This is My Body, This is My Blood

Eerie Canal

A couple weeks ago I ended up with an outer ear infection--commonly known as swimmers ear-- most likely a result of soaking for long periods my new bathtub. Not one to immediately seek Western medical attention, I tried a few homeopathic remedies--the first being to fill an old sock with heated table salt and lay it under my right ear. My mother swore the hot salt would draw out  infection  I don't know about the method's curative qualities but the warmth did ease the pain and removed one mateless sock from the pile of renegades in my bottom drawer.

When the pain worsened my friend J suggested I let her pour a little warm olive oil down my eaustatchian tube. She'd read somewhere that  coating the inner ear with oil will heal  the infection and the warmth soothes the pain. That might be true, but I should have checked the temperature before letting her pour the scalding "remedy" into my ear as I lay with my head on her dining room table. Screaming ensued, followed by endless apologies from my well-intenioned friend.

My grandfather used to inhale from his curvy pipe and expel the tobacco smoke into my ear when we were kids and as much as I abhor cigarette smoke, I still love the smell of pipe tobacco thanks to the memory of his gentle earache treatments. S tried hotboxing my ear after taking a pull on his tiny pipe, but it just wasn't the same. Memories of my towering seven-fingered grandfather were replaced by memories of smokey basements filled with  bad poets and stoned dropouts. And my ear still hurt.

Eventually I took myself to the ER and got fixed up with an antibiotic and  some Vicodin. Yeah, well, I tried all the natural stuff and it didn't work, so shoot me. And when my son, J, ended up with an outer ear infection the following week, I trotted him right down to the health cllinic where they were nice enough to squeeze him between scheduled patients. Unfortunately the only available space was a gyno-room and when I tracked him down after filling out paperwork, found him wide-eyed--surrounded by cross-sectioned vaginas, diagramed penises, and godforsaken photographs of horrible venerial diseases in various stages of digress. Adding to his horror were the speculum and swabs neatly laid out on the counter.

"You need to move to the table so the doctor can examine you," I said.

He pointed to the stirrups with knitted socks dangling from the ends. "I'm not sitting there. I know what happens on that table."

"They change the sheeting between patients, dummy."

He stayed fastened to the doctor's stool. "I don't care. I'm not going to sit there."

When the doctor finally entered, she poked a light in his ears and tsked. "You put any bubbles in your bath?"

J nodded.

"You know," she said, "The ear canal isn't all unlike the vaginal canal."

J physically jerked, made a face at me that said, She did not just compare part of my face to a twat and promptly pulled his head away from the doctor. The comic in my brain contain the urge to blurt out, "Eusatchia is the new vagina!"

"It's true," she continued. "Lot's of girls and women get infections from soaps, perfumes, bubblles, bath salts, etc. It messus up the Ph balance."

Eventually my trauatized son and I left with a prescription for an antibiotic (no Vicodin) which I promptly filled. Two days later my own ear infection returned. I wasn't about to take more antibiotics so I made for Rite Aid to find an OTC medication.  Passing by an aisle towering with pads and tampons for which I no longer have use, I headed for the ear treatments. As I stood stdying wax removal sytems and various swimmer's ear remedies, I remembered the kind doctor's words.

Are you getting ahead of me yet?  Yes, I returned to the "feminine" aisle and yes, I did purchase MonoStat and I indeed did squirt the stuff in my ear and no, Roz, I cannot hear people coming. In fact, I can't hear a damn thing with this crap in my head but I'm glad the doctor didn't compare ears to anuses because if I'd used Preparation H  I wouldn't be able to hear for shit. Har de Har.

Technorati Tags: ear infection, swimmer's ear>,aging, perimenopause, menopause, hot flashes, getting older, libido, body image, depression, essay, blog, self image, baby boomers, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, hormones, incontinence

Aged Whine

The years teach much which the days never knew.  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

is this how it starts--
this sliding away of brain cells
like change down the sofa cushions
hidden away in dusty recesses--unseen
but not unmissed?

Take this morning, for instance
reaching for massage oil
you pump liquid soap instead
an easy mistake, maybe
but later you're making a point
--or trying to--about famous people
in politics,when suddenly the name of that actor 
(you can see his face) turns to vapor
before reaching your tongue

you squint real hard as if
you might squeeze the name
from behind your eyelids
well, you know who I mean, you say

it's not just the memory, no
it's the body, this body
once lean and strong and sexy, my god
how it thrilled you to own it
before you began waking during the night
right arm aching, fingers numb
the wood floor like gravel
beneath your bare feet each morning

as you stumble to the kitchen
groaning--ow, ow, ow
no one hears you complain, though
because the bed is empty
no lover waiting for your return
no coffee delivered by gentle hands
no dent left by his body
in the crumpled sheets

and you're okay with it, really
measured it all very carefully
the weight of love against
this solitary life, their neediness
against your need to mold each day
with your own hands, hands that remind you
of your mother's now, folded
across your chest, listening to your own breath
as you wade through a hot flash t
hen bolt upright, eyes wide
Martin Sheen!
   
Technorati Tags: aging, growing older, memory loss,second half of life,aging, perimenopause, menopause, hot flashes, essay, blog, baby boomers, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, hormones, massage,martin sheen,

Breast of Times

This post is in honor of my Breast Friend, Sue Richards, of Calendar Girl for all her dedicated work and hard-fought battles to promote breast health to men and women everywhere.  I made a vow as a Breast Ambassador to spread the gospel of breast health, so please click on over to her blog and buy a lovely Breast of Canada Calendar for as many people as you can think to endow with this gorgeous and informative gift. Thank you.

Up until my youngest brother pushed his way into our already-crowded house of six girls plus  two parents, I hadn't taken much notice of the difference between my chest and my mother's--or even my oldest sisters' developing bosoms.  In fact, at a mere five years of age I assumed the matching bulges that filled my mother's dresses were God's way of gifting warm pillows to sleepy heads as they nodded off on soft laps.

This all changed the day my grandmother stood over our kitchen table sprinkling starch-water on white sheets and pillow cases while my mom rocked D in her arms. To my utter amazement, she unbuttoned her blouse and  pulled the swaddled lump that was my baby brother against her bare chest. I watched in awe as D  latched onto her nipple like a Kindergarten painting onto a fridge door and suckled for all his 13-pound worth (yes, that was his birth weight!).  My mother and grandmother continued chatting as if neither considered the fat-cheeked new person gumming my mother's breast to his heart's content, was worthy of wide-eyed staring.

Dumbfounded by the extraordinary event taking place in our kitchen, I moved closer to my mother in an attempt to get a better look, but the edge of her blouse concealed both her boob and my brother's face. Undaunted, I planted myself in the adjacent chair, then matter-of-factly reclined until my head was in my mother's lap, under the arm that supported the slurping baby where I had a dead-on view of this most curious happening.  Sure as Sunday, D was sucking on the end of my mother's breast, and as if that weren't impressive enough, my mother suddenly pulled the nipple out of his mouth and flopped him over her shoulder, leaving the pendulous pillow dangling above my face where I-shit-you-not warm, bluish-white fluid sprayed my face.

I jumped to my feet and wiped my cheek with my sleeve as my grandmother cackled in the memorable way that is forever etched into my bones.

"Whatsa matter, Ellie? You want some?"

I shook my head furiously.

"Sure you do. Give her a taste, Aussie." That laugh again.

I felt a warm heat travel up my neck and over my face. In a moment more surreal than I'd yet to experience, my mother pulled me closer and placed my small hand on her bare breast.

"There's milk inside. It's how D gets his food. Same way you and all your sisters were fed."

Still recovering from the blasphemy of bodily fluids that had just coated my face, I was now completely blown away by all this new information, along with the sensory input of my mother's breast under my palm.

As if sensing my thoughts, my mother smiled. "Go ahead," she said. "Squeeze."

I looked down at the hand that no longer registered as part of my own body and curled my fingers around her flesh. Milk bubbled out from the big brown nipple and onto my mother's aproned knee. I remember thinking this was the warmest, softest thing I'd ever touched in my life.

My brother belted a burp that broke the suspended silence.

"Atta boy!" my grandmother said. "Let that air go, it ain't payin' rent."

My mother tucked her breast back into her blouse and dropped the other before shifting my brother to the opposite side while her mother moved a basket of damp linens to the mangle in the corner of the kitchen. I left a room filled with hissing and suckling and my mother's low hum changed by the extraordinary events I'd just witnessed. As I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, I carried with me a new understanding of how much my mother loved us, and her mother, her.

That night I lay in bed with my hand on my smooth chest not yet knowing the magic I would experience upon nursing my own three children, nor the words a lover would one day whisper upon first caress of my nubile young breasts.

These are the warmest, softest things I've ever touched in my life...

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, breastfeeding, nursing, mothers, Breast of Canada, Calendar Girl, essay, blog, breasts, breast health, writing, writers, mothering, daughters, women, massage

Photo by Lauren Cruickshank for 2007 Breast of Canada Calendar
 

La Casa De Ellie

“Community cannot for long feed on itself; it can only flourish with the coming of others from beyond, their unknown and undiscovered brothers.” Howard Thurman

It wasn't without some trepidation that I once again posted an ad on Craigslist, offering up a room with shared housing privileges. My reasons are not only financial--I just can't in good conscience sit on an empty room when such a terrible housing shortage exists in this college town. Besides, I'm a firm believer in community, and that I'm not only offering a safe haven for these kids as they pass through the halls of Casa De Ellie, but an exchange of experiences and ideas.

During their brief stays, I try to teach my roomies a thing or two about cooking, respect for other's privacy & property, and how to live a little more lightly on the planet (and budget) in terms of recycling, using less water, and turning off lights. In return, they help keep my aging fingers on the pulse of today's youth, provide inspiration from their short lives and adventures, and keep the windows of my mind open and breezy as they sweep through the winters of my life.

As I typed that last line, my newest roommate passed by my room on his way down the hall toward our only bathroom, sleep still trailing from his bare footsteps. The handyman was supposed to come this morning to finish plumbing the new tub, but called to say he's a day behind. T was planning to get a shower in ahead of the work---hence the early wake-up. T really likes his showers and despite my directives with regard to water-saving, takes 2-3 a day. Because he rides his bike everywhere,  I don't balk at the water usage so long as he keeps showers brief. Besides, he looks so damn cute with that orange towel wrapped around his waist, wet curls falling over his Hawaain eyes as he stands in the kitchen while I'm sweeping the floor, telling me about how he went line-dancing with his girlfriend the night before even though he can't stand country music. How she helps him with math and he helps her with physics (they're both aerospace engineer majors). That he thinks I'd like this book called, "American Gods," after reflecting upon our philosophical conversation over yesterday's breakfast together. Then he freely tells me about his friend, L, who he has loved since they were children, that he falls in love easily and genitalia are not an obstacle to his heart.

Winter before last, S landed on my doorstep and blew through these rooms like a Tasmanian Devil on crack. She stayed out late, sqeauled like a child at the smallest joys or disappointments, burned my good pans, and left a head-shaped dent in my shoulder from the endless litany of drama spilled there as I held her close and listened. Over time, she learned to use low heat on stainless steel,  quit her job as an exotic dancer, and began planning her path back to school. She still comes by once in a while to take the dogs for a walk or just to say hi and fill me in on her life.

Recently S showed up at J's Central Coast Idol performance carrying the bright pink sign her kids from an after-school care center had made to cheer on her "brother". Although I can't take credit for the successful changes in her life, I like to think this temporary rest-stop offered a vessel in which to contain all that energy before she made the choice to channel it in a new direction. I like to think she-- and those who follow her shadow through these doors today and tomorrow-- will forever be changed by their experience as much as they help to shape the me I am constantly becoming

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, going back to college, new roommate, mothers, Cal Poly, adult student, essay, blog, school, cuesta college, writing, writers, studying, mfa, women, massage

Where's Waldo's Mom?

Education is not preparation for life; education is life itself. John Dewey

On my first day of school, I figured I'd stand out like a banana in a bowl of grapes, but surprisingly, nobody seemed to notice (or care) that a 47 year-old student was in line behind them in the cafeteria, walking past the row of them in the bathroom without stopping to check her mascara, taking furious notes as if she were actually interested in the lecture. In fact, I've since learned from a few classmates (and one prof) that although they figured I was an older student, they had no idea how old.

Huh. I thought it was obvious. Just in case you're unsure, I came up with a few clues to spot middle-aged female students who are young enough to fit in, yet old enough to be your mother. She's the only one who:

...drives a minivan

...drops her kid on the frontage road before parking in the lot so he doesn't bear the shame of peers knowing his Mom goes to the same college.

...watches that kid walk up the sidewalk, rooting for him, hoping he's happy.

...has a few gray hairs in her blond pigtails.

...isn't bouncing her knees all during class after having consumed candy bars and soda for breakfast.

...wants to smack the kids who don't hold the door open for others, always come in late, act as if they're doing the world a favor by their mere presence.

...fans herself while all the other students wear sweaters and complain about the air conditioning.

...walks into the wrong classroom during the third week of school, shrugs and leaves, as though not mortified by such a nerdy faux pas

...asks the prof how big the type is on today's test because she forgot her reading glasses.

...waves the A on her history test in front of the kid, as if waiting for a raise in allowance or keys to the family car

...nods knowlingly as the prof talks about the Nixon years and the Viet Nam war without having read the text.

...has the urge to hug everyone in the room just because they're all so damn fresh and on the verge of their young lives.

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, going back to college, integrated studies, mothers, Cal Poly, adult student, essay, blog, school, cuesta college, writing, writers, studying, mfa, women, massage

Whistler's Mother

The singer has everything within him. The notes come out from his very life. They are not materials gathered from outside.  Rabindranath Tagore

A couple of hours from now, I'l lie in bed with the lights out, but I won't sleep. Not until I hear those few clear notes as he whistles his way up the street on his way home from Subway will I fully relax. It's been a rough year for us. For him. I'm always relieved when I hear his melodic preamble even before I hear his bike roll up the gravel driveway.

From the time he was a toddler, I knew when J was up by the singing that drifted from his bedroom upon awaking. He still sings in his room sometimes but mostly now, he whistles. It's a reassuring sound, proof that he's survived another night of fighting off video game warriors, haggling with the two dogs for the biggest share of covers, and the miracle that keeps all his parts working in synchronistic perfection despite how many Dr. Peppers, Pizzas, and french fries he eats to fuel those melodic lungs.

A few weeks ago we walked through Farmer's Market as our local Fox station was setting up a booth for the third and final set of Central Coast Idol auditions. Earlier that afternoon I had dared him to try out--even printed out the lyrics to one of his favorite oldies songs, but he refused. "I'm not a singer," he said. But as we woofed down our BBQ sandwiches that evening, I double-dared him.

"Oh go on. It'll be fun."

He took a long pull on his soda before answering. "Ok. But if I do it, you have to turn the cable TV back on."

Ugh. I hate TV. But I really wanted to see him get up there and sing. "I'll make the appointment but you have to pay for it."

He made me shake on it before shuffling up the sidewalk to fill out an audition form and choosing "Mack the Knife" from a list of available karaoke songs. We waited  through a couple dozen of MariahCareyCelineDionAliciaKeyes wannabe's with a few country music idols thrown in for good measure. A couple contestants were fairly good, if not over the top on the runs and vibratto. Most of them were kinda bad. A few were embarassingly awful.

J was the next-to-last singer, right after they announced the karaoke machine quit working.

"Sorry, Mom. Can't do it."

I pulled a CD from my purse. "Wait! I still have "Happy Together" by the Turtles that I recorded earlier." I handed it to him along with the printed lyrics.

He looked at the CD, then at the DJ, then back at the CD before handing the disc to me. "I am officially a TV whore," he said, before queing his place on the steps to the stage.

The crowd loved the goofy kid with the crazy afro and mis-buttoned shirt. (Scroll down and click on Jacob's initial audition) They sang along with him, some of them swaying shoulder-to-shoulder with the familiar tune. And they clapped like crazy when he finished.

We walked home smiling--me with pride and him with the knowledge that he'd soon be getting his TV back. He never expected them to call to say he'd made the Top Ten--the only one without voice lessons and training. That a bunch of his friends would show up at The Clark Center to cheer him on during his performance of Mack the Knife. (click on Jacob's perfomance in the Final Ten box) That he'd make his mom smile like a jack-o-lantern on crack for a week running.

Thanks, kid. You made my day. You make my life.

Love,

Mom

NOTE: You have to listen to a commercial before the performance. Also, some people have had trouble viewing the videos.

 american idol, mack the knife, singing,  aging, perimenopause, menopause, relationships, parenting, mothers, sons, childhood, essay, blog, whistling, writing, writers, prose, women, massage,

Bedroom Sweet

My mother moved the furniture when she no longer moved the man. The Story (The Angel in The House)

A few days ago I moved my bed back to where it was before S moved in. I don't know exactly what it was  that drove me to change it other than that I had to move it over for the satellite guy* to string cable through the wall which led me to clean under the bed which got me to thinking how much space that bulky headboard takes up which made me decide to give it to J which eventually led me to put the bed back against the east wall. As soon as I crawled under the covers that night, I felt more at home. I don't know all that much about feng shui (other than the crap stored under the bed is probably extreme funky shui) but I do know I slept like a drunk on payday that night and have nearly every night since.

As much as I enjoy snuggling with my snugglee, there's something about reclaiming one's space that feels almost bulimic--as though you've been stuffed with all these extra shoulds and hold-backs and then suddenly you just let it all out, take up every inch of the room with your own breath. For the first time in months (or years) you relax into the Who of You and it feels so damn good you laugh for laughing's sake until your kid hollers from the next room, asking what's so funny, which only makes you laugh harder.

In the middle of a recent night I turned over and reached across the bed, forgetting the wide open space of a frog on a queen sized lily pad. I pulled his my other pillow closer, then stretched myself diagonally across the great mattress, planting a toe in the furthest corner like a flagpole on an unclaimed planet. As I nestled back into the web of come-dreaming, I felt something tiny and rough against my thigh. In the netherworld of slow-moving limbs, I plucked a sunflower seed shell from beneath the covers and tossed it aside. As I fell back asleep I smiled the wide smile of cotton-breathed comfort on the threshold of full-blown contentment.

* I killed our TV in March and haven't missed it. J apparently has, as he's paying for it himself out of meager Subway wages.

Technorati Tags: sleeping, sleep, moving furniture,second half of life,aging, perimenopause, menopause, hot flashes, essay, blog, relationships, baby boomers, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, hormones, massage

A Lesson Before Dying

We can learn, we can teach
We can share the myths, the dream the prayer
The notion that we can do better
Change our lives and paths
Create a new world
And start all over
Tracy Chapman, New Beginning

It's happening. The Century Plant in my front yard is slowly turning back into the earth's womb after blessing the neighborhood with a showy display for over three months following it's initial phallic burst from the ground. Now, tiny babies of the plant are popping up all over the yard.

All summer long, the tops of the tree have been bustling with broods of both bird and bee. In the beginning, two Hooded Orioles took up residence at the tippy top, thinking they'd just discovered a free apartment in the sky. It wasn't long before the bees moved in downstairs, drunken sots sucking up the juices like a den of MILFs at Starbucks last call. And finally, the hummingbirds. Allen's, Anna's, and possibly a few others, but I'm only a birder by proxy (via my was-band) so I can't be sure.

I was tempted to call the local newspaper and offer to write a story about the Amazing Plant for their "Outdoors" section, but I decided I'd rather not have traffic up and down the street. It feels a little selfish--keeping this wonder all for myself and my neighbors--but quite frankly, I want to be able to walk around the yard in my breezy jammies and slippers, braless as the day I was born, without having a bunch of gawkers trolling by with binoculars. You birders understand what I'm talking about. Sorry, but this bush tit prefers keeping her nest to herself if you know what I mean (and I think you do).

The question that's on everyone's mind--at least the mind of those in view of the Amazing Plant--is not so much when it will eventually fall, as which way it will drop. Over these past few weeks the bottom leaves have turned brown and withered, and most of the winged residents have all but moved on as the blooms dry up and turn in on themselves. The stalk is still green, but it's leaning like a born-again toward the right wing on Sunday morning. As of today, I'd be willing to take bets it'll topple into my neighbor's yard.

According to experts on all things succulent (excluding yours truly, of course) this mother-of-all-cacti blooms once every 25 years or so. One could possible apply this knowledge of cycles to human life. At 47, I've thrown up a new stalk, headed back to school, preparing to flower for the second time in my life. I wouldn't be surprised if I did something similar at 75--maybe volunteer to help less-fortunate humans overseas or move to Greece or choose some other way of growing myself in a new direction. I don't know where these new seeds of experience and knowledge will take me, but I do know this: I will happily host a party before I die, share all the nectar of understanding with whomever cares to nest in my branches.

When I do finally give up the ghost, I hope I fall in a neighboring yard--forcing them to get a good look at what it means to shoot for the sky--as if I truly believed I could reach the stars. And then I hope they turn me back into fire where I become the spark that started it all.

Technorati Tags: dying, hummingbirds, new beginnings,second half of life,aging, perimenopause, menopause, hot flashes, essay, blog, century plant, baby boomers, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, hormones, massage

Watsu Matter With Me?

A few weeks ago I signed up for a Watsu massage from a woman referred to me by my friend and fellow member of Massage Sluts Anonymous, M. She thought I'd love the waterwork but I found it difficult to surrender to the process given my drowning issues. What I did love was photographing the practitioner as she worked with a young woman who's recovering from nerve damage after doctors accidentally knocked her leg out of the stirrup during hip surgery. Watching her was like attending a birth, the way she completely gave into each finite movement in the dance between her body and the body of water that cradled her.

Have you ever felt as though you were swimming against the current, trying unsuccessfully to best a hidden riptide as it pulled you further out to sea?  As though you've completely forgotten everything you'd learned about swimming parallel to the shore until you're out of danger rather than use up every last bit of energy on a futile battle with the forces of nature? The last few weeks have left me keening like a boat with a torn sail. Today it was all I could do just to get out of bed and feed the animals, let alone myself. I don't know if the fatigue stems from emotional backwash caused by recent  transitions or it's a physical manifestation of my tendency to overdo/give when I know damn well I'm running on an empty tank, but I haven't been this tired since I had mono in the tenth grade.

I continue to push myself through necessary tasks but it's like trying to hurry honey off the spoon. Perhaps I need to revisit that pool, take a lesson in the art of flow instead of dog-paddling my way through yet another day of Things To Do. At the very least, I might benefit from sitting in a chair under an umbrella with a view of nothing but my eyelids.

Technorati Tags: watsu, perimenopause, menopause, fatigue,  essay, blog, self image, baby boomers, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, hormones, massage

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