace the old crank-out window.

Yesterday, after a full day of clients, errands, and dealing with no less then three contractors (only one of which showed up on time) I kept my promise to take J to the Mid-State Fair. I'm not really a carnival kind of girl, but his buddy backed out and I felt bad for him. We ended up having a fun evening (minus the part where I freaked out and asked to be let off a ride) but by the time the shuttle bus dropped us back at our car, I could barely keep my eyes open to drive home.

I headed back out at nine this morning to give three massages, made another trip to Farm Supply only to find the tub they'd promised to fix was still leaking, and still managed to play lose two sets of racquetball at the Y with J. Afterward I took yet another sponge bath due to our current lack of shower facilities then looked around at all the dust and dirt awaiting my attention.  I picked up a broom, made one half-hearted sweep, then promptly sat down and cried.

On Monday evening--the day S officially moves out--a couple of my favorite bloggers are coming down from BlogHer for a brief visit. I'd planned to be the perfect host, show them around our beautiful coastal towns, maybe even do a little wine-tasting, but after this very long week I'm glad I reserved a room at the Inn. Instead of racing up and down the coast, we'll spend a couple days lying in hammocks, grabbing fresh fish off the pier to bbq for dinner, and drinking wine on our oceanfront deck.

Although I'm looking forward to treating both women to nurturing massages, the gift of sisterhood to help replenish my overtapped well will be the real treat. I've never met either of them in person but my intuition tells me I can count on Janeen and Sue to make the dent left by S's departure from my immediate environment a little softer. In fact, what better recipe for brewing up a few magical spells than the alchemy of three women, two nights, and one big-assed ocean under a waxing moon. Better start doing your nose-exercises girls. We've got some serious bewitchin' to do.

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, weight gain, bewitched, blogher, loss of energy, relationships,  essay, blog, self image, baby boomers, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, hormones, massage

Eat, Drink, & Be Wary

Researchers have discovered that chocolate produced some of the same reactions in the brain as marijuana. The researchers also discovered other similarities between the two, but can't remember what they are. Matt Lauer on NBC's Today Show

I'm one of those rare people who eat tofu not because it's healthy, but because I actually like it. This may have something to do with the fact that I'm also one of those people who sautes my tofu in bacon fat. Actually, I might be the only person who does that. Kind of the equivalent of my friend, M,  who drinks kombucha tea every day to pump up her immune system and gets regular watsu treatments but still smokes a pack of menthols a day.

Up until a few years ago, I could pretty much eat whatever I wanted (within reason) and not think about it. Then all of a sudden I passed through the halls of metabolic misery on my way to hormone hell and I could no longer throw back a daily bag of peanut M&M's or two scoops of mint chip ice cream without wearing it on my ass the next day. Not to mention that almost everything I put in my mouth makes me blow up like a two-day old carcass on a Death Valley two-track. Or as my son, J, puts it, "You eat, therefore you fart."

I know I need to eat healthier and although I don't consume a lot of sweets or processed foods, I also know that  bodies crave what they're accustomed to getting and this one's accustomed to regular doses of dark chocolate, preferably with nuts. Armed with this knowledge, I'm about to do a refined sugar detox that is sure to kill the chocolate cravings if it doesn't kill me first. On the upside, in the event I do die from withdrawal at least I won't be a bloated corpse.

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Says Who?

And here comes never again, again
Once more I'll let you back in
And just like it's always been
I'll say never again, again

Lee Ann Womack, Never, Never Again

It's not my habit to follow memes, but I stole this from Karl then altered it just a bit to fit menopausal women for a second list:

Ten 15 Things You'll Never Hear me Say

1. I haven't checked my email/sitemeter in days.
2. Sure you can come in the bathroom while I'm pooping.
3. Oh goody! I get to go to the dentist today!
4. I wish straight legs would come back. I love the way they accentuate my thighs and hips.
5. I can't stand to be touched/massaged/futzed.
6. Could you stand a little closer so I can get the full effect of your cigarette smoke?
7. Of course my massage includes a h@ndjob you silly man!
8. Sigh. You're not going to stop at that garage sale are you?
9. Bad teeth and big trucks really make me wet.
10. I don't need to write it down. I'm keeping a mental list.
11. I'm positive that way is east.
12. No, I'd much rather talk about you.
13. I think I'll wear beige today.
14. I'd rather take a quick shower than a luxurious soak in my bathtub.
15. Could you please thin my hair out a little?

Ten Things You'll Never Hear Me Say (again)

1. Miss, would you bring me a size 6? I'm swimming in these size 8 jeans.
2. Somebody turn up the heat. It's freezing in here!
3. Damn I look hot in this leather skirt and boots.
4. Hmmm. Maybe I'll have another baby. Whoops! I'm pregnant.
5. Hey, I/you should move in so we can be together all the time!
6. I'll have a(nother) sloe gin fizz.
7. No worries, I can hold my bladder until the we get home.
8. Let's make love in bright sunlight instead of by candlelight next time.
9. I hauled out a can of whup-ass on the racquetball court today. Won all 3 sets.
10. Let's camp out in a tent instead of staying in a motel this time.

I'm normally one of those "never say never" kind of people, but there comes a time when the Anvil of Truth lands on your head and your realize some things in life have an exasperation date.  Today that thing just happens to be putting other people's needs before my own. In honor of this epiphany, I'm laughing at the spilled milk. Someone else can clean it up this time for cripes sake.

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, getting older, never again, women, changing body, that outfit i wore to the airport, body image

School of Thought(s)

whim: (n 1. A sudden or capricious idea; a fancy. 2.Arbitrary thought or impulse:governed by whim.
[Short for whim-wham, fanciful object

As I was researching core classes needed to meet CSU and UC general education requirements for J, an old niggling woke from a dreamy sleep and whispered from somewhere between my ears.

Hey Ellie, why not request your transcripts from Baker and see how many classes would transfer? You know Cal Poly has that new Integrated Studies program for reentry students.

I cleared my throat, ignoring the ludicrous thought.

You could have your BA within 2 1/2 years, maybe even find a low-res program and get your MFA after that.

La-la-la, I can't hear you!

Whatsa matter? Afraid you might fail? Or is it success you most fear?

Shut up.

Oooh. Struck a nerve, did I?

I'm not afraid. I'm just too busy between raising a kid, working, maintaining a relationship, and running a household, that's all.

Didn't stop you from getting your AB, did it? And you had two kids under five back then. Not to mention an alcoholic husband.

Yeah, but...

But, nothin'.

Well, I suppose it couldn't hurt to get the transcripts.

That's my girl!

Three Days Later

Pssst. As long as we're here dropping off J's records, let's stop in at the counseling office and see if those old credits will transfer.

Fine. But I'm not going back to college. I hate Algebra and I refuse to feel like shit just because I can't solve for x. Besides, I love what I do so why work my ass off and fry my brain just to get some silly degree?

Your arms won't hold out forever, Honey. Tendonitis has already set in your right forearm. This degree could set the stage for non-profit work, starting your own foundation, or even getting those novels published.

Alright already. I said I'd check so pipe down.

The Following Morning, 7:45 AM.

I can't believe I got up at 6:15 to take this stupid assessment test in a roomful of gooey-eyed teenagers. Can't I just send them a link to my blog and so they can see I can spell, form sentences, and write a fairly-clear essay?

Oh quit your bitching and write the damn essay.

Later That Afternoon

I told you we'd qualify for financial aid. And they waived the algebra requirement so you no longer have that excuse, now do you?

You're a total pain in the ass when you have an agenda.

That's what you said when I suggested Massage School.

Sigh. Do you always have to be right?

That Evening

Let's see, I've got Math for The Humanities and PolySci 2 on campus; English Comp and Art Appreciation online. That's 14 credits.

What are you doing?You can't handle 4 classes and still manage your clients, your kid, and this house!

Whoa--you're the one who talked me into this, so shut your hole. If I don't take 4 classes a semester, I won't be able to begin the BAIS program next fall.

Fall, schmall, take it easy or you'll go into overwhelm mode. You're not in your twenties, Sweetie. What's the rush?

Maybe I'm just excited about going back, learning new things. But you're right. I'll sign up for these and if it's too much, I'll drop down to three.

That sounds a little more practical.

(Rolling eyes). Since when does Whimsy give a flying freak about practicality?

Uh, that wasn't me. I fell back asleep when you took over the reins on my original impulse.

Oh. Sorry. Sometimes it feels like there's a fucking choir in my head. Wait. Don't tell me. Aha! It was Wisdom, wasn't it? Nice try, smartass.

Ha-ha, you got me alright. Now that I have your attention, I want to remind you that Rome wasn't built in a day.

That is so cliché.

Look, I'm Wisdom, not Creativity, Missy. All I'm asking for is not to overextend yourself.

I appreciate your guidance. Really, I do.

Okay then. Let's get some sleep.

Middle of the Night

You should have used more metaphor in your essay. Compared the religious influence of fundamentalism on adolescents to, I don't know, forcing crayons not to look at the other colors in the box or something.

It doesn't matter. They placed me in the highest English without the assessment results anyway so the essay is moot.

We could still turn it into a blog post. Do something interesting with--

(Putting pillow over head) Why do you always get your bright ideas when I want to sleep?

Don't blame me, you're the one who woke me up--remember?

Well, just be creative in my dreams, ok? You're going to wake up the others.

(Yawning) Hey, what are you and Creativity talking about this time of night? Hold up--are you having a party? Hey, let's go make cookies!

That's it. (Reaching for bottle in nightstand drawer).

(Several voices in unison) Noooooooo!!!!!

First Thing This Morning

(sipping coffee) What a beautiful day. I think I'll write about going back to school in my blog.

(staring at blinking cursor on empty screen). Yoo-hoo, I said I THINK I'LL WRITE SOMETHING IN MY BLOG!

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....

Photo Credit: loke

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Picking and Choosing

So if you're walking down the street sometime
And spot some hollow ancient eyes,
Please don't just pass 'em by and stare
As if you didn't care, say, "Hello in there, hello.

John Prine (what can I say, I'm on a Prine roll)

J: I figured out why teenagers don't like old people

Me: Because they move too slowly?

J: No. Because they remind us of what we'll become someday. We look at them and think, fuck you, I'm not going to get old and bent and shuffling. Just shoot me when I'm sixty.

Me: Sixty? B is sixty-three and look how young he is.

J: He's old.

At 47, I'm just beginning to grasp the relativity of years. I was two years old when my father was my current age and the same age as J--17--when my mother was 47 (she was a dozen years younger than my dad). As far back as I can remember, I always thought they were old. It wasn't until I was in my twenties and Mom went back to college to finish her degree, that I realized just how young and vibrant she was. My father, on the other hand, was likely born old. He had an old walk, old ways of thinking, and an old heart that was as weak as it was warm. Yet despite his heart condition and her comparative youth, he outlived my mother by thirteen years. Mortality, it seems, isn't determined by years so much as it is by fate. Just ask the ninety year-old woman puffing on a cig who never walks further than the mailbox as the "healthy" vegetarian who doesn't drink anything other than his herbal concoctions drop dead mid-stride on his morning walk past her porch.

Age, to me, isn't about the state of one's health or taking naps or even a measure of years so much as it's a more translucent way of living. Having felt the piercing gash of grief and lived through it, having loved to the brink of brokenness, and having learned the lessons of friendship and frivolity, one eventually takes a conscious step through the invisible membrane between and hubris and humility. This event is not marked by a certain age so much as it is an uncertain promise of tomorrow.

Last week I went berry-picking with two seventy-ish women on a rural farm in Santa Margarita. We ambled down rows of fat oolala berries, they in their wide-brimmed sunhats and me in my pink visor, while a chicken pecked at the ground and goats bleated in a nearby pen. I believe we ate almost as many berries as we put in our baskets by the time we slipped five dollar bills into a slot in the "honor box" and drove back to town.

In the past, I would have considered it much more convenient just to buy the berries, or better yet, buy the pie from Avila Barn. As I push my way through the late summer of my life, I'm learning that older people don't slow down because they have to, so much as because they choose to. Eating home-made berry cobbler still warm from the oven trumps a store-bought pastry every single time. And reaching for a fat blackberry with juice-stained fingers on a sunny Tuesday morning far outweighs a quick pass through the produce section any day of the week.

*************************************************************************************************

I'd planned to end this post here, but as I typed the last sentence, my cell-phone chimed with an incoming text-message from my friend, D, in Canada. His ninety-one year old father is slipping away from this world, a man who once treated me to delightful stories of working on the railroads in northern Ontario over a cup of Tim Horton's coffee. As I raise my morning cup to my lips, I'm thinking of him, and the son who has so tenderly cared for him these past years. This one's for you, D, and in memory of Joseph Dean Baker, railroad worker and storyteller extraordinaire.

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