I Throw A Great Vigil

My sister's lumpectomy is tonight, which is her tomorrow in Australia. She spells this out more clearly in her post. Go read it and then this exchange will make sense.

She is at the hospital doing admissions stuff right now, which will take hours. She just informed me that she was ordered to put these on. I think they are panties.

Hot stuff! Jason looks really happy about them somehow. People, THIS is the horrifying dark side of socialized medicine. Heh, that was a joke! Paper panties are rationed in this country! They require approval by a paper panty panel composed of Mitch McConnell, Rick Santorum, and some other people who don't wear panties.

How does Amy look so good pre-op? And moreover, THAT ROBE! This is like, plastic-surgeon's-office-level robe in the US. Totally jeal.

So her surgery could start as early as ten pm my time here in the east, and take a couple or a few hours. I'm going to wait up, of course, to hear how it goes. Then Amy has given me her Blogging Power of Attorney to pop in and update everyone on her blog. Which I will do. Maybe go by there and give her some encouraging words. Or compliment her on the panties.

More later. xoxox
B

Edited to add: I meant to say, I post little updates on facebook, so you could click that button up there to go to SubMat on facebook and "like" it. Then you would be in another SubMat loop!

Lovin'

When I shared my Spotify Valentine's Day playlist on facebook--this was like January 30--there was not much interest. I said to Matt, "Why doesn't anyone like my playlist?" He was like, "Well honey, people don't really listen to music for Valentine's Day."

But they totally do!

And I said, "People need to understand, this playlist contains everything I know about love!" And he was all, "I'm sure it's wonderful, baby."

....

Back in the summer, one day I had The Talk with Laura. The Talk about Sex and Babies. Laura and Mom and I were driving in the car and my mom and I said, of a couple expecting a baby, "I think they were trying for a long time." Laura piped up and said, "What do you mean they were trying, isn't it just natural?" Yes, she was ten years old, and I had been adhering to my policy of Don't Answer Questions That Haven't Been Asked. But a wise friend countered with The Child Who Does Not Ask Must Be Told. And I realized that her innocence was shading into ignorance, and that I needed to get in there.

Flattened.

So I did. We sat at the sound-side beach under that umbrella and I gave her what I thought of as the entry-level picture of the situation. First I figured out how much she knew already, which was nothing. So I told her. Bless her heart, when I got to the actual facts of actual intercourse, she was like, "Do what now?" And she was a little sad. She said, "I thought that I wanted to have like four kids, but now I'll maybe have just one."

I just told her that, believe it or not, when she was grown up she would want to do that.

So I left it there, after a brief PSA about teen pregnancy. And I felt like I was leaving out the biggest part, because though I had told her the facts of sex, I couldn't tell her its real significance. She wouldn't get it, it's like a melody she can't hear yet, how central it is to human life and how important to who we are. I guess that takes years to figure out. Or, as they say, a minute to learn, a lifetime to master.

Matt and I were talking about this a couple of weeks ago. Remember that movie Witness with Harrison Ford? And the beautiful Kelly McGillis? He's hanging out with the Amish, and there's that scene where she's bathing herself in her room and he sees her and she turns around and sees him seeing her? It is something. I was twelve years old when that movie came out. I remember watching it with a room full of adults, and when that scene happened, they gave a collective gasp, they were so absorbed. I had no idea what was really happening. I was like, "Uh oh, he saw her boobs!"

Fast forward to when I was nineteen, reading Fitzgerald's Tender is the Night. A book I still love. It was an education to me to realize that a man would cheat on his wife with a woman who was not as beautiful or desirable as his wife. Sometimes I think of the part where the narrator says, of the doomed Dick and Nicole Diver, and Dick's dalliance with the girl Rosemary, "Back at two o’clock in the Roi George corridor, the beauty of Nicole had been to the beauty of Rosemary as the beauty of Leonardo’s girl was to that of the girl of an illustrator."

That gave me a lot to think about for a long time.

Fast forward again, twenty years, to the other night. We talked of this and that, women and men. Matt, musing, said, "I want a woman who's easy to please, and I want to work hard to please her." I laughed that it sounded like a line in a blues song, but I knew what he meant and what he meant by saying it. This sentiment might have been unintelligible to me as a girl, and even in my twenties. But here in my late thirties, well absorbed in the unfolding of what is becoming a long marriage, it makes complete sense to me. I couldn't add anything to that and just nodded. Amen, brother.

Happy Valentine's Day! I hope you're having a sweet day with those you love. xoxo

But Other People Have Needs Too

I just got off the phone with my parents, who never call me lately because they are busy with their own affairs, and it's like, my sister has cancer now so suddenly she's all anyone can talk about. If you don't have cancer? Back of the line.

I was calling to say that we four are going up to their mountain house for the long weekend, and might we see them sometime? And they were all, no, we're meeting your brother in Huntsville for this and that, blah blah, and no, you are not on our itinerary.

And I was like, "It's not as good being at the mountain house when there are no grandparents to get up with the kids." And they were like, "Uh huh, oh, and also the hot tub needs cleaning so you might want to take care of that."

Then I asked if they had figured out their plans for when to go to Australia to be with Amy and help out with her family now that her surgery is scheduled for this week. Oh, well, yes, they had gotten tickets last Thursday, hadn't I heard? They're leaving at the end of this month and staying seven weeks.

Seven! Weeks! Spanning a period when I thought that yours truly might have need of their domestic services for times when Matt or I are traveling. One weekend in particular, they will be gone and Matt's mother is busy and I'm going to a conference for four days. I guess the children will have to be cared for by their father? These retired "active adults" kill me. Get a job!

I sputtered. "Well, I'm glad that you guys are going to be able to go and stay so long. Of course I'm glad. It's just that I'm going to miss you."

Dad said, "Well, think of these seven weeks as a preview of our deaths."

Got it.

So you can see why he is so in demand at sick beds and in the homes of the ailing all over the globe. Sunshine, just constant sunshine. Coming at you, Amy.

Friday Quickies

Today didn't feel like a Friday, right? I don't know, maybe because we have a busy weekend planned, it felt more Wednesdayish.

Tomorrow morning, Hank has a karate "graduation." Before you send cards and savings bonds, know that these happen every twelve weeks. He is graduating from an orange belt to an "advanced orange" belt. I think that is an orange that is gearing up to be red? Paging Dr. Roy G. Biv. I don't know, but I wonder if when this crop of kids actually achieves something, like graduation from medical school, if they'll be like, yawn, I walked under an arch of swords when I got my yellow belt.

Not that I'm down on cute kids being cute in public. I'm a fan.

Then Laura has a swim meet both Saturday and Sunday afternoons. Matt is taking her to those sessions, and I have a tennis match on Sunday. My partner is Pretty Neighbor's husband. Swinger's Tennis!

Pretty Neighbor and I didn't have time to work out until 7pm tonight. Then we had a beer and were just brimming over with our own virtue. Friday night workout! Above and beyond! Never mind the fact that we just did the first level of our Jillian Ripped DVD and we can talk almost through the whole thing. Whatever, it's Friday and I was sweaty at the end.

I cooked a bunch of food today and one of the things I made was this pesto using Italian parsley instead of basil. Mark Bittman said I could. Well, Hank is my pesto eater around here, but unfortunately his tastes have been formed by the pesto in the plastic tub at the grocery store. So I made this fresh pesto, and I will say, it was weird. Too strong maybe. But I tried serving it to him anyway, mixed with his favorite rotini. It took him about one second to announce that it smelled bad and that usually when things smell bad, they taste bad. I urged him to taste it anyway. He said that yes, it tasted bad. It didn't taste bad really, but it was different from what he was used to and different equals bad. I took it from him, put it back in the pot, and poured a lot of marinara sauce over the whole shebang.

When he tried it again, he said, "Thanks mom, I can hardly taste the badness that it had."

A home cook loves to receive a rave like that.

Amy texted me tonight and told me how much she and Jason are enjoying reading everyone's comments on my last post. Me too.

Oh yeah, did you check out the Obama campaign's playlist? Its composition is a whole nother topic that is being ably analyzed by others, but I will say that ever since it was posted, I have been enjoying AgesandAges on repeat. Great find! They're like a happier Arcade Fire. I want to get six friends and just drive around the country, all singing and shouting into the same microphone. We'll do lots of hand clapping too. Who's with me?

Thanks for joining me for this Friday night chatty chat. Goodness, just so much living, you know?

Have a good weekend, y'all. xo

Unexpected Inspiration

This morning I was in Pretty Neighbor's basement and we were starting our workout. She said, "I saw your sister's new blog post but I haven't had a chance to read it yet." I paused in mid lunge--or for the purposes of this story, let's say I paused in the middle of a one-handed pushup, yeah--and said, "Wait, Amy has a new post? I just checked it and nothing!" Then I realized I've been clicking through to the post I linked in my last post instead of refreshing her page. Oh, duh.

So Amy has a new post with a bit of good news, though as she says, one's definition of "good news" can be radically reshaped in a short time.  She's also very funny. She's doing it again, being funny when I'm trying to stay mad.

On a related note, I was thinking the other day that I have these little mantras that I repeat to myself in certain situations, and they actually help me. Naturally I'm sharing them:

It is what it is. 

I know, terrible, right? Terribly overused and supposedly drained of all meaning and what does it mean anyway?

My personal history with this phrase is that, several years ago when I was taking the qualifying exams for my doctoral program, I sat for hours in a room in the Literature department office and typed answers to two or three long essay questions. They were questions designed to both draw out my ideas for future dissertation writing and to test my knowledge of the field. If I succeeded in this part, I would get to take a multi-hour oral exam given by four smart professors. So it was a big deal. I wrote and wrote. Then my time was up, and the sweet, hippie, department assistant came to get me. She printed out my work and took it, telling me that she had placed magical crystals (!) around the doorway of my exam room to help channel energy or something. I thanked her, but I kept babbling a little bit about how I wasn't sure I said enough about X or I wasn't convincing on Y. She listened to me and she said, "Well, now it is what it is." And I thought, "Yes. It is. That is finished and I need to stop worrying about it."

And when this news about Amy having breast cancer arose, I was so lodged on the terrible coincidental unfairness of it. That feeling was like a rock in my shoe. And then I thought, "It is what it is." There's no need in striving for it to have been different, that thing in the past that is now fact. It just is. What it is. It was calming to me.

Do the thing and get the power.

Matt and I say this to each other sometimes. Usually it's when we're talking over something that is hard to do or that we need to do and don't necessarily want to. Its meaning is likewise vague. I don't think it will be engraved on a monument anytime soon, but somehow it resonates with me. I think I heard this from an eccentric professor I had who is renowned for his koan-like pronouncements. Seriously, his facebook status updates are OUTLANDISH. But he said, offhandedly of some grad-school obstacle, "Do the thing and get the power." I dunno, maybe these things can't be held up to strong light. But still. Just do the thing. That thing? Do it.

Let your body hurt.

This one I heard from Laura. She says her swim coach says it to them during practice. She takes it to mean, don't stop because you're uncomfortable, just keep swimming. I often think of it during my workouts--feeling strain and discomfort will not kill me, in fact it is necessary. But I kinda go deep with it sometimes. Like, pain is not alien to human life or unnatural. It's part of living and it's part of the world. Let your body hurt and see what happens after that.

Have I taken you to a weird place? I don't know. I'm going to collect up my magic crystals and go unload the dishwasher now.

Do you have any personal mantras? Things that help you out?

Bad Times

Well, I didn't know my sister Amy was going to blog about her situation when I went ahead and put up my adorable post about soup. A post which will now move on down the page. Instead go read Amy's post. She has been diagnosed with breast cancer.

I know. I know. I can't believe it either. We are all struggling to process this news.

She is 35, and I was 37 when I was diagnosed. So far it seems like she might be about where I would have been had my disease been found two years earlier. A smaller mass with no lymph node involvement. Or we hope and pray she is.

I was talking to my friends about how we all have this idea that there is a "fair" amount of misfortune that is meted out to each family, and any more than that is "unfair." But of course we know that is not the case. We need only look around us and around the world to see that.

I know she will come through it, whatever it is, like I have come through it. And she will be brave and I'll be funny and we'll blog our way through it and we'll probably be as charming as fuck. But today it just makes me sad and I don't want to do any of it. Not any of it.

But Amy is not such a downer and she would love to hear from you. Go by and say hi and then come back here and say swear words with me.

Marital Strolling

On Superbowl Sunday Matt and I went for a brisk walk in our neighborhood. The air was warm and caressing and stuff was in actual bloom.

We talked of soup.

Matt allowed as how he wanted more soup in his life. I observed that I make a whole darn lot of soup as it is. And he shared with me a wish for even more. So we considered the soup landscape and how I might meet his needs within it.

I rattled down a slight hill. "I think I now fully see the world of food through soup goggles," I said. "You just start with some fat and add the aromatics, and then you can just go anywhere. It's exciting!"

Matt strode along beside me. "I don't like celery," he said.

This opinion was so objectionable that I could not admit it into the conversation. "Yes you do," I said. "I put celery in everything." I swung my arms.

Keeping up a quick pace, he said, "Well, I don't like actual chunks of celery."

Still I pooh-poohed, "Oh yes you do! You don't like celery like Hank doesn't like butter. He just doesn't want to see it or know about it, but it better be in his oatmeal!"

Matt said, "Don't invalidate my dislike of celery."

"I'm not!"

"Yes you are, you're doing exactly that." We reached a flat stretch and he sped up. I scrambled to keep pace. He was right. I was invalidating his dislike of celery.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I should not do that."

I have this tendency to think I know best in some areas, and when I think that, I won't really even hear what other people say, I'm too busy organizing my rebuttal.

I'm working on this aspect of myself, starting with soup.

Then Matt made me jog up a huge hill.

The End.

I Am Like A Golden Buddha

So, when we left off with our party report, I had consumed two point five glasses of red wine and been introduced to a world of New Sensations. I had also had my ears assaulted by unbelievable amounts of lady-hollering. It was like a nine year-old girl's slumber party. And, yes, just like a slumber party, many people were in their PJ's and there was gossip.

Oh! And I forgot to tell you! Remember the post about the email from the crazy book club lady whose son-in-law was terrorizing the neighborhood? Well, her daughter was at this party. I had finally met the crazy-ish mother at book club and was most interested to see her daughter. Now I just need the son-in-law to complete the set. Anyway, Pretty Neighbor knows her, and I was like, "Get her over here and let's ask her what the heck went on that time." But there was not enough wine to make that happen.

Anyhoo, the Passion Hostess finished her presentation and PN and I decided to take our afterglow upstairs and get in line for the tanning. This was one of those houses where the layout is really nice, but in the interest of creating a roomy feeling, the builder just has these weird spaces here and there that you don't know exactly what to do with. You know what I mean? Like, their second floor landing had swollen into a sitting area with a huge couch, coffee table and chairs, and a secretary. I don't know if anyone in the family ever uses this area. Its best use might be for waiting one's turn to be spray tanned in the master bedroom.

So some shiny giggling women leave the bedroom and PN and I get to go in. We had grabbed the sweats we brought out of our huge purses. The tanning lady was a petite blonde with a very friendly vibe and rubber gloves. We introduced ourselves and discussed how she lives in a subdivision up the road, the one that famously has indoor tennis courts. Truly the woman who has everything.

I said, "So should we just strip?" She was like, "basically, yeah." She said we could take off as much or as little as we wanted, she had those paper thongs for us to wear if we wanted.

But I had been prepared and had worn my own thong. Sidebar: as I was getting ready, Matt was like, "You own thong underwear?" Like, why wasn't I informed of this? I said, "Yes, sure, I just never wear them because it's like having something in your hiney crack." He said, "And not in a good way?" Correct. So, the skimpiest thong I have, and the one I thought the best for spray tanning, is the actual pair of thong underwear I wore to my senior year of college Homecoming Dance. I am not kidding, I still have them. There is so much...I just can't even talk about it. I will say that the dance was held at the National Building Museum, which is pretty! End of sidebar!

So I said I'd tan first and carefully separated myself from my new fancy jeans. Then I took off my shirt and said to the girl, "Now, warning, I had a mastectomy and I have a scar. Don't be startled." She didn't actually yawn, but she was like, "Yep, I've seen all the kinds of naked there are." So, okay. I just felt that wearing a bra to be spray tanned was too fussy.

Then she put this barrier cream all over my palms so the tanning solution wouldn't adhere to them. (The side of my thumbs still wound up a rich mahogany.) Then she directed me into this little teepee looking thing that she had brought and had set up in the bedroom so the tan stuff wouldn't go everywhere. It was open at the top and on one side. She told me how to stand and then started spraying. It was like standing in a cold pineapple-scented mist. Not unpleasant. It took a few minutes, I guess, and then I went and stood in front of a big fan to dry off.

PN entered the tanning zone and here things slowed waaay down. I don't know if it was the wine or the nakedness or what but we all got very chatty. No one more chatty than the tanning lady. She had a lot to say about her search for a church home and all manner of other subjects. Which meant, for PN, that the girl would turn off the tanning solution and just be spraying her with cold air while she talked. It was hilarious! Hilarious to me, anyway, because by then I was leaning against a doorway and eventually I was dressed. I mean, I don't know, I think her tan took five times as long as mine? Chatty chat CHAT chat!

I ventured deeper into the bathroom complex to find the toilet. Here again, just massive amounts of space everywhere. It made my own bathroom, which we call the Golden Palace, look like the in-room lavatory at a Super 8. First I had to journey through a closet, fully expecting Narnia to be on the other end, and then a vanity area with mirrors on either side for a nice mise-en-abyme effect, and then finally to the pee pee pagoda. And there was music booming out everywhere from speakers in the walls and exciting lighting. I barely found my way out.

Then PN and I each gave the tanning girl $20 and we parted fast friends. When we stumbled back downstairs, dewy and fruit-smelling, the place had basically cleared out. We had been gone almost an hour, maybe we really were in Narnia. We ate some cheese dip and planned out how to pry T away from some drunk, intent girl who was explaining to her how the 1% need to be taxed at a lower rate because they are job creators. I decided that shrill, out of control laughter that would split the very ceiling was not the best tactic for pulling her away. Finally I just put my hand on her shoulder and said, "I'm sorry. Let's go." And later T was like, "OMG I kept glancing at you to get you to save me!" And I was like, "Not even."

So omg I have had so much fun typing this! Obviously. Then we all went home and when I walked into my house, still in the middle of our child-free weekend, Matt was all like, "Weeelllll, how was it?" And I said, "Sorry fella, stay over there, I'm tanning!" Also I smelled like pineapple-y dog pee.

The girl had told us that the tan would activate over the next twelve hours. And lo, it did. When I got up in the morning (after sleeping on a dark sheet that wouldn't show stains), I looked at myself in the mirror and went AAAAHHHH! I had last night's mascara on AND was seriously tan. I looked like a raccoon on vacation in Aruba. After I got the makeup off, it was a little less alarming.

So given that I didn't have any special plans and had just tanned for the hell of it, I rocked that savage tan to the preschool Storybook Stroll, several swim practices, karate classes, and a casual evening with friends and takeout food. Yesterday, at the playground, I saw the mom of a buddy of Hank's. She goes, "Wait, are you tan?" Like, what in the world?

But it looks good! I tried half heartedly to photograph it and you just can't tell. Picture me as I am, only a few shades darker. I would totally do it again, though I might have her do my face more lightly. She said that if you can get six girls together, she'll come do a house party, so I might do one closer to summer.

Oh, the big tanning revelation is the buns! Tanned buns! I have never seen my buns so tan and it really works. I see now why body builders/pageant queens do it. That area is a nice toasty brown and the thong lines are cute.

Now you really do know everything about me.

Thank you for letting me overshare. I hope that you have found some enjoyment from this relation. Wishing you toasty buns.