I was with another man. For this man I stripped, baring myself to his scrutiny.  He touched me, running his hands over my breasts, gently kneading my skin.

And then he moved lower. He gently parted my knees, and there I was, exposed, vulnerable.

He looked at me closely, taking note of my skin, touching me, in places sacred to only my husband. And he talked to me in a hushed voice. We spoke of mountains, snow and sunsets. We spoke of beauty, and I relaxed.

I went to the gynecologist yesterday.

That in itself is nothing remarkable to most women. It is something we tolerate if we want to use birth control. We must go if we wish to have children. They are with us when our children are born.

Two years after the birth of Babygirl, Hubs went through a rough patch. It was the hardest part of our marriage. He had been laid off.  He had been injured and we couldn’t prove that it had been work related. It was disputed whether this was a Workman’s Comp issue or an Unemployment issue. No one could agree and therefore, we got nothing. As the lawyers debated, our savings were depleted. We lost our health insurance, and I stopped going to the doctors.

Until that point, I went to the Ob/Gyn faithfully. I was a smoker and I used birth control pills. This was a bad combination and because of that, I made sure that my pap tests were regular.  However, I had an ectopic pregnancy which necessitated the removal of my one remaining fallopian tube. A previous miscarriage had taken the first.

Now, with no way to possibly get pregnant, I had no need for birth control. When we settled with Hub’s employer, we got our insurance reinstated and began playing catch-up with all the doctors. However, I put myself on a back burner. I put off going to the gynecologist and since I was having no problems, it became a matter of  “out of sight, out of mind”. I would go to my family doctor for my physical and he would always say that I needed a pap smear. Since I had always liked my gyno, I would assure doc that I would go there…..

But I lied. I never went.

After five years, I knew it would be uncomfortable to go into the office. After ten years it was even harder, and I knew I would be expected to explain myself.  And after fifteen years? Even to myself, it was unforgivable. Here I was, telling my daughter that this is an important part of being a woman and I was avoiding it like the plague. I had been getting a physical every year. I got my mammograms religiously. I even got a colonoscopy. And when friends would tell me that they hated the gyno, I was one of the first to open my big, fat hypocritical mouth, urging them to go, telling them that it would be no big deal.

Well, now that I am in the midst of menopause, I figured that I’d better put my money where my mouth is. Babygirl is heading off to college and I won’t be the one to watch over her shoulder to see that she does these things. I have to teach by example.

I went into that office yesterday. The nurse scolded me, but only in a teasing way. The doctor did everything he could to make me comfortable. His only reference to my lapse was “Let’s get you back on track.”

Next thing on the agenda will be the mammogram and a bone density scan.

I’ll make those appointments and keep them. I swear.

I’m not even lying.

This Tuesday was the first day of my last cycle of back treatments. I am so happy about this. I have already noticed a marked difference. I just need to remind myself repeatedly that just because there is no pain, it doesn’t mean I am ready for too much activity!

Last weekend, before the treatment, I noticed something about my pain. I was in alot of it on Saturday and I tried like hell to take it easy. On Sunday, it started out easier. We went out for breakfast but on our arrival home, as I was getting out of the car, POW! Now it was worse than ever. I tried to stay away from the meds because they make me feel too unfocused. 

The thing that I noticed, was that it isn’t always the percocet or oxycontin that makes me feel weird. No, my friends. Pain alone was enough to do it. I tried – really tried- to focus. I managed to do some wash….but I left it in the washer to get sour and smelly. I was going to make dinner….but first forgot to take out meat and then later, forgot that I was supposed to cook it!  I found it hard to have a conversation with Hubs because I couldn’t find the words I was looking for. I would say ,”Hey Hubs. I was just thinking….” and forget what I was thinking!

We went to the grocery store Sunday night to grab a few things. I figured that once I got home, I would drug myself up and then go to bed. I couldn’t make a choice to save my life. Thank God Babygirl was there to help me out!

Now for some time, I have thought it was either the pain pills or the depression meds that made me goofy. Now I know for sure that it was the underlying pain that caused me to be this way. (I am not planning to stop either meds, no worries)  Now that one half of my back is pain-free, I find myself with clear thoughts. I am able to start doing something during the day and I am actually getting things done! I can read more than one paragraph of a book or a blog. I can plan on calling my mom and I actually do it! I can take the pain meds and still function.

The weather is also very nice. I am getting off my butt and walking with the dog more. I can watch tv and remember what I was watching. I am starting to feel like my old self again.

Now I can’t wait to get the other side done!!

I want to hear you

your bells and whistles, your flashing lights

I feel the thrill, as I win

It’s not enough…just one more dollar in the slot…then I’ll stop…

I want to feel you

touch me, taste me, fill me

I feel degraded, dirty, used

It’s not enough….I just want to feel…..to feel…

I want to taste you

your sweetness, your salt

I want to fill the hole inside of me

It’s not enough….just one more slice of cake…a small one….

I want to feel you

you’re squeezing my arm, that pinprick of pain

I feel the rush, the quickening, the sickness

It’s not enough….just one more hit…to hold me over…

I want to smell you

your barley scent, the woody tones

My hand shakes with need

It’s not enough….just one one sip….I can handle it….

It’s not enough….never enough….never enough…

What the fuck kind of joke is the cosmos sending me?  What did I do to deserve being shit upon so heinously?

I had to get up early because the heating guy was coming to clean the heater to get it ready for winter. I asked Hubs to do one simple thing … wake me up around 7 so that I could have a cup of coffee and get into the shower.  That isn’t alot to ask is it?  Today, I woke up on my own….at 7:55!!!  The guy was coming at 8!!!  I hurriedly got dressed, threw some laundry into the washer, and went to the kitchen to get myself a cup of coffee. (It is the only thing known to man to remove the gummy eye boogers in the morning) I picked up the pot and ……

What fresh hell is this???  NO COFFEE!!!   Fuckityfuckfuck. Kill me now.

So I made a new pot. And I added an extra scoop of coffee just to be sure it would do the trick. It did! As the eye gunk slowly dissolved, tears of joy filled my eyes. The extra strong, extra thick, extra black sludge was AWESOME!

The heating guy showed up and began to do his thing. I could hear the vacuum running and I heard him taking off things and sliding in new filters. then I smelled that stinky smell that comes when you turn on a heater after six months of non-use. *Gag* He came up the stairs shaking his head. Uh-oh. That can’t be good. Why oh why must my first thought be correct? It wasn’t good.

“Your heater is clean. The filter has been replaced.  But….”

There it is. The but. Not the BUTT, the BUT.  I repeat- Fuckityfuckfuck. Kill me now.

“Your heater is old.  Not only that, but a healthy heater puts out a carbon monoxide reading of zero to three. Yours is almost five. At eight you will die.  At six, by law, I have to shut it down and report it.  For the age that it is, you would be better off replacing it and having it guaranteed for 99 years. That isn’t my advice because I am the heating guy, it’s my advice because I know your Hubs. I’m not trying to sell a heater, I’d like to safeguard your lives.”

I looked into his beautiful blue eyes  to see if there was a hint of deceit, a sign of trying to get one over on me. They were fringed with long black lashes and I wondered what it would be like to kiss him.

I blinked and broke the spell.  No lies. Just advice. We need a new heater before it gets cold. Did I mention that we live in the Northeastern United States? It tends to get pretty cold around here!  Fuckityfuckfuck. Kill me now.

He left and I sat digesting this information. The phone rang and it was the school. Babygirl has a sore throat. It has been a bit scratchy but I guess crossing my fingers and hoping for the best didn’t do the trick this time. She has swollen glands now, but no fever. Because her throat hurts, she isn’t drinking and therefore she is now slightly dehydrated and her blood pressure is a little low. They were sending here home. Hubs had to leave work to pick her up. Great. And now I have to make her a doctor appointment …Fuckityfuckfuck. Kill me now.

The phone rang again. What the hell can it be this time??

Jen got called into work so I will have her two little ones again today after all. From 12 until 5. It’s almost 12 now.

Fuckityfuckfuck. Kill me now.

YESTERDAY

The best part of my whole day was this:

And this:

TODAY

Today this is what’s taking  up the bulk of my day:

And this:

What a difference 24 hours makes!

I posted this last year, but since I love this post, I am posting again.And Hubs? I still like you as a friend, lust you like a teenager, and love you like crazy.

August 9, 1980It was a hot day in August. Just like most of those days, it was sweltering and extremely humid. But oh, the sun was shining.

I woke up at 6am because it was something I had done for the preceding 4 years. Once I got into the habit, my internal clock didn’t want to be reset. I showered. I ate a bowl of cereal and threw a few things into a bag. I’d be needing them later, because I wasn’t coming back once I left. I putzed around some more, walked our Great Dane, and then got down to business.

After planning for little over a month, I was getting married at noon.

I did my own hair. I put on my own make-up. Mom knocked on my bedroom to ask if I needed any help getting ready. My answer was No. If I had been a more girly-girl, I might have known that it was something moms did with their daughters on the day of their wedding. If I could go back to that day, I’d have said Yes.

The photographer (the brother of my future BIL) showed up and began taking pictures of my family, including my Mom-Mom and Great Mom-Mom. I got annoyed as the humidity began to muss my hair. (What’s hairspray?) Finally we headed for the church.

The first thing I saw when I got out of Dad’s car was an ex-boyfriend. He wanted to see if I’d go through with it. “I can drive you away if you want…” , he said. I declined the offer. The next person I saw was a guy I had known since third grade. He was also a friend of Hubs. “Who’da thunk I’d be watching you marry one of my best friends?”, he said. Two years later, I’d be saying “Who’da thunk you would be my BIL?” He is still my BIL.

Finally the moment came. The organ started and I watched my sister, who was also my maid-of-honor, walk down the aisle. At that second, Dad whispered to me that the car was gassed and outside of the church doors. “You don’t have to do this.” I wasn’t great at taking advice and I didn’t do it then either.

Then the clock struck twelve. The bells of the church began to ring the familiar “Angelus” of prayer. It rang every day at noon and that Saturday was no different. I didn’t care. It was a sign. I felt that they were chiming for me. I walked down the aisle with my father to attend my meeting with destiny.

Hubs isn’t from a Catholic family. We decided to get married in my Church but with an abbreviated ceremony. (Blessings, readings and vows.) My brothers were the altar servers. As they made faces behind  the priest’s back, I tried my hardest not to laugh. A girl I had known since the age of six sang “Morning Has Broken”. We vowed to ’love and honor’ each other. (I made sure there was no ‘obey’!) The entire service lasted twenty minutes.

Hub’s godfather catered our reception. It was held in a local firehall.  Our mothers decorated with streamers and bells and paper table cloths. Only our family and very few of our friends were there. The kid I played stickball with was there and my best friend from high school was there. Another friend, who said “she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to be invited to her friend’s wedding” crashed the party. Aunt Helen took off her slip and waved it above her head as she danced. The best man passed out while dancing with one of our cousins. One of the waiters got drunk on the free booze and threw up all over the rest room. It was one hell of a party. It is still remembered fondly by everyone who was in  attendance that day.

We left early with the intention of changing our clothes and going back to our families houses. Instead, we sat down on the couch in our little apartment and promptly fell asleep. We let everyone make their own assumptions as to what we were doing. Eventually, we made our stops and said goodbyes. We spent the night in a hotel near the airport and left for the Chesapeake Bay the next morning.

Every detail of that day is etched in my mind like it was yesterday. Hubs can recall the guest list, what people talked about and what music was played. Friends often recall the fact that once the music started, the dance floor was never empty.

Our wedding cost our parents almost $2000. Seriously. My gown and my sister’s gown were $20 each. They were simple prom gowns-the same style-mine white, hers blue. Someone had ordered them, had them tailored and never picked them up. I wore a wreath of baby’s breath in my hair and that was only because my godmother insisted. (You can’t get married in the house of the Lord without your head covered!) I carried daisies. I wore Great Mom-Mom’s pearl earrings. Mom-Mom made the cake.

I remember that I never got nervous. I remember that I never had a doubt.

I remember it all because it was the best day of my life.

Twice today I heard about the death of an ‘icon’. Farrah Fawcett. Michael Jackson. Were there other celebrities of the 70’s that were bigger? Maybe. But the word ‘icon’ fits both of them.

Is there anyone who hasn’t seen the poster of Farrah in that red bathing suit? I remember thinking that she was so beautiful. To my adolescent eyes, she was perfect. Her hair flipped back perfectly. Her teeth were so white and straight. She looked at ease with her body when I was so self-conscious of my own.  When she moved on from “Charlie’s Angels” to movies, I was older. I remember how horribly battered and bruised her face was in “The Burning Bed” . I thought it was so brave of her to show herself thus when she was one of the world’s most beautiful women. Little did I know that at the end of her life she would take that bravery to a whole new level.

Dying of anal cancer, she appeared on television. Her once gorgeous face now showing the ravages of her illness. She spoke of  her body’s betrayal in a brutally candid documentary. Would I want to show myself even to family in the same condition? I don’t think I would. Yet, there she was.

Hours later, the rumors appeared that Michael Jackson had died. I watched the news, more out of curiosity than from shock. Later the confirmation appeared declaring that the “King of Pop” had indeed died. I loved his music. I watched the cartoons, the variety shows, the videos. I also remember the revulsion I felt as he altered his appearance. I stopped watching because it was just too sad to see him deny having work done. But the music…..oh, the music!

Accusations of  “inappropriate relationships” with children dogged him. To me, there was too much evidence against him. I believe that he was guilty.  I know there are many who think otherwise, but I will never be swayed.

Now that he is dead, the news will talk about all of his contributions to music. He was a maverick. He was a trendsetter.  All of this is true. That he may have been a pedophile will become but a footnote in his biography.

Two icons. Two very different legacies.

Two stars have fallen from the skies.

When you hear the words “bad movie”, what comes to mind?

As children, a ‘bad movie’ was one that your parents considered to be inappropriate; one containing sex, violence, vulgar language or simply unacceptable behavior. As adolescents, the phrase usually meant a porn movie. And then, as adults, it took on yet another meaning. It then meant a movie that was below your intelligence, contained bad acting, had a horrid story line, or maybe cheesy special effects.

As adults, ‘bad movie’ became subjective. Can it be an Oscar winning film that puts you to sleep? (The English Patient) Can it be a film that everyone in the world seems to love that you abhor? (The Notebook) Could it be one with horrible actors or story? (Pink Flamingos)

I ask this question because this morning, a movie on cable caught my eye. It was one that I had seen before and remember laughing hysterically at the entire premise. This morning I watched “Sgt. Kabukiman, N.Y.P.D.” Oh, yes…seriously. I turned it on and watched as it unfolded. It contained every requirement for a bad movie: bad special effects, bad story line, awful acting, cringe inducing dialogue, and it was released by Troma films (The people that gave us the classic “Toxic Avenger”. I watched and once again, I laughed my ass off. (and this time I was not high!)

I began to wonder….Did the actors realize that they sucked?  Did the directors and producers think that they were geniuses or did they know full well that this movie would be ‘direct to video’? Was everyone on drugs? (A distinct possibility during the 80’s-even though “Kabukiman” was released in 1991)

The entire time I watched, I knew it was bad. I expected the ludicrous plot. I anticipated the low-brow humor and barely functional cast. What does this say about me? Do you intentionally watch movies like this? If you do, why? Do you laugh even though the jokes are inane? Do you still turn your head when the brains are obviously blobs of jello?

Or will you return to “reality television”?