I've been Bruced. Bossified. Springsteenized.
Bruce Springsteen has provided the soundtrack of my adult life, thanks to the Guy That Got Away, a sweet New Jersey boy I dated back in my Calvin College days. It was 1980--five years after Born to Run, the iconic, amazing single and album that vaulted Springsteen into rock history and put him on the cover of Time and Newsweek in the same week. But in 1975 I was only 15. "Born to Run" actually didn't make it at first onto regular radio; Springsteen didn't leap the boundaries between "rock-that-critics-adore" and "rock- that-young- unaware- Midwestern-teens-listen-to" until 1980, with The River. 1980--still four years before Born in the USA. So, until The Guy That Got Away, I didn't know Springsteen, hadn't a clue. But The Guy, well, he was from New Jersey, and he was clued-in. He volunteered as a dj on our college radio station--broadcasting to the dorms and dining halls of Calvin College, not a huge gig, mind you, but still--and I would sit there through his sessions with him. The radio station protocols were strict: every hour had to include a certain number of minutes of "Christian rock." The Guy, bless him, hated Christian rock, so he would carefully search out Christian rock songs whose duration matched those of Springsteen singles. He'd play the Springsteen, and then enter the Christian song in the log. I have to tell you, in the context of Calvin College, this was downright subversive. Of course, no one ever noticed, since no one ever actually listened to the college station. But in the grand scheme of things, it didn't matter. The Guy gave me Bruce. And I've had him ever since. Bruce, that is. Not The Guy. Which also, in the grand scheme, turned out not to matter. My mom used to say there was a lid for every pot. Actually, I think there are several. Plus pots change shape over time, and so do lids. And sometimes, you know, you just cram that sucker on there and command it to fit.
Back to our main story.
In all these years, I've never seen Springsteen in concert. There was this and there was that, never in the right place with enough money and enough time. But last night, he was in New Orleans and I was there, in the right place, at the right time, with a paid-up ticket.
It was good. It was very very good. Sometimes life is very simple and very sweet. Not often. But sometimes.
And I believe in a promised land. . .
Showing posts with label Bruce Springsteen. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bruce Springsteen. Show all posts
Monday, April 30, 2012
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Gather round, little children
My niece sent me a link to a hilarious post about the failure of "bikini condoms." Evidently women just did not flock to use a latex G-string panty with a "condom pouch," which I gather is something like an empty hotdog skin, hanging down between your legs, awaiting the male member. (Such a strange term. Is there a female member? Does the clitoris count as a member or is there some kind of size requirement?)
I'm disturbed that I had no idea there was such a thing as a bikini condom. In my defence: As soon as Hugh's adoption was finalized, Keith ran off and got fixed, so scared was he that we would become one of those legendary legions of couples who adopt and then immediately get pregnant.** And since I'm not inclined toward adultery, that means it's been 17 years since I've had to think about birth control in any personal way. But still, I keep track of all kinds of things that have little direct impact on me personally--dissent in Syria, the strength of Springsteen's marriage, what's hot in the West End and on Broadway, the gender disparity in literary awards--I mean, you know, I 'm alive, alert, aware. . . but evidently not so much on the contraception front. I just hate that.
But I'm even more disturbed by "In Bed with Married Women" blogger's description of the bikini condom as "a pouch-like tube (oh yeah), a belt reminiscent of grandma's old-timey maxi pads, and cream-colored latex, which we all know is the very sexiest latex color." It's the "belt reminiscent of grandma's old-timey maxi pads" that arouses such discomfort. Because I wore that belt. And I do not feel like "grandma" or in the least bit "old-timey", tho' maybe the fact that I did not know about the bikini condom completely undercuts my argument here.
Ahh, the sanitary napkin and the belt. Gather round, little children, and let me tell you about long long ago, in the days before maxi and mini pad technology. (OK, yes, tampons did exist. . . but I was 10. I was just a little kid and my body suddenly transmogrified into this horrifying, alien thing sprouting hair in weird places and growing breasts and then gushing blood. Not until I was 17 and much more comfortable in my own skin did I relax enough to insert a tampon.) Fifth grade, then. A belt with little clips and a rectangle of cotton fiber with these tails on either end to stick in the clips. One size fits all, supposedly. . . which of course meant that rectangle jutted far in front and behind of my bottom. It moved. Not my bottom. The napkin. It moved. Ah, little children, remember that adhesive technology had not yet been invented, at least not in the realm of Ladies' Monthlies. The belt went around your waist, the pad was clipped on, and then, well, a 10-year-old kid did what 10-year-old kids do--swinging on swings, climbing the monkey bars, playing tether ball, rolling on the grass--and the pad traveled. I'd find it on my left hip, or all the way up my backside, poking out of the waistband of my skirt as I sat at my desk completing my spelling words.
So yes, little children, we have made progress. Despite the bikini condom.
**Factual note: couples who adopt are no more likely to have unplanned pregnancies than couples who don't. Really. There are stats and everything, except I can't find them. But you can trust me. I am a Reliable Source. Even if I am on the Internet.
I'm disturbed that I had no idea there was such a thing as a bikini condom. In my defence: As soon as Hugh's adoption was finalized, Keith ran off and got fixed, so scared was he that we would become one of those legendary legions of couples who adopt and then immediately get pregnant.** And since I'm not inclined toward adultery, that means it's been 17 years since I've had to think about birth control in any personal way. But still, I keep track of all kinds of things that have little direct impact on me personally--dissent in Syria, the strength of Springsteen's marriage, what's hot in the West End and on Broadway, the gender disparity in literary awards--I mean, you know, I 'm alive, alert, aware. . . but evidently not so much on the contraception front. I just hate that.
But I'm even more disturbed by "In Bed with Married Women" blogger's description of the bikini condom as "a pouch-like tube (oh yeah), a belt reminiscent of grandma's old-timey maxi pads, and cream-colored latex, which we all know is the very sexiest latex color." It's the "belt reminiscent of grandma's old-timey maxi pads" that arouses such discomfort. Because I wore that belt. And I do not feel like "grandma" or in the least bit "old-timey", tho' maybe the fact that I did not know about the bikini condom completely undercuts my argument here.
Ahh, the sanitary napkin and the belt. Gather round, little children, and let me tell you about long long ago, in the days before maxi and mini pad technology. (OK, yes, tampons did exist. . . but I was 10. I was just a little kid and my body suddenly transmogrified into this horrifying, alien thing sprouting hair in weird places and growing breasts and then gushing blood. Not until I was 17 and much more comfortable in my own skin did I relax enough to insert a tampon.) Fifth grade, then. A belt with little clips and a rectangle of cotton fiber with these tails on either end to stick in the clips. One size fits all, supposedly. . . which of course meant that rectangle jutted far in front and behind of my bottom. It moved. Not my bottom. The napkin. It moved. Ah, little children, remember that adhesive technology had not yet been invented, at least not in the realm of Ladies' Monthlies. The belt went around your waist, the pad was clipped on, and then, well, a 10-year-old kid did what 10-year-old kids do--swinging on swings, climbing the monkey bars, playing tether ball, rolling on the grass--and the pad traveled. I'd find it on my left hip, or all the way up my backside, poking out of the waistband of my skirt as I sat at my desk completing my spelling words.
So yes, little children, we have made progress. Despite the bikini condom.
**Factual note: couples who adopt are no more likely to have unplanned pregnancies than couples who don't. Really. There are stats and everything, except I can't find them. But you can trust me. I am a Reliable Source. Even if I am on the Internet.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Pausing in Time
So, I'm watching Doc Martin and want another glass of wine. Cool beans! I click "Pause" and off I go for a refill. Pause. PAUSE! I've paused Live TV!
God. I love living in the 21st century.
I had no idea one could pause "Live TV," as in "TV being broadcast right now." But the weekend before last, Hugh had some friends staying over. While he was passed out upstairs (ok, yes, another story), his buddies were watching tv and I came in and we started chatting and something came up so that they pulled out the remote and said, "Look, Miss Facing-50, see, just press this button with the two lines and you can pause your show." I was stunned. "Wait. Are you serious? TV? It's not a dvd? You're pausing a TELEVISION PROGRAM?" "Yeah, sure," they said, all nonchalant, but also rather gentle, like they were talking to an inquisitive toddler or maybe an Indigenous Person in a loincloth who somehow got catapulted from the jungle into our living room. "And see, just press this button with the arrow and you can fast-forward."
And suddenly, there was This Moment. Just a second or two, I guess. But in that one or two seconds, I had this vision, this totally Doctor Who moment, the possibility of time collapsing, of fast forwarding into the future, wrinkles in time, wormholes in space. No Tardis and no David Tennant, sadly, not even Matt Smith, but still, TIME, right at my fingers via my remote control.
Until Hugh's buddies stammered, "Oh no, umm, no, Miss Facing-50, we didn't mean you could, like, you know, fast-forward in real time. Just if you pause a program, later you can, you know, fast-forward it. But you know, like, you can't like really mess with time. Not really."
They had That Look on their faces--that "Oh my God, we're dealing with an insane old person" look. And, even though Hugh was unconscious upstairs and Owen was doing whatever he does in Oregon, I could hear both of them howling, "MOM! Oh God, Mom! Really?! Are you kidding me???"
Time and space collapsing.
Right. Of course. I know you can't use your tv remote to fast-forward through time. Kind of. Except, you know, like, I've seen a hell of a lot of technological change in my time. Geez louise. We had a black and white tv, you know? A transistor radio. A friggin' hi-fi. And now, I click on my remote and I pause my tv program. I speak into my phone and it tells me where to go, then I plug it into a little box and somewhere somehow someone plays hours of music that I like, songs I've never even heard before, but yes, I like them, and somehow someone somewhere knew I would like them because I like Bruce Springsteen and the Beatles and the Clash. So, fast-forwarding through time. . . .for a second there, it seemed, well, utterly real, totally sensible, completely possible.
Just for a moment. A second. An eternity.
God. I love living in the 21st century.
I had no idea one could pause "Live TV," as in "TV being broadcast right now." But the weekend before last, Hugh had some friends staying over. While he was passed out upstairs (ok, yes, another story), his buddies were watching tv and I came in and we started chatting and something came up so that they pulled out the remote and said, "Look, Miss Facing-50, see, just press this button with the two lines and you can pause your show." I was stunned. "Wait. Are you serious? TV? It's not a dvd? You're pausing a TELEVISION PROGRAM?" "Yeah, sure," they said, all nonchalant, but also rather gentle, like they were talking to an inquisitive toddler or maybe an Indigenous Person in a loincloth who somehow got catapulted from the jungle into our living room. "And see, just press this button with the arrow and you can fast-forward."
And suddenly, there was This Moment. Just a second or two, I guess. But in that one or two seconds, I had this vision, this totally Doctor Who moment, the possibility of time collapsing, of fast forwarding into the future, wrinkles in time, wormholes in space. No Tardis and no David Tennant, sadly, not even Matt Smith, but still, TIME, right at my fingers via my remote control.
Until Hugh's buddies stammered, "Oh no, umm, no, Miss Facing-50, we didn't mean you could, like, you know, fast-forward in real time. Just if you pause a program, later you can, you know, fast-forward it. But you know, like, you can't like really mess with time. Not really."
They had That Look on their faces--that "Oh my God, we're dealing with an insane old person" look. And, even though Hugh was unconscious upstairs and Owen was doing whatever he does in Oregon, I could hear both of them howling, "MOM! Oh God, Mom! Really?! Are you kidding me???"
Time and space collapsing.
Right. Of course. I know you can't use your tv remote to fast-forward through time. Kind of. Except, you know, like, I've seen a hell of a lot of technological change in my time. Geez louise. We had a black and white tv, you know? A transistor radio. A friggin' hi-fi. And now, I click on my remote and I pause my tv program. I speak into my phone and it tells me where to go, then I plug it into a little box and somewhere somehow someone plays hours of music that I like, songs I've never even heard before, but yes, I like them, and somehow someone somewhere knew I would like them because I like Bruce Springsteen and the Beatles and the Clash. So, fast-forwarding through time. . . .for a second there, it seemed, well, utterly real, totally sensible, completely possible.
Just for a moment. A second. An eternity.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
On the Streets of Baton Rouge
I was bruised and battered
And I couldn't tell what I felt
I was unrecognizable to myself.
Springsteen fans, and anyone cognizant of important music in the 20th century, will recognize the above as the opening lines of "The Streets of Philadelphia," a beautiful song featured on the soundtrack of the movie Philadelphia with Tom Hanks.
The movie, as I imagine most of the world knows, is about a guy with AIDS, early in the AIDS epidemic (if you haven't seen it, you should; really). So why are those lyrics playing over and over and over in my head this Sunday night, as the weekend draws to a close? I do not have AIDS. No one I know has AIDS. I know that AIDS is an enormous global crisis, one that I should pay more attention to.
And I will. Truly. I promise.
But right now, I can't. I'm too bruised and battered. I can't tell what I feel. I'm unrecognizable to myself.
I'm not on the streets of Philadelphia. I'm just here, at home, in boring ol' Baton Rouge. (Tho' I gotta say, gumbo vs. cheese steak?? Gumbo wins, hands down.)
The thing is, I've just spent the weekend with Hugh. My 16-year-old son. And, all I can think and hear , the only thing that seems to make sense of the chaos in my heart and the churning in my gut and the ache in my skull is that song:
I was bruised and battered
And I couldn't tell what I felt
I was unrecognizable to myself.
Who do I become when I am with him? Who is this horror? This hectoring, righteous, ill-humored, rigid soul? And who does he become? My beautiful boy, my charming, funny, cheeky, handsome guy? How does he transform into this rude and cruel and self-centered hulk, this mass of IWantIDemandINeed WhatIsWrongWith YouYouAreSoFuckingLame?
When Hugh was 15 months old, I went to London for three weeks to do research. And when I flew home, Keith was there with both boys to meet me in the airport. And Hugh reached out his chubby little arms, smiled, said softly, "My mama," and nestled close.
My Hugh. Baby, where are you?
And I couldn't tell what I felt
I was unrecognizable to myself.
Springsteen fans, and anyone cognizant of important music in the 20th century, will recognize the above as the opening lines of "The Streets of Philadelphia," a beautiful song featured on the soundtrack of the movie Philadelphia with Tom Hanks.
The movie, as I imagine most of the world knows, is about a guy with AIDS, early in the AIDS epidemic (if you haven't seen it, you should; really). So why are those lyrics playing over and over and over in my head this Sunday night, as the weekend draws to a close? I do not have AIDS. No one I know has AIDS. I know that AIDS is an enormous global crisis, one that I should pay more attention to.
And I will. Truly. I promise.
But right now, I can't. I'm too bruised and battered. I can't tell what I feel. I'm unrecognizable to myself.
I'm not on the streets of Philadelphia. I'm just here, at home, in boring ol' Baton Rouge. (Tho' I gotta say, gumbo vs. cheese steak?? Gumbo wins, hands down.)
The thing is, I've just spent the weekend with Hugh. My 16-year-old son. And, all I can think and hear , the only thing that seems to make sense of the chaos in my heart and the churning in my gut and the ache in my skull is that song:
I was bruised and battered
And I couldn't tell what I felt
I was unrecognizable to myself.
Who do I become when I am with him? Who is this horror? This hectoring, righteous, ill-humored, rigid soul? And who does he become? My beautiful boy, my charming, funny, cheeky, handsome guy? How does he transform into this rude and cruel and self-centered hulk, this mass of IWantIDemandINeed WhatIsWrongWith YouYouAreSoFuckingLame?
When Hugh was 15 months old, I went to London for three weeks to do research. And when I flew home, Keith was there with both boys to meet me in the airport. And Hugh reached out his chubby little arms, smiled, said softly, "My mama," and nestled close.
My Hugh. Baby, where are you?
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Bitter Woman
Keith is watching football. LSU vs. West Virginia. God. I hate football.
I shouldn't be bitter.
I'm not. I Am Not A Bitter Woman.
The thing is, we had a very short courtship. So it came as something of a surprise that I found myself married to a sports fanatic. Somehow, this fanaticism just hadn't really surfaced in the months, umm, weeks, of our pre-marriage romance.
You might think that as the younger sister of five older brothers, I was prepared for Sports Fanaticism. But my big brothers were more into cars and cigarettes and beer and drugs. We were Cubs fans, because my much-loved grandma was a Cubs fan. And being a Cubs fan went well with beer and cigarettes, frankly-- add a hotdog with mustard and relish, and Life Is Good. But football?? Dad watched the Bears on Sundays in the depth of winter when he could laugh at "those idiots" floundering in the snow. And my brothers were far too stoned to care.
So, here I sit, with this man who cares intensely. Who actually just now said, as he moved the chair so he could be right in front of our rather small tv, "Can you see?"--as if I cared. But he can't imagine I don't care. Which is so sweet. And just so damn weird.
Weird as it is, I'd be ok with it, if it were just LSU football. I mean, I get obsession. Obsession is ok. I have my obsessions. Doctor Who. Bruce Springsteen. And everything Paul Newman has ever done. And I ritualistically, fatalistically, follow the Cubs, as part of my birthright. So, if Keith were simply obsessed with LSU football, really, I'd be ok with that. But, here's the deal: I thought The Game was this afternoon. Because Keith spent the entire friggin' afternoon watching football. But that was other football. Gettin' ready football. Preparatory football. Foreplay football.
Keith is watching football. LSU vs. West Virginia. God. I hate football.
And yes. I Am A Bitter Woman.
I shouldn't be bitter.
I'm not. I Am Not A Bitter Woman.
The thing is, we had a very short courtship. So it came as something of a surprise that I found myself married to a sports fanatic. Somehow, this fanaticism just hadn't really surfaced in the months, umm, weeks, of our pre-marriage romance.
You might think that as the younger sister of five older brothers, I was prepared for Sports Fanaticism. But my big brothers were more into cars and cigarettes and beer and drugs. We were Cubs fans, because my much-loved grandma was a Cubs fan. And being a Cubs fan went well with beer and cigarettes, frankly-- add a hotdog with mustard and relish, and Life Is Good. But football?? Dad watched the Bears on Sundays in the depth of winter when he could laugh at "those idiots" floundering in the snow. And my brothers were far too stoned to care.
So, here I sit, with this man who cares intensely. Who actually just now said, as he moved the chair so he could be right in front of our rather small tv, "Can you see?"--as if I cared. But he can't imagine I don't care. Which is so sweet. And just so damn weird.
Weird as it is, I'd be ok with it, if it were just LSU football. I mean, I get obsession. Obsession is ok. I have my obsessions. Doctor Who. Bruce Springsteen. And everything Paul Newman has ever done. And I ritualistically, fatalistically, follow the Cubs, as part of my birthright. So, if Keith were simply obsessed with LSU football, really, I'd be ok with that. But, here's the deal: I thought The Game was this afternoon. Because Keith spent the entire friggin' afternoon watching football. But that was other football. Gettin' ready football. Preparatory football. Foreplay football.
Keith is watching football. LSU vs. West Virginia. God. I hate football.
And yes. I Am A Bitter Woman.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Thanksgiving II
More Things for Which I Am Thankful:
1. Lipstick. I never used to wear lipstick. Even back in my make-up days, when I actually wore liquid foundation every day (I was young; I was foolish; I had time to waste and hope to squander), I did not wear lipstick. The occasional lip gloss, frequent applications of Chapstick, yes, but none of that old lady stick stuff. So, now I'm an almost-old lady. And I thank the Lord for lipstick. I've never seen this discussed in any scientific study or woman's magazine, but lips fade with age, don't they? I mean, I'm quite sure my lips had color when I was young. Now it's like I'm a color photo but my lips are in black and white. Lipstick makes life more livable. Thank you, unknown lipstick inventor.
2. My VW Beetle. I'm not a car person. My first car was a basic 2-door Toyota Tercel. Manual transmission. Manual door locks. Manual windows. Not even any carpet. It went from 0 to 70 in about 15 minutes. And it was fine. But now I have my Beetle. It's cute. It accessorizes well. I fit in it. It's actually spunky and funky. And it has a cd player so I can get my regular injections of Springsteen without any effort. I might not be a car person but I'm a this-car-person. Thank you Volkswagen.
3. HRT. Chances of cancer and heart disease aside, this is great stuff. Thanks, Big Pharma. . . not that you deserve those obscene profits. Just sayin'.
1. Lipstick. I never used to wear lipstick. Even back in my make-up days, when I actually wore liquid foundation every day (I was young; I was foolish; I had time to waste and hope to squander), I did not wear lipstick. The occasional lip gloss, frequent applications of Chapstick, yes, but none of that old lady stick stuff. So, now I'm an almost-old lady. And I thank the Lord for lipstick. I've never seen this discussed in any scientific study or woman's magazine, but lips fade with age, don't they? I mean, I'm quite sure my lips had color when I was young. Now it's like I'm a color photo but my lips are in black and white. Lipstick makes life more livable. Thank you, unknown lipstick inventor.
2. My VW Beetle. I'm not a car person. My first car was a basic 2-door Toyota Tercel. Manual transmission. Manual door locks. Manual windows. Not even any carpet. It went from 0 to 70 in about 15 minutes. And it was fine. But now I have my Beetle. It's cute. It accessorizes well. I fit in it. It's actually spunky and funky. And it has a cd player so I can get my regular injections of Springsteen without any effort. I might not be a car person but I'm a this-car-person. Thank you Volkswagen.
3. HRT. Chances of cancer and heart disease aside, this is great stuff. Thanks, Big Pharma. . . not that you deserve those obscene profits. Just sayin'.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Baby Love
A couple of days ago, I found out that a friend of mine, who's older than I am, has just adopted a newborn baby. I'm happy for him and his partner. Really. So very very happy. Honestly.
Excuse me, it is possible for one to be be genuinely happy for someone while at the same time consumed with jealous rage. One is a complex being. One is capable of multi-tasking one's emotions.
One really wants a baby.
Ridiculous. One is a menopausal mother of two teenaged sons.
So--Babies? Done and dusted. Shoot, I've even done it both ways: the birth-via-my-body thing and the adoption-via-massive-bucks thing. (Tho'--full disclosure here--I didn't actually go thru with the entire birthing process. I tried. I did. 24 hours of labor before the doctors jumped in with great glee, wielded those knives, and C-sected that baby outa there.)
And I have so many friends who've been unable to have a baby either way. I've hoped with them, screamed with them, cried with them. And I've mourned with friends who have lost their babies and agonized with friends who struggle daily with the horror of watching disease devastate their kids. I know how very very lucky, blessed, rich I am. I know I've had my share, more than my share, of beautiful, healthy babies, gorgeous sons with the world wide open before them.
I know all this. But. Dammit. I. Want. A. Baby.
It's sick. I find myself in the wee hours of the morning secretly hoping one of my boys will knock up a lovely young girl who will bravely decide to have the baby but will recognize she/they can't provide the baby with all that she/they want for that baby, and so, yes, I will get the baby.
Part of it is that I just really enjoy babies. Some people like football. Or Coen Brother movies. Or Andy Warhol. Me, I like babies.
But there's also the sad and dirty fact that when I had my babies, my beautiful boys, I was fairly fucked up. To put it mildly. (Not on drugs, mind you. Never done those. OK, yes, I've done lots of drugs--for allergies and tummy disorders and headaches and vulvadynia and depression and anxiety and chronic strep throat and yeast infections. But none of the fun stuff. ) Nope, no drugs, not that much alcohol. Just, well, basically, back then I was a total wingnut. Torn apart by the demands of scholarship and teaching and motherhood and wifedom and sisterhood and friendship and daughterdom and sex and laundry and lawn care and the desire for a really good brownie. I do not regret, then, that I returned to work right after the boys came into the world. Had I stayed home with them, they'd have ended up fairly fucked-up little fellas as well. Instead, I gotta say--despite the fact that neither seems capable of shutting a cabinet door, closing a dresser drawer, hanging up a towel, or flushing a toilet; despite the march of tattoos across Owen's body; despite Hugh's Republican leanings-- my guys are all right.
And, even in the context of total wingnutdom, I enjoyed them as babies.
Most of the time.
Sometimes.
When I wasn't crying because I feared that any kid with a mom like me was doomed.
But these days, despite menopausal mania, I think it's fair to say my wingnuttiness has moderated. I'm no longer shredded by the various demands of my various roles. I've learned to say, oh, what the hell. I've accepted that I will never be a Scholar Star. And (most of the time), I'm ok with that. These days, I could and I would stay home with a baby. We'd hang out, chill in the mornings over Cheerios, nap on the sofa, watch some Baby Einstein, do some park swings, snort some formula, while Springsteen played in the background. I do know that you're supposed to flood a baby with Mozart if you want him or her to be a math wizard, but the world has plenty of quantitative geniuses. Me and the imaginary baby, we prefer quality--political passion, concern for the underdog, respect for the way words work, sound narrative sense, and thumping rock 'n' roll. So we'd scrap the Mozart and follow Scooter and the Big Man into the swamps of Jersey.
Instead, I'm heading to the mall. Gotta go buy a baby gift for my friend. Which I will send with lots of joy, much love, an abundance of good wishes, and a hearty helping of good, old-fashioned, deep dark green envy.
Excuse me, it is possible for one to be be genuinely happy for someone while at the same time consumed with jealous rage. One is a complex being. One is capable of multi-tasking one's emotions.
One really wants a baby.
Ridiculous. One is a menopausal mother of two teenaged sons.
So--Babies? Done and dusted. Shoot, I've even done it both ways: the birth-via-my-body thing and the adoption-via-massive-bucks thing. (Tho'--full disclosure here--I didn't actually go thru with the entire birthing process. I tried. I did. 24 hours of labor before the doctors jumped in with great glee, wielded those knives, and C-sected that baby outa there.)
And I have so many friends who've been unable to have a baby either way. I've hoped with them, screamed with them, cried with them. And I've mourned with friends who have lost their babies and agonized with friends who struggle daily with the horror of watching disease devastate their kids. I know how very very lucky, blessed, rich I am. I know I've had my share, more than my share, of beautiful, healthy babies, gorgeous sons with the world wide open before them.
I know all this. But. Dammit. I. Want. A. Baby.
It's sick. I find myself in the wee hours of the morning secretly hoping one of my boys will knock up a lovely young girl who will bravely decide to have the baby but will recognize she/they can't provide the baby with all that she/they want for that baby, and so, yes, I will get the baby.
Part of it is that I just really enjoy babies. Some people like football. Or Coen Brother movies. Or Andy Warhol. Me, I like babies.
But there's also the sad and dirty fact that when I had my babies, my beautiful boys, I was fairly fucked up. To put it mildly. (Not on drugs, mind you. Never done those. OK, yes, I've done lots of drugs--for allergies and tummy disorders and headaches and vulvadynia and depression and anxiety and chronic strep throat and yeast infections. But none of the fun stuff. ) Nope, no drugs, not that much alcohol. Just, well, basically, back then I was a total wingnut. Torn apart by the demands of scholarship and teaching and motherhood and wifedom and sisterhood and friendship and daughterdom and sex and laundry and lawn care and the desire for a really good brownie. I do not regret, then, that I returned to work right after the boys came into the world. Had I stayed home with them, they'd have ended up fairly fucked-up little fellas as well. Instead, I gotta say--despite the fact that neither seems capable of shutting a cabinet door, closing a dresser drawer, hanging up a towel, or flushing a toilet; despite the march of tattoos across Owen's body; despite Hugh's Republican leanings-- my guys are all right.
And, even in the context of total wingnutdom, I enjoyed them as babies.
Most of the time.
Sometimes.
When I wasn't crying because I feared that any kid with a mom like me was doomed.
But these days, despite menopausal mania, I think it's fair to say my wingnuttiness has moderated. I'm no longer shredded by the various demands of my various roles. I've learned to say, oh, what the hell. I've accepted that I will never be a Scholar Star. And (most of the time), I'm ok with that. These days, I could and I would stay home with a baby. We'd hang out, chill in the mornings over Cheerios, nap on the sofa, watch some Baby Einstein, do some park swings, snort some formula, while Springsteen played in the background. I do know that you're supposed to flood a baby with Mozart if you want him or her to be a math wizard, but the world has plenty of quantitative geniuses. Me and the imaginary baby, we prefer quality--political passion, concern for the underdog, respect for the way words work, sound narrative sense, and thumping rock 'n' roll. So we'd scrap the Mozart and follow Scooter and the Big Man into the swamps of Jersey.
Instead, I'm heading to the mall. Gotta go buy a baby gift for my friend. Which I will send with lots of joy, much love, an abundance of good wishes, and a hearty helping of good, old-fashioned, deep dark green envy.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Double Standard
Keith and I regularly watch the next day evening rerun of The Daily Show. We're too old to stay up late enough to watch the live broadcast and, well, way too old to watch tv shows online at any old time, which yes, I do know we could do. But we can't because that's just, oh, just so not right. My laptop screen is too small and I tend to spill stuff. But more than the Practicalities, there are Principles involved here: 1) one should have to endure commercials as penance for watching tv; 2) one is supposed to watch tv shows at specific times on specific days--how else will one learn time management skills? and the exquisite pleasure of expectation and impatience?
Anyway, one evening last year, Owen joined us in the living room--
--oh hey!!! Principle 3# of It's-TV-Not-Computer-Watching: the family is to cluster around the tv set (one cannot cluster around the computer--there aren't enough chairs and there's always that annoying booping noise alerting one to incoming chat message thingies for Hugh); if one does not cluster as a family around the tv, what will happen to family values?--
--while we were watching The Daily Show and right out of nowhere, Owen turns to me and says, "It'd be all right with me if you left Dad for Jon Stewart."
OK, then.
But perhaps I should confess that Owen's comment was not as random as it might appear. I mean, we weren't talking about it right at that moment, but the fact is, that as much as I love and adore my husband and think he's really sexy (particularly when he's wearing his clerical robes, which I realize is a little weird, tho' let me note that he has never worn said robes to bed, which would be a lot weird, tho' somewhat interesting, actually, now that I think about it), Owen and Hugh did grow up hearing me assert, on occasion, that I would leave Keith for a select group of individuals.
Paul Newman, top of the list. Not only Cool Hand Luke Paul, when he was at his all-time sexy peak (which must be actually the peak of male sexiness in human history) but Paul at any time (except now, of course, because he's dead)--all that beauty and dedication to craft and social consciousness and quirky humor and that utterly splendid marriage to Joanne Woodward. (I know you're thinking that if I had left Randy for Paul, he would have had to leave Joanne for me, but I would have shared. Joanne's wonderful. And an LSU grad to boot.)
Others on the List of Men I Would Leave Your Dad For: Bruce Springsteen (but he and Patti seem very happy these days), Kenneth Branagh on his good days, the Tenth Doctor Who (a fictional character and so perhaps not very promising, particularly as he's now regenerated as the Eleventh Doctor Who, an engaging character I'd enjoy hosting for dinner but not a man, err, Time Lord, for whom I'd toss aside marriage, children, and life as I know it), and now, thanks to Owen, Jon Stewart.
So, not a lengthy List and not one that poses much of a threat to my marriage (tho' the fact that all seven slots in my car cd player are occupied by Springsteen albums bothers Keith to no end--to which I respond, with my usual sensitivity, Suck It Up).
The subject of my sensitivity, however, brings up a teeny-tiny little itsy-titsy niggling detail: my kids have not grown up with a List of Women Dad Would Leave Mom For. Unlike horrible mom me, at no point has Keith had to comfort a sobbing Hugh and assure him that Bruce Springsteen was really not very likely to come knocking and take away his daddy. Keith's more inclined to comment (out loud at least) on Julia Roberts' incredibly fake puffed-up-looking lips than on any of her more appealing attributes--tho', dammit, he does get totally misty-eyed and tongue-tied and downright goofy on the subject of Keira Knightley in the long green gown in the library sex scene in Atonement. . . .KEIRA KNIGHTLEY!!! Anorexic stick insect Keira Knightley!! She must be, what, 18 years old? Gaaahhhhhh . . . . But the thing is, the boys don't know about Keira. Well of course they know about Keira--what teenaged boy doesn't?--but they don't know of her as Someone Dad Would Leave Mom For. As far as they know, there's no such woman.
Umm, so yes, there's kind of a double standard here. I'm aware of it. I'm not proud of it. Too damn tired to change anything, mind you, but still with enough integrity to feel a wee bit guilty and uncomfortable.
Except, I mean, Keira Knightley. Geez louise.
Anyway, one evening last year, Owen joined us in the living room--
--oh hey!!! Principle 3# of It's-TV-Not-Computer-Watching: the family is to cluster around the tv set (one cannot cluster around the computer--there aren't enough chairs and there's always that annoying booping noise alerting one to incoming chat message thingies for Hugh); if one does not cluster as a family around the tv, what will happen to family values?--
--while we were watching The Daily Show and right out of nowhere, Owen turns to me and says, "It'd be all right with me if you left Dad for Jon Stewart."
OK, then.
But perhaps I should confess that Owen's comment was not as random as it might appear. I mean, we weren't talking about it right at that moment, but the fact is, that as much as I love and adore my husband and think he's really sexy (particularly when he's wearing his clerical robes, which I realize is a little weird, tho' let me note that he has never worn said robes to bed, which would be a lot weird, tho' somewhat interesting, actually, now that I think about it), Owen and Hugh did grow up hearing me assert, on occasion, that I would leave Keith for a select group of individuals.
Paul Newman, top of the list. Not only Cool Hand Luke Paul, when he was at his all-time sexy peak (which must be actually the peak of male sexiness in human history) but Paul at any time (except now, of course, because he's dead)--all that beauty and dedication to craft and social consciousness and quirky humor and that utterly splendid marriage to Joanne Woodward. (I know you're thinking that if I had left Randy for Paul, he would have had to leave Joanne for me, but I would have shared. Joanne's wonderful. And an LSU grad to boot.)
Others on the List of Men I Would Leave Your Dad For: Bruce Springsteen (but he and Patti seem very happy these days), Kenneth Branagh on his good days, the Tenth Doctor Who (a fictional character and so perhaps not very promising, particularly as he's now regenerated as the Eleventh Doctor Who, an engaging character I'd enjoy hosting for dinner but not a man, err, Time Lord, for whom I'd toss aside marriage, children, and life as I know it), and now, thanks to Owen, Jon Stewart.
So, not a lengthy List and not one that poses much of a threat to my marriage (tho' the fact that all seven slots in my car cd player are occupied by Springsteen albums bothers Keith to no end--to which I respond, with my usual sensitivity, Suck It Up).
The subject of my sensitivity, however, brings up a teeny-tiny little itsy-titsy niggling detail: my kids have not grown up with a List of Women Dad Would Leave Mom For. Unlike horrible mom me, at no point has Keith had to comfort a sobbing Hugh and assure him that Bruce Springsteen was really not very likely to come knocking and take away his daddy. Keith's more inclined to comment (out loud at least) on Julia Roberts' incredibly fake puffed-up-looking lips than on any of her more appealing attributes--tho', dammit, he does get totally misty-eyed and tongue-tied and downright goofy on the subject of Keira Knightley in the long green gown in the library sex scene in Atonement. . . .KEIRA KNIGHTLEY!!! Anorexic stick insect Keira Knightley!! She must be, what, 18 years old? Gaaahhhhhh . . . . But the thing is, the boys don't know about Keira. Well of course they know about Keira--what teenaged boy doesn't?--but they don't know of her as Someone Dad Would Leave Mom For. As far as they know, there's no such woman.
Umm, so yes, there's kind of a double standard here. I'm aware of it. I'm not proud of it. Too damn tired to change anything, mind you, but still with enough integrity to feel a wee bit guilty and uncomfortable.
Except, I mean, Keira Knightley. Geez louise.
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.
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.
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