About Me

Woman, reader, writer, wife, mother of two sons, sister, daughter, aunt, friend, state university professor, historian, Midwesterner by birth but marooned in the South, Chicago Cubs fan, Anglophile, devotee of Bruce Springsteen and the 10th Doctor Who, lover of chocolate and marzipan, registered Democrat, practicing Christian (must practice--can't quite get the hang of it)--and menopausal.
Names have been changed to protect the teenagers. As if.

Sunday, February 28, 2010

Hints from Heloise

Yet one more sign of my advancing age is the fact that I read a newspaper every morning, and more and more people find that strange. "You do know you can get it free online," says my son. "You know you could set up your computer so you receive news updates all day long," suggests my niece.

Sigh. I'm old. I like the feel of a newspaper. I like the size of a newspaper. I like the juxtapositions produced by the layout--the ad for the Weight Loss Center up against the headline "Famine Looms in Niger," for example. I like the calming morning routine: separating the sections, lining them up in order of interest (National and International News, State and Local News, People; Sports set aside for Keith; Classified, Business, and Automotive straight to the recycling bin), and settling down a quick read-thru before work, and then coming back for a more leisurely stroll during lunch.

But, I have to admit, that this past year, my "quick read-thru" of those first two news sections has been, well, quick. Really quick. I scan the headlines, moan, feel guilty about not reading more, not doing more, not somehow someway making decent health care available for all--and then I take a huge gulp of hot tea, flip the news sections out of the way, and immerse myself in People. First the comics, I confess. And then a look at the front page to see if I know any of the People, and then, yes, oh yes, Hints from Heloise.

I love Heloiseland. I love a world where every problem can be solved with a quarter cup of bleach dissolved in water or a few rounds in the dryer with a damp washcloth. But I love Heloise even more. I love her enthusiastic, affirming response to every query--"Oh, no problem at all, H.L.! Dissolve a teaspoon of baking soda in a solution of vinegar, dab and pat, dab and pat, and in no time, all that vomit Uncle Ed left on your new sofa will be gone." And somehow, you just feel confident that Uncle Ed is going to be just fine, too. That's the way it is in Heloiseland. As long as you've got your bleach, baking soda, vinegar, and a set of plastic tubs and bags of varying sizes, you can conquer the world. And the world you conquer will be a beautiful place. As well as hygienic and economical.

Heloise's responses to readers' suggestions are the key to Heloiseland. Most of these suggestions are either mind-bogglingly obvious-- "I save those plastic tubs that whipped butter and sour cream come in, and use them for storing leftovers--so much cheaper than buying that expensive Tupperware!"--or just ridiculous in terms of effort vs. achievement-- "Don't throw away those bottle tops! I save them, sterilize them with bleach, flatten them out [I find a hammer works just fine for this step], use my husband's drill to make a hole as near to the edge as possible, and sew them together to make trivets and placemats--so cost-effective!" But Heloise never snorts with contemptuous laughter at these suggestions. Heloise is not like me. Heloise is a Good Person. She welcomes each and every suggestion as yet another contribution to building Heloiseland.

Someday, I am going to be just like Heloise. I am going to be enthusiastic and affirming. I am going to wipe down my counters regularly with a homemade bleach infusion. I am going to spraypaint pine cones for an inexpensive holiday decoration. I am going to freeze homemade cookies in small batches so I always have some on hand when a neighbor drops by unexpectedly. I am going to be a Really Good Person. Someday.

Saturday, February 27, 2010

How It Rains

I was walking then-five-year-old Hugh home from school one rainy day. We were about halfway home when he turned to me and said triumphantly, "I've figured out how God can make it rain in lots of places at the same time." Oh, and how's that?, I asked. "He has lots and lots of penises," Hugh said, very matter-of fact, but very satisfied.

For ten years now, every time it rains, an unbidden, entirely unwanted image appears in my mind's eye: the God of Many Penises, pissing in great fountains.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Missing the '6os

I always felt bad about missing the '60s. Obviously as a Woman Facing 50, I was born in 1960, which means I spent most of that pivotal decade absorbed in such trivialities as learning how to walk, talk, use the potty, read, write, and roller skate. By the time I came to political consciousness, well, there wasn't much worth being conscious about. Disco? Detente?

Actually, Saturday Night Fever is truly a great movie and detente an enormous step forward in international cooperation. But it just doesn't have the same zingggg as having danced at Woodstock, now does it?

And then there's the clothing issue. I've got good upper arms, small boobs, and unruly hair. I was born for fringe and frizz and long swirling Indian skirts and braless vests. But no, no, I came of age in the 70s. My hair never conformed to the mandated Farrah Fawcett feathering (by the way, there's a website on "How to Have Farrah Fawcett Hair." Complete with step-by-step blowdrying and curling instructions. ) and I fell off my platform shoes with dismal regularity. The tube top, however. . . oh, the tube top. I was good at the tube top.

But still, being good at the tube top--it's not on par with hearing Martin Luther King give the "I Have a Dream" speech on the Mall or joining the March against Vietnam or Going Clean for Gene, is it?

My '60s inferiority complex explains why, in the early 80s, I felt implicated, indicted, no dammit, downright guilty, when my history professor exploded in frustration and fury one day because I couldn't remember where I was when John F. Kennedy was shot. "But, umm, I was only three," I stammered apologetically. He tore at his hair, yelled, "Augggghhh!! I can't stand it!" and left the room for several minutes. The rest of the class shrugged. What a weirdo. What are you doing this weekend? Anyone got the notes for the next book review? But I, I sat there, knowing I had failed an essential test, one that I desperately wanted to ace, one that I could never pass no matter how hard I studied.

So I'm lecturing on the Revolutions of 1989. And I'm telling my students that the American version of this story, that "Ronald Reagan won the Cold War," is completely parochial, ahistorical, and well, just plain incorrect. We need to focus on the actions and intentions of Mikhael Gorbachev, as well as eastern European activists like Vaclav Havel. And a student raises his hand: "Sorry. But what was the "Cold War"? You mean, like, something in Finland or Norway?"

Augggghh!! I can't stand it!!

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Recommended

Doctor's recommendation: to manage menopausal symptoms, eliminate caffeine and alcohol from diet. Right. Just shoot me now.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Through fire, flood, and swarms of locusts

Every spring, Hugh's middle school sponsored an extravagant Grandparents' Day Garden Party (followed, of course, by the annual fundraising campaign, featuring pathetic appeals to all the grandparents who had noshed at the school's expense). Hugh has no living grandfathers and both his grandmothers live too far away to attend. So, in his first year, I substituted as his guest. And no one noticed. I just blended in with all the other old people.

I had no idea what a Big Deal it was for Hugh that I was to be his guest at the Garden Party until that morning after I showered. I walked into my room and on my bed I found, all laid out from blazer to shoes, my Outfit for the Day. When I matter to Hugh, he dresses me.

He never selects clothing that I would choose. On this particular day, the Outfit featured a white linen cutout lace blazer that I had bought only because Hugh was with me and liked it so much. My closet actually features a number of such items--Hugh Items. Tops, belts, shoes, scarves, jeans. . . .all bought not because I thought I would actually wear them, all bought knowing I would probably never wear them, all bought to please Hugh. Plus there are his contributions. The designer handbag that he convinced my sister I had always wanted. (How could I want something that I didn't even know existed?) The designer wallet that he purchased for me with his Christmas money, because he was so embarrassed by the wallet I was using. The boots he decided I had to have.

I'm such a disappointment to him. I've turned out so badly. I've utterly failed to be the Mother he hoped I would be. I'm like the mom who's constantly in detention, who has to go to summer school, who must take remedial mom classes. I am not stylish. I have panty lines. I do not like granite countertops. I hate SUVs. I do not lust after Hummers. I've never really figured out the whole accessories thing. I do not have a long mane of thick straight black hair. I'm mystified by stiletto heels. And Vera Bradley, geez, do not get me started on Vera Bradley.

I love my son. Desperately. Completely. Hopelessly. So I buy the occasional sparkly top or lacy blazer. Penitential offerings. Sacrifices to the gods. Please. Bridge the gap. Fill the void. Oh my darling. For you I'll run through fire and flood and swarms of locusts. In stilettos. And thong underwear.

Monday, February 22, 2010

Out of the Mouth of a Babe

Although the historians' universe remains largely male, in over 20 years of professional life, I've never actually experienced any direct discrimination and very little overt or intentional harassment. Historians are, on the whole, fairly decent folks. Not the best dressers, mind you, and hopeless at parties, but well-intentioned all the same. No, I have no complaints to make, no grievances to file against any individuals or offices. My frustrations focus rather on the systemic maleness of academia, the way the molds all seem to be designed for male bodies, attitudes, and ambitions.

Whenever my frustrations begin to boil over, I turn to the words of wisdom uttered by my niece Hannah in McDonald's when she was about four--

We were in McDonald's on my lunch break. During the summers throughout college and graduate school when I worked as a teller in my local community bank, my sister-in-law Nancy and her kids would often meet me for lunch. On this particular day, we were talking about how great the kids were doing in their music lessons. Pointing a French fry at each kid, Nancy said, "Alex, you can be a cellist in a symphony some day. Anne, you can be a violinist. And Hannah, you can be a concert pianist." At that point, Hannah, a deceptively sylph-like little blonde, gasped in horror, scrambled up so that she was standing on top of her plastic chair, and bellowed, "BUT I DON'T WANT TO BE A PENIS!"

Precisely.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Cafe-au-lait

Fifteen years ago today I was sitting in the off-campus coffee shop grading papers when one of the coffee shop girls came over to tell me I had a phone call. (We're talking pre-cell phone era here.) It was Keith. The adoption agency had telephoned: our son had been born about an hour earlier. We met at home, packed a suitcase, picked up Owen from day care, and headed west to Texas.

Adoption was always an option for me. I had always known I wanted children, but wasn't always too sure I wanted a husband. In vitro fertilization and all that was just developing; I do remember hearing talk of sperm donors and turkey basters, but I just figured if I hit my mid-30s and was still single, I'd adopt.

So, when we tried for a second after Owen and failed, adoption was a no-brainer.

On Thanksgiving week, 1994, after a couple of years of tests and more tests and thermometers and sex on schedule and sperm in a cup and Chlomid, I began calling adoptions agencies. "Are you Catholic?" Click. "Do you have $25,000 readily accessible?" Click. "Is one of the parents over the age of 40?" Click. "Do you have a child?" Click. But finally I hooked up with an agency that specialized in "unadoptable" children.

We filled out the most agonizing form. Would you accept a blind baby? A deaf baby? A baby with AIDS? with spina bifida? With a cleft palate? A child whose been the victim of physical abuse? of sexual abuse? On and on and on it went. We had anguished discussions long into the night. But there was an easy question: Would you accept a child of another race? Duh. Yeah.

We received a phone call almost immediately:
"I just wanted to make sure about one thing here on your application form. You've checked that you'd accept a child of any race. Any race. Is that correct?"
Yes, I said.
"Let me just make sure I have this straight. You'll accept a child of any race?"
Yes, I said.
"Umm, sorry, but let me make sure: are you saying you'll take a black child?"
Yes, I said.
Long pause.
"Well, if that's really the case, I can guarantee you'll have a healthy newborn baby in three months."

But the color nonsense continued. After we hooked up with Hugh's birth mother and the adoption was set in motion, the social worker assured us that after the baby was born, we'd receive a photo, that we'd get to approve of the baby. We were confused, until she explained further. "If the baby's skin color is too dark, if you're just not comfortable with his color, then no problem, you can back out." Keith and I both had the same vision of choosing a baby with those little paint sample cards that you use to select colors for your walls: hmm, coffee, caramel, chocolate. . . ? We told her skip the photo, we'd take the baby even if he came out sporting polka dots.

On February 20, 1995, Hugh came into the world.

On February 21, 1995, we picked him up. Dark brown hair that the nurses had slicked down straight but, when we washed it a few days later, exploded into curls. Huge dark eyes. And the most gorgeous cafe au lait skin. No polka dots.

I assumed that by adopting a baby of a different race, we'd at least avoid any confusion RE the adoption itself--It would be clear from Day 1, to Hugh, and to the world, that he was adopted. I was wrong.

Here's our family: Blond, fair-skinned Me. Bald but once light brown-haired, fair-skinned Keith. Older son Owen who looks like both of us--clearly our biological child. Younger son Hugh, who's bi-racial, black (to most Americans)--clearly adopted. You'd think. And yet, here's the usual scenario: new people meet us. They look a bit perplexed. Finally, one--usually the woman--gets me or Keith aside and asks, somewhat awkwardly, "So, umm, is Hugh adopted?"

After years and years of this, I've become rather snarky. I now say, "Oh no. It's just Keith and I had a rough patch some years ago, so I had an affair with a black man and got pregnant." Then I smile brightly.

Boot Gal

Once a week our local paper includes a feature called "Style File." The reporter stops a well-dressed woman, takes a photo, and interviews her about her clothing, with questions such as "Are you a shoe or handbag gal?" Shoe Gal replies with numbers, gobmacking numbers: "Oh, for me, it's shoes, definitely shoes. I have 253 pairs. . . no, make that 255," as she looks down at her shopping bags and gives a little tinkly laugh. Handbag Gal seems more interested in quality than quantity, rattling off the names of her handbags, kind of like my mom proudly reciting the names of her grandchildren. Even more amazing, all these women can identify everything on their body by name. Not, "umm, my sister gave me this sweater for Christmas awhile back," or "I bought these jeans on sale at Dillard's, I think, or wait, no, I guess it was Macy's." Nope, instead it's "Oh, I'm wearing my favorite Gino Leopardo boots with leggings by Mangia, a tunic by Shmoozer and a vest by La De Dah."

I am not on a first-name basis with my clothes. We are just not that intimate. And I'm neither a Shoe Gal nor a Handbag Gal--and I'm afraid it shows.

For two days this week, however, I did have almost $1000 in new boots hanging out in my bedroom. I blame menopause. And my niece.

The menopause explains the sudden urge to acquire fashionable funky boots. At least that's my hypothesis. Actually it's more than a hypothesis; it's my new mantra: blame menopause. Besides, I'm getting old. Soon I'll be in those big clunky geriatric shoes with knee-high stockings puddling around my ankles. I need funky fashionable boots now.

Menopause and imminent old age explain the sudden compulsion to seek out boots, but not how $1000-worth of boots ended up in my bedroom. That was my niece's fault. She introduced me to the wonders of zappos.com. [Legal disclaimer: I am not an employee of Zappo's and I have never accepted any money from Zappo's. Which is not to say I wouldn't should the chance arise, oh amazing Zappo people.] Here's the deal: you place an order and shipping is FREE on both delivery and returns. So, as my niece pointed out, who needs the mall? You just go online, pick out bunches and bunches of shoes (or in my case, boots), wait a day, and then try them on at home. Then you put them all back in the box, print out the return label, tape it on the box, and send the whole shebang back--and you've PAID NOTHING. Unless, of course, you keep a pair. Or two.

Hey, Style File. Menopausal Boot Gal awaits.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

God Bless Mrs. Postma

I remember exactly when I became a feminist. OK, maybe not exactly. I don't have the exact date, but take it from a professional historian, exact dates rarely matter. I do know the year: 1965. Back in the Glory Days of kindergarten, long before assessment targets and standardized tests and curriculum reviews. Mostly we played. Yes, we learned to count to 50 and to sing the alphabet song. We planted seeds in cups and collected pussy willows. We made Mother's Day cards and pressed our hands into plaster-of-Paris and glued macaroni onto soup cans and and tried to jump-rope (DeeDee was the best, but that was because she had gone to nursery school, which was a totally unfair advantage). We ate our mother's cookies and drank whole-fat milk from little glass bottles and took naps on rectangular rag rugs. But mostly we played.

It was a glorious place to play. The second floor of the Western Springs Christian Reformed Church housed our kindergarten. On Sunday it served as the home of the Sunday School but on weekdays, it was ours: a large central room for our circle discussions and our singing and our nap times, and six small rooms, three on each side, that opened onto the central room. These small rooms could be closed off with sliding panels--which is what happened on Sundays--but during kindergarten, they remained open to the central hall, under the keen eyes of our teacher, Mrs. Postma. In each of the small rooms was a different play area: Room 1 was set up as a play school room, Room 2 as a play kitchen, 3 contained the large pressboard building blocks, 4 held many sets of Lincoln Logs, 5 housed a racetrack and cars, and 6, ah, in Room 6 stood a fantastic Wild West fort, complete with soldiers and horses and stagecoaches and attacking Indians.

Already at age 5 I knew that the best place in which to spend my time was the Past. And I wanted, desperately wanted, to play with that fort. But our little play rooms were sex-segregated, or as we say in academia these days, "gendered." At play time, the boys played in Rooms 4 thru 6, girls played in Rooms 1 and 2. Room 3 was a bit more ambiguous. Some of the rougher girls played in Room 3. I was not a rough girl. But I longed for that fort. Cowboys and Indians. The Wild West. All the romance and glamor of the Past.

Finally, after weeks and weeks of pining, one memorable day in 1965 in a quiet suburb of Chicago, at kindergarten play time, I girded my loins (so to speak) and entered Room 6.

Oh my.

The boys first jeered and then, when I would not leave, pelted me with plastic Indians and frontiersmen, while the other girls cheered them on. And Mrs. Postma? She marched over, grabbed my arm, and informed me, in no uncertain terms, that I belonged in Room 2. Geez. Not even Room 1.

I looked up at her, and I saw Power. And Injustice. And just plain Stupidity. I trudged over to Room 1. I cried. I sulked. And I became angry. Very Angry.

God bless Mrs. Postma.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Dog Days

One member of our family is a dog, Rowan. We adopted him from a dog-rescue lady about 5 years ago. She thought then that he was about 4 years old but we think she probably underestimated his age. He's a sweet, faithful, fluffy, big, old dog.

And he drives me nuts.

I used to think it was because he reminded me of living with a clingy, whiny, cranky, demanding toddler. Like a toddler, he follows me everywhere, even into the bathroom. He won't go to bed until I do, and then he insists on sleeping right next to me. He refuses to eat his dinner unless I sit with him and he begs constantly for unhealthy snacks. He badgers me to play outside but then wants to go right back in almost as soon as we're through the door. And when someone messes with his toys, he bites.

But the thing is, I'm actually kind of good with toddlers these days.

No, I finally figured it out. Rowan doesn't drive me crazy because he's toddler-like. He sends me around the bend because he reminds me of . . . . me. He's going gray. He has constant skin complaints. He has to watch his weight. He's always hungry. He has tummy troubles. He's frequently constipated. He becomes irritable when his routine is upset. He finds it harder to make new friends. He's reluctant to walk in new directions. He's afraid of the household teenager. He can no longer see the point in chasing after squirrels. He's very fond of naps and cheese. And as I watch him pacing the halls, his nails clicking crazily on the wood floors, one big furry bundle of neuroses, I see me. Rather less hairy but fully as neurotic and demanding and needy and annoying.

Damn. You know, I could use a good chew toy.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Hedgehog

In England, hedgehog population numbers are in precipitous decline. One (among many) key factors is the hedgetrimmer, aka the Weedwhacker. The adorable little hedgehog is snuffling along, doing her hedgehoggy thing as hedgehogs have done in English gardens for generations, and all of a sudden--thwackthwackthwackthwack! And the gardener moves on, oblivious, while beneath the bushes or thicket or brambles, the hedgehog lies dying, bleeding, her fur and flesh hanging off in strips.

I just spent 24 hours in the company of my almost-15-year-old son. My fur and flesh hang off in strips, my blood seeps out. He moves on, oblivious.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Snow Day

Today I played in the snow.

I have always loved winter. It's not that I don't know winter. Growing up in Chicago, I had a lot of it. I know the 40-below-zero days when the world goes hazy the minute you step outside because your contact lenses have frozen to your eyes. I know the gray mornings on the el platform when the wind whips in across the lake and cuts through the thickest of down coats. I know the foot-deep puddles of icy slush that transform every intersection into a fiendish pedestrian's obstacle course. I know the annual and ultimately futile pursuit for stylish and sexy boots that are also warm, waterproof, snow-proof, salt-proof, and slip-proof. I know the traffic tie-ups and cancelled flights, the cars that won't start and the months looking like a Yeti. And yet I love winter. That first morning when you open the curtains and discover your world has gone white. The smell of snow in the air. The way packed-up snow crunches under foot. Snowmen and snow angels. Snow forts and snow slides. Wool sweaters. Fountains frozen mid-splash. Flannel-lined jeans. Stew simmering on the stovetop. Cheeks reddened by an afternoon sledding. Those amazing ultra-blue sky days when the sun transfigures a snowy field into the fantasy backdrop of one of those 1930s musicals. The sharp shock of a cold wind.

So yes, I am one of few individuals I know who genuinely loves winter. Winter for me has a sharpness, a precision, an icy hardness and cold clarity. The fates, however, have conspired to ensure that I am stuck in the misty moisty molding muddle of the Deep South. Where even the merest hint of snow means utter hysteria and the end of life as we know it.

But today I was back in Snowland. And today I went sledding. Today I introduced my 4-year-old nephew and my 2-year-old godson to the thrill of catapulting down a steep hillside, skidding across the flatland, and coasting to an all-tumble-out stop into powdery snow.

Today was a good day. Today was a snow day.

Friday, February 12, 2010

Travel Tips

I was packing for this trip and realized that I did not have any 3-ounces-or-under bottles. How, then, to get past airport security with all the various fluids essential for watering and pruning a woman facing 50? I hit on a brilliant idea: prescription containers. We have tons of empty plastic prescription canisters littering our bathroom cabinet. Plus, if you run out of room in the mandated 1-quart (or whatever it is) ziplock baggie, you can put them with your prescription medicines and no one will know. (I've done it now, and they don't. Should your experience differ, should you get arrested because you've threatened national security with hair conditioner in a pill bottle, well, why the heck are you taking advice from a menopausal woman writing on the internet?)

But, back to the packed liquids: Important safety tip--you might want to label the pill canisters. Because otherwise, in the haze of the morning, you just might mistake your sweet-smelling tame-your-hair gunk for your sweet-smelling smear-this-on-your-face-and-pretend-you're-reversing-the-aging-process moisturizer. The results are not good.

2nd important tip for the menopausal traveler: Do not wear leggings and a sweater dress. When the hot flash hits, you need to strip off clothing. If you can't (because if you do, you'll be sitting on the plane in leggings and your bra), you'll crouch there in your sweater dress and drip and steam and sweat and look increasingly crazed while the 20-ish woman in the next seat eyes you with revulsion. I was about to tell her, "Look close! I am your future!" But then the peanuts arrived.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Flying

Did you know that Nashville is the Athens of the South? So the jaunty voice on the Nashville airport loudspeaker just announced. I wonder if there's an acropolis? And where is the Athens of the North?

Flying always makes me question if we really won the Cold War. I look around the waiting area: Long lines of grumpy but subjugated people carrying heavy loads. All nodding abjectly when told patent lies. Standing shoeless before stone-faced, power-hungry uniformed thugs. And then crammed with strangers into a small airless container and denied food for hours at a time. Somewhere Khrushchev is smiling.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

A Teenager in Menopause

It's bizarre, but in a lot of ways, being in menopause is like being a teenager. Your body does weird things. You cry a lot. You eat a lot. You spend a lot of time huddled under the covers. And you get really, really angry.

Yesterday the Garden District newsletter appeared at our door. Amidst the various articles about new neighbors and the winners of the Holiday Lights competition was the stern reminder to "promptly bring in your garbage and recycling carts after they are serviced" and so maintain the aesthetic standards of the neighborhood.

My response was utter rage. I wanted to run outside and toss our carts in the street. I wanted to paint the garage purple, host a punk rock revival concert on the front lawn, and invite a lesbian African drumming collective to establish a retreat center in the back yard.

At least when I was a teenager I had perky boobs.

Perfection

My niece Anne's chiropractor/nutritionist/alternative health guru says that the state of one's bowel movements indicate one's overall bodily health. She says that said movements should be 1. odorless, 2. effortless, and 3. buoyant (that is, the final product should float). After many years of experience and observation, I have concluded that this medical mandate is the rather earthy counterpoint to Jesus' spiritual command: "Be ye perfect, even as I am perfect." Aspirational and inspirational, yes, but never to be achieved within this lifetime.

Which immediately and inevitably raises the question: What about Jesus' bowel movements? Oh, don't get all huffy on me. That's the scandal of the Incarnation: Jesus made flesh, God become Man. A man. A man who must have had to poop. So, did Jesus' poos stink? Did they sink? No, I imagine they floated effortlessly, joyously, playfully, smelling like apricots.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

The Road Ahead

Yesterday I drove halfway to work before I realized I'd forgotten to brush my teeth. Soon I'll be shuffling into the classroom in bedroom slippers and pajama bottoms.

Monday, February 8, 2010

Tattoos

Owen came home from his first semester away at college (far away--the Pacific NW--not exactly around the corner from Baton Rouge) with a tattoo--and not an easily hidden tramp stamp, which I suppose would look a bit strange on a guy anyway. But it wasn't one of those simple bands around his bicep or a subtle fleur-de-lis or a little, I dunno, knight or vegetable or something. This "tat" (I'm learning the lingo) takes up his entire outer upper arm. It features a giant multi-colored Mexican Day-of-the-Dead sugar skull that consists entirely of flowers. This actually very impressive piece of graphic art is surrounded by Springsteen lyrics--and Springsteen lyrics, of course, can redeem almost anything.

Nevertheless, it's a tattoo. A permanent tattoo. A very large, brightly-colored, permanent tattoo that is more than a wee bit disturbing on first glance.

Owen loves it. It makes him happy. I'm happy when he's happy.

But.

Strangely, the "buts" largely evaporated once I saw the tattoo (as opposed to hearing it described in triumphant phone calls). Not that I was converted by the graphic artistry, not even by the Springsteen lyrics. No, the key fact was that the sugar skull sits atop a largely foreign arm.

During the period when Owen expressed his desire for a tattoo (this went on for years) and then, once he turned 18 and no longer needed our permission, his plans for a tattoo, I hated the idea. I hated the idea of my son's beautiful skin marred by injected ink. But then he came home sporting the tattoo, and I looked at that arm, that man's arm, and--I didn't really know it.

I used to know every inch of Owen. I birthed, bathed, and band-aided him. I syringed snot out of his nostrils, wiped poop off his butt, put drops in his eyes, taught him how to clean his penis, spread lotion on his chicken pox, shampooed his hair, and cut his nails (and yes, sometimes his fingers). I tickled his feet and squeezed his hand. I caught his wriggling body when he jumped into the pool. I clutched his legs as he rode on my shoulders. I gripped his back as he mastered his first two-wheeler. I held his head as he vomited into the toilet. I snuggled with him in bed.

And then, when he was about 10, that was that. Touching was no longer allowed. Oh, there's the occasional grateful or begrudging hug, the required kiss, the barely tolerated hair-ruffling and collar-straightening. You find yourself a little bit, just a guilty teeny bit, glad, when he's sick, because then you get to touch him.

And his body becomes a stranger to you. And you make do with other babies, other toddlers, other little guys. You nuzzle those little feet and cradle those diapered bottoms and offer a lap to those chubby legs. And they're lovely. But they're not his. He's gone. There's this man there. This amazing man. With a striking tattoo.

Sunday, February 7, 2010

What Not to Wear II

Most of the time when I'm walking around campus I'm fairly oblivious to my surroundings. I'm running through my next lecture or regretting things said in my last one or steeling myself for a committee meeting or wondering if it's too early to go home and go to bed. But every once in awhile I come out of my head and notice what the undergrads are wearing.

With the guys, nothing ever changes. The black guys wear impossibly huge tee shirts and immensely oversized shorts buckled below their butt cheeks so they have to walk like penguins. Most of the white guys wear nondescript loose-cut jeans and baseball caps. Only the white guys with multiple piercings and tattoos seem to have evolving fashion sensibilities. They used to sport skateboarder-inspired baggy cargo pants; now they wear skinny jeans turned up to showcase the latest stud or ink.

The tides of female undergrad fashions, in contrast, ebb and flow with regularity. For awhile it was men's boxer shorts--coming into the classroom was like crashing a slumber party. Long long ago, when I first began teaching, big bright bows perched atop the vast majority of female heads. A large lecture hall resembled a butterfly atrium.

The latest female fashion craze on campus consists of Ugg boots, bare legs, and athletic shorts (the cotton kind with white piping around the bottom). On Friday, as I watched a number of young women dressed in various versions of this extraordinary outfit, I contemplated ways to explain to them the concept of winter footwear and and to point them toward the clothing that should accompany it.

But on Saturday 14-year-old Hugh and I went to the Mardi Gras parade downtown. It was unusually cold for Baton Rouge, with an icy wind whipping off the river. I had on a coat, scarf, hat, gloves,and boots, but still had to jump around to keep warm. Luckily the folks next to us had one of those nifty coolers that doubles as a portable stereo, and they were playing classic Mardi Gras tunes. So I'm kinda stomping to the beat, waiting for the parade, and I look up and there's Hugh, watching me and laughing. When I asked him what he was laughing at, he replied, "A bundled-up old lady, bopping up and down."

A bundled-up old lady, bopping up and down.

So much for serving as campus fashion consultant.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Who Dat?

It's Carnival season here in south Louisiana. Three Mardi Gras parades in Baton Rouge today and of course several in and around New Orleans--all building up to the frenzy of next weekend and the final explosion on Fat Tuesday, Mardi Gras Day itself. But this year, even Mardi Gras has been swallowed up by a region-wide celebration of breath-taking, mind-boggling intensity: tomorrow, as any sentient American knows, the New Orleans Saints play the Indianapolis Colts in the Superbowl.

I don't do football. I don't get football. But I'll join the party. A party's a party. But this party--this party crosses racial and class divides and in south Louisiana, that's extraordinary.

Still, it's football. I didn't grow up with football. My high school didn't have a football team. My college didn't have a football team. My dad didn't follow football. My brothers didn't play football. They didn't watch football, at least not when they were kids (tho', sadly, they caught the virus in adulthood).

And football is so unelegant, so just plain ugly. Keith says I don't see the beauty of football because I don't understand it. I disagree. I don't really understand soccer (football, actually, at least to the rest of the world), but there's a beauty to the game. I see that. I'm a Chicago Cubs fan, but I'm not one of those baseball academics who explores the mathematics of the game. I just think a hotdog and a beer in Wrigley Field on a spring day is a transcendental experience. And I see the beauty in the game, even if I don't grasp the math. Tennis. I still don't get what it means to break the serve, but an elegant volley is an elegant volley. I get that.

Football. Guy throws oddly shaped ball. Bunch of guys make a big guy pile. Repeat.

But. . .

Those guys do wear really lovely form-fitting uniform bottoms that show off a finely-honed male ass to great advantage--unlike all other athletic uniforms for men. While women's sports apparel gets ever skimpier, the guys slog around in ever-baggier sacks. Basketball players used to wear the cutest bum-hugging little shorts; now they wear gigantic. knee-brushing drapes inspired by skateboarding kids circa 1992. While female tennis players sport midriff-bearing, cleavage-revealing, upper-arm-enhancing little lycra pantydresses, the guys schlep around in what appear to be their grandpas' boxers. But in football, well, there might not be much beauty in the game, but there's often beauty in the butts.

So, I'll go to the party. Watch the commercials. Sing along with the Who. And admire the tight ends.

Friday, February 5, 2010

Dough Boys

I miss the yeasty smell of babies. Snuggled up close, it was as if I were cuddling a freshly baked bread loaf.

Teenaged boys are not warm and doughy. More like the remains of a snow crab dinner that someone forgot to throw away. Rank-smelling. Bits of shell, with jagged edges.

I miss the babies.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

What Not to Wear

So, what does Woman Facing 50 wear?

Wait, must establish parameters. 1. Cannot spend lot of money. Woman does not make much and married man who makes even less. Sigh. 2. Cannot involve pantyhose. Hate pantyhose. Plus suffer from vulvadynia. Combo of tight unbreathable synthetic up against thin, traumatized vulva not appealing. Plus: live in Deep South. Tend to sweat a lot down there. Everywhere, actually. 3. Cannot involve high heels. Hate high heels. Walk a lot. Treasure comfort. 4. Cannot involve underwire bras. Same reasons as number 3. Except maybe for the walking a lot. Boobs small. Boobs do not swing. No problem walking.

OK. Oooh, one additional important point of info: This particular Woman Facing 50 recently lost 15 pounds (kudos to Weightwatchers Online's Zero-Point Asian-Inspired and Mexican Soups) and so this particular Woman Facing 50, in moment of total self-congratulation, went out and bought leggings and kinda long sweater or is it a mini-dress thing. Which she wears with boots. Also skinny jeans. Also with boots. (Didn't have to buy the boots--amazing fashion-aware 14-year-old son gave boots for Christmas. Love and adore son. When not fantasizing about boarding school.) Love leggings and boots look. Love to swagger around campus feeling like Robin Hood.

But--NY Times fashion article decreed noone over 30 should even look at leggings. Noooooooo.

Even worse--came home from mall with skinny jeans to be greeted by 18-year-old son:
"Oh. My. God. You're not going to turn into one of those moms, are you?"
Umm. Which moms?
"Oh. Geez. You know."

And yes, I do know.

Am I one of those moms?

So, yesterday, after a bad night, tormented by self-doubt, I dressed exactly as I wanted to. It helped immensely that it was unusually cold here in south Louisiana. Unfortunately, dressing as I want to demands cold weather. I wore dangly earrings, a simple pullover sweater, a long skirt, cotton tights, ankle socks, and hiking boots. Vintage Annie Hall with a bit of Once thrown in. And I was happy. The dept secretary looked at me in astonishment and my students seemed more, umm, stunned than usual, but I was happy. Fuck it. I'm almost 50.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Wishing for a sippy cup

When I die, the epitaph on my tombstone should read, "She needed a nap." It's alarming how increasingly like a toddler I'm becoming. I get very cranky without regular feedings and a good long nap. It would be so nice if someone would read to me and wipe my nose now and then. And gosh, I'd love an animal cracker and a sippy cup of milk. But--the naps. These are not 15-minute power naps. I used to do those, back when I was a productive and ambitious scholar. I kept a beach towel in my office and would stretch out on it for a 15-20 minute nap most afternoons. Got me past the post-lunch yawniness and guaranteed the afternoon's achievements.

I no longer aspire to Productivity and Achievement. Just, you know, being ok. But the big obstacle to ok-ness is chronic insomnia. Now, it is true, the menopause manuals tell you to expect disrupted sleep, sleeplessness, insomnia. But here's where I'm actually at an advantage: I'm an insomniac from way back. Hah! I laugh in the face of menopausal sleep disruption! Go ahead, give it your all, you damned hormones. Or lack of them. Or whatever it is that is doing this shit to me. You can make me sweat. And cry. And forget basic info. And grow abundant facial fur while the hair on my head thins at an alarming rate. But you cannot affect my sleep if I do not sleep. And I do not. Haven't for years. So there.

Well, I do sleep. I nap. Yes, yes, I know, I know. An insomniac should not nap. Very very bad. I've been to the sleep clinics. Been through sleep therapy. Sleep therapies. Tried the herbs. The relaxation exercises. The yoga. The counseling. The warm milk. The deep breathing. The pills. Lovely, those pills. Knock you right out. But the thing is, the next day, you're as tired as ever. God is not fooled. So, I grab the sleep when it offers itself in the afternoons. Survival.

It's a comfort, knowing I've got this part of menopause down. Done and dusted, as the English say. It was the same way when the boys were babies. The sleep deprivation that sends other parents, that sent Keith, down into the Slough of Despond didn't hit me that hard. OK. Yes, it was hard. But it was also just goddamned normal. Well, as normal as life can be when you're an insomniac. Which is pretty fucking abnormal, frankly. Like for over a year, in a really really bad period of insomnia, I regularly checked my car tires for blood, just in case I had run over someone and not known about it. When you don't sleep for days on end, you get a tad, umm, weird.

So, I nap. It's embarrassing. It's the death knell of Achievement and Productivity. It means you provide your 14-year-old son with a giant sign saying Kick Me Here (Mom's asleep. . . . crank up the rap!) But--I'm still here. Sleepy. Cranky as hell. Longing for bed. But still here.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Plucked

Awhile back I discovered that my 14-year-old son Hugh had been exploring porn sites on the Web. It didn't take any fabulous powers of detection: he printed out pictures and then left them in the printer. On his dad's desk. I'm not really all that well-versed (well-visualized?) in porn, so I found the pictures fascinating. First, the absolutely enormous boobs. Compared to these women, even Barbie looks flat-chested. But it was the plucked crotches that really got me. I couldn't help but think of John Ruskin. A Victorian artist, writer, and critic, Ruskin was so shocked by the sight of his wife's pubic hair that he couldn't consummate his marriage. Up to that point, he only knew the naked female body through art and--think about it--most nudes, at least most nudes up to the mid-19th century, do not, as a rule, have pubes. So, when my husband came in and I showed him the porn pics and he asked me what I thought we should do, I said, "First, we make sure Hugh knows that real adult women have pubic hair." Keith found this a bizarre response, but it seemed to me an important parental responsibility. We don't want to send him out into the world unprepared.

Then I told Lori, my pedicure lady, about it. And Lori said, "Oh, no need to worry. Everyone gets the full "Brazilian" now." Everyone? Sigh. Once again, a standard I didn't even know about, let alone know that I was failing to meet it. So, like, all this time my gynecologist has been thinking, "Ewww! It's that hairy one again"-?

Monday, February 1, 2010

"And a little child. . ."

When Owen was about 4, I bought a really lovely hardcover children's Bible, with decent illustrations (no Jesuses with blond locks and blue eyes) and nice renditions of the stories. The idea was to conclude our nightly reading time with a Bible story and a prayer. So we started at the beginning--Creation--no problems. But Owen's response to the Fall hinted at what was to come. He couldn't understand why God was being so hardline, why he didn't give Adam and Eve a second chance; after all, it wasn't so bad to be curious, was it? I was startled, to say the least.

Then we got to Cain and Abel. Oh dear. Owen was appalled. Why wouldn't God like Cain's gift? It just wasn't fair. Thankfully, Cain rescued me by slaying Abel. Clearly that was bad, so ok, Cain was a Bad Guy. At 4, little boys understand about Bad Guys. At 4, little boys tend to be obsessed with Bad Guys.

But things just got worse. The Tower of Babel story reduced him to tears. "They couldn't talk to each other any more?! But what if they were friends? Why didn't God just tell them not to build the tower?" We muddled through.

Until we got to Abraham and Isaac. Sobbing in fury, Owen cried, "He killed the ram? He just killed it? And God thought that was ok??" Not that he wanted Abraham to sacrifice Isaac instead. He rejected the whole deal.

We stuck to the Gospels after that.