The Neighborhood

Announcing the dreaded return of the hypertonic pelvic floor: incontinence and pain, probably the result of back surgery. I gotta drink less or no coffee and do more kegels. What perceptive morsel of insight can I write about this topic? I am utterly disgusted. Urinating on one's self is an act of degradation, and wholly uncontrollable under these circumstances. It is not enough to soak everything, just enough to send a message that I am revolting. More to the point, I suppose, is that my body is revolting. 'Stop working so hard,' it says. 'Put me to sleep!' Or maybe 'give me some yoga.' Still, when a mini-pad becomes a necessity, and it is reassuring to have 20 pairs of underwear, a gal becomes disheartened.

I am not sure that any other proper human being - like not counting dogs in heat, or gorillas - actually has a hypertonic pelvic floor, except for me. The urogynecologist's office and the physical therapist's office were both strangely empty when I was first diagnosed. Any other female I did see was obviously virginal, pure, and without any unsightly pubic hair to speak of. Not the sorta babe who has painful tightening of the cunt. That would be me, the sexually questionable and gynecologically sordid type who might - in theory only - have an extra nodule inside the vagina from a lousy stitch job after an episiotomy deemed necessary when both babies chose to fly out like criminals. Which obviously, we learn now, they were.

So the plan to reflect meaningfully on this obscure hypertonic not-supersonic-at-all malady remains half-inflated, something like the stretched muscle reaching from the inside of my pelvis to my back. I've nothing clever to say about pissing my bed and cramping up. Okay, one thing: vaginal deliveries are overrated and the unpleasant sequellae go appallingly unreported. My back, my vagina, the whole pelvic neighborhood! Those damn kids.

I'll Just Write Here By Myself.

The fact that very few people read my blog does not bother me at all. I am forty-one years old; I watched Mary Tyler Moore before Nick at Nite was born. I don't mind looking at the statistics that show me that 3 people looked at my blog. It's like being the second-to-last kid picked for the volleyball game. Okay, it was last. But it was a quirk - I had friends, just not friends on that particular team, and I had never played before. I like being oblivious to the opinions of others. It's like receiving rejections in the mail. When I get one, I tell myself "Lucy, this proves that you are confident. Who cares what some snotty literary magazine thinks of your story?" Then I walk around wondering why I didn't get an MFA in Creative Writing after college.

The blog thing is really just a hobby and if people read it, that's cool. If people don't read it, that's okay, too. If a blog takes up space on the web and no one reads it, is it still a piece of writing? My philosophical side says yes, of course. I wouldn't want too many readers anyway because that would be such a fucking awful hassle to think that I might have to respond to them. Or check their blogs all the time - yikes. Then I would have to notice the many very active intelligent bloggers out there. (A friend told me about them.) How could I possibly do that? It would be so draining to have an ongoing correspondence with persons who enjoy my writing. So I'll continue to type into my robot/computer because it doesn't matter to me at all if you read this. Or this. In fact, I am not even awake right now. I am sleepwriting. See you in my dreams, or maybe not.

Read Between the Lines?

Since the ball and chain broke his foot, there is no way in hell that I have any time to do anything. I should be like it's only a few months and some women do this all the time. Well those women are different from me because apparently they don't sleep or their children are robots who do not leave crumbs and sticky stuff everywhere and they do not have things to do like eating and going to school. Certainly those children do not argue, whine, or look at one beseechingly, as if threatening to expose Mom's mediocrity to future therapists, ad infinitum.

I'd like to know what happened to Little House on the Prairie? I hated those books. Everyone was so generous and kind and inherently impossible for a person with my character to relate to. But they did manage to get a helluva lot done. What was their secret? Even if Pa had busted his ankle, dontcha just know that Ma would have managed to feed those smarmy brats? Even if she was on the rag and had to go back to the outhouse every hour to deal with said rag?

Fortunately, a friend came to visit me for a coupla nights. She is a fellow sloth and encouraged my decadence, including "I Love Lucy" DVDs and pizza. She left this morning, though, and I found myself in K-mart shopping for toilet paper, junky shelves to help us pretend my daughter's room is larger than a walk-in closet, and sexy, loose-fitting sweatpants for the gimpy husband. I bought necessities in bulk. I bossed the kids. By the time we left I was ready to go back to bed for the night, but it was noon time.

The blog started with the idea that women don't talk enough about certain things. Yet this is the stuff we talk about all the time: I have too much shit to do. Does anybody thank the pharmaceutical industry? Does anyone say Hallelujah, Welbutrin? Without it, I would be folding and re-folding one piece of laundry; but with it, I am able to cook, shop, clean, counsel, and manage all sorts of self-care activities (brushing my teeth, for example). I'm like that mom from Desperate Housewives who takes her kid's ADHD meds. I am ethically superior, however, because these were legally prescribed to me. My mind, like my bedroom, was genuinely in disorder. And lo, like the Desperate gal, I can rush my tuchas (ass) all over the place doing motherly errands.

I am thinking that the secret of Laura Ingalls Wilder was not the devout belief in the Puritan work ethic, but perhaps the motivating and organizing medications that Pa brought back after the hunt. There was that episode when she complained of dry mouth and the long wait at the pharmacy wagon. Certainly there must have been something other than meat drying in preparation for the winter. I'm considering looking back at the books and giving Ms. Wilder another chance. Even on the t.v. series, Michael Landon looked a little baked to me. His hair was so long - he must have been doing drugs! And the wife - she stayed so calm. Not because of her faith in Michael helping her career, but because she knew at some point someone would score her something so she could stand being on the set with that little prissy Gilbert girl. That was the episode when the traveler called him a 'hippie-repressed fried husband,' and they ended up breaking brownies together.

Fuggetabout it - all those Stepford wives and their ilk were morons because they were too fucking tired to give a shit. No drugs, no time, no no no. Write me up as this week's winner of the Rumpled Apron Award.

Calgon, take me away!

Lazy-Ass Interrupted

I am so goddamn tired because my husband hurt his fucking ankle he broke it and where does that leave me? I know, it's sad, his foot hurts, but I am not the laundry, bed-making, walk-the-dog-in-the-dark, neaten-up type. I'm creative, imaginative. I flow with my own mess. My stacks of things slide around like towers of Jello and my papers are everywhere. I am way too busy listening to my daughter's stories, drinking tea, working, reading, talking to my son, writing, lying in bed, and rolling over to do the fucking laundry! As I told my husband 14 years ago, when he had a momentary psychotic break and assumed I'd do a lot of housework because I had a little baby to look after, I am not Betty Fucking Crocker!

But now actually, I am. And I don't want to be. I work the whole day, for crissakes. There is no time to add an egg, mix, and bake. I grew up in an upper middle class household, but I am a parent in a middle class household. That means there is no cleaning lady, except for my husband. We pay two women to clean for a couple hours every two weeks so that mold doesn't grow in the bath tub. Apart from that kind contribution, no one is doing any housework around here now except me. For at least two months. And I am sad. Lucy Ricardo wouldn't put up with it. Lucy from Peanuts wouldn't put up with it. Why must I?

Do I sound obnoxious because I am lucky to have a roof over my head? Well, I know! But that does not preclude me from kvetching (complaining) because cleaning sucks. Is there someone around who likes it? Are we, like, proud of a neat house? What am I, Lady Stepford? I would rather spend my time picking a zit - as long as it didn't bleed all over and ruin my face for weeks - than clean the house. I would rather eat bleu cheese, which tastes like vomit. I would rather do just about anything. But I have no choice, lest I be written in the Bad Mother Book. Thus far, I've received only a footnote, and I'd like to keep it that way.

Goodbye, naps. Goodbye, couch. Goodbye, good books. Goodbye, tidy house.

Aw, crap.

Breakback It To Me Slowly

I have not seen "Brokeback Mountain," but that's not the point. Straight women everywhere are talking about the movie, in earnest hope of establishing their status as not turned on. Personally, I have always embraced the concept of male homosexuality, especially since I had several relationships with women when I was younger. I still find certain women attractive (I'm married, not dead), but I remain a straight married lady, monogamous. You're okay, I'm okay; gay is good.

But I did always wonder about the actual sex. I mean I was intimidated by the little fact that it involved someone's actual asshole. Oh! I am so sorry! I am an ignorant jerk. But that's like, the point. Then a few weeks ago, right before the Brokeback fever - which involves hordes of straight women simultaneously expressing distaste for seeing gay sex and going to see the movie - a graphic gay porn shot showed up on my screen. I was aghast and also relieved: so that's how it works! I had never confessed my homophobic stupidity to anyone until a few days ago, when I spilled the beans to my sister-in-law. We were with a good friend, Pearl, who said she is so turned on by watching men have sex that she couldn't wait to see Heath and Jake breaking their backs, so to speak. When I told my tale of sexophobia, Pearl protested that gay sex was a great thing, and my sister-in-law, Betty, said things like "uh-huh" and "oooh." She was definitely holding back her dismay at my repressed attitude.

After my week of hot marital sex (see previous post), I have a clearer perspective. It's like my old fear of heights. I was terrified of heights when I was younger. Then someone told me a theory that people who have that fear are actually afraid that they might jump, because they are tempted. After hearing about the heights theory, I went whitewater rafting in Canada. I took the opportunity to jump off of a cliff into the water. It felt great! I flew in, the water rushed all around, and I popped up like a toy.

It's only logical then, that I must be afraid of gay sex because I want to have gay sex! Wait, no, back up. I've had sex up the ass - not my cup of tea. Plus I cannot have sex with another man because I am not a man, at all. Here it is: the idea of gay sex must have unnerved me because I actually find it...interesting, intriguing even. I, aspiring former sexually uptight femme, plan to go to "Brokeback Mountain"! I cannot promise to masturbate as I watch, but I will do my best to gauge my reactions. If the proverbial jeans are creamed, I will be the dutiful blogger. And if I am uncomfortable, I will probably clench my ass in virtual hysteria, exacerbating the occasional irritation of the hemorrhoid that I gave birth to twice, along with my kids. Now there's a scary image.

Wig Out

Following the recent haircut, the old husband - we've been together since the eighties - has a new-found interest in me. It is the new year, so initially I thought he'd made a resolution: pay more attention to Lucy. He has never been big on flattery or commenting on my appearance. This was a good thing, most of the time. As the years went by, however, I began to wish that on occasion he'd notice, just a bit.

Once we went out to dinner with my best friend, Chrystal, and her old college friend, Ted, a guy from Maine. I had plastered on the make-up and added the long earrings in an effort to dress myself up. At dinner, Ted bluntly referred to me as "beautiful," and said he'd date me, if I weren't married. The husband made nary a sound. I hardly think he noticed. Maybe he was admiring the artwork or picking his teeth. I dunno.

Other times, when I'm dressed up, or the bags under my eyes are a little less blue, I'll tell him "I look good today." He might look up from the paper - I am not making this up - and nod, or jokingly smile, and say "really?" We are actually quite happy together, but his indifference to the superficial is somewhat humbling on occasion. I know it's shallow, but I'm not living in a cave here! It's especially grim on those days when I look like a Nyquil ad - snuffling around the house with red-rimmed nostrils - and he inevitably says "lookin' good, babe." Aaarg. Who gives a shit what one's partner thinks about one's face, anyway? I do, okay? I can't help it - it's like eating meat. I don't need it constantly, but on occasion, it's uniquely tasty.

Chrystal's theory is that I am suddenly desirable because of the Gloria Wig Effect. Remember? The episode on "All in the Family" when Meathead, aka Rob Reiner, gets all heated because Gloria (Sally Struthers) dons a brunette wig? She thinks it'll be fun, and then as they begin to make out and flail all over the bedcover, she pulls off the wig and places it next to the bed. He's like "no, baby, put it back on," and she puts it back on a few times for him. Suddenly she realizes that he's all gaga because he's fantasizing about banging another woman. She screams and rants and leaves, sobbing as she tells him he's cheating on her with the wig. He loves the wig more than his own beloved blonde wife!

Okay, perhaps the husband, my husband, does not have full-fledged GWE (Gloria's Wig Effect), but I am still suspicious. He refuses to tell me which of his friends may have tipped him off that despite how hard we work during the week, treating me like a benign roommate isn't altogether satisfactory, in the long run. Maybe he had an epiphany: my wife is a phenomenal human being. No! My wife is more attractive than ever. Maybe: my wife is more interested in the goddamn computer than me, so I better grab her tit before she completely loses interest. Hmmm.

Feminism & Hair

I wrote about hair before, but now I approach the subject with newly exposed eyes, as I have just had my long hair shorn off. Not completely, but enough to move from the long hair category to the short hair category. The reason I am writing about it - apart from the shallow fact that it is of interest when one changes one's appearance - is that I have had a time-warpish experience since the new do. People around me are commenting on my appearance. The word "glamorous" has been used. Yesterday, "sexy," "wow," and other flattering exclamations floated by, like a hot-fudge sundae suddenly presenting itself on an otherwise bleak and dusty day.

Maybe because I work in a school, it reminded me of high school: the attention, the compliments, the utter fear of not looking good enough at every moment. One time my boyfriend showed up for a date and told me my neck was dirty. How disgusting. How mortifying. It was dried-gray-skin dirt that I hadn't noticed. So much for the shower, the hour I'd spent on the face, the ass in the pants, the hair. I scuttled my unattractive self into the bathroom. I could barely see what he meant, scrambling my eyes over as far as they could go, my head turned askew to scan the mildewed neck in the mirror. I scrubbed at my skin with a rough wash cloth and soap. We headed out to dinner and all night, I queried him. Or maybe I started to, but instead I thought about it obsessively. I can't remember. I was so anxious about my repulsive neck, that I was oblivious to whatever else happened.

How is this related to feminism? I thought I finally didn't care as much about my appearance. As I write this, I know I really don't. I thought that other peoples' opinions of my appearance didn't matter as much. And they don't. But there is still a certain satisfaction in getting the attention, and a crumbling in my gut as the inevitable looms somewhere ahead of me. Tomorrow, next week, two weeks, I'll have to go back to thinking about my actual life and what I truly feel. I'll have to think about reality, instead of giggling with a friend about how cute I am. In high school, I hid my depression behind a pretty face and a preoccupation with dieting. My life was an utter cliche. Nevertheless, it felt unique, hidden, and embarrassing at the time. It felt energizing to get the attention and unnerving not to.

My life is good now, but if I am so giddy that I am breezing around thinking about a haircut, I suspect that I'm in for the same old news. It's only a face.

Okay, You Can Comment Now!

Apologies, readers! Apparently, there are a few of you out there. I discovered that my settings were not allowing for comments and that problem has been rectified. So please feel free to say whatever you would like to say, as that is that is the idea, right? One person said she feared her responses were too lady-like. Hardly! Prim is acceptable. I always hated the idea of the anti-clique clique, or the pretentious way we often say other people are pretentious. Have I done that? I hope not. All are welcome to write from the heart, the kidney, the middle finger, or the elegant hand, as the case may be.

Sex, Hell & Marriage

I was just at feministing, reading responses to the inevitable article about "slut feminism." I guess this term is meant to offend me, a mother who has no problem with the idea of pre-marital sex? Slut feminism seems laughable to me. It could be re-cast as a good thing: 'take back' the language, and feel good about the wild time you had last night! Is there a reason that women shouldn't enjoy sex? Unless, of course, the sex itself is not that good? Monique Stuart wrote a column in the Washington Post - oh crap, I think I'm supposed to link to that - about naughty college girls. She doesn't mention birth control, STDs, or pregnancy. But, surprise! She does mention her strain to resist judgment. Of course she doesn't. She judges the gals she sees wearing the same clothes as last night, their make-up haughtily smudged. I suppose they are going to hell. But her idea of hell may be a lot of sex. What a dreary life she must lead.

Why oh why? Sex is so complicated, really. For me, the idea is absolutely wonderful, and my husband happens to have some sort of crazy hand skills. But then I am kind of unrealistic like let's-be-with-the-kids-walk-the-dog-and-then-what. I'll tell you what. It's hard to care! For some married people, or partnered people, it is a bizarre pattern of connection and disconnection, of nostalgia and it's better than ever. Let me be less cryptic: for me - I cannot speak for anyone else - it keeps getting better as my body seems to be capable of feeling more and better; but it also sort of fades, as I am tired or distracted. When I hear from friends who have newer relationships, it sounds foreign. Getting used to someone new? Being open about this or that? I am still, after many years married, not very good at saying what I like. I'm guessing this is true for other women, but what do I know? New Year's Resolution: talk more with partner about sex. Realistic Resolution: go out more with partner, and then have more sex. Fake Blog Resolution: take on viagra advertising and the like, make some money, and also have sex.