happy (39th) birthday to me

Birthday resolutions:

Birthday resolutions:
Stop smoking. I had no idea the cigarette I had when I got home on Tuesday night, exhausted, would be my last. Now I know.
Exercise more. Yes, I've internalized our culture's messages about age and beauty and I refuse to be the dumpy, cute, near-40 year old.
Stop procrastinating. Feh, maybe tomorrow.
Be mindful.
Go to church more. (see Procrastinating)
Get more sleep.
Eat more salads - or at least alternate them with the bags of Doritos I love.
Find a tailor. (see Salads and Doritos)
Be open.
Make an effort.
Call the family more often, for god's sake!
Get regular Paps. And get on the mammogram tip, too.
Finish Worst Romance Novel Draft #1 by New Year's. Then sell it and begin to stalk Eloisa James because she is my hero.
Write more. Write better.

(And, because I'm creepy like that, remember Agatha the Fibroid? She who was untimely ripped from my woman parts last fall? You can take a gander at what that looks like over here. Neat!)

the good parts

I've been reading the 'good parts' since going to church, during the old pastor's sermons in my childhood. I wasn't allowed to sneak in my own books anymore ("You have to be an example, Ding.") so I'd take my mother's white leather bible and look for the good parts: the fornication, the adultery, the incest, the Song of Solomon. ("tee hee, he said breasts!")

My sister wasn't so into the good parts, but I was; it was like they had a secret to whisper to me. But at the time, all I ever learned was never bathe openly on a roof so the king can see you (David/Bathsheba), don't make cakes for your drunk brother (Absolom/Tamara), and don't get caught in a cave with your dad after a cataclysm (Lot/Daughters).

On the bus the other night, I thought briefly about my lifelong attraction to the 'good parts,' the erotic or the downright naughty bits of literature, or anything, really. It seems that was my childhood bent - to touch my nose to the faintly oderous drawers of Sin and then put them away for a while until I had to sniff again. Why did I think about this on the bus? Because it was dark and the snow was falling and my eyes kept going to a very young thing across the aisle from me. He was talking to a friend and every two stops or so, I'd find myself glancing at him. It got to a point I just contented myself with watching him avidly through the window's reflection.

For the past weeks, I've been weak, drawn, muffled and startled by pain as my guts knit themselves back together. But now, as the pain recedes, strength returns and so does a particular alertness. On the bus, as I took in this very young thing with my eyes, I finally understood the corny romance novel phrase he drank her in. I felt like an alcoholic finally allowed one glass of wine or a vampire guzzling the contents of a vein. (Actually, I also felt like a dirty old woman. Bah.) Then, when he was gone so was my itchy, uncomfortable thirst. I was able to eat dinner with friends and gave the short bus ride no other thought.

Until now. I'm looking out at the gray afternoon, watching the smoke rising from chimneys. Everything looks cozy and snug, like a Dickens scene. The cold outside creates a desire for warmth inside. I've been reading all day and there is something so pleasurable about spending the day bundled up with a book that other pleasures also come to mind.

How twisted is is when these thoughts all come together inside my head: church, bible, reading, lust, prohibition, discovery, restraint, pain, pleasure.

When people describe Something (war, architecture or poverty) as a ‘scar across the landscape’, I don’t think they mean that Something (war, architecture or poverty) was black, scabby, bruised and held together with bloodstained strips of adhesive.

I’ve been looking at my scar, my wound, for the past three days. I take a little silver hand mirror and put it on the sink. Then I pull up my shirt, pull down my pants and, holding up my belly a little, I lightly touch the bruised skin above the scar. It looks like my skin has turned into a smashed plum. The scar slashes across the top of my pudenda; it’s about 3 or 4 inches long. The scar is the ugliest, grossest thing I’ve ever seen on my body.
…
A few days before the surgery, I thought of the virginal way I think about my body. By ‘virginal’ I mean that I hold my body aggressively to myself. Thinking of my body as ‘virgin’ has nothing to do with sex or chastity. I don’t know how to explain it; I just think of my body as mine. It is inviolate; it is whole; it is the same as it has always been; it has all its original parts; it is not shared by anyone or anything. No flag has been planted on it, by marriage or motherhood.

But this surgery, as minor as it was, has changed my body’s landscape.
Where there was previously nothing, now there waves a tiny white flag with a red cross on it.

after the knife

it's day 3 in Room 1471 and i'm waiting to fart.
actually, i just did.

why this preoccupation with farting? because when you've had your guts cut into and rearranged, making sure your bowels are in working order is pretty damn important. so in addition to waking me up every two hours to check on my pain, they've also been asking me if i've farted, yet. and so, yes, i have. at 6.07 am, i have farted and my bowels are in good working order.

a word to the ladies of chicago: if you need work done, or need to have a baby, the new Prentice is the place to have it. i have a single room, a flat screen tv, access to my internet, a great view of the MCA and the lake and the nurses here are so super nice. the floors are hardwood, the walls are (wait, another fart) also wood and you'd think you were in a cute boutique hotel rather than a hospital.

being a patient is so alarming. the weakness is a surprise. realizing how vulnerable your body is - but also how resilient - is amazing. the day of my surgery, just 8 hours later, i could barely move my legs to the side of the bed. it took all my strength to lift my head from my pillow. but this morning, i've been up since 5, i've changed into my own gown and robe, washed up, peed (and farted!), walked around a bit, been examined and made my bed.

of course, the pain meds help, too. oh, the meds. i love you. you are my friend.

and i love my friends. they came en masse yesterday to visit and we had to close the door, we got a little loud. thank you, friends, and thank you to folks who've been emailing me their best wishes. they've been gratefully appreciated.

ok, i guess i should tell someone i've farted.

before the knife

i had a session with my therapist last friday.
how perfect, before entering the great beyond, to see that my current issues could all be set at the feet of my childhood church upbringing. it's good to get all this out in the open before potentially shuffling off this mortal coil.

Dr. C- asked me, 'why can't you make yourself vulnerable to your partners?'

i shrugged. 'well, i don't really see that they have their shit together; if they don't have their shit together, then how can they help me?'

she said, 'harsh.'

i said, 'true. but i didn't have any really good models of male competence when i was growing up.' i explained briefly about growing up in a very hierarchical environment. 'my dad's church was filled with men in positions of power who were so stupid, so incompetent i just felt...contemptuous of them. i thought that if i showed how extremely competent and talented i was, then their whole thinking about women's natural inferiority would be exposed as bogus. it made me hyper competitive against them. my thinking was - is - you don't make yourself vulnerable to an opponent.'

'interesting.' she wrote something down.

and so i told her the story of taking one of my dad's classes on hermeneutics when i was in college. i was the only woman and the rest of the students were seminary students or young ministers with churches already under their charge. halfway through the class, my father said the men in the class came to him and said my presence made them uncomfortable and could he tell me not to come to class anymore.

'how did that make you feel?'

'angry,' i said. 'they couldn't even tell me to my face; they had to go to my dad and have him deliver the message. fucking infuriated me.'

'and your father? how did you feel about his asking you to stop going to the class?'
'angry. i was his daughter. and he asked me to take a back seat to spare the feelings of men he knew were second rate.'
'he didn't defend you, take up for you.'
'no, he didn't.'

she wrote in her notebook again.

at the end of the session, Dr. C- gave me my instructions for the next session (after i am suitably mobile again.) apparently, it's all about examining messages i received about myself by the time i was 10, making myself open to accept help from friends (as practice) and inviting B- to thanksgiving dinner.

yeah. i might have to fail that assignment.
...
anyway, cross your fingers for me. i should be back home on the weekend and the next 5 weeks will be full of drug-addled reflections and new therapeutic revelations.

all work and no play...

while coming home on the bus one night last week i realized that my surgery is next week and my Need to Get Laid Clock is ticking and no frolic is in sight.

i'm a lasagna of tension about the upcoming date. the first layer is, of course, the celibacy frustration. then there's the tiny, hard wire of anxiety when i allow myself to think about the procedure for more than a few minutes. and laid on top of all that is some work stress. if last week made me bleed from my eyes, this next week might just make my head explode. our legislative agenda and government relations strategy won't write itself and i need to wrap up my desk so it won't fall into chaos by the time i return after the New Year.

letting go of work for this long is hard for me; Dr. C- asked what i think of work and my place in it and i told her that i am my best self at work. i am intuitive, quick, focused, funny, strong, supportive, assertive and i hit my targets. in short, it's at the office where i know what the fuck i'm doing. it's outside of work that my footing is less sure. clearly, there will be plenty of time to think about that while i'm on medical leave.

(did my parents love their work? maybe. before the showdown with his associate pastor, i believe my father loved his work. my mom, well - ok, she hated her coworkers and her job gave her a stroke. my parents might not be good models.)

sometimes i think that women who love our work almost exist in shadows. stories about us on television or in print make us out to be angry, dour, dysfunctional, bitter, unnatural, mannish or weird - even if we're running for President. teachers, doctors, do-gooders and artists get to love their work; after all, they're shaping minds, helping people, and creating shit. the rest of us, if we talk about our work, no matter our work, our stories are required to have a begrudging or sheepish quality; we work, you know, because we have to. we're only working, you know, to pay for what we really wanna do. if we all won the lotto, we'd stop working in a heartbeat and spend the rest of our time helping people and traveling the world.

i just wish i could hear more about women who not only love working but really like what they do. with all these articles over the past five years about 'opting out,' 'off ramping' or 'dropping out', you'd think not a single woman likes her work. wouldn't it be great to hear about women who are excited about their work, who find their work energizing and thrilling? wouldn't it be a welcome change to read an article about a woman who baldly says, 'I freaking love what I do. I'm fucking great at it and it makes my nipples tingle.' or maybe that's just me.

you know, this post was supposed to be about how pissed i am that i haven't had sex since labor day, and probably won't until after january 2008, but it turned out to be about work. huh.