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.