Winter Lust

It's that time of year. Nope, not almost Christmas, tho' I guess it is that, actually. But, like everyone else whose life is constrained and sustained by the academic calendar, I do not acknowledge Christmas until after the final exams are graded. Nope, by "that time of year" I mean: 'tis the season for porn. Oh, not that kind. I'm talking catalogue porn. Specifically winter clothing catalogue porn. Temperatures today here in balmy Baton Rouge are in the high 70s. Humidity hovers at 90%. My students came to class, as always, in shorts and flip-flops. And I, I sit on the sofa with my Eddie Bauer and my L.L. Bean and my J. Jill catalogues, and I linger lovingly, lustfully, longingly on the full-page, color photos of thigh-length chunky wool sweaters and thick velvet leggings, down parkas and polartec ski jackets, matching fluffy hat and mittens sets. It is not healthy for me, I know. But damn, it feels good.

Rejuvenation

I've gotten my period. Not exactly headline news for any female over the age of 12, except I'm 50, and haven't had my period for two years. So, quite frankly, I'm shocked. And perturbed. I'm doing my best, fighting hard to settle into my new identity as Crazy Menopausal Woman, and suddenly here I am, fecund, gushing blood. Is this fair? Two years of sweat springing forth from my pores as if I were some kind of garden fountain; two years of reduced sexual drive to the point where "drive" is hardly the right word, more like "slight inclination now and then"; two years of mood swings and weight gain and hair loss. . . . and now I have my freaking (downright freaky) period??

Acupuncture Guy tells me it could be the result of my thrice-weekly, oh-so-expensive needle sessions plus herbal regimen. I'm restoring my "chi". Hmm. It seems to me--I dunno, I'm just sayin'-- that if this rather well-known thousands-year-old treatment could actually reverse menopause, well, wouldn't women have cottoned onto this by now? Wouldn't all of us over-40-ish female types be getting little needles stuck into us regularly? But then again, maybe not. Who, after all, wants periods forever? I, for one, think fecundity may be over-rated.

Still, Acupuncture Guy's assistant told me in my last session that I had the best-looking tongue she'd seen all day. Sadly, I felt quite pleased.

Disconnected

In the wake of almost 16-year-old Hugh's disastrous report card, we've implemented a number of "Get Serious" strategies, including close supervision of all homework and confiscation of his cell phone during study time. (By the way, "his cell phone" is not exactly correct, as we pay for the damn thing.) Yesterday, when I put both mandates into effect, Hugh went ballistic. He actually threw his phone on the table and thundered, "If you touch it, I swear to God, I'll punch you in the face!" Amazing Supermom that I am, I remained calm and later informed him, in a my Total Zennish yet serious and authoritative voice, that I was confiscating his phone for a week. He cried. Sobbed, actually.

I struggled with myself, unsure if such a slight punishment fit the seriousness of the offense.

And then, later that day, I told the story to Nail Lady. She gasped, horrified, and exclaimed, "You're not really going to keep his phone for an entire week, are you?"

Needing Dumbledore on Thanksgiving

Watching Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (as one does on Thanksgiving night). The inferi have grabbed him; they've pulled him into the water; he's drowning.

Stuffed with Thanksgiving food and family, Keith and Hugh recline on their respective sofas (we are a two-sofa family), caught up in Harry's travails, yet utterly relaxed. But I, feeling somewhat alienated as usual by the whole ordeal of "Thanksgiving at the In-Laws' [who are supposed to be my family but let's face it, they're not], I find myself utterly transfixed by this scene, which so perfectly, horribly, accurately embodies the experience of chronic depression, the lifelong fight against those creatures who pull you in and suck you under.

Harry's now been saved by Dumbledore and his wand. I could use a Dumbledore right now. Or even just a Hermione and a Ron, to walk with me past the Whomping Willow and through the Forbidden Forest, til we find ourselves safe at Hagrid's cottage, in front of a roaring fire.

Why I am for gun control

Yesterday I met with Hugh's geometry teacher to discuss Hugh's performance (or lack thereof) in his class. Young, laid-back, sporting a cool little beard, Geometry Guy is a nice man and, I imagine, a good teacher. He carefully explained to me that he had no doubt that Hugh was capable of doing the work. I pointed out that Hugh's grades made that clear: 0, 0, 100, 0, 0, 0, 0, 100, 100, 0, 0, 100 . . . . (you get the idea). I articulated my frustration: What do you do with a child who can do the work but simply doesn't?

Geometry Guy leans forward and says, "Have you thought about an incentive program?"

I don't think I'm a violent person, but if I had had a handgun in my purse (as is my legal right here in Louisiana), I would have shot him dead.

"Have you thought about an incentive program?" Excuse me. We're middle-class over-educated parents with a "problem child." You want to talk about incentive programs? Oh, the charts and stickers. The tickets. The points. The marbles in the jars. The coupon books. We have an entire bookshelf filled with titles like Transforming the Difficult Child. "Have you thought about an incentive program?" Why, golly gosh, no, what a novel idea! Thank you so much, Mr. Geometry Guy.

We received Hugh's grade report this week. Two Fs, a D, and a bunch of Cs (plus an A in P.E.; it's important not to forget the A in P.E.). We grounded him. He immediately went and Googled the subject of child discipline, and a few hours later presented us with a well-reasoned argument, backed with research, on why grounding is an ineffective method of behavior management.

A handgun would be a terrible idea.

Dutch Treat

I.
The setting: last August. Owen is home for a short interlude between his cross-country bike trip and his D.C. internship. (Ah, the glamour of youth.) It's mid-morning. I've been doing errands and am now heading into the office. Must. Write. Damn. Book. Must. Get. Promoted. I pass by Owen, who has just put in a dvd and is now settling down on the sofa.
"Hey, Mom. Where ya goin'?"
"Work."
"Oh, don't do that. Watch Season 2 of Robin Hood with me. We can bond."
"Umm. OK."
I flop onto the sofa. Owen bursts out laughing. "You know, you're the reason I have no work ethic!" He sees the look on my face. "No, no--it's great! All my life, whenever you have to choose between family and work, friends and work, you always choose family and friends. And I think that's great."
So do I. It was one of the nicest things he could have ever said to me.
We settled down on the sofa, two satisfied slackers.

II.
Yesterday, Owen sent me the following link: http://www.slate.com/id/2274736. If you do not want to bother reading the article, the following excerpt pretty much sums it up: "Dutch women . . . take a lackadaisical approach to their careers. They work half days, meet their friends for coffee at 2 p.m., and pity their male colleagues who are stuck in the office all day. . . . 'We look at the world of management—and it is a man's world—and we think, oh I could do that if I wanted,' says Maaike van Lunberg, an editor at De Stentor newspaper. 'But I'd rather enjoy my life.'"
Owen added the message: "I knew you were born in the wrong country."

Damn straight. Plus, if I were Dutch, I could smoke weed to relieve my headaches. And eat really good Gouda and that amazing chewy salty rye bread.

Actually, I'm 100% ethnically Dutch. I could have been genuinely Dutch, right now, had my great-grandparents not been completely selfish and decided to leave all they knew and emigrate in search of a better life for themselves and their descendants. Damn you, you work-ethic-burdened ancestors. Why couldn't you have just have toked up and chilled out?

Where's the knife?

I'm in Hour 26 of a Really Bad Headache. Almost 20 years ago, I was in Hour 26 of utterly fruitless labor when the doctor came in and informed me he was doing a C-section. I gotta admit, I thought, "Oh, thank God." So now I'm trying to figure out what's the headache-fixing version of a C-section. All I can come up with is a lobotomy. Which would be just fine, really.

The Middle Age

Many of our friends find themselves in the "Middle Age," as the self-help books label it, caught in the middle between high-demand teenage kids and high-maintenance aging parents. While we have the high-demand teenage kids, Keith and I are lucky: our dads died when we were young.

Wait. That didn't come out right.

Umm, I just mean, we don't have aging dads. And our moms. Gosh, our moms. Incredible women, they live active, productive, energetic lives. My mom roller skates. Keith's mom smokes meat and cans veggies that she grows in a garden the size of New Hampshire. The moms are fine.

But we haven't quite escaped the squeeze between demanding kids and aging loved ones. It's just that our aging loved one is a dog. Rowan is aging--and not at all gracefully. He's a dog. A big furry lumbering slobbering dog. He doesn't do graceful. But he does do age. Every night. In our bedroom. Where he sleeps. Loudly. He snorts. He snores. He coughs. He sighs. He mutters. And then he wakes up and wanders. We have wood floors. Bracken has nails. He goes clickclickclickclick back and forth back and forth back and forth. It's like having the River Dance troupe in your bedroom in the middle of the night. And then all those clicking dancers suddenly throw themselves on the floor with a loud THUMP and begin to lick their genitals with great slurpy gusto.

I keep fantasizing about a pair of youthful West Highland terriers. I will call them Campion and Comfrey. They will not sleep in our bedroom. They will wear little terrier mittens so they will not click. And they will be de-tongued. . . or de-genitalled. . . anyway, they will not slurp.

Clearly I am not a Good Person. A Good Person does not fantasize about replacing her loyal and affectionate dog with a younger model. I wonder if this means that when we come to the point where we are caring for our aged, ailing moms, I'll daydream about substitutes,you know, like perhaps one of those wealthy old moms with a great summer house by the beach and a small collection of paintings by early Abstract Expressionists and a voracious appetite for world affairs.

Oh dear.

Pale Tongue

I have a pale tongue. I didn't know that my tongue was paler than most; I guess I haven't paid much attention to tongue coloration. I know now about my pale tongue because my acupuncturist told me so. Yes, my acupuncturist. I now have an acupuncturist. And I am now ingesting massive quantities of Chinese herbs. I feel so totally alternative, like I should dress in flowy, ankle-long, brightly colored skirts and hiking boots while I grind my own flour. This plunge into alternativity is motivated by my never-ending quest for relief from chronic daily headaches. Western medicine has failed me; I turn to the East.

But back to the tongue. Turns out possession of a pale tongue is Bad. So Acupuncturist Guy is hopeful that sticking me with needles and plying me with herbal concoctions will help with not only the headaches but also clogged sinuses, insomnia, menopause, depression, and my inability to understand football. OK, not the last one.

Am I hopeful? Hmm. Over the last several years I have worked with many a hopeful medical-type person, ranging from the Svaroopa yoga therapist to the neurologist, the sleep specialist to the TMJ dentist to the chiropractor, the osteopath, and the deep-tissue masseuse. I have learned much. I have spent much. And still I am more of a Headache with a person, than a Person with a headache. "Hopeful" means "full of hope" and I can't say hope is sloshing over my brim, but still, yep, there's a bit of it swirling around in the bottom of the cup.

Bad Mom

So am I a Bad Mom? Hugh was singing this chirpy, get-inside-your-head-forever chorus that pretty much goes "Fuck you, fuck you very much." So, aspiring to be a Good Mom, I'm all set to throttle him. Then he shows me the video on Youtube, and it's the British singer Lily Allen, and the song goes back to the Bush years:

Look inside, look inside your tiny mind
and look a bit harder
cause we’re so uninspired
so sick and tired
of all the hatred you harbor
CHORUS: Fuck you etc. etc. etc. [But truly, it's very catchy. . . ]

Am I a Bad Mom because I laughed and joined in singing? Surely a Good Mom would gently remind her adolescent son, as he struggles to find his way in this world, that we must love our enemies, even when it's really hard? Surely a Good Mom would point to the importance of civility, not only in dealing with neighbors and family members, but in political discourse as well? Surely a Good Mom would suggest that such a song divides us rather than helps us move forward toward responsible solutions to the vast problems that we all face?

But today is Friday, November 5th, 2010. And three days ago, on Tuesday, November 3rd, 2010, well, we all know what happened three days ago. My soul is tired. My spirit is shattered. I am well and truly depressed.

The victors keep talking about "taking the country back." Back? Back from whom? Me, I guess. Evidently I don't belong here. And honestly, I would emigrate, but what country wants an overeducated, underskilled, middle-aged historian? We're not all that useful, really.

Certainly not here in Tea Party Land, this strange sordid place where I suddenly find myself living. And then along comes my beautiful boy singing this catchy song in this lovely British accent. We sang. We laughed. I'm a Bad Mom . . . but damn, Hugh and I, we were Good.

Job Satisfaction; or, Potato Pride

I know that to normal people, the job of a history professor must seem a tad boring. Reading, writing, grading, more reading, writing, grading, and then some more of the same. But actually, my job means that I get paid to read books that include marvelous sentences like this one:

"In June 2005, representatives from the British Potato Council demonstrated outside the offices of Oxford University Press and in London's Parliament Square, campaigning for the use of the word 'couch slouch' instead of 'couch potato', which they claimed was insulting to potatoes."*

I love my job.
___________

*Joe Moran, Queuing for Beginnners: The Story of Daily Life from Breakfast to Bedtime (2007), p. 169.

Further Adventures in Yoga

Return to gentle old-lady yoga. Substitute teacher. Looks about 13 years old.

Tonight I am to "honor my body's own unique rhythms." But what if my body marches to the beat of chocolate cupcakes and epic stretches of watching British television series on dvd? A problem.

Even more problematic, as always, is the end-of-class relaxation/meditation session. Gentle Substitute dictates, "Breathe into any place in your body still holding tension and create a bubble of warmth around that place." Oh dear. Desperately try to figure out how to breathe into the nape of my neck and my forehead and my jaw line and my knees and my arthritic foot. Haven't even approached the matter of creating warm bubbles around all those spots, when Substitute Teacher demands--gently-- that we now extend that warm bubble all around the entire body. Mad scramble to create warm bubbles and then somehow meld them into one all-embracing bubble--without, obviously, popping any bubbles. Difficult. No warm bubbles anywhere. Ruthless Gentle Substitute presses on. "Now extend that bubble outward; let your aura touch your neighbor's." Ahh. Enlightenment. "Warm bubble" = Aura. Not that this particular enlightenment has any practical application, as my Aura and I are on distant terms, at best. And now things get really sticky, because my yoga neighbor happens to be someone I know and like very much from my church. I want my Aura to touch hers; I really do.

I fail.

Somehow I always come out of yoga class feeling like I did in junior high when I'd join my group of ostensible friends at breaktime, and gradually realize I didn't get any of the jokes or references because I hadn't been invited to the party they'd had over the weekend. I bet if I'd had an Aura they'd have invited me. Geez. I probably would have been a cheerleader.