life according to me

Category: Women

I’ve been duped.

I’m looking at the calendar and thinking that since it’s June 18th, that ten days since I last wrote isn’t all that bad. And since I can’t remember the last time I was this angry, I suppose it’s quite convenient that I have a place to get a few things off my chest, just like I used to.

Unfortunately, I vaguely remember having fun relieving myself of the small but annoying aspects of my simple life. That would not be the case at this point, however, and while I’ve worked my way through my semi-private temper tantrum this evening, a few things have dawned on me.

The entire time I was working at my not so illustrious career, the fact that I had this load on my plate most likely contributed to my professional demise. Not that I need an excuse to understand it, mind you. I’m just floored thinking about it. I’m floored thinking again about something I’ve realized for years and years: that women just have to suck it up. They have to deal. They have to be the glue and the duct tape and the plaster or whatever it takes to hold the structure everyone depends upon in place.

I knew this.

But somehow, I managed to eek out whatever I found solace in to manage. And in that effort, I managed to find that solace in things that needed to be taken care of: my home and family. I enjoyed my gardening. I loved to cook. I even found comfort in cleaning my house. The big joke was that Martha Stewart actually lived in our house.

And then I gave it up for my job until I gave my job up for myself — or what was left of me.

So now that I’ve joined the portion of society that gets credit for being functional by getting dressed and going to work again, I’ve decided that it’s no longer comforting or pleasant to engage in the domestic tasks mentioned above. I don’t want to pick up. I don’t feel like doing the laundry or dusting. I don’t crave time thinking about which print would look best against that wall in my bathroom that is in desperate need of something hanging on it.

And do you know why?

Because nobody else cares. No. Body. It’s all been just a giant placebo to allow me a diversion so I could keep an even keel. Stay the course. Avoid flipping out.

I’m disgusted.

But I think I like my new job.

I just need a couple of posters so I can make some signs to protest the on-going crap women have to put up with when they work. I’d love to squeeze between their accusing content and walk the streets until a desperate reporter from a failing paper decided to write my story even though there’s nothing spectacular about it. Just because.

I’m completely convinced I’m getting in line to be a man in my next life — but only if I can guarantee that I can have a wife like me.

June 18, 2009
My Particular Brand of Menopause.
I’m a bit under the weather today with what seems to be a fairly nasty head cold compounded by a lack of sleep caused by the cold. It’s a two-fold cold: that of being sick, and that which is caused by our window which has to be open lest one of us sweat to death in the night. Being under said weather puts me in a less than joyful mood and left to consider all the more pleasant aspects of my life — like menopause.

Just seeing the word on the page can cause a number of reactions depending on one’s particular set of circumstances:
1. You’re female and under 30 so menopause can’t possibly have anything to do with you. In fact, the concept of one grey hair or chin whisker may have recently sent you to near hysteria;
2. You’re male, and anything having to do with the female body that isn’t about cleavage, thighs, or hot sex may as well be written in a language unknown to man. That would be a male, and not mankind in general;
3. You’re a menopausal woman and because you’re on a first name basis with menopause, reading about it most likely isn’t the first item of the day with your usual Venti Soy Decaf Latte, thank you very much; or
4. You’re married to a menopausal woman and unlike awaiting the bouncing bundle of joy which is the result of a healthy pregnancy, you suspect absolutely nothing that cute could possibly come of this.
From time to time, I Google menopause just to see what comes up and it’s dismal. I suppose this behavior makes me Glutton for Punishment’s poster child, but it seems to be part of my two-year and counting adjustment to aging. Most of the initial hits are for sites selling or promoting HRT drugs. The others are large medical sites like the Mayo Clinic and WebMD and although basic information can be found on all of these sites, they essentially say the same thing: hot flashes are normal; we’re at greater risk for joint pain and osteoporosis; our skin will become more dry and less elastic; our midsections will increase in size; our muscles begin to disappear, our hair will thin in some places and grow in others less desirable; we will have difficulty with our teeth and gums; and most importantly — we will be at far greater risk for heart disease.

The good news is that regular exercise, improved diet, and reduced stress can lessen the effects of all of the above. By all means, let the happy dancing begin.

(more…)
March 5, 2009
Middle Aged Anomaly Tucks in Ass Each Morning

I click “Write” on my WordPress dashboard, waiting for the spinning wheel that is my brain to slow knowing that it won’t and that focusing on a single stream of steady thought on any one idea will seem impossible.

No, be impossible.

In 20 minute’s time, I’ve gone from thinking about working out a recipe for apple cinnamon nut ice cream, to worrying about the huge bowl of bread dough I have fermenting in the fridge, then mulling over tonight’s debate between Palin and Biden before reading through most of this Slate article and being completely distracted by a list linked inside that article. Or maybe it was somewhere else on the page…can’t remember.

I don’t normally spend my time reading these types of articles, but once in a while, one will catch my eye because the writing is good and it actually feels as if there’s a person behind that writing. Quite a concept, yes? Aspects of it will get me thinking, of course, and the entire time, somewhere hovering above it all (at least today) are Natalie Goldberg’s words about writers I scanned over this morning in the bathroom:

Writers live twice. They go along with their regular life, are as fast as anyone in the grocery store, crossing the street, getting dressed for work in the morning. But there’s another part of them that they have been training. The one that lives everything a second time. That sits down and sees their life again and goes over it. Looks at the texture and details.

Okay, so Natalie, I haven’t been “training” because that would imply that this living twice business is something I choose to do. You don’t choose it. “It” chooses you. For example, not only have I thought about what I’ve described just now, but I’ve thought about it many times since, and am now thinking about it again. And yet again when revising this paragraph. Still thinking…

I do this all day long.

It’s like watching myself live my life and even though it’s odd, it provides me quite a bit of time to think about how and why I do what I do. As much as I can say there’s a soothing (insane) aspect to it, unfortunately it doesn’t lend itself to improving my productivity. Bills are sitting in front of me, there are quite a few piles of recipes I’ve torn from magazines ready to be recycled sitting in the middle of my family room floor (where they’ve migrated after being on the kitchen counter for several days), and I need to get off my derrier to go for a walk today.

But I’ve arrived at the conclusion that the bloggosphere can be quite the brutal place — at times, what I imagine it would feel like to go through a carwash without my car, each spray of water or rotating brush pushing me first one way, and then another and never quite making it to the end.

I’m tired of it but have no one to blame but myself. I think much of it stems from the fact that who I am and what I have to say here doesn’t exactly fit anywhere. This conclusion isn’t earth-shattering, nor is it meant to be accompanied by a whine. I don’t whine. I have been known to climb up on a soapbox and metaphorically flip the world the bird, however — just not as much as I used to.

*sigh*

I am a middle-aged woman. That I enjoy who I am at this particular point in my life doesn’t really change the fact that I’m somewhat of an oddity in the Bloggosphere. Sometimes, it’s overwhelming to be surrounded by twenty and thirty somethings with toddlers, techies with jargon I never completely understand, snarling, snarking political junkies, celeb gossip mongers, and the increasingly less than attractive you-too-can-make-money-at-home crowd.

I’m an anomaly. And I guess that’s the most annoying part of this since I always have been, so why should my persona here be less so? One would think I’d get used to being reminded that I’ve always been a square peg.

I have no stories to tell about my toddlers, my Satanical boss, my commute, my gigabytes, and there is no way in hell I could ever sit down here and try to be funny every freaking day because people want a cheap laugh. But I’m also not going to wallow in the bathos of my life (liar, liar, pants on fire…), lamenting about mistakes and missed opportunities. No, really.

What I will do is continue to look in the mirror each day, and after taking more than the normal minute or so to scan my body and realize it doesn’t exactly look like it used to even five years ago, suck in my stomach, tuck in my ass, smile and know that I am me. Still.

Sounds like a warning, doesn’t it?

Heh.

October 2, 2008
Learning from Writers

I’ve been reading portions of William Zinsser’s Inventing the Truth, a collection of pieces by talented writers on The Art and Craft of Memoir. It lays open in a place that I’ll see it throughout the day so that I can noncommittally pick it up and think about what the writers have to say about their respective experiences writing memoir.

One of the pieces,”Points of Departure,” by Jill Ker Conway discusses so many different things worth my consideration. But what I can’t get past is the sheer magnitude of her life — and that I’ve never heard of her before. How does that happen, and why, after learning of it all, do I not feel insignificant?

Most likely because I’ve never suffered from being or feeling insignificant. Of course, everything is relative, so it’s easy to say that I’ve been significant to my family, or good friends, or a student here and there. Perhaps even to birds I’ve trapped inside and released before they hurt themselves crashing against a window to get out. Definitely the IRS since they can depend on us for tax dollars. But I’m not talking about any of that. It’s so much larger than the tiny details that we essentially are.

I wander through my day and think, “What does it mean?”

I’ve learned that Anne Lamott’s KFKD will play, relentlessly telling me all things non-constructive — anything to keep me from actually writing something relevant.

Anything.

At least if I continue to read Conway, I’ll write, but I’ll want to write about what distracts me, such as her opinion about women being “lodged in family networks [being] very attractive to the political right because it provides a good reason for keeping [them] from establishing a strong independent identity of their own.”

That’s a few good days of writing all by itself.

Instead, I’ll think more about what she has to say about memories and their separation from the emotion they so readily evoke.

I’ll also think about her question, “Why did it happen that way?”

In the meantime, I’ll write, too.

It’s easier to take on.

September 25, 2008
You, too can enjoy life past 30
Today is my birthday. And as much as I can say that many women my age choose not to admit their age, I’m proud of mine.

I’m 52 years old. Not 52 years young, or 52 years better. It doesn’t need to be made into something other than what it is.

Fifty-two.

The year I was born, The Platters recorded “The Great Pretender,” Elvis made it to U.S. hit charts for the first time, and Doris Day’s serenade of “Que Sera, Sera” let all who listened know that the future was not for us to decide.

I beg to differ.

Carousel was playing in theaters, and The Edge of Night could be seen on television. Jackson Pollock died in a car crash, Eisenhower was re-elected President, and IBM invented the “Hard Disk Drive.”

Not that long ago, but at the same time, several lifetimes ago.

I have fond memories of growing up in the latter years of that decade and the earliest of the next, but would love to forget many of the years following, until high school was nearly half over. Yes, there were good things about those years, but I’d never live them again if given the opportunity.

Um, no thanks.

I’ve learned quite a bit in all this time, so indulge me, and I’ll give you the short version:
1. The concept of Family is not something to be taken lightly. A bottle of wine can help.
2. Quiet times during the day are the best, even if they’re only five minutes long and in a dark closet.
3. It isn’t possible to watch Pride and Prejudice too many times no matter how much my son rolls his eyes.
4. It’s important to pay attention to what’s going on in the world. It doesn’t always make sense, but ignoring it makes even less sense.
5. Good friends are priceless.
6. Deep and lasting love is about Learning, Appreciation, and Compromise. Being silly frequently doesn’t hurt, either.
7. It is more than possible to appreciate the way your body looks, even though it’s rounder and more soft than it used to be, and lined and marked where it used to be smooth. Well, mine is.
So, Happy 52nd Birthday to me! Since most of the Bloggosphere seems to be made up of twenty and thirty somethings with very young children and who often write about aging, I hope this helps you know that life is good after 39 — in fact, better. It’s all about attitude.

And and occasional masque using French clay and lots of moisturizer.
September 3, 2008
A Cork for Ben Stein’s Mouth, please?

As much as I have enjoyed watching men and women athletes compete in the Olympic games over the years, and successfully pushing out the political crap that inevitably surrounds the games, I can say that I’m not sad I will no longer have the sound of the games on our television being the soundtrack of my day to day existence. Yes I loved Dressage even though I wondered how someone could spend tens of thousands of dollars on having the perfect score composed for her horse to compete to. And I truly enjoyed all the diving, although the gaunt bodies of some of the young Chinese women was disturbing. We jumped from our couch potato positions and cheered when Matthew Mitcham of Australia nosed out the Chinese diver for the gold medal in the high platform competition, and grinned each time he smiled and waved at the camera.

But there’s a political campaign going on. Still. At last. Finally.

And I’ve kept my eye on it all the way, which has been fairly painful considering all the talking heads I’ve had to sort through, enduring opinions and hair-splitting analysis of nothing. Trying to know what is really happening. Waiting.

I haven’t been one to watch the conventions in past years, because it always appears staged, and forced. I’ve always pictured a score of producers and marketers, advisors, and aides positioning the political puppets for those who may watch and, they hope, believe that it’s all true. They don’t think we’re very smart, and sometimes they are right.

But last night, I watched the before show. I watched CNN and MSNBC listening for the always present biases each has, and skipped whomever spoke (Pelosi…) until Caroline Kennedy spoke to introduce her uncle. I had to watch.

I was seven years old when I first saw Caroline Kennedy, at her father’s funeral, on our small black and white boxy television set. It’s the first time I realized that the world was bigger than my family and my home, and that sad things happened to people as young as I was. So when she speaks, I have to watch and think about the life she’s led and how it’s been shaped so differently than mine has been.

I watched Uncle Teddy, too, and listened to him, thinking more about the effort his presence there took than his words and respecting him for that alone.

But it was Michelle Obama I wanted to see and hear. She’s smart. She’s opinionated. She says what others think, but won’t say because they’re more comfortable criticizing others instead of standing up for what they believe. She won’t be someone who smiles demurely for photo ops when the new wing of a hospital opens somewhere or take on Literacy like it was something new that needed to be paid attention to. Her self-admitted “loud mouth” will be available on a regular basis, and to me, will represent more accurately what matters to me as a woman in today’s world whether I’m a “sister” or not. I believe her and respect women who are outspoken a hell of a lot more than those who feign disdain and then snark outrageously behind closed doors.

And for the polled 27% who are still pining for the loss of Hilary and are holding their potential votes hostage by actually saying they’ll vote for McCain? Give me a break. It truly reminds me of a child who, at someone else’s party, can’t deal with not being in the spot light so dumps over the punchbowl. Constructive if you’d like to spoil the party and leave everyone else remembering you for the giant red stain on your party dress. Get over yourselves and plug in your brains. Pull your heads out of your rumps, quit whining, and pay attention. It’s embarrassing.

To all the pundits who say this election is hinged upon independent votes? That would be me. But I’ve been decided for quite some time. My vote just keeps getting more solid with time, and nothing the GOP’s spin machine comes up with will distract me.

I will, however, have to quietly pardon myself to violently empty the contents of my stomach if I EVER have to listen to the truly obnoxious Ben Stein who was on CNN last night after Michelle Obama spoke. It was bad enough have to watch Larry King , but Ben Stein?

What a dislikable person.

This started out so nicely today, didn’t it?

August 26, 2008
In Vogue with Armpit Flaps

Once in a while, if I’m waiting in the line at the grocery store long enough, like others, I scan the covers of magazines. I glance past Gourmet, Bon Appetit, and Food & Wine, because I have those and others at home in some state of being dissected, stickered and splattered with my latest gastronomical creation. Instead, Style, Town & Country, or Vogue coerces me to lift it from the rack after a silent argument with myself about not needing another magazine in the house, a five-dollar magazine, a magazine that has absolutely nothing to do with me.

But right before the clerk grabs the last item on the conveyor belt, I throw the glossy—and not quite as thick as the September issue will be—August issue of Vogue toward her, and avert my gaze from her glance as she correctly sizes me up as the poser I am.

I have succumbed to “The AGE(LESS) ISSUE,” it seems which is “Vogue’s Guide to Looking Amazing at Every Decade, On any budget, Through Every Season.”

And then there is always that piece on “Beauty Fixes for Your Knees & Arms.”

Knees, maybe, since I’ve always thought I had knees that resembled those of a cow. But I’m sort of speechless over the idea of someone being insecure about a flap of skin on her upper arm. Not the one in the back, or the one that sort of waggles when your arm isn’t flexed. The one on the front.

Go to a mirror right now and look. Look at that place right where your chest meets your arm. You know— in front of your armpit. Yes, there. Poke it.

You have a fold of skin, right? Sure, yours may be larger or smaller than mine, but it’s most likely there. Or, maybe not. It seems it has little to do with weight considering the venerable Vera Wang believes that, “The armpit is nasty, nasty. Even young girls can have this problem.” How sad considering young girls already have so many far more important problems with measuring up to others’ standards. But evidently, this armpit debacle is extremely disturbing to some women—or the men who live with them and who tell them halter tops shouldn’t be worn.

The MoH is far too intelligent a human to even consider suggesting that I should or shouldn’t wear a particular item, not only because he knows I’ve already scrutinized myself a thousand times over, but that my heat-seeking missles would in an instant vaporize his tongue before his brain could transmit the thought.

The article, which to be fair, is written with some self-deprecating humor (the author tells of being obsessed about one part of her body or another (her fat thighs, nasolabial folds, elbows, but just wasn’t ready for the armpit), but I don’t think it’s all that funny. I’m stuck on the concept of the armpit flap and how women can’t see what is lovely about their bodies, and unique. Individual.

I try to understand that as much as I search for the perfect light cast on an artistically mussed salad or perfectly shaped peach, some women obsess about armpit folds. They do exercises for their armpit folds, and search for designers whose style works to hide that apparently unsightly flap of skin. They wonder whether there is a procedure or treatment to rid themselves of its offensive presence.

Who knew?

I’m still looking at my arm pits and wondering—not about my armpits—but about women who routinely have something nipped and waxed, sanded and plucked, injected or tucked and pay handsomely for it.

Supposedly, it’s all the rage to make small adjustments along the way so no one notices.

Somehow, I can’t take any of it seriously. Another article illustrates how women should dress in each decade of their lives is unrealistic, that is unless I want to spend a fortune to look great on my leg of carpool duty, or when I pop the garage door open to roll in the trash cans. Surely my neighbors would talk if I appeared to be too fashionable on these quotidian occasions.

Or would they simply not notice, distracted by my armpit flap and wanting desperately to recommend me to their plastic surgeon?

August 22, 2008