Secret Worlds

'Tis the roach season.

Well, ok, yes, it's south Louisiana. Every season is roach season.

But this time of year, the nights get a bit cooler, and the roaches, accustomed to our usual subtropical temperatures, get nervous and scuttle indoors. Every morning, every room bears witness to their occupation: the night's leftovers, the aged or too enthusiastic bugs who flip over and are left flailing on their back sides, waiting for the kitties to bat them around until I come and squash them. The thrill of squashing the big bad bugs is poor compensation for the knowledge that for each roach squashed, dozens, oh lordy, hundreds, lurk. A secret world, alien creatures, right here among us.

Then the roofing guys come and solve the problem of our rather large living room leak: The wooden planks beneath the shingles feature several rather large holes--and a large, exuberantly healthy, and well-entrenched colony of termites. Apparently we've  been sharing the house with the termites for quite some time. . . . another hidden and horrifying universe, existing parallel to my everyday reality.

I retreat to the comfort of my laptop. I miss my boys. So like any good mother, I log onto Facebook and go stalking.

But but but--who are these people? where are these places? when did that happen? what the fuck are they talking about?

Secret worlds, hidden universes. Except you can't squash these alien creatures.

A Moment in a Marriage

The pinched nerve still has Keith in its grip. Pale and pained, he steps gingerly, as if he expects the floor suddenly to crack open and tumble him into the abyss.

Meanwhile, my decision to resume my morning walks against the podiatrist's advice means I'm now limping; my too-enthusiastic return to yoga has triggered a massive three-day-and-counting headache, and the vulvodynia continues to lurk. Crippled on the bottom, burning in the middle, aching on the top. Pathetic.

The living room looks like a cross between a sex toy shop and a physical therapy treatment room, littered as it is with weights of varying sizes, heating pads, lavender-scented microwavable neck buddies, freezable gel packs, and the vibrator-wanna-be massage tool.

We update each other on our symptoms, exchange prescription ibuprofin and muscle relaxants, and watch massive amounts of tv. We kiss chastely, celibate siblings-in-pain. "We are not this old!" I tell him. He smiles. We take more drugs.

Not Doris

When I resumed this blog a bit ago, I promised myself I'd post twice a week. I broke that promise last week, I admit, but it wasn't my fault, it was my vulva's.

I hate my vulva. I know that's not very nice. One should cosset one's vulva, call it pet names like Rosebud or Doris, affirm it regularly, enjoy its company, give it special treats. And I would do all of that, I really would, because I am a nice person.  But my vulva is not nice. My vulva does not deserve to be called Rosebud and definitely does not rate Doris. My vulva, in fact, is downright mean.

In hindsight, I now realize that even when I was in my 20s, my vulva was beginning to be a problem. I figured it was just moody, or tired, or you know, having a bad day. But then I hit my 30s and gave birth, and somehow that act sent the vulva over the edge. I don't know why; I ended up having a C-section so never in fact actually involved the vulva. Maybe that's why; maybe it's sulking, feels left out, deprived. I dunno. What I do know is that the process of giving birth set my vulva aflame-constant burning, with intermittent spikes of severe, sharp pain, as if someone was stabbing me up the yahoo, just for the hell of it. For the next ten years, my life--and to a large degree, Keith's-- was vulvar-centric. Could we have sex? "Absolutely not," was the usual answer. Could I wear jeans or leggings? No, not really. On bad days and for a very long time, most days were bad days, a long skirt and no undies was the only option. Could I sit down? Not very comfortably. Was I a bitch? Oh, totally.

Doctors at first called the problem "vestibular adenitis." That was a comfort; it was good to have a diagnosis, even if there was no effective treatment. And "vestibular adenitis" is such a satifyingly scientific and diseasey name. It sounds like something that hurts. Somewhere along the line, tho, the name shifted. Now I have "vulvodynia." I do not approve of this name change. "Vulvodynia" sounds like a dance--can't you just hear the wedding d.j.: "OK, everybody, on your feet for the Vulvodynia!"

After ten years of burning and spiking pain, the vulvodynia got tired. Little by little the time between episodes grew longer and longer; bit by bit the epidodes grew less and less extreme; gradually I claimed a largely vulvodynia-free existence. Still had to be careful--couldn't have sex too many days in a row, couldn't spend much time in chlorinated pools, couldn't go on long bike rides--but I could have sex, I could wear jeans and leggings, I could bicycle. A Good Life.

Til last week. When the vulvodynia came raging back in all its burning, spiking fury.

You know, when someone asks, "How ya doin'?" I know that one is not permitted to reply,  "Oh geez, my vulva really hurts." But one is tempted. 

Neighborly

Keith has a pinched nerve in his back and so one of the neighbors has just sent over a "back massager." Hmm. It's long and slightly curved, can be extended, heats up and vibrates, and is best when used with lubricant.

I know that Southerners take the whole neighborly thing really seriously but still. . . .

Feminine items

Today I had my favorite monthly committee meeting --honestly, it's a great group of fun folks, tho' our task (to review the paperwork for new courses) is mind-numbingly boring and often completely inane. . . 

Actually, you know, these days, inane often seems just fine to me. Sheesh, I find in these my waning years that I aspire toward inanity.

But anyway, my monthly committee meeting means I get to use my favorite LSU restroom. I love this restroom. For one thing, it's clean and it always has paper towels--a fine and wonderful thing in this era of maintenance budget cuts. But even better are the signs in each stall: "Ladies, Please do not throw feminine items in the toilet." (It really says "toliet" but let's cut the underpaid and overworked janitor a bit of slack.)

It's the feminine items that gets me every time. I fight to restrain myself from chucking aftershave and jock straps, fishing poles and football jerseys, Weber grills and Playstations, down the commode.

Feminine items. Yup. Nothing speaks femininity quite like a used tampon.

Upgrade

Hell hath no fury like a 17-year-old deprived of his cell phone upgrade by his older brother.

No doubt about it, it was Hugh's upgrade. And he'd been counting, actually counting, the days til the release of the iPhone 5. And no doubt about it, Owen should not have grabbed the upgrade without checking with us. Us, as in We the Parents Who Pay.

And now we're paying big-time as we deal with Hugh, who is incandescent with fury, almost in tears with utter, absolute rage, shaking with thwarted iPhone desire. I get it. Phones don't matter to me, but I know what it is to enjoy something and to want something and to expect something--and to have those expectations suddenly shattered, and to stand there, impotent and angry, knowing that I did not make this happen and that this was not fair.

Safely out of reach in Oregon, Owen is apologetic but cool, "Hey, man, sorry." He went swimming and forgot the phone in his back pocket. His phone was soaked and ruined; he needed a new phone; his cheapest option was to take the family's available upgrade. It must have all seemed so clear under the Hugh-free skies of Portland. And yet, since this is only Owen's second phone in eight years and since Hugh has grabbed approximately 75 percent of the collective upgrades due to the four of us, I can see my older son's point.

"Fuck him!"

They launch their weapons at each other but somehow always hit me instead.

Cowering in a foxhole

Sitting here watching the Democratic National Convention. Rahm Emanuel is on. He has amazing skin. So smooth and soft-looking.

Am incapable of thinking about national debt or health care or welfare-to-work or jobs programs or taxation rates. Can only focus on skin. And ties. And hair styles. Am not sure I'll ever be capable of substantive thought again. Saw the sign for "Virgina" and thought it said "Viagra," and that seemed fine.

I could just be tired. Or maybe I'm getting sick. But I think it's that I'm sick and tired of fighting these fights. I so admire those awesome folks who spend their entire lives fighting the good fight. Me, I just want to crawl into a foxhole and let the battle pass me by. While I comment on the soldiers' fashion choices and skin care regimens.

The voice of the turtledove

We have a new assistant pastor. He's lovely--looks about 16 and like he should be riding a skateboard. He preached for the first time this morning and in an incredibly gutsy move, did so on the Song of Songs:
Arise, my love, my fair one,
and come away,
for lo, the winter is past,
the rain is over and gone.
The flowers appear on the earth,
the time of singing has come,
and the voice of the turtle dove
is heard in our land.

You don't get a lot of Presbyterian sermons on the Song, for fairly obvious reasons-- "his fruit was sweet to my taste"-- "your breasts are like twin fawns"-- "I had put off my garment, how could I put it on?"-- you can just hear the feet shuffling and bulletins rustling.

Skateboarder Pastor Guy talked about intimacy, about our having been created for intimacy with God and with each other. He referred to the Creation story, to Adam saying to Eve, "You are flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone," and he recalled a service in which the minister had had each member of the congregation turn to the other and say those words. Imagine, he said, if we did that, if we thought that, if we realized that on a daily basis: "You are flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone."

So I come home and 17-year-old Hugh is sitting at the kitchen counter. I walk over, give him a big hug, and say, "You are flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone."

Hugh springs up and shouts, "Geez, Mom what the FUCK does that mean?!"

Still waiting to hear that turtledove.