Menstruating in the Forties

By this time in one's life, we're not meant to really discuss it. It's dull , there's nothing to say. I have my period. So what? Get a tampon and go stick it. Some of us are prematurely peri-menopausal. That's gyno-talk for my periods are unpredictable again, just like thirty years ago, and soon I may be dry as a bone in my formerly moist and excellent vulva. As usual, I cannot seem to do things the easy way. I did not get my period as a young girl once a month for five days. No, it came pouring out for two weeks straight and the cramps were awful. That of course was just because I am profoundly exotic and female or perhaps just cursed. Take your pick.

Now, naturally, before most of my female pals, I am peri-menopausal. For five days I get a dainty little warning - spotting, really. Then for about three days I may or may not get a bad period. But at sometime in there small bits and pieces, probably puzzle pieces I swallowed as a baby or something, come outta there, and it hurts. Just a little. Or maybe a lot. You choose. Some months it lasts an hour. Some months it hurts for days. Today it definitely hurts, but it hurt two days ago, so here I go being unusual yet again.

Furthermore, and I mean more, I am single-handedly - no - single-vaginaedly or single-uterusly supporting the feminine products industry over here because I never know what will happen when and between the tampons of varied sizes and the mini-pads that I really cannot go without I am a well-protected female. Okay, I suppose there are other similarly cursed women who are also supporting the industry but I do believe tghat if there were a contest that I would be in the running, so to speak, for being the poster-child, or poster-lady for unpredictable unpleasant and long-lasting middle-aged menstruation. Ouch.

Thought for the Day: Tit Shapes

We have been watching episodes of Mad Men (and apparently everyone else in the country has been too). But my point is, well, points. The bras in those days, the early 1960s, were quite pointy, cones, really, and nowadays they are rounded. When I first started watching Mad Men it seemed odd - the tits, not the show - but now I am looking at these women, and of course they are all young starlets, but also those bras look good. Maybe we should all put away our rounder, more natural-looking bras and put on some pointers. It might look kinda hot, or fun, or something. Then we could start wearing dresses with big pointy bottom halves and polka dots. Some of those dresses were - and are - divine.

I personally do remember my mother's pointy-shaped bosom and her pretty dresses from those days. I suppose the ends of the bras are hollow or something, so women could store things inside, like a little lipstick, a rouge, or maybe an extra pair of earrings, or nipple rings, as the case may be. Count me in for pointy bras when they return to fashion. I'll be the lady with her glasses on a chain (I'm guessing it will be a while).

Noses, Nostrils, Teapots

This is going to be about a clog in my head and also my nostrils so if you would like to pick your nose while you read, please feel free to do so, as it will eventually fit with the theme of the piece. I went to Asia and when I returned I was outrageously jet-lagged. I did not pick my nose, and my nose is not featured yet, but I probably blew my nose and washed my hands. I always wash my hands. Planes are filthy and disgusting, but we all know that. Keep picking - stay on topic! There is a thirteen-hour time difference, and I slept so little while I was there - Asia - that I probably went beyond jet-lag to outer-space-lag or simple brain dysfunction.

Once home, I was not "on a different clock," but sleeping perpetually. I literally could not wake up for days. When I did open my eyes, or sit up, or one day shower even, I smiled at my family through bleary eyes. Big Kid, now a proudly dry-witted young man, looked at me kindly and then lacking his customary control, burst out laughing. None of them - my little family - could really prevent themselves from laughing at me, and I could not blame them. I felt like a queasy marionette, and I sensed that my expressions were about as intelligent. I may have picked my nose at that point, but I was too semi-conscious to manage it well, I am sure.

After a few days, the cold symptoms began. One of my fellow travelers had been horribly ill, and naturally I caught it. On came the sinusitis, the ear infection, and the mucus. Well, hold on there. The mucus was not in full force for some reason. I did take a lot of sudafed -ish stuff, and a lot of night-time stuff, and generally treated all symptoms so that I could bear myself and my family could manage to live with me and watch me pathetically now sleep, cough, and drool. But there was not the usual nose-blowing ad infinitum, the sore nostrils, and the bucket full of repulsive tissues for the dog to steal and half-chew - a canine delight, for those in the know. Go wash your hands! Alternatively, you may continue picking, as we are now into the theme.

My theory is that it was the lack of flowing mucus that led to the clog behind my eustachian tube and it was the clog behind that tube - the clog that little kids get and then they go have another little tube inserted for it, the snot, to drain - that felt like a golf ball sitting behind my ear. It felt awful. The kids refused to vacuum it out and scoffed at the use of all tools, despite my pleas. No mercy. At that point (and it still has not completely gone away), I returned to the doctor, or rather the nurse. We'll call her Jan because that was her name, or close enough. Are you following all of this? My infections cleared up and I was left with a golfball-sized blockage on the left side of my head and also deaf over there. Right. Actually, left. Snotball on left.

Stop picking your nose! That's quite enough, and at this point you are lucky it isn't bleeding. Jan was a nurse I saw frequently after my brother died, or as frequently as one does see one's nurse for this or that. She had been quite compassionate and I liked her crooked face, the one nostril larger than the other, and the sweetness the big rounded eyes seemed to convey. She was a plump little person on spindly legs. But when I returned a few days ago to tell Jan, my homely-cute nurse about the golf ball, she tugged at my right ear so hard that I said "ouch." I never say ouch unless something really hurts. Then she looked in my golf-snotball ear and said there was no wax, but that it was clogged behind the aforementioned eustachian tube, and it could take a month to get better. "Crap!" I said. She registered no particular expression, described what I would need to do, and she walked out. (You may stick your finger in your ear here, if you must.)

That's when I realized that Jan had not been very friendly during the whole visit. I had said hello, how are you, and been my genial self. She had been cold and serious. My adorable older crooked-face nurse no longer liked me! Whatever had I done? To make matters worse, she gave me something to snort, and told me to buy a "neti pot" at the pharmacy. Maybe I had said "crap" too loudly? Maybe that offends an older woman with a cute little crooked face. Maybe I am an ass. Ach. Oh, pick whatever you want.

I head home, slightly ruffled by the loss of my nurse-pal and wondering if I should send a little email thanking her or something pathetic like that (I mean really, maybe she just had a bad day). I go to the pharmacy to get my new inhaler and I find my neti-pot. I google it and find a video that shows a woman using a small tea-pottish sorta thing to let water flow in one nostril and out the other over the sink. (Would love to view it here but darned site won't let me.) Eee-yooo, but at this point, the snotball is such a bummer I'll do anything. The voice-over assures me that this will rid me of all allergies. I just want the mucus wad out of my ear and it would be nice to have hearing our of that side of my head again, too.

Little did I know that when I brought my neti-pot home that it would look remarkably like a teapot with a small penis as a spout. Yes, a circumcised penis. Apparently, not all such pots have a penis-spout, but mine does. and that little penis works really well. It fits perfectly into my nose, and the water flows right out, through one side and out of the other. It plugs in there perfectly. So basically my nose has sex with a small blue teapot twice a day and eventually it unclogs the blockage behind my ear. Maybe that's why Jan the nurse was so serious? She was jealous! I need to send her a teapot penis for her crooked nose and she will feel better, too. Now you may put your hands wherever you like.

I Kinda Suck, But Here's Why

I saw Julie and Julia last night. It was a good movie. Not great, but good. I like that Amy Adams. Meryl Streep was predictably great, but she could have just done a Julia Child at 45 imitation and been done with it. Well, it was better than that, but that's not my point. I decided when I re-re-re-re-returned to blogging that I would blog to practice writing. That's what I am doing, practicing writing. I have more time, I am feeling better after my brother's death - my it takes time - and in the waxing and waning of time, I had some waning.

I did not mind the lack of visits/comments. After all, I can go visit my old faves, but I disappear for months and months and then re-emerge, so one can hardly expect folks to keep checking. That was all okay. Then I saw Julie and Julia. Julie, the Julia child devotee, started with a bloggy nothing. Or they made it look that way. Her book was unpublished, she had a lousy job, so her husband helped her set up a blog. No one read it for like two weeks. Then, voila! Like a perfect French souffle, it was perfection. She had many many readers, gifts in the mail, and scads of comments. Of course she cooked many things, wrote regularly, and had a great topic, but her popularity was so quick! And all because she planned to bone a duck (gross).

So, hmmm. Do I blog regularly? No. I have blogged for a long time, but that does not count. I cannot blog as much as Julie because I hafta edit and be a mom. That's not an excuse, that's true. But I could do more. Do I have a great idea? I think I have a good idea - talking about stuff that I think should be out in the open. I guess my slant has turned a bit more toward humor and television/pop culture, so I do not have a similarly directed project. Okay, that answers that. I guess I do not have any kind of following at all because my project is inconsistent and my message may not be clear.

Jeez. I guess I solved that for myself. Crap. You start complaining and you end up realizing you have nothing to complain about. I think I'll go check out the mess in my room and complain about it to the dog,one of my loyal readers.

Cousins, Chewbaca, Life & Death

I have a lot of cousins. The following is something of a list. It may be worth reading. Two of my uncles died in the spring and one aunt had heart surgery this week. One uncle was terrified to die; the other did not seem to consider it; my aunt says she is satisfied with her life and whatever happens, she is okay with it. My aunt is doing fine right now. My father is extremely overweight, diabetic, and he has a heart condition. These are the people I have known all my life, and now we are watching things change. My parents have been parents to some of them for years, and now my parents, my Dad in particular, has become a sort of symbol.

My dad had a lot of siblings and then most of them had a lot of kids. (My mom has one brother and although he had three kids, I do not know them too well. They lived far away. That is okay, because my father's side of the family is so large that I had/have plenty.) Let's start at the top. There's the cousin, Laura, who is almost as old as my mom and once told me, in reference to my curls, that I look like Chewbaca. She meant the roaring ape-pal who accompanied Harrison Ford on his missions in the original Star Wars. I did not like her, but her short short hair was some solace. It was not cute, just short. It's her mother in the hospital. Laura is very wealthy now. I called her up tonight and she told me she's exhausted. She has hurt a lot of people's feelings lately, but I called anyway.

Then came - in sort-of birth order - a horde of cousins who were roughly the same age. The hippy-ish ones were best: Barbara and Lance lived with us for awhile because both of their parents had died. That was sad, very, Their Mom was beloved to both of my parents, and she had been sick for a long time. Their dad had died when they were very little. To me, it was kinda fun because Lance had a chemistry set and Babs talked a lot about boys. I don't remember that but my mom tells me she - my mom- was freaked out to suddenly have a teenager. She was not just a teenager, she was a swearing, dating, drinking teenager, and my mother had never done much of that herself. Babs went to live elsewhere for the rest of high school. I got to keep Babs' giant stuffed panda. Later Babs joined the Peace Corps and when she visited she had a boyfriend with a straggly beard. She was just here last weekend to visit my aunt in the hospital- she drove 4 hours because she just had to see her. Both of our kids are 17 now. Babs stayed overnight so we yakked for awhile before bed.

Lisa - another hippy cousin - wore ponchos and took me on little trips while she was applying to medical school all over Boston. She kept getting rejected and no one could figure out why. Eventually she got in, and became a psychiatrist, like my dad. Her parents lived in New York and for some vague reason they did not speak to my parents much. But Lisa was very sweet to me, and knew I was kind of shy. She had two brothers, but I did not get to know them until I was older. After Lisa's brother died at age 21, our families made up, very publicly, and since then we have had a special connection with them. Her mother died a few years later, but like Lisa, she made a concerted effort to reach out to me and my sister before her death. Now I know one of them, Paul, really well, and his wife, Tracey. We stay at their house when we go to New York. They have 3 wonderful adult girls. One of them is in medical school, and Paul is a doctor, too. I don't know why so many people in my family are doctors. I'm not a doctor. Actually, at one point, Paul's daughter was terribly sick, and I am quite sure that motivated her to go to medical school. Now that will be one more opinion about my aunt and her heart surgery!

Natalie used to babysit for all four of us and she says my mother gave her 35 cents an hour. We were not exactly a calm group of kids, and she had to bathe us, too. My older brother was only 16 months older, then I was a couple years older than my sister, and she was a couple years older than my younger brother. I believe Natalie about the low-paying work, but my mother shakes her head. I don't think Natalie has ever told a lie in her life. She was the closest in age to us, although Nora was about the same age and they were best friends. They were even roommates in college. Nora straightened her hair and it was really gorgeous shiny, which mine could never be. Shiny, that is. When Nora got pregnant, after she was married, she took pictures of her huge naked belly - there were twins in there - and passed them around to family members. It embarrassed my father. It was quite a sight seeing her marvel at herself in the mirror. Nora's dad died last spring after a long painful illness, and a few weeks later, Natalie's dad died, too. That was too much. I knew Nora's dad pretty well. He was very opinionated, an encyclopedia of movie history, a lover of the arts, and continually generous with copies of movies or performances he thought you might enjoy. One time at a wedding, the cheapo d.j. informed us all that we would get up and dance. Uncle Simon said "I'm not dancing." I was so relieved. Twelve years old and the thought of dancing in that temple basement had horrified me. I feel guilty not saying more about Natalie's dad. He was a big friendly man, a football player: but that's the way it is in big families. You know some people better than others.

Jake, one of Natalie's big brother's, with the sweetest smile I ever saw on a boy, had a rock band. One afternoon in my aunt's kitchen, one of his long-hair rock band friends said to my little brother "don't touch that mike - it's worth more than you are." We just stood there silent by the stove. I wasn't old enough to say "asshole." Oh well. Jake was Natalie's brother, and she had 2 others. Poor girl. That seemed like a lot to me. The oldest was Michael, a serious guy who did not appreciate my fresh breath when I showed it off after brushing my teeth one night during a big family visit. Next came Benny, who paid me a lot of attention, always telling me how pretty I was. He had a bike, and then a motorbike, or a motorcycle, I can't remember. I loved the attention from an older cousin, but as usual, I was just a pipsqueak. I saw them all when we sat shiva for their dad last spring, and the house hadn't changed at all. It was as if my Aunt Shelley and Uncle Norman had decided to stand still in time. The kitchen still smelled sweet, her little teeth were still white, and it was still fun to use both sets of stairs. Only now a tiny half-African grandchild toddled around the place.

My cousin Edy, brown hair, brown eyes, was over our house all the time when I was a kid, and even came on a family trip to Bermuda. Her mother died when she was little and she talked like a train ride - she just kept going. Her mom had been the oldest, I think, but had died so young that even my own mom had not met her. Edy babysat and showed me all the books she had to read for college. That was scary. How could I ever do that? At some point she started dating a guy up the hill. His mother had kidnapped our cat at one point to breed it, or so we had suspected, but no one cared, because the cat was all white, with blue eyes, and nasty. When Ball & Chain locked the keys in the car at the cemetery, and it was about 10 degrees out in my awful black dress, Edy and her husband waited with us while the two truck came. Actually, she tried calling the fire department because she knew that would be quicker, but it turned out to be a tie, and Triple A helped us out.

I left out a coupla people but not because I forgot them. One cousin and one brother died as young adults. Their deaths were awful, and there is not much more to sat about that. Other folks not mentioned: My cousin Cybil was sweet, but she was not around much, and by the time I was old enough to notice she had moved to New York and become an Hasidic Jew. If I were writing about second cousins that would be an entire chapter. But alas, I am not. She has an enormous family, and I saw her recently at her father's funeral. She is Nora's sister. My cousin Marvin was at every family party ever given and he drove my sister nuts because he was always pinching her ass. He was otherwise friendly and it gave us something to talk about, I suppose. I spoke to him tonight on the phone, as his mother has just had the heart surgery. He sounded lousy. He has however, just fallen in love for the first time - apparently - at age 62. Now that he has his own piece of ass, perhaps the circle is complete! His older sister was the one who had called me Chewbaca.

I could draw a tree here or tell you that my brother looks like Paul and I look like Barb and Lance looks like my dad, and even Barb's adopted daughter looks like her dad. It's intriguing to see the genetics in all of it. But actually I think those Jewish immigrants knew what they were doing when they spewed out so many kids. And probably the Catholics and some of those other folks too. When my 85-year-old aunt gets out of the hospital, and while she's there, plenty of people will look after her. And when someone dies young, people come and help out. When someone celebrates, we all come together. We have weddings coming up, we had a rainy family reunion in July. I have my people.

Watching One's Life From Afar

I went away and my life got better. It was a splendid, perspective-changing trip. No kidding. It's a great recipe for ennui, boredom, grudges, pent-up anger, irritability, and any other euphemism they used to use for constipation. The plane ride was very long, something like 14 hours. I confess that I did not count. After 12 hours, who gives a shit, really? Some people time it, as if there is an exact science going on in the economy section. But no, we are in the dark, both literally and figuratively, and the pilot will tell us when he feels like landing the damn thing.

No complaints here though (except the so-called food, and I'll leave it at that). They have, well! They have (ta-da!) an individual movie/television/games screen for every single person on the plane and it is possible to re-watch, for example, American Beauty or Lost in Translation, view the new television version of This American Life, The New Life of Old Christine, and even Everybody Loves Raymond. Oh, stop! It is too funny! He is not weird! Okay, he is weird, but I like the show anyway. So the whole long flight thing matches perfectly with my genetic pre-conditioning to sit around and do nothing. Of course it is very very hard to sit around and do nothing when you have a million things to do, you want to do them well, and you are very anxious. Unless you are on a plane to Japan.

But on the trans-world (basically) flight, you are trapped! It is true that screen-nausea sets in at some point, but so what? Then you read for awhile. Not exactly a chore. Actually, not that easy when the lights are out and one is queasy, but that little t.v.-majig sure is handy. This American Life on television is actually just as good as it is on radio. But wait, I think I wandered down the wrong aisle here.

I went away, yes. Television, not exactly my intended path. I realized, once I was very very far away, that my life's pieces fit together rather well. It was not the many shrines with fortunes I was welcome to leave if I did not like. It was not the Japanese philosophy that I studied (I didn't really). It was the cliche, actually, of having actual time away that helped me to appreciate my long marriage to my difficult husband, and his long marriage to difficult me, my friendships (the many and the few), and my family. I did not really need to contemplate my feelings about my children, but it helped me to realize how well they are doing, in their own ways, and separate from me.

There were shrines and trees and people with histories of their own families dating back many generations. There were wide streets selling Prada and Gucci and there were rice paddies flying by my eyes on the bullet train. There was a lot of sweat on my back. The green tea tasted like nuts and foamed on the top. The teachers work until 11 p.m., and the teenagers wear shirts with English on them. At a baseball game, people cheer in unison as they pound two rubber bats together. All of the merchandise was in English. Pictured here is the Torii gate, right next to the island of Miyajima, which has a series if docks and a shrine where we heard people chant. Why was I so far from my family? I wondered a bit what they would think, but had little time to consider. We were always rushed. Most of it was experience and taste. And the badger-dog, a funny little creature that looks like a cross between a racoon, a fox, and a terrier.

Friendships here and there: the many and the few. There were women on the trip with whom I found it quite easy to strike up a conversation, so to speak, chat, laugh, and with whom I could envision having a friendship in the future. There were some women just a few years older than Big Kid. They seemed so brand-new, even compared to him. When I thought of the people I care about at home, I realized how much time affects me. There is simply no replacing it. That's not to say that my older friends are better friends, but that it takes me quite awhile to trust in a friendship, and often I am becoming good friends with someone without even realizing it.

For the last few days of the trip, I was convinced something bad had happened to our dog. I was sure Ball & Chain was not telling me because I was too far away to do anything. I seem to have developed a fear of sudden bad news and the dog probably symbolized something someone with a PhD in pop psychology could analyze. We were only on email, but why did no one mention something about him being cute, or doing something silly? When I arrived home, it turned out that the dog was fine.

Chrystal's husband (Chrystal is my closest friend) had had a major medical crisis while I was away. It seems like he will be okay, but surely his life is altered, as is hers. So my revelation that my stacked-up neurotic worries were inconsequential seemed to be true. Unfortunately, my dearest friend's life had become so stacked that no amount of distance or movies can change that reality. This is not the neat ending I had planned to write, and I had not even been thinking of Chrystal when I began, but how could I not? Some people believe in fate, or reasons. I believe that I have strong connections with a lot of people so I will be a sturdy friend to Chrystal. And I do hope sometime she gets to Japan, or at least a place without worry.

Jeez I Was Cranky/Blog Change?

Hello, Dear Reader and The Dog.

Last post was very crankola. Since then I have traveled to Asia, contracted a bad cold on the plane, and met with a fatalistic nurse who may have been Amy Poehler ("You could begin to have secretions. They could be yellow, green, or brown. You could develop sinusitis, an ear infection, or pneumonia.") What a nut! I woke the next day with a painful left ear. No secretions, though. Such a disappointment.

Also: I have been considering changing my blog. Although I am grateful to my faithful teensy following, I may limit followers to my blogosphere pals. I am using it more as a place to try out ideas and I am starting to wonder about the people who actually know me when I write. Kind of crushes the purpose of the anonymous blog. There is an option for limiting to other bloggers so I may choose that as a way to feel more free in my whinings.

Thoughts?

This is the place where no one comments and I remember that I have one reader. Humility is good for writers and others.

Sunday

The dog is getting older and the white hairs on the black and the sad brown eyes and the husband and me the same old arguments why even bother hoping for something different and the neighbor making too much noise on a Sunday morning and Rugelah up in the middle of the might with wild insomnia me ready with the Benadryl because at this point I don't know what to do and then it all adds up to something like the mediocrity of life. Let's diagnose me maybe and say here is a woman with a history of depression or here is a woman with a history of anxiety or trauma or some such crap and then we could have a right field day with those terms but also we could just say that some days or many days have a particular mediocrity to them, particularly when the humor seems to have drained out, the sun shines through leaves and splatters onto the floor and it really doesn't matter one bit.

If I Cry

If I cry when my daughter says something hurtful to me, does that make me oversensitive? What if we have just returned from grocery shopping, and I am asking for her opinion and she looks down at the not-gracery bag in my hand and asks what it's about? If it's about a certain something, she will say yes, and something else, she will say no. What kind of crap is that? I just sent her prattling about the store, finding whatever little foods she wanted. I just picked her up from her precious dance class. I just fucking gave birth to her and grew her up for the past thirteen fucking years and now I am like the landfill for every hangnail that does not bend in the proper direction for her.

I am wondering why I accepted her parameters on my day tomorrow when it is the yahrzheit of my brother's death (the anniversary)? She does not want to see me crying, but if I happen to cry, well. Well! If I happen to cry!? Don't go all "she's upset too" on me, Reader. I am the Queen of Putting The Kids First and fast becoming the Queen of Regretting Putting The Kids First.

Sometimes I think of Roseanne's old show. That's sick, I know. But the original show was hilarious because she let it all roll off and she knew exactly what her kids were doing to manipulate and even if you do not remember, I do, and maybe the dog does, that she did apologize, and she did care, and she did talk to her kids. In real life, if there is such a thing, of course, she is probably a very screwed up mom. I am pretty sure she is. But in not-real life, she never would have been close to tears because her little mini-teen gave her a mini-slam.

What is with me? Why can't I attain the toughness of an absolutely fictional character? Even as I write this, I know the answer, but really, what the fuck? Why did I let my daughter dictate how I will behave on my brother's yahrzheit? I know why. Because I wish I had been able to control some of what happened four years ago, and I want to pretend for her that she has some control now. My brother's death was a random act of evil and he died with two other wonderful men, just sitting at a red light. She cannot make sense of it, and neither can I. Sometimes she asks why it had to be him. Sounds so cliche, but she wonders.

If I am sobbing my face off, I will go to my room. Otherwise, she will have to deal with my sadness. And if she is sad, and she is crying, of course I will comfort her. That's what I always do.

Bad Bad Shot

Did anyone ever give you a picture of yourself that was a really awful picture and you were standing right next to two other people in the photo and the other people looked absolutely excellent like better than they ever did in person? And did you take the picture with you later and examine it and try to figure out just exactly how you managed to contort your face in such a way that you gave yourself extra skin where none really exists and your teeth slanted even though they are straight and your glasses somehow were halfway down your nose? And after you examined the picture did you realize that the donor of said picture had actually asked you to deliver the extra copy to another human being and that there was no choice but to "lose" the picture quickly?

If that ever happened to you, it might bother you for days thinking that you really look like an altered, horror-movie version of yourself, and you might have to make an appointment to get your hair cut and do all sorts of things before you calm down and realize it's just a photo. There will still be bad dreams, though, and you will simply have to wait to get a proverbial hold of yourself.

My Doggy is AOK

Apparently no one reads this blog, which actually works out well for me, because it's like pretending to have my own magazine without any real risk. The little lady inside the computer just fixes it all up for me with colors and pictures and a pretty font. The Poochsta is fine, and my doggy friends were appropriately supportive. Big Kid and I went and got him from the vet and showered him with all kinds of attention and now he is napping. The whole 3-day incident was scary for us. He is glad to have a new rawhide to chew.

Now we need to figure out how to sneak Dog of Dogs into a hotel this weekend. A post for another day.

The Poochsta

As I write this post, my dog, Georgie, The Poochsta, The Budge, Dog of Dogs, is at the vet. He has a heart murmur that is new. It might be a take-a-pill variety murmur, or it might be a more serious type. George is the quintessential dog. He greets and wags and gives kisses. He brings his favorite toy, just to show it off, but if you want to play, he will do that too. His tail is extra-long. He is a shiny boy: half black lab, half Australian cattle dog (maybe - Dads are hard to verify), and he is a long and lean doggy machine. The tail is exactly the height of our coffee table and strong enough to wipe your glass right off.

Don't get all I'm-not-reading-about-another-dog. The purpose of this post is that I am writing about my dog and am not writing about my children, my husband, how everyone else is doing, and I am not calling my parents because they would be very upset and worried too. So this is all about a woman and her conventional married life and how the secret to managing it all is a dog named George.

He swims, he fetches sticks, he eats sticks, and he does two laps around the house after I hose him down and dry him off. When I take him to the beach in Maine, he runs, a long-legged glorious race at the edge of the waves. People literally stop to watch his sleek body dashing after oblivious birds high up in the sky. For me, it is a yoga-esque moment to witness the pure physical joy he surely feels as his legs stretch and his body speeds across the blond sand.

After my brother's death, he sensed we were sad, and he became more affectionate. He also started his circus trick. He sits up like a person, butt and tail totally tucked under, back completely straight, front legs resting lightly on a human's lap. At times he can balance like this with one or no arms. Nose is pointed out regally. He talks when he wants something.

At this point, Dear Reader, and the proverbial dog, you are like why am I reading yet another description of yet another dog? Well, he's not just any dog! He is The One Grateful Child. For example, he has a song. I am not saying who sings it, but no one ever objects:

He's the Georgie Boy
He's the Poochie Pie
He's the Georgie Georgie Georgie boy.

He's the Puppy Pie
He's the Georgie Pie
He's the Puppy Puppy Puppy boy.

No, I do not expect you to say Wow! I expect you to learn the song. Learn it! Georgie and I sing it slowly, but you can sing it to any tune you like. He enjoys it but please do not sing while he is sitting up watching t.v. He is not allowed on most furniture, but some nights, he can be found with an interested brown-eyed gaze watching a show with us, again, sitting up like a person as his two front forearms limply hang down. Also, he's a wicked kisser, but a true tough dog, as he interprets that. He sticks his black nose out the back window and sniffs ferociously when we are driving. He chases squirrels off the deck. He takes this very seriously and he knows the word squirrel. He lowers himself to the ground slightly, his fur poofs up, and he trots around the house, protecting us from large and small creatures alike.

Now go learn my puppy's song. He's my most loyal fan, my most affectionate listener, and the vet is taking a helluva long time to call back.

Birthday Jerk

I forgot Chrystal's birthday. That's okay, you say. We're all adults, who really cares? Let's see, if I had remembered her birthday more than just one year out of the thirty I have known her, it might be a bit more okay. If she did not remember my birthday every year, it might be a bit more okay. Chrystal and I have always been friends. There was never a stretch when we were out of touch, or when our friendship was in question. That's just weird. She was in Canada for college, I was in Pennsylvania. She studied math, I studied sociology. She attended my high school graduation, my college graduation, and everything else. The night before I was married, we took a bath together, and she shaved my legs.

There is a lovely museum-quality (it's actually from a museum, so I think that makes it museum-quality) calendar on my wall with birthdays on it. I proudly watched Chrystal's birthday approach with great enthusiasm. It was listed under an etching of a gardenia, or some other hoity-toity flower. This year I would remember! What would I buy her? Well, nothing, that's what! I bought her nothing. And as the day approached, I ignored her birthday as I rifled through the pile of clothes just under the museum-fucking-flower-quality calendar.

She called me a few days ago. June 22. Whaddayadoin, I asked. She said she was on her way back from dinner at The Four Seasons, a way swanky restaurant and hotel. I was like why do you spend so much excellent time with your family? What's so great about them? And then she told me: it's my birthday. I didn't have the heart to let the whole day go by without telling you. I was crushed, really. Another year, another one missed. Do ya notice who the jerk is in this scenario and who the kindhearted person is? If you missed it, I am the jerk. Arg! I could have sent flowers at that point, but did I? Take a guess!

One year, back when Chrystal Husband One hadn't yet revealed his lack of parenting IQ , I threw her a surprise party. It musta been fifteenish years ago. I was making up for lost birthday time. Everyone loved it. Chrystal was happy. People drank beer, sat on the couches, and talked graduate school. Chrystal smiled a lot and we joked about my rehabilitation as birthday friend. I basked in the glow. I was a good person back then, and Husband One gave me all of the credit I deserved. Western Mass was lovely that June.

Then there were all the years that followed. I confused the 22d with the 23d. I called several days late. I forgot completely. I called on the 22d about things completely unrelated. I called on July 23d to say Happy Birthday. Do I forget other birthdays? No, not usually. It's not my forte, but I remember my sister, my brothers, my kids, my husband, certain friends, my parents, etc. okay there are probably others I forget, but certainly not with such vigor and routine. There is one friend who has a birthday on May 23, and I suspect that his 23 and her 22 somehow became mangled in my mind and it was never the same after that. Also, Chrystal is Chrystal, and the very consistency of our long friendship makes it a rather shabby omission, to say the least.

Back to this year. I was contrite. I had forgotten her birthday, yet again, in a year when she has been so tired with her many responsibilities that it would have been extra-helpful for me to remember. I did not remember, though. I, jerk, forgot. She seemed to be amused, and I truly felt bad. So we made a tentative time when I could take her out. Perfect! She called to confirm today and mentioned tomorrow night. Tomorrow night is the one night when I absolutely cannot take her out. I am going to a small event for which I have already made the commitment. Chrystal is going away for a conference, and I, Jerk, the supposed best friend, will have ditched her for perhaps the twentieth time. I am Ass. Or Jerk. You choose.

Vegetables Are Not Funny.

I read a book about an owl. I have told this story so many times it's ridiculous, so I will shorten it, like this: I read a book about an owl and then I decided not to eat animals. I do not mind if you eat animals. I do not mind removing the shrimp from the moo-shoo. I have nothing to preach about and I am not converting to a new religion. It's just something that happened when I read about the owl's feelings. Yes! I said feelings, and then I looked at some chicken, or watched a dumb commercial, and I thought that looks disgusting and I don't wanna eat it.

I had the same reaction to blue cheese, only for my whole life. I looked at it, smelled it, and I thought, gross, it's not even food. I don't care if other people eat it, I just do not want it. Naturally, The Men in the household think this is hilarious. (My apologies if you are mother to a boy. One day he will be A Man.) My son (referring to the vegetables, not the manhood) says "it's a phase." I say maybe it is. How should I know? Maybe I will miss sushi and start eating fish again or maybe one day I will want meat but I don't right now. So for awhile Ball & Chain kept putting big hunks o' meat or fish in front of me as if I'd change my mind instantaneously or maybe just to see what I'd do? He stopped that when I had green beans and potatoes one night for dinner, without complaint, and his salmon sat in the pan uneaten.

Still, they think it's funny. They tell very bad jokes about dead animals. I come from a family of butchers and I have eaten liver, chicken neck, giblet, and all sortsa other stuff. It's not like the jokes about meat are going to make me queasy. My great uncle useta greet us at his butchery with a bloodied apron, a big smile, and a friendly lollipop. What a sweetheart, really. I didn't think about the apron because I was used to it. A buncha pigs stuck in a cage and suffocating on their own methane? Well, that might make me a but queasy.

Today they were wondering about shumai, the Japanese dumpling. What if it has pork? Won't I miss it? Not right now. How tedious. What makes vegetarianism so funny to people? Have I inflicted it on my family? No. Have I served tofurkey? No, but we all like tofu with stir-fry. Rugelah has never liked chicken and Ball and Chain as always pretended that it's a phase. She just turned 13! The gal does not eat the chicken! There seems to be a perpetual family moment when one decides to take vengeance and move the joke one step further, or leave the joke be, and hope it dies. Not like an animal, like a vegetable. I am not sure whether to serve tofurkey for real, or simply wait to see when the next animal-slaughter joke lands in my plate. Hmmm.

Hair Removal is Not Fun, and Not Private

I decided to look at all of my old blog links. One link led to another and there was a column about body hair removal and my pubic area is utterly traumatized - my pubic hairs are uncurling right this very moment - because this robot-face lady wrote:

So whatever you like to do is fine. Really, it is. Do what feels good to you. Experiment. Have fun! But for heaven’s sake, keep it private.

She was referring to removal of pubic hair! Do what feels good to you?
1. What feels best is to leave it the hell alone, actually. I would prefer that my ancestors had not been hairy women, but there you have it, and it would feel good to me if my pubic hair was minimal and I could just avoid it. What feels good to you, Robot Face?

2. Miss Robot Face says whatever I like to do is fine. Some women actually do leave their pubic hair totally alone! Does she really think that is fine? No, she does not. She gives several painful options: American, French, Brazilian. How hairless do ya wanna be? Does she have an actual vulva going on or is it robot vulva, too? She referred to the hair "down there." I think she meant her cunt.

3. For heaven's sake, keep it private? Why? Why does it have to be private? I think I'll go talk to the old guy across the street and tell him I chose Brazilian! Or maybe I'll mention it to my mother-in-law. She'd love to hear about that. Perhaps Robot Lady means I should be careful, lest anyone actually see that I have pubic hair in my pubic region. Oops that wasn't lady-like. I meant my cunt. No worries, Robot Face! As the nice torture lady is rubbing hot wax on my thighs I will tell her not to look, because it it very private to me. Maybe she will read a magazine or talk on her cell. I don't mind a few layers of my labia removed just to keep it private.

4. Let's get to the "fun" part. Have fun, she tells us. I will remember that. Basically, I can go to the beach and have strangers see my pubic hair, which I cannot manage because, well, I can't, we live in the uptight U.S., or I can go get waxed, which is very painful and unpleasant. When someone pours hot wax very close to my cunt and then tears off bits of my hair with it, I do not feel happy. It is not fun. I sort of hate myself for doing it and I wish I were a hippy or a Swede with no hair.

5. As protest, I am thinking maybe I should grow a vulva beard and braid it or maybe get some hair extensions "down there," and start a new trend for hairy and proud women. It would be very public. Pubic, and public. Maybe it could be a performance art piece and I could get a buncha non-robot women to join me in the protest against the corporate wax-investing anti-cunt movement.

6. Or maybe I'll just wax again this summer, but it will not be fun and I will talk about it openly as I cross my legs in protection of my traumatized cunt.

In Bed with Bug not so Bad

I am sick as a dog. I feel like horse shit. Why do we always compare ourselves to animals when we feel lousy? I wake up and I fall asleep again. This is the first time in recorded history - that means that I can remember - that Ball & Chain is actually accepting that I am ill without using passive-aggressive maneuvers to imply that I am just wanting attention. It has never mattered what the illness has been - ruptured cysts, ruptured disc, migraine headache - a bit more than the usual litany of middle-aged complaints, but nothing too terrible. Nevvuthuless, he has always managed to sigh, to outright complain, to kvetch (a nagging complaint) about the disruption in his plans, be they ever so small. Never mind that I could not move, or that I was vomiting, or that everyone else at school had the flu, too. When I had it, it was an exaggeration.

But I digress. It's the day before Father's Day, and Ball and Chain is actually quite sympathetic to the little bug the little doobers seem to have given me as a parting gift at the school year's end. He sees me doing nothing on a beautiful day and he realizes hmmmm, most days she's fine! He does some laundry and he realizes hmmmm she's done the last few loads. He may have noticed that I do not have my usual beauty pageant presentation. The fact is we are cultural opposites. In my family, if someone had a cold, it was pull out the thermometer, push the fluids. In his family, if I tell his mother I'm sorry she's sick, she protests that she is not sick, even as she blows her nose repeatedly and hacks all over everyone.

Years ago, Big Kid was seriously ill. Then it was scary. We both knew how sick he was and I took him to the hospital while Ball & Chain stayed with Rugelah. That sickness lasted a long time. Yet somehow we have reverted to our old neuroses. Every once in awhile, one of our kids has a symptom and we both do sit up and pay attention, or sometimes I sit up and pay attention and Ball and Chain wakes up a bit and realizes. We were lucky then, even though other people thought we were unlucky. And now, instead of falling into a hole of cryptic sentences to protect my kid's privacy, I will say I am really not so sick at all.

My New Pal Can Write & She's Funny, Too.

CG works with me and now she blogs. She is very funny in person and also in text. So for my one reader and the dog, I recommend Cystic Gal.

Flarp on Me

Stop! I am here to tell you that I spoiled my daughter rotten last weekend, rotten like a tomato with flies all around it, rotten like a princess who keeps getting more, and I stopped myself as I was stuffing a gift bag and I turned to my excellent friend from Chicago and I said Fred, we'll call him that, he'd love it, Fred, what the hell am I doing? I already gave the kid one party, and now I clean up and I give her another one? Who the hell am I? And Fred did not really know what to say so he kept stuffing bags. We had had an everyone who has loved Rugelah party earlier and we were shifting to little teen friends surprise party. My identity as a mother who really does not give tons o' shit to her kids, or put up with tons o' shot from her kids had temporarily gone down the drain.

And then Rugelah came back home with best friend aka Secret Agent, her friends surprised her, she was all happy, they had a hilarious time with the flarp (play-dough-type- stuff that makes fart noises) in-between serious discussions about world politics (I kid you not) and karaoke. Big Kid had fled to a friend's house, natch. (That's short for naturally and it felt ridiculous writing it.) Why did I plan what was basically two parties for my precious little crabby Rugelah who is not so little anymore? She had a hard year? She did, but no harder than anyone else's. People were coming anyway before she cancelled her Bat Mitzvah? Sort of. I'm a maniac? Yes, that would be it! Over-the-top ridiculous parenting? Bingo! Now my kid has enough crap to open her own 5 and ten.

Here's another hypothesis: maybe I thought that her resistance to having the wealthy children of our little village to our home would somehow - no, I did not realize this at the time! - be neutralized when she had the little doobers over and she realized that they do not give a rat's ass that we live in a regular house as opposed to a 15-room manse with a pool, and they all just adore her for exactly who she is, at least when they can come to her party. I was insane. How much did I spend at the 5 and dime? What do you care? It was very cheap - a real 5 and dime! Isn't it bad enough that my people from Chicago teased me mercilessly for paying $3.65 for each jar of flarp and then later had more fun with it than any of the teen girls?

I will repent, I will. I am never buying her anything again. She has already made her thank-you note list. She is selling her hair to that cancer-hair place. No, okay, I made that up. Her hair is not long enough for that (of course- I permitted her to get a hair cut - another extravagance!) and when she was younger - Locks for Love! That's what it's called, she heroically told everyone that she was growing her hair out for Locks for Love and then when it got long enough she thought it looked so good she changed her mind. I should have just cut the hair off right then, and I never would have been in this predicament. To be fair, and honest, Rugelah was very happy at both parties. She was quite gracious, actually, not only to her kid-friends, but to the adults. She thanked me several times and threw in a bunch of big long-armed hugs. She is all arms and long, long legs, so it is an excellent hug.

Thus I confess. I threw years of solid chore assignments, concrete consequences for bad behavior, t.v./computer limits, and unlimited use of the word "no" to the wind, and with it, a solid chunk o' change, perhaps just to see what it was like to over-indulge my kid. She seems to be okay. For me, behind the scenes, it was a bit ridiculous - if I consider all of the unnecessaries - sorta fun to see all the girls screaming, singing, and yelping at one another, and weird to think that some people spend money like that all the time. It's definitely not the kid who messes those things up, though. It's the adult, wandering around the 5 and dime like a drunkard in need of a dose of flarp.

Ms. Understanding & My Bad

I am really bad at expressing myself when I am upset. My friends have always put up with this aspect of my personality. When I was young and foolish, as opposed to older and foolish, I just let my anger rip. My anger was cultivated from a tiny age. My father walked around, when he was home, like a semi-active volcano (pardon the disgusting implication, but he was volatile, so it fits, mostly), and one never knew when he might blow. He was an enormous man, especially if one was a small kid. So when he did arrive home, there was a moment when we wondered what we would get. That led to quite a bit of nerve-wracking stuff. Fast-forward to yelling, hard-working dad, lots of wise-ass kids, and you get a little residual anger. Watching my mother's obedience made me utterly insane.

Okay that's an exaggeration. It made me very angry. (Fortunately, they both grew out of it.) Sometime in my twenties, one of my best friends told me he was afraid of me when I was angry. I thought that sounded rather unpleasant. Then I asked my best friend, and she reiterated what he had said, and included a description of how scary it was to be in an argument with me. So I decided to be a better person and deal more reasonably with my anger. Who wants to terrify their friends? Okay, it was slightly satisfying to think I had that power, but it also made me feel like a piece of shit. After all, I remembered my father's death look. Sure enough, my friends had described my death look! Ack! I had inherited it.

Now that I am middle-aged and supposedly wiser, I manage anger and upset with my family very well. I am Ms. Emotional Intelligence and I negotiate all of their crap so that they can understand their own emotions, too. I do the same for my students, and I support my friends. But I seem to be a dumbass when it comes to my own conflict with non-family members whom I love and trust. What is so hard about using those cute little phrases "I was upset when you...?" I don't know. Usually I am too nervous to bring up the issue, or if I do, I manage it badly. One good thing about my job is that we work so closely together that we have to manage our disagreements. This week I did in fact react well to two co-workers simultaneously getting angry with me, so I guess that's progress. I did a combo of "I need some space," with death look (I am guessing), followed up with a yes, we should in fact chat. We were all upset, so it seemed to be a good choice. I knew if I spoke too soon, my meanie might pop out. Apologies all around ensued.

On I Love Lucy, when Lucy and Ethel argued, they just yelled in each other's faces, stormed off to cry, pouted a bit, said they were sorry, then they made up. That seems about right to me. Oh, that life were that simple. I think at this point I have graduated from the bossy cartoon Lucy to maybe Charlie Brown: Less unnecessary anger, but still a big dork.

Grover

Whatsa matter with young people these daze? I was in an almost-empty bakery buying tons of sugar and this perfectly charming yet clearly lonely young guy was waiting on me. He had two large thingamadoobers in his ears to make the lobes bigger and a Kermit tattoo. So I'm like "nice tattoo". I should back track and explain here that the muppets are part of my family heritage, not because we loved Sesame Street - it actually got popular a couple of years after my time - but because we loved the muppets. We imitated the muppets. We did their voices, we compared them to people we knew, and we continue to do so. We saw The Muppet Movie (the first) together. Not because some of us had kids by then, but because we all really wanted to see it.

So the young dude in the bakery tells me he is going to get Miss Piggy on his other arm. I say "cool," reserving the knowledge that she is not an original, really, and that it's absurd to get Miss Piggy there, because she does not have the kind of solid back story that some of the others do. I mention that Grover has been overlooked in the popular media, and that's a shame. And he has the nerve to say that he was never really into Grover (that part I can handle), and that Grover always seemed to be a Cookie Monster rip-off! How absurd! No offense to Cookie, but he's a one-line, albeit a very good line, Muppet. Candace Bergen does a great "C is for Cookie," but there is no accompanying book, there is no extra comedy. For a while there was Alistair Cookie, and that was truly hilarious, but they took that away to make room for that horrid little shrieker, Elmo, who is himself a ripoff of Grover, the overlooked genius of comedy.

Grover is clearly in the spirit of the great comedians. First, he was the star of The Monster at The End of This Book in which he implored the reader not to open the book, for fear one would get to the end, where there was most definitely a monster. Of course one had no choice but to read further. It was a brilliant ploy and actual real children - not the artificial Sesame Street ones - found it hilarious to go against Grover's wishes. He also got fired from every job he ever had on the show. He was a lousy waiter, a lousy chef, a lousy chauffeur, and all the while he would assure the customer, "Sir," or "Madam," that everything would be "just fine," and escape before the flabbergasted customer could finish frustrated protestations. Pure genius. In the end, a pseudo-shocked Grover was sort of miffed, but never upset, when the enraged customer freaked out. His assistant chickens and other poultry simply added to the absurdity. He had other adventures as well, proving himself to be a flexible actor and puppet. Grover was no Cookie Monster rip-off! He was more of an Art Carney in a blue furry suit.

What's Growing in My Vagina?

It all started, well it all started when I was born with a vagina, and my mother, although she would never admit it, must have heaved a sigh of relief because (with some exceptions, yes, yes) no new mother of a second child - the first one being a boy- wants another boy. Oh she will love him, adore him, he is beautiful. But is there not a dread that there will never be that small thread of sanity that links one neurologically to one's vagina that makes being female just a wee bit better, no pun intended? And the fear that within one's household, lest it be a lesbian household, there may never be a full understanding of the vagina experience? (And no insult meant to Big Kid, the Best Ever Son, ever.)


Back to my vagina, though. It all started when I first got one and my mother was probably look oh good a girl and all is right with the world. That worked out well until I was a teenager. The vagina made me mad with lust, menstrual cramps, ovarian cysts, and more lust. Okay, it was not just the vagina, it was the hormones too. Also, I got a crazy yeast infection but I had no idea why I was so goddamn itchy down there. This was not a topic I would discuss with my sweet and pristine mother. "Mom, I got crotch itch?" I just hoped it would go away, like a bug bite. Well, it did not go away, and one night I did indeed wake her up, in agony. Hers and mine, probably. Fortunately, there was an eccentric, home-birthing, lustful-toward-teens ob/gyn guy who lived one block over. He and my Dad were friends since they were both doctors and in those days that meant you were in the brotherhood of we-have-money-yet-we-are-good-people. My Dad went to get something for me while I writhed or something. Years later the gyn guy would leave his wife for a patient and they would show her water birth on public TV. He sat in the water while she had the baby. Gross, man! Wouldn't that infect the area, or something? His beard was way too straggly.


We return again to my vagina. And I know now you are thinking that that was a bad transition - just get that straggly beard outta your mind, because my vagina does not have one. Thirty years pass. I have two kids, a house, a dog, a husband, a tree that fell down, cute little friends, fun job, and an aged, but well-preserved, though slightly scarred, vagina. Now a person can take a pill for a yeast infection. However, I felt some pressure in there and found a little lump. Oh don't go all lumpy on me. It's probably a little cyst my doctor friend said. And I am betting it is, because everything in there feels a bit swollen and it's all part of the general flora and fauna in there, like daffodils in springtime. I am quite sure it is very similar to a flower in springtime.


Here's the rub. actually, don't rub, just consider. One cannot have an issue such as this without feeling
a.) neurotic for having stuck one's hand in there in the first place. Was I bobbing for apples you may wonder? I felt all this pressure - it was irrational, like maybe I left a tampon, a spoon, my napkin from last night's dinner?
b.) hypochondriacal for even going to the doctor. Let's face it - there are tons of lumps in there. I am a product of my upbringing and my experience. My father used to diagnose people when they walked down the street.
c.) slightly nervous. Just cut the thing off and toss it in the trash, will ya? I don't wanna bubble on my cervix. Blood, mucus, icky white discharge, I can handle. Take my little growth, please!
d.) I am not going to write d! Come off it! The thing just grew last week, for crissake. If it's a bad bad thing, well, I just don't think we are in that category.


Prologue: the teen yeasty vagina episode lead to a more open dialogue with my mom. i had a cousin who was even more nervous about sharing with her mother, and by the time she disclosed her own yeasty problems, her vaginal area bled to the touch! Poor bubbela.


Second prologue: Now that I have matured, I realize that it is still better to have a vagina than to have one of those big floppy things hanging off me like some meek amphibian, unsure of exactly what to do next. What a wiener.

I'd Rather Not Face Facebook

I am not okay. I am not as good as you, as smart as you, as astute as you. That is how I feel. I am not as thin as you, either. What has me in this state? Facebook, an encyclopedia of everyone I ever met or ever knew in my entire life. I have only viewed these people in one conglomeration like this in unpleasant dreams, forgotten ten minutes after awakening. Do I need to know who is friends with whom or who is feeling what? Must I be repeatedly reminded of the credentials and accomplishments of former classmates who slid into prep school easily, while I somehow hobbled in, and hobbled quite a bit wile I was there? Egad. My identity is dropping in pieces all over the place, like so much manure on a lawn. And I don't even use my real name.

How did I get into this bizarre dilemma? No one put a gun to my head and commanded me to join. Well, first I was curious. Months passed. Then I saw all of my cute little midwestern relatives and it seemed so convenient that they are all on Facebook. What better way to be more in touch with my in-laws et al? Well folks in the midwest are friendly, happy to have friends, and friendly. I mean, very friendly. Folks here are commenting on every social ill, sophisticated to a fault, and/or ignoring my friend requests. Ouch.

Okay, it was just one person, or maybe one and a half. And it's not like I thought "I must contact these people." It's like I thought "I am so bored, maybe I will contact Bitsy and Patsy." Well Bitsy became my "friend," but said nothing. I was at her wedding! (Everyone, including her mother, told me how great I looked. That was a long time ago.) And Patsy did not respond at all. Naturally since I have nothing else to do (teaching, friends, sick kids, sick me, appointments, kids, cleaning), I thought about it a lot. What, me, ruminate? There is a reason that they may not want to speak to me and it has to do with me speaking up about a teacher we had who abused boys in our class. So now I have crossed from the trivial mindlessness of Facebook to deciding that these two people I have not seen in years are offended because I wrote a testimonial about a pedophile. Am I insane? I think, maybe, yes.

Thank you, Hallmark & Thank You, Good Books

Look, it's me, overcoming my "writer's block," which was actually more of a firm decision not to write - convenient since I had nothing to say - followed by my current wonderings related to when I will write again. I have always enjoyed writing, ever since I wrote the epic poem, "Love."
The sky above sends me love, and a dove, to soothe my love, comes by.

That was around 1971. It's amazing to think of the impression Hallmark can make on a young child's brain and its budding poetry production. My parents duly framed it in a circular frame, adding to the "Love Is.." sort of sentimentality. I remember them being so pleased. What were they thinking? Our daughter: Future greeting card writer!



I am going to a Creativity Workshop tomorrow, as in "getting rid of obstacles to creativity." I am not sure I can get rid of my job, my family, and other adult responsibilities, but I will try. Some books I read recently perked me up about writing again: Nervous Conditions by Tsitsi Dangarembga; Restless by William Boyd; A Mercy by Toni Morrison (I did not read them in that order, but I did read them simultaneously at one point). (Those are random courtesy links that I have yet to read - this is not PhD Land!) The combination, along with Alan Moore's Watchman, a graphic novel Big Kid loaned me, have me remembering little details I thought about when I wrote. I was reminded of stories I authored, revised, and had critiqued over and over. It is all so private, those thoughts one has while writing and while planning writing. Indeed, last night I dreamed that Ball and Chain and I were staging another wedding, an event that takes place in one of the books. In my dream, I had forgotten my dress, and no one in the legions of people (it was populated with everyone I have ever met) could help me effectively. As I write this I have that sense of everything coming out as a platitude or a cliche. I'm rusty, self-conscious, and moving on here.

A Mercy was powerfully written, of course, but I found it hard to follow, as it is written, in part, in a slave's dialect, and others, in the 1680s. The writing was compelling, but hard to parse, and I do tire of the multi-perspective book. I definitely found the main character appealing, but she did not say enough for me. The book I had been working on - eons ago - had three narrators, so that must be what got my brain re-thinking writing. What to do for your reader once your narrator is accepted, only to be torn away for a later chapter? I read Restless next and I fell in love with one of the narrators (yes, more perspectives). She reminded me of a carefree friend from years ago who had an oh-well sensibility, but somehow turned rigid as an adult. The story is a great thriller, also, and written with clean detail - no flowery language and a lot of female bravado.

Finally, I read Nervous Conditions, a political novel about a girl growing up in Zimbabwe in the '60s (then Rhodesia), and her transformation as she has more exposure to British ways. That sounds dull but it was not. The narrator - only one - is honest, detailed, and open about her jealousies and flaws. She is insecure about her identity, her place in her family, and her willingness to set aside her convictions to get the status that she craves. I usually forgo overtly political novels, as genuine voice sometimes seems sacrificed for politic's sake. There is no hero in the text, though, and the prose is exacting in its descriptions of the personalities and conflicts in the family. The narrator's mother, in particular, is wildly angry and cruel but fundamentally correct in her 'uneducated' assertions. The first line got me right away: "I was not sorry when my brother died." I reread the first chapter after finishing the book - a new habit of mine - and it completed the story beautifully. Her brother's death makes her own advancement possible; her brother's status as a male created a distance between them from when they were small.

It is not ironic that I should read a book that starts with a brother's death, or an apparently crass first line. I was able to read it as someone else's experience, and as anyone who has experienced loss knows, it is that detachment versus engagement that can make the reality difficult. I am living without my brother, and I do not want to do it. Time moves ahead, and I see things that my brother will never see. Now he is gone and I will write no platitudes. I will see to my creativity, though, and maybe write a bit more.