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. . . .

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.

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.

Never mind

So the night before last Keith was in the mood and I was not. Such an odd situation, sigh, we wish. Anyway, we both went to sleep with no canoodling. Then, in the wee hours of the morning, Keith began to kick me. Not "kick me" as in he's sleeping and rolling over rather restlessly and his leg bumps mine. I mean, Keith began to kick me: he grabbed me and started to kick the daylights--except I guess they were nightlights--out of me. I hollered and woke him up; he's all confused and apologetic and out of it; the dog, standing anxiously at the foot of the bed, is wondering what he's supposed to do now; the cats have hightailed it out of there. The next morning, Keith vaguely recalls his dream: he was running from someone and had to kick a door.

OK. Except that evening, as I'm walking the dog, I start thinking about the whole sequence of events. And the proverbial light bulb winks on, as I realize, hey, wait just a sec, I say no to sex and he's kicking open a door!! I'm outraged and horrified, I'm in total feminist mode, I can't believe my husband was trying to kick open my door. I hurry the dog on home, a cruel act as the dog has a hard time hurrying these days, and storm inside and confront him. Him. My husband. This lovely man who has suddenly descended down the evolutionary ladder and now looks to me like some sort of primitive beast. "Do you realize what has happened? Do you realize I said no to sex and then you have a dream where you're kicking in a door?? And you're really kicking me? My door!?"

Keith looks up from the football game. He's a tad surprised. He says, "But honey, in my dream I was kicking the door closed."

Oh. Well then. Never mind.

Dreaming of Havel

Today Vaclav Havel died.

It's strange, isn't it, to feel bereft when a stranger has died? I never met Havel; I know very little about his personal life, his likes and dislikes, his quirks and complaints, what he loved and what he loathed on a quotidien level. But I do know what he loved and what he loathed in the cosmic sense. I know about his decades of resistance under the communist regime in Czechoslovakia; I know his published work; I know his political career and his commitment to individual freedom; most of all, I know that when it mattered, this ironic, Frank Zappa-loving playwright did the right thing. Again and again and again.

So, I won't apologize for the fact that I, now and again, have erotic dreams about Vaclav Havel. He was one extraordinarily sexy guy. I imagine he'll keep appearing in my dreams. Damn, I hope so.

Vibrators et. al.

I like to think, despite having hit the Big 50, that I'm not totally out of it. But maybe I'm deluded. I subscribe to fab.com: daily email alerts to specials on groovy independent design items. Mostly funky kitchen stuff, tee shirts, jewelry, furnishings. But yesterday's selection included a firm specializing in beautiful vibrators. Okey dokey. No problem. Except there was this vibrator that I just did not get. Meaning, no, I didn't buy it, but also, I just didn't understand it. It was shaped like the profile of a hand flashing the peace sign. So, umm, two fingers. . . I dunno. . . I"m so confused.

Vibrators in general confuse me. Does that make me a Bad Person? A Failed Sexual Being? Uptight? Clueless? See, a mechanical thing is, well, mechanical. Uniform. Constant. These qualities do not seem to me to be the best suited for physical pleasure. Maybe I'm weird, but the thing is. . . . I vary. Sometimes a slow gentle touch, sometimes a vigorous  approach .  . . the days change, the moods change, the needs change. So . . . a responsive human finger seems much more efficient.

All of which has gotten me to thinking about masturbation. Would I be a different person had my mother not assured me that masturbation was sinful and that God frowned on it? If I hadn't sat in church and when Rev. Witte said that on Judgment Day all our secret sins would exposed--like a movie running in front of the world--I just died inside, thinking of me and my pillow, on this giant global screen?

I was determined not to do that to my kids. When Owen was little, he liked to wear these colored long underwear sets that I got from some organic kids catalog (when you called to place an order, there'd be all these babies crying and half the time the woman taking the info--yes, yes, this was Way Back Then Before Online Shopping--would say, "oh wait a sec, have to switch to the other breast;" it was a Very organic baby catalog company). Owen liked these sets because they were soft and comfy, no itchy seams or tags, and he could pull them on himself and, best of all, he could be Robin Hood in green, the Red Power Ranger in red, a Ninja in black, etc etc etc.

All of which was fine and fairly cheap and Owen was adorable; the only problem was that the long underwear did allow him very easy access to Down There. And goodness, he enjoyed getting to know Down There. So I developed this mantra: "That is a Bed and Bathroom Activity." See? No judgment, but also doing my job to socialize my kid: Look, baby, you can't be doing this in public.

And on the whole, it worked. Owen's all grown up and he does not pleasure himself in public. But there was this one day . . . my then 16-year-old niece Anne was living with us for the summer and serving as our summertime nanny. She had taken Owen to the video store (remember those? before Netflix? you'd wander around and around and around, and there's be all these movies, and you couldn't find anything you hadn't seen or he hadn't seen or that you both wanted to see?). There they were, little Owen, teenaged Anne,  in line. Anne looks up and the two guys about Anne's age at the cash register are giggling and snorting. Nothing too unusual in that, but then one of the boys looks right at Owen and say, "Go for it, man!" Anne looks down and there's Owen with his hands in his pants. Without missing a beat, she says in a loud, firm, loving voice, "Owen, that is a Bed and Bathroom Activity!" At which point the boys behind the counter practically pass out with laughter and Anne turns brilliant red and wonders how many different ways she can make me suffer.

Old Lady Yoga

Today I returned to yoga class after a long hiatus. This is not tone-your-butt and streamline-your-thighs yoga but rather gentle yoga. Stretch and be at peace yoga. Old lady yoga.

Even so, I'm really bad at it. I have never been flexible--physically, I mean. (OK, right, probably any other way either.) When you sit on your mat with your feet straight in front of you and the instructor says to fold forward as far as is comfortable, well, my torso remains at a 90 degree angle to my feet. Everyone else, even the actually old old ladies, collapse on themselves, nose to knees, like living dinner napkins. Me, I'm like a textbook illustration of a right triangle.

But I'm also really bad at the mental/spiritual part of yoga. I'd like to be a good, deep-breathing, at-peace-with-my-innerness yogi; I really would. I do regard our materialist, empirical way of looking at the world as limiting and impoverished and I do absolutely believe that meditation and yogic practice and mindfulness would enrich my life. It's just that I fail so completely. I try, I really do, but when my yoga instructor, a petite cutie with a headful of dark curls and the right blend of intensity and laid-backedness, tells us to look through our third eye, I'm sorry, I'm blind. I'd settle for third eye near-sightedness, but no, I appear doomed to total blindness in my third eye. And when she instructs us to breathe into that space we've created between ourselves and the breath around us, there I am, floundering, peering wildly to my left and to my right, trying desperately to find that space I've created but, damn, it's just not there. And at the end, when we lie in our savasana pose and she guides us through relaxation imagery, and I'm supposed to be floating through the cosmos, sigh, I'll admit it, I'm composing my grocery list or trying to figure out what went wrong with that lecture this morning.

I wish I could leap unreservedly into the yoga pool of bliss. But that means letting go of the mind and honestly, there's not a chance. The life of the mind--I didn't know those words but good lord, I knew the reality, the exhilaration, the incredible possibility and power of it from the day I read my first book. all on my own: Ballerina Bess, a cardboard-covered book from the racks in the grocery store checkout line that, amazingly, I convinced my mom to buy for me one day early in the fall of my first grade. "I want to jump, said Bess. I want to dance, said Bess. I want to be a ballerina, said Bess." And damn, so did I. Because I was Bess, there, in my mind and I knew, I absolutely knew, standing there in the checkout line, that reading on my own meant I could be and do so much more.

And yet now I know, I do absolutely know, that the inability to shut off the mind explains so much of my insomnia, my anxiety, my limitations as a sexual partner, and yes, my failure at yoga. I would like to be transcendent. And deep-breathing. And able to fold up like a dinner napkin and see through my third eye. And oh, I really would love to float through the cosmos, a tiny speck-- but a totally balanced, mindful speck, a speck that is at peace with one's speckedness and at one with all that is and was and will be.

But really, cosmically, that's as likely as a toned butt and stream-lined thighs.

In a funk

I'm in a funk.

Could be a menopausal funk--the gloom brought on by increasing quantities of facial fur--matched only by the decreasing volume of head hair--and the pounds that seem to fly on and stick to my stomach like flies on a dead squirrel and the ever-decreasing libido that makes me feel like the Frigid Bitch of the North.

Could be a generational funk--the fear that I've failed to realize my potential as a scholar, the sense that my students regard me as this sometimes amusing historical relic, my longing to Do Something or Be Someone Important.

Could be an existential funk--the doubts about meaning and truth and purpose, the growing restlessness with going through the motions,the impatience with answers that used to satisfy and arguments that once seemed convincing.

Dunno.

Just know that I lay in bed last night and thought, "Life is just a bunch of orifices, just a matter of in and out." You eat, you drink, you poop, you pee, you have sex, you listen, you repeat, you smell, you sneeze. . . hydration, consumption, defecation, urination, copulation, communication, organization. . . all just a matter of in and out in and out in and out. . .

in and out in and out again and again on and on and on just life in the lower-case no capitals no highlights no need for punctuation and the more you go on the more the highs and lows level out and it's just this vast plain this tundra and the colors all fade and the whites turn dingy and the blacks lose their vibrancy so it's all the same dreary grey grizzle and you can't hear the laughter or the screams just the low ceaseless moan and the monotonous buzz buzz buzz of fake lighting and soon itjustallcollapsesinonandtheresnothingintheuniversebutfakepolitepeopleataneternal cocktailpartywithwatereddowndrinksandpackagedtastelesssnacksandsoyoubegintowonderififif

So. I'm thinking, brownies.

Give this woman an Oscar

Owen is spending the semester on an internship working with a homeless advocacy non-profit (guess that should be obvious--not a lot of profit in homeless advocacy) in Washington D.C. Urban lefty that he is, he's happy.

So I'm happy. This is the awful thing about parenthood. You have sex, you conceive (or, as in the case of our second child, you shell out thousands of dollars and you adopt), you have a baby--and that's it, you're like a video game, the kid controls the joy stick. "No one else is in charge of your happiness," my first therapist told me. Or was that a line from a Disney movie? Anyway, it's totally bogus, at least once you have kids.

So Owen called the other night. We chatted for a long time. And I was the Perfect Mom. First and most important, he called; I did not call him. And second, we chatted. I did not tell him I missed him. I did not break down sobbing and admit to him that I frequently dream of him as a baby; I did not reveal that sometimes I look into his bedroom and just stand there like a maternal zombie as I remember him giggling over Harry Potter; I did not confess that the sight of roller blades or Legos can reduce me to tears. Nope, I was the total "Hey-Buddy-I-Got-My-Life-to-Live" insouciant mom--you know: "you do your thing, I do my thing, and if by chance, we find each other, it's beautiful"--oh wait, that was the poster than hung on my closet door when I was 11. The point is, I was great. I should have won an Oscar or a Grammy or a Tony or whatever award given for the most astonishing dramatic performance on a telephone.

A Conversation

Cleaning up Hugh's room the other day, I found some more porn pix that he'd printed off the Web. Pretty timid, on the whole--no animals, no violence, no sex acts, just sultry blondes with laughably huge boobs and impossibly trim waists and thighs. But still. I figured we'd better have a conversation, about responsible use of the internet and the way pornography exploits women and more effective ways to deal with his sexuality. You know, one of those conversations Good Parents have with their teenagers.

I am not a Good Parent. I do aspire. I do try. But I do not succeed.

Trying to make a point, tho' exactly what point it was I'm no longer entirely clear, I said something along the lines of "Real women do not have those boobs and real women do have pubic hair." To which Hugh responded, "Not if they wax the way they're supposed to!"

Supposed to? Supposed to? "It's not a requirement, you know!" I said indignantly. "Well, no. . . she can shave," admitted Hugh. GAHHHH! So there I was in Bizarroland, where no Good Parent ever goes, arguing with my 15-year-old about whether women should have pubic hair.

I remember once, long ago, attending a parenting seminar with Keith, and the perky social worker who led the session saying, "It's ok to let your child win occasionally." And Keith and I just looked at each other in astonishment. Letting Hugh win was never an issue. He always won. And he continues to do so. Somehow I emerge out of every encounter with him feeling out-of-date, woefully behind the times and beside the point, a hairy throwback from another era.

Wrinkles in Time

I have eye wrinkles. Not wrinkles around my eye--I mean, yes, I have those, but I'm talking about wrinkles in the eye. The left eye, to be precise. And actually only one wrinkle, but big enough, considering that the eye is, you know, really small. (If you peer closely at my eye, you can see the wrinkle, by the way. It's fascinating, in an oh-ick sort of way.) Anyway, this big wrinkle in my small eye means I have to settle for 20/30 vision in contact lenses--"good enough," said the eye doctor. Clearly I've reached the age where "good enough" is as good as it gets.

Meanwhile, there are the more noticeable wrinkles around the eye. And scattered around the forehead. And clustered around the lips. But--not for long! Cruising thru Macy's on my way out of the mall Saturday, I remembered I needed blusher. Zipped by the Clinique counter. Got Super-Efficient Aging Saleslady with Frightening Amounts of Eye Makeup. She takes one look at me and says, "Now I'm sure you've heard about our new amazing wrinkle corrector."

Well, no, have to admit I've been slightly distracted by the temporary presence of college son. And the start of the school year. And the occasional yet increasingly frequent existential crisis. And the Gulf oil spill. And headaches. And my new commitment to pursuing life as a Total Sex Goddess. And the obvious conflict between those last two.

Of course I don't admit to Scary Saleslady that I haven't been keeping up with the latest breakthroughs in skin care. I just nod. So of course I'm doomed. I buy not only blusher but also a bottle of "Repairwear Laser Focus." Now, by the standards of department-store anti-aging cosmetics, "Repairwear" (not sure where the laser comes in, no obvious laser in the package) is not all that expensive. $40. But that's more than twice as much as I've ever spent for skin care.

Previously, that record was held by an English product: Boots' "Protect and Defend." No. That's not right. "Protect and Survive." No, shoot, that was the name of the English government's official civil defense campaign of the early 1980s--how to survive a nuclear bombing. "Protect and Perfect"! That's it. (I just think of it as "Lock and Load." )

Does it really work? Um, well, I admit that year by year, I look older. But I tell myself that without "Protect and Perfect," I'd look really old. I do have moments of sanity, however, when I recognize that all of this is about as useful as covering your windows with black paper and sandbagging your doorways so that you'll survive a nuclear holocaust.

The thing is, isn't it better to die deluded?

What-the-hell hair

There's a certain "what the hell" freedom in being in the latter half of one's allotted lifespan. This week, for example, I paid more for a haircut than I have ever before (and, I imagine, than I ever will again). I won't tell you how much; suffice it to say it was in the three figures, and the last two were not zeroes. And I did it with no consideration or planning whatsoever. One moment I was finishing up my coffee in a Dublin Starbucks (may I just say to opponents of globalization that I would have far preferred to be in a locally owned coffee shop, but Starbucks offered free wi-fi and the locals did not; sadly, practicality trumps principles almost every time) and the next I was bent back over the shampoo sink in the chi-chi hair place across the street.

I had flown off to Ireland a month earlier with what I thought was workable hair--no blowdryer, no straightening rod or curling iron, just wash and go. So I washed and went, for a month, with Really Bad Hair, hair that looked as if it resulted from the mating of one of those string mops and a clown's wig. And the thing is, despite being in the latter half of my allotted lifespan, I have yet to learn to be "what the hell" about my hair.

I have, of course, honed a number of coping strategies over the years, all of which I relied on regularly over the past four weeks in misty moisty blustery blowy Ireland: I reminded myself that I am an intellectual and a deeply spiritual person, someone who is really above bothering with something as trivial as hair. I contemplated barrettes and pondered headbands. I tried different side parts. I applied copious amounts of Product. I combed it all backwards. I brushed it all forwards. I avoided mirrors. I wore my hood a lot.

But still, Bad Hair is Bad Hair, and so, in one impulsive moment in Dublin, I chopped it all off. That is, I gave the incredibly sexy, 30-ish, cutey hairstylist guy the liberty to do with my hair what he would. And he chopped it all off--with the most amazing attention to detail, precise technique, and gentle patience. I mean, if this guy does sex like he does hair, well, golly.

And then he told me what the cut cost.

What the hell.

It's a good cut. I now have Good Hair. And life is better. Of course, I'm also at this moment sitting on a stack of pillows alongside my husband on an enormous bed in an "Exquisite Boutique Bed and Breakfast" (so the advertisement) in a Norfolk seaside village. That helps too.

So rested she by the Tumtum tree

Growing up in a conservative Christian family, attending a private religious school, enmeshed within an immigrant community with a strong religious identity, I memorized countless pages of incomparable prose--Psalms and Gospel narratives, Proverbs and vast portions of the Heidelberg Catechism, various creeds and oh-so-many hymns and carols.

So, why is it, then, that the one thing, the one single thing, that I can still recite effortlessly, perfectly, fully, without having to stop, without thinking, is "The Jabberwocky"?

I dunno, but I suspect I'd be a better person if, in moments of crisis or stress, I could recall the Beatitudes or the 23rd Psalm or a Wesley hymn. But no, I conjure up, "Beware the Jabberwock, my son, the jaws that bite, the claws that catch!"

Which might not seem so odd, really. Fitting for periods of danger. But, the sad fact is, "The Jabberwocky" comes up at the most awkward times. Sex, for example. It's painful to admit, but in moments of extreme intimacy, here's what sometimes comes into my head: "One, two! One, two! And through and through/The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!" Yes, it's very strange. I do worry.

At other times, the poem's echoes have seemed rather more appropriate. During the Margaret Thatcher/Nancy Reagan era, for example, "Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun the frumious Bandersnatch" came to mind as a literal warning. And when the boys were little and had done something amazing, I would cheer, "Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" These days, I'll look at a dazed undergrad and, I just can't help it, I think of: "And as in uffish thought he stood."

Twas brillig today. The slithy toves gyred and gimbled in the wabe. The borogroves were all mimsy. And the momes raths, the momes rath did totally outgrabe.

Graceland

Driving from Baton Rouge to Chicago, listening to Paul Simon's Graceland album.

The album is, of course, a masterpiece, but the song "Graceland" is perfection. If Simon had done nothing at all in his life except write that song, he could have died knowing he had done great good in the world.

That evocative opening lyric:
The Mississippi Delta was shining
Like a National guitar

That brutal rendition of a love gone bad:
She comes back to tell me she's gone
As if I didn't know that
As if I didn't know my own bed
As if I'd never noticed
The way she brushed her hair from her forehead.

That wonderful description of life's craziness:
There's a girl in New York City
Who calls herself the human trampoline
And sometimes when I'm falling, flying
Or tumbling in turmoil I say
Oh, so this is what she means.

That account of heartbreak and loss:
Losing love
Is like a window in your heart
Everybody sees you're blown apart
Everybody sees the wind blow.

And, most of all, that breathtaking affirmation of redemption:
I've a reason to believe
We all will be received
In Graceland.

And all that's left to say is, amen.

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.

The Limits of HRT

So, I've been on HRT for about a month now, and I have to say, it's pretty good stuff. Not as good as the painkillers I was on after my C-section--gosh, those drugs were great--but still, it is lovely to wander thru my days and meander thru my nights without repeated, sudden, intense flashes of heat and sweat.

Sadly, however, the HRT has done nothing about my mood swings, the rapidity with which I shift from Professor Jekyll into Ms Hyde, nor (much to Keith's regret), has it aroused my somewhat dormant libido in any noticeable way.

I guess could badger my doctor for a higher dose, a bigger pill. I mean, what's a higher risk of heart disease and cancer in comparison to the promise of emotional equilibrium and a lively sex life?

Except.

The thing is, my emotional life didn't exactly resemble Lake Placid even before the onset of menopause. I have always been a tad prone to bouts of bitchiness. Expecting HRT to make me a nice, gentle, sane person reminds me of that old joke:
"Oh, but doctor, doctor, will I be able to play the violin?"
"I don't see why not."
"Wow, you're a great doctor. I've always wanted to play the violin."

And, umm, much as I hate to admit it, menopause hasn't changed my sex life all that much. I like sex, I really do. But I also like a good brownie. Or a great cup of coffee. Or watching the Doctor Who "Silence in the Library" episode for the umpteenth time. Or--hey--enjoying a good brownie with a great cup of coffee while watching the Doctor Who "Silence in the Library" episode--we're talking, like, multiple orgasms. The point being, much as I'd like to be the historian version of Samantha in Sex and the City, I'm not and never have been a voracious Sex Goddess, and I doubt that even mega-doses of HRT will change that.

But I dunno. I'd like to be a voracious Sex Goddess. And I'd like to be a placid person. I just don't think more HRT is the answer. Maybe if I eat more good brownies and drink more great cups of coffee and keep watching Doctor Who. Maybe then.

Grounding and Garbage

Hugh is grounded. Again. "Can't you think of a different punishment for once?" Hugh demanded. Dweeb parents that we are, we can't.

Could be worse, I tell him. My brother J.T. was grounded for his entire senior year of high school--and even into that summer. It didn't initially start out as a year-long grounding. I think first he faced a month-long detention, but just as the month was ending, he snuck out of the house. And got caught. So the month became three months. And then, just as the end of his purgatory was drawing nigh, yes, out he snuck again. And got caught again. Poor J.T. He really really wanted to be a Bad Kid, but he just wasn't very good at it. Anyway, on it went, for his entire senior year.

We kid my mom now, about the endless grounding. It's not really fair as she was generally quite creative in the punishment department. Take the time she found some pornographic magazine--not Playboy, not Penthouse, far beyond that--that J.T. had tucked in amidst the towels in the bathroom. (Like I said, he was really very bad at being bad.) Mom didn't say a word. But that night, when we sat down for dinner, there was no plate at J.T.'s place. "I've made something special just for you," she explained to him. Cheryl and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes; it wasn't out of the ordinary for my mother to cook just for one of the boys. In fact, once there was no longer a boy at home, Mom simply stopped cooking altogether. The fact that Cheryl and I were there, well, that didn't count. But--I digress. Back to the fateful dinner. So daughters roll their eyes, son anticipates a treat, we all say grace. And then my mom gets up, pulls a plate out of the warm oven, and sets it in front of J.T. On it sat a pile of garbage, an oozing glop of gunk from the trash can. And then, very calmly, she said, "If you're going to put garbage in your mind, you'll put it in your body."

I was totally impressed.

I was even more impressed by what she said next: "If you ever show such disrespect to me or your sisters again, you'll eat nothing but garbage at my table." I was 15. I had never thought of myself as someone to be respected. I certainly had never dared to think that any one of my five older brothers was supposed to respect me. I rather liked the idea.

Hugh hasn't a clue how lucky he is that I failed Creative Punishments.

Sex Cat

I had my first real haircut--as in, I wanted it and I chose what happened--when I was about 12. Given that I'm almost 50, that means 38 years of hair cuts, and let's see, sometimes I went three, even four months without a cut, but sometimes I've had quite short hair that needed cutting every four weeks, hmm, let's say 6 cuts per year on average-- I come up with 228. Let's round up to 230.

230 haircuts in my life.

Why, then, did I believe Current Haircutting Guy when he assured me that the new cut would have a "tousled, playful" effect, and that it would be a style with "lots of action, lots of movement"? I hadn't realized hair was supposed to be active; guess I've always just assumed my hair was supposed to be a couch potato. But hey, movement sounded good, so did the whole tousled, playful thing. I'd like to think I'm playful and, well, tousled. In a good way. A feminist sort of tousled.

Turns out "tousled and playful" translates, in non-Haircutting Guy-speak, as "frizzy." And "action" and "movement"? It means "straggly." It means "mad menopausal woman with bad hair."

Awhile back, ok, a long while back, when I was in my early-to-mid-30s, I went to a new Haircutter Guy, and he studied me and my hair for awhile with a kind of sad and concerned look, then sat down on his stool, and declared, "What you have here is a Schoolmarm Look. But I, I think we should go for something more like a Sex Kitten."

Absolutely. I stuck with him for years. All we ever achieved was Poofy Southern Lady hair, but hey, the promise of Sex Kittenhood was so enticing, I kept coming back.

I want to be a Sex Kitten. All right, all right, all right. Facing 50, I'll settle for Sex Cat. I want to be a Sex Cat.

And even after 230 haircuts, I refuse to give up hope. I have faith. After all, I'm a Chicago Cubs fan. And a Christian. And even a firm supporter of single-payer universal health care for all Americans. We shall overcome some day. And on that day, I will be sporting playful, tousled hair. I will be a Sex Cat.