Why are we afraid of our own bodies?
I recently went for an annual check up with my gynecologist.
After the nurse checked if I wanted to pee before the exam she explained the pile of fake fabric on the table/bed/exam thingy.
“This one is the gown.” she said “Open in the front, just tie it on loosely and then you can drape this sheet over your lower half. Make sure it’s loose too.”
I pictured her and the doctor often returning to complete an exam and finding their patient rolled tight like a sausage in the sheet.
And excuse me… “GOWN?” is this an evening party?? Will there be cocktails served after swabbing?
What the hell is the matter with us?
Buddha Mama pointed out to her son in her most recent post that the sheet is meant to protect the mother’s privacy in a birthing situation. That SORTA makes sense since sometimes birthing rooms can become family gatherings. And clearly there were cameras at the woman in the book Cracky picked out’s birth moment.
But I’m talking about the rest of us. Generally mothers on both sides of the gene pool like to be present at the very least. but... so the fuck what??? You wouldn’t want your own fucking mother to see what you’re doing under there? …. I mean… shit… that could scar her! She might realize where babies come from!! Oh the horror!
There were no party like gatherings when I had babies. I’m one of those get the hell away from me laborers. Hey if you’re not helping you’re just in the way. Also there was some hate. Okay, a lotta hate. At everyone. Maybe some yelling. It’s possible I kicked a nurse. Whatever. She wouldn’t listen! Hmmm… Maybe it’s not just medical circumstance that had me eventually put under anesthesia for both my children’s "births."
Now that’s privacy from yourself.
But I digress….
The privacy thing. In an exam. Think about it. The only view the sheet is blocking is your own.
What is it you don’t want to see?
And why wouldn’t you want your doctor to be aware of the head attached to the equipment below?
July 22, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
A Clock and a Mirror
“What time do you think it is?” I asked Thatch when he started demanding breakfast this morning. I stayed up way too late watching Dexter last night. (It’s not insomnia if you don’t admit it’s insomnia. It’s just “staying up too late”)
He tilted his head to the side and decided “Seven six. I hungy mama!” There wasn’t really any good number he could say since the number it was when I got in the bed was so small.
“Whew! I sure hope not. The covers are real nice, Thatch. Wanna snuggle?” I tried to lure him in with Mommy charm, batting my lids and smiling with the promise of a thousand crayons this afternoon but his tummy was more colorful in his mind.
“It’s good morning! I want mini wheats!” the tiny tyrant insisted.
“We need a clock in here.” I told Thatch. It was certainly rather bright in his room this morning but I had no way of knowing if he was getting me up at five am or ten. By the time we got downstairs to find out what time it was it would be too late.
“andrrmirror” he responded.
“what?” I asked him
“I need a clock and a mirror in here.” he told me as though he’d been giving it a lot of thought. A mirror??
“Yeah.” I laughed. “A clock and a mirror would do wonders in here.” I tried to start sitting up so my body could start waking up enough to make him some toast and cereal.
“That clock is no good.” he gestured up toward the ceiling by the door. “It bwinking and no letters on it”
“You’re right. That’s a terrible clock.” I yawned. “It’s a smoke detector.”
“For dinner time?” he asked me innocently.
“hahahahahahah! Yeah. In some houses. (our houses) A dinner bell.”
“I’m hungy.”
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.”
July 15, 2009
He tilted his head to the side and decided “Seven six. I hungy mama!” There wasn’t really any good number he could say since the number it was when I got in the bed was so small.
“Whew! I sure hope not. The covers are real nice, Thatch. Wanna snuggle?” I tried to lure him in with Mommy charm, batting my lids and smiling with the promise of a thousand crayons this afternoon but his tummy was more colorful in his mind.
“It’s good morning! I want mini wheats!” the tiny tyrant insisted.
“We need a clock in here.” I told Thatch. It was certainly rather bright in his room this morning but I had no way of knowing if he was getting me up at five am or ten. By the time we got downstairs to find out what time it was it would be too late.
“andrrmirror” he responded.
“what?” I asked him
“I need a clock and a mirror in here.” he told me as though he’d been giving it a lot of thought. A mirror??
“Yeah.” I laughed. “A clock and a mirror would do wonders in here.” I tried to start sitting up so my body could start waking up enough to make him some toast and cereal.
“That clock is no good.” he gestured up toward the ceiling by the door. “It bwinking and no letters on it”
“You’re right. That’s a terrible clock.” I yawned. “It’s a smoke detector.”
“For dinner time?” he asked me innocently.
“hahahahahahah! Yeah. In some houses. (our houses) A dinner bell.”
“I’m hungy.”
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.”
July 15, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Pretend
Because.
I’ve been hearing all the times someone has asked either of us “how did you end up with him/her?” with that puzzled tone. Their voices are chasing the answers around in my head.
Examining the places you/me is we and the places we is I.
Holding still waiting, watching my body as it’s revealed in your gaze, out from under the various appropriate costumes for the roles I play for you/me, seeing your shock at my/your nudity reflected in your/my eyes when I flash my true form unexpectedly. I’ve been chasing you/me out of rooms with words and pondering why you/me running doesn’t feel more unexpected. I’ve been wondering why the hurt feels so old/again.
The way I pretend I don’t know.
if you’re actually pretending. I don’t know if it’s pretend if you never take off the costume. I don’t know why I can’t pretend better. I don’t know if it has to be pretend. I don’t know why I dressed you/me up.
All the ways we’re wrong for each other are exactly the ways we work. Not work. Function. Stay. Pretend.
And it’s Buddha Mama’s frying pan to my head.
I picked you.
I chose you.
Not in spite of.
Because.
The ways your fucked up layer over my mine. The way your messed up blankets my messed up. The way I can bang against your wall all day and never have to explain my own. The way I won’t speak and you can’t listen. The way I can’t give and you won’t take. The way I hide and you can’t see.
The way you picked me.
The way you chose me.
Not in spite of.
Because.
The way I don’t know I pretend.
July 12, 2009
I’ve been hearing all the times someone has asked either of us “how did you end up with him/her?” with that puzzled tone. Their voices are chasing the answers around in my head.
Examining the places you/me is we and the places we is I.
Holding still waiting, watching my body as it’s revealed in your gaze, out from under the various appropriate costumes for the roles I play for you/me, seeing your shock at my/your nudity reflected in your/my eyes when I flash my true form unexpectedly. I’ve been chasing you/me out of rooms with words and pondering why you/me running doesn’t feel more unexpected. I’ve been wondering why the hurt feels so old/again.
The way I pretend I don’t know.
if you’re actually pretending. I don’t know if it’s pretend if you never take off the costume. I don’t know why I can’t pretend better. I don’t know if it has to be pretend. I don’t know why I dressed you/me up.
All the ways we’re wrong for each other are exactly the ways we work. Not work. Function. Stay. Pretend.
And it’s Buddha Mama’s frying pan to my head.
I picked you.
I chose you.
Not in spite of.
Because.
The ways your fucked up layer over my mine. The way your messed up blankets my messed up. The way I can bang against your wall all day and never have to explain my own. The way I won’t speak and you can’t listen. The way I can’t give and you won’t take. The way I hide and you can’t see.
The way you picked me.
The way you chose me.
Not in spite of.
Because.
The way I don’t know I pretend.
July 12, 2009
A Little Mind Rain
It’s not a secret if you never asked. It’s not hiding if you never look. It’s not over if it never began.
When buying dishes turn them upside down and check for a bowl effect. If the glass or bowl or plate can hold water there… it will… in the dishwasher. *gags* And then you will have to wash things after you take them out of the dishwasher. And I’ll tell you what that is, that’s infuriating.
If you are lucky enough to own camel toe slipper shoes of pillow comfy goodness ….. Do not abuse them by wearing them without socks for six months, only removing them to shower and sleep. You will be forced to put them in the washing machine and have to sit by the machine crossing your extremities and whispering prayers to Momi’s Underwear deity in the hope that what comes out is both clean and also still retains it’s camel toe slipper pillow comfy goodness. Then you will pull them out and they will weigh approximately seventy-five pounds and you will throw them in the dryer and have to listen to them fight for their life with a boulder you didn’t even know was in there. More than a week will pass and you will continue to check them for any signs of dry warm comfy goodness but they will still be wet and heavy and also not the same color anymore And though they will not smell bad exactly they will smell…. Wrongish? But if they would ever DRY that might improve. I’ll keep you posted. I think they might be dry by Autumn.
I know all the right things to do. It’s a list with empty boxes in my head. It’s just that checking all the boxes would be wrong. It’s just that all the empty is crushing any right.
I’m easy not slutty. There is a difference.
If needy was in neon lights it would blink UNAVAILABLE. You would read TAKE ME. I would stand still and wait.
July 13, 2009
When buying dishes turn them upside down and check for a bowl effect. If the glass or bowl or plate can hold water there… it will… in the dishwasher. *gags* And then you will have to wash things after you take them out of the dishwasher. And I’ll tell you what that is, that’s infuriating.
If you are lucky enough to own camel toe slipper shoes of pillow comfy goodness ….. Do not abuse them by wearing them without socks for six months, only removing them to shower and sleep. You will be forced to put them in the washing machine and have to sit by the machine crossing your extremities and whispering prayers to Momi’s Underwear deity in the hope that what comes out is both clean and also still retains it’s camel toe slipper pillow comfy goodness. Then you will pull them out and they will weigh approximately seventy-five pounds and you will throw them in the dryer and have to listen to them fight for their life with a boulder you didn’t even know was in there. More than a week will pass and you will continue to check them for any signs of dry warm comfy goodness but they will still be wet and heavy and also not the same color anymore And though they will not smell bad exactly they will smell…. Wrongish? But if they would ever DRY that might improve. I’ll keep you posted. I think they might be dry by Autumn.
I know all the right things to do. It’s a list with empty boxes in my head. It’s just that checking all the boxes would be wrong. It’s just that all the empty is crushing any right.
I’m easy not slutty. There is a difference.
If needy was in neon lights it would blink UNAVAILABLE. You would read TAKE ME. I would stand still and wait.
July 13, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
The Futility of Communication
My sister and I took the kids to the river to hang out and watch them poke things with sticks and dig holes and bury themselves while whining about what a terrible time they were having. Another family sort of surrounded us. They were talking in and around and between and through us. Honestly I barely noticed what with the battle I was waging against gravity with my eyelids and the tiniest bathing suit bottom I‘ve ever witnessed outside of thong on a rather nice ass mere feet from me.
Thatcher grabbed my wandering attention and asked me huffily “what is that man in the blue saying?”
“He’s not talking to you, don’t worry about it.” I told my nosey two year old.
“What is he SAYING? I can’t HEAR him.” Thatcher protested. Apparently even when I think I’m entirely engaged (and nearly spent with the work of) preparing a mind your own business speech and opening my mouth to deliver there were other parts of my brain working and they realized what was going on. The Man in blue was speaking in Spanish.
I bent down to give Thatch a lovely cultural awareness lesson and explained the man was not babbling, that he was speaking another language. Thatcher was not buying it for one second. Every night at dinner, when he wants to have something to say but actually has nothing to say he will insist it is his turn to talk and then speak in tongues for a good five minutes running while we all nod and chew enthusiastically so as not to discourage him.
“That not language!” Thatcher informed me loudly. “He says beedoobabbbaaadooobabdadasdksocho.” There was an entire body movement thing going on with the babble and I'll admit I found this impression sand rolling hysterical.
Around the laughing I managed to point out:“It only sounds like that because you don’t know where the words begin and end. I know you don’t understand what he’s saying but he is saying something…. You just don’t speak his language.”
“It’s MY language! It beeboobababalsdaldkakdalskdoo. I saying it.”
There’s really no arguing with that.
July 10, 2009
Thatcher grabbed my wandering attention and asked me huffily “what is that man in the blue saying?”
“He’s not talking to you, don’t worry about it.” I told my nosey two year old.
“What is he SAYING? I can’t HEAR him.” Thatcher protested. Apparently even when I think I’m entirely engaged (and nearly spent with the work of) preparing a mind your own business speech and opening my mouth to deliver there were other parts of my brain working and they realized what was going on. The Man in blue was speaking in Spanish.
I bent down to give Thatch a lovely cultural awareness lesson and explained the man was not babbling, that he was speaking another language. Thatcher was not buying it for one second. Every night at dinner, when he wants to have something to say but actually has nothing to say he will insist it is his turn to talk and then speak in tongues for a good five minutes running while we all nod and chew enthusiastically so as not to discourage him.
“That not language!” Thatcher informed me loudly. “He says beedoobabbbaaadooobabdadasdksocho.” There was an entire body movement thing going on with the babble and I'll admit I found this impression sand rolling hysterical.
Around the laughing I managed to point out:“It only sounds like that because you don’t know where the words begin and end. I know you don’t understand what he’s saying but he is saying something…. You just don’t speak his language.”
“It’s MY language! It beeboobababalsdaldkakdalskdoo. I saying it.”
There’s really no arguing with that.
July 10, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Where it All Went Wrong
I wonder about the first asshole. I picture him in fur. He has a big bone hammer type thingy and plastic bone beads around his neck. Not like a Flintstones character, he’s uglier than that. His hair stinks. I envision this cave person looking around and deciding living was too easy, that he was maybe bored and couldn’t entertain himself, didn’t know what to do with his time, (Hello00oo00? Sex? Hunting? Gathering? Survival!?! What a moron!) and then walking out of the cave and constructing some sort of wheel or poking some seeds in the ground in an orderly row. I see him hopping over a broom stick with a woman and I see him assigning other cave people to specific specialized tasks. I see him ruining everything.
Except electricity. Hot damn I like electricity.
July 09, 2009
Except electricity. Hot damn I like electricity.
July 09, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Dear Tooth Fairy
Dear Tooth Fairy,
I lost my tooth but I do not want to put it under my pillow if I do not get my teeth back so please if it is a yes tomorrow I will put my tooth under my pillow if it is a no I will never put my teeth under my pillow. I am still your friend.
Sincerely,
Callista (9 yrs)
Dear Tooth Fairy,
I lost my tooth but my mom misplaced it. Sorry for taking so long to write this letter but I got distracted. Please forgive me. And I don’t mind how much money you give me. Please write back. Write in cursive if you can. It would be good practice.
Sincerely,
Isabelle (8 yrs)
July 05, 2009
I lost my tooth but I do not want to put it under my pillow if I do not get my teeth back so please if it is a yes tomorrow I will put my tooth under my pillow if it is a no I will never put my teeth under my pillow. I am still your friend.
Sincerely,
Callista (9 yrs)
Dear Tooth Fairy,
I lost my tooth but my mom misplaced it. Sorry for taking so long to write this letter but I got distracted. Please forgive me. And I don’t mind how much money you give me. Please write back. Write in cursive if you can. It would be good practice.
Sincerely,
Isabelle (8 yrs)
July 05, 2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
He Only Has the Hammer
“The thing of it is that people can be a complete mismatch for getting the job done. It‘s like the guy thinks the gal is a nail and he‘s hammering away happily but she’s a screw. And every now and then he can hammer that motherfucking screw in and get the job done. It’s not pretty but it’s in the wall and I’m sure to him it seems good enough what with only having been with nuts and bolts before her.” I said to her after an hour talking on the phone.
“One nut can warp a person for good.” She pointed out thoughtfully.
“Ain’t that the truth. But her… she’s standing there with an entire tool belt…. scrambling to try anything and everything and it’s like he doesn’t see all the holes in the walls, he doesn‘t see that she’s being hammered to nothing, he doesn‘t see that there‘s all this work to be done. He doesn’t have any idea why she can’t straighten her shit up and be a fucking nail. All her tools just hang there useless, she’s not even allowed to do her own repairs and even if he does see…. he’s like shut up and hold still so I can hammer your screw in again. Because if all you’re armed with is a hammer, eventually you need to start pounding things.” I was on a bit of a roll or a runaway train. Something out of hand.
“ahahahahahahahhaahhahaah yes, the pounding.” She gasped and laughed, encouraging me to rant on with her.
“And she can’t get pissed at the hammer or the screwdriver or whatever tool she's dealing with, no matter how difficult it might be to understand where they’re coming from. Even if she's desperately shining the metal on the top of her Philips fucking head screaming for the love of Craftsman it’s so simple just fucking screw me already! He only has the hammer. (you might have to repeat that over and over for seven years before you get close to really getting it. You might have to be so beaten down with all the hammering that your entire self can slip outside your screwy mind and view the drama from outside all the hurt and the jeezus fucking christ don‘t you even want to try of it) He only has the hammer.” That’s really all it is I thought, he only has the hammer. I was trying to convince myself it could be that simple, it could be a matter of facts and therefore not worthy of a broken heart, not anything personal exactly, not a real rejection as much as a seeing things the way they are and acting accordingly.
“Yes!” she agreed. “And it’s not even as simple as being a single tool and finding your nail. Not for some of us. Not for the people wearing the well-stocked tool belt getting everything done. We’re a big giant series of jobs. We know that. That’s why we assume everyone else is. Anyone not needing work would be a waste of our hard-earned expertise. We have devoted time and energy and research and resources into our tool belts. Because duh… Even if you manage to twist the screw in, there are also places needing nailed. There are places needing glue. There are entire wings devoted to sanding and paint. And each spot requires the right set of tools.” She’s incredibly smart.
“Exactly, meanwhile there are troops of Screwdrivers showing up at her door. Because apparently she’s a pretty fucking decent looking screw. Not to mention the highly intriguing /attractive tool belt that just might be the answer to every fucked up problem they have, and they do have them - it‘s the nature of being a screwdriver. But a screwdriver doesn’t necessarily have any interest in hitting any of her nails. It’s mostly just the screwing they want. Hell, that might be the goddamn perfection to the twisty mind fuck of a screwdriver, actually. And you can TRY to hammer with a screwdriver. You can pound all day and listen to the light inconsequential tapping but the nail is not going in, not with all it’s attention devoted to spinning under the goddamn screwdriver. You just get bent nails. You just get broken screwdrivers. You just get dizzy. And you’re already smashed. And holy fuckall. Disjointed, I’m just afraid that no amount of gluing, sanding or painting is going to cover that shit up.”
July 03, 2009 CoWrite with Disjointed
“One nut can warp a person for good.” She pointed out thoughtfully.
“Ain’t that the truth. But her… she’s standing there with an entire tool belt…. scrambling to try anything and everything and it’s like he doesn’t see all the holes in the walls, he doesn‘t see that she’s being hammered to nothing, he doesn‘t see that there‘s all this work to be done. He doesn’t have any idea why she can’t straighten her shit up and be a fucking nail. All her tools just hang there useless, she’s not even allowed to do her own repairs and even if he does see…. he’s like shut up and hold still so I can hammer your screw in again. Because if all you’re armed with is a hammer, eventually you need to start pounding things.” I was on a bit of a roll or a runaway train. Something out of hand.
“ahahahahahahahhaahhahaah yes, the pounding.” She gasped and laughed, encouraging me to rant on with her.
“And she can’t get pissed at the hammer or the screwdriver or whatever tool she's dealing with, no matter how difficult it might be to understand where they’re coming from. Even if she's desperately shining the metal on the top of her Philips fucking head screaming for the love of Craftsman it’s so simple just fucking screw me already! He only has the hammer. (you might have to repeat that over and over for seven years before you get close to really getting it. You might have to be so beaten down with all the hammering that your entire self can slip outside your screwy mind and view the drama from outside all the hurt and the jeezus fucking christ don‘t you even want to try of it) He only has the hammer.” That’s really all it is I thought, he only has the hammer. I was trying to convince myself it could be that simple, it could be a matter of facts and therefore not worthy of a broken heart, not anything personal exactly, not a real rejection as much as a seeing things the way they are and acting accordingly.
“Yes!” she agreed. “And it’s not even as simple as being a single tool and finding your nail. Not for some of us. Not for the people wearing the well-stocked tool belt getting everything done. We’re a big giant series of jobs. We know that. That’s why we assume everyone else is. Anyone not needing work would be a waste of our hard-earned expertise. We have devoted time and energy and research and resources into our tool belts. Because duh… Even if you manage to twist the screw in, there are also places needing nailed. There are places needing glue. There are entire wings devoted to sanding and paint. And each spot requires the right set of tools.” She’s incredibly smart.
“Exactly, meanwhile there are troops of Screwdrivers showing up at her door. Because apparently she’s a pretty fucking decent looking screw. Not to mention the highly intriguing /attractive tool belt that just might be the answer to every fucked up problem they have, and they do have them - it‘s the nature of being a screwdriver. But a screwdriver doesn’t necessarily have any interest in hitting any of her nails. It’s mostly just the screwing they want. Hell, that might be the goddamn perfection to the twisty mind fuck of a screwdriver, actually. And you can TRY to hammer with a screwdriver. You can pound all day and listen to the light inconsequential tapping but the nail is not going in, not with all it’s attention devoted to spinning under the goddamn screwdriver. You just get bent nails. You just get broken screwdrivers. You just get dizzy. And you’re already smashed. And holy fuckall. Disjointed, I’m just afraid that no amount of gluing, sanding or painting is going to cover that shit up.”
July 03, 2009 CoWrite with Disjointed
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Roasting Marshmallows
I love roasting marshmallows. I don’t even like to eat them that much. Just one and I’m rolling on the ground from sugar overload. But I like roasting them. Not my own. I just flame mine and shake it around to watch The Man tremble in fear as I attempt to put it out, huffing and puffing and waving the stick as though I might fling it at him. It’s ……. “AaaaaaaAAAnd done.” *arm gesture* Band aid stoic, in, burn, fling. Done. Just can’t take the fucking anticipation when it’s mine. Just don’t think it really matters when it’s mine.
I prefer roasting them just right for someone else. You’re holding this puff of manufactured sugar over a flame on a stick, the chances of it going well are slim. But you want it to. You want them to sigh and admit it’s the best fucking toasted marshmallow they’ve ever had. You have to hold your arm out for so long hovering there over the flames. You have to judge the appropriate distance between the heat and the prize. You have to know when to pull the gooey mess off it’s stick and let them eat it.
That’s the point, right? You don’t really think they’ll keep it, do you? You don’t really think they still want to eat marshmallow after marshmallow knowing there’s just another damn marshmallow on it’s heals; perfect and tan and sickeningly sweet, do you?
The excitement is in the toasting. The excitement is in having your sugar browned and not knowing if it’s going to explode in flames or drip into the fire below. The excitement is in getting it on the stick.
The rest is just getting the campfire scent out of your hair for the next camp out.
July 01, 2009
I prefer roasting them just right for someone else. You’re holding this puff of manufactured sugar over a flame on a stick, the chances of it going well are slim. But you want it to. You want them to sigh and admit it’s the best fucking toasted marshmallow they’ve ever had. You have to hold your arm out for so long hovering there over the flames. You have to judge the appropriate distance between the heat and the prize. You have to know when to pull the gooey mess off it’s stick and let them eat it.
That’s the point, right? You don’t really think they’ll keep it, do you? You don’t really think they still want to eat marshmallow after marshmallow knowing there’s just another damn marshmallow on it’s heals; perfect and tan and sickeningly sweet, do you?
The excitement is in the toasting. The excitement is in having your sugar browned and not knowing if it’s going to explode in flames or drip into the fire below. The excitement is in getting it on the stick.
The rest is just getting the campfire scent out of your hair for the next camp out.
July 01, 2009
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