Lazy-Ass Interrupted

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

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

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

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

Aw, crap.

Breakback It To Me Slowly

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

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

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

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

Wig Out

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

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

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

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

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

Feminism & Hair

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

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

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

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