Author Archives: JL

January 19, 2011

A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME

By JL

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I’m reading this book that says naming my private parts will empower me.  Now don’t laugh.  Men have been naming their “little men” for – well who knows for how long? I just know they do it.  If you don’t know that, it’s only because your man (or men) haven’t told you, or at least said something along the lines of, “Marco Polo wants to play seek and hide.”
Men name everything.  Cars for instance.  Men can tell you the name of every car they’ve ever owned.  I don’t mean its make or model, I mean the name they utter when they stroke the dash – “Come on Suzy, lets go for drive.”  Or when they floor the gas pedal – “Come on Boss, get me out of this one.”
I probably should name my cars. At this age, there have been so many they all just blur together.  I’ve been driving the Monte Carlo for almost three years and I still refer to it as the Impala.  Now, both Monte, and Carlo are fine names, but they are not the names given by me and there in lies the theory that naming something, anything, is empowering.
And why men name everything . . . it is their God-given power; power over that which is named.
For those who might not know, in the Christian tradition God gave the first man, Adam, dominion over everything He created. So what is the first thing Adam does?  Goes about naming everything; all the animals, and plants, and flowers, and trees and . . . you get the idea.  And while he is doling out these monikers, he’s thinking I have dominion over you, and you, and you.
I have a theory that men give their girlfriends & wives arbitrary pet names for the same reason.  Honey, Sugar, Peaches, or Pookie gives him a sense of power in the relationship that using your given name (given to you by another) doesn’t.
So that’s the idea. If I name my cars, they will do my bidding.  If I name my vagina it will do my bidding, and not some man’s (or any man’s) without my say so.
Not a bad idea.  And if I name my husband . . . no, no that won’t work, ‘cause if I start screaming a name not his at the wrong time there is going to be big trouble.
Sex in the City covered this business when Charlotte and her sexually recalcitrant hubby were seeing a therapist.  They were both advised to giver their parts names so as to be more comfortable talking about them getting together.  They choose some nautical reference whose blandness escapes me – Schooner and Dingy or some such thing.
I wonder how men choose these names they give to their parts?  Most of them are just other male appropriate names – always with masculine connotations, of course. You wouldn’t hear a man calling his penis, Percival, for instance. Or, appropriate names may refer to a natural element of some substance and density.  Rock is popular as are its derivatives, Roco and Rocky.
But what makes one name better than another, and should I be thinking of something ultra feminine?  Desiree?  Of course, that means desire.  Too hokey for me.
How about Scarlet?  She was a feminine but strong and independent woman.  Nah, it seems, somehow, too graphic.
Mona? The Mona Lisa certainly possesses that, “I have a secret” smile. No, not Mona – too ripe for a pun.
As I pondered what great, empowering name I could bestow upon my little self, I couldn’t help but thinking of a certain James Bond femme fatal whose name incurred both shock and awe when uttered on the big screen . . . the infamous Pussy Galore. Now that’s an empowering name!
But that name is taken.  And then my eye fell to the little perfume bottle on my vanity.  Baby Phat, with its sleek, Egyptian looking feline branding.
Baby Phat?  Am I so confident that I could carry a name that might be misconstrued as fat, not Phat?
The big cats have always been my totem animal.  Sleek, quick, beautiful, and so powerful with their ferocity always at the ready.  Panthers, tigers and leopard skin shoes – oh my!

Baby Phat was out.  The final winner in the name game alludes to those beauteous, powerful, prideful animals of the big cat kingdom.
The Christian tradition may have given Adam dominion through the action of naming the world around him, but earlier, ancient, Goddess traditions say that to reveal your true name, that which is given to you by the Divine and known only by you and your creator, is to give away your power.
What?  You didn’t think I was going to tell you, did you?

 

. . . . . . mid

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December 21, 2010

The Road to Hades is Paved With Good Intentions

By JL

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As the day of reckoning approaches I sit, wondering if I dare to commit in writing (one more time) my resolution to lose weight and get in shape.  We all know where the road of good intentions leads and it seems I am doing a bang up job of paving the way there.  But then, I’ve been telling everybody, anybody, who will listen that I am moving to a warmer climate one way or another.
With this annual pondering of cleaner, better living, self-improvement, and getting in shape, I have to ask myself, what shape do I want to be in, really?
I am reminded of my mother – the prototype for Hallmark’s infamous Maxine. I don’t care what the guy who draws her says about Maxine being based on his mother it can’t be true (unless he is a half-brother I never knew about).
I am so convinced that my mother was the inspiration for the sassy, cynical, hilarious spokeswoman for old broads everywhere that I once coerced her into posing for a snapshot. Wearing her bunny slippers, a baseball cap over her mop of snow-white, curlicue hair, and swilling a cup of coffee she was a dead-ringer.  I told her I was going to send it to Hallmark and threaten them with a lawsuit for using her image without permission.
“Make sure you ask for future royalties along with the settlement sum,” she said.  “I plan to live out my days in high style.”
Anyway, Mom had an enviable collection of Maxine merchandise thanks to her smart aleck kids.  After she passed, I kept the bookmark that she’d taped to her bathroom mirror. It extolled the importance of staying in shape, and true to Maxine’s wit, concluded with, “I’ve chosen the shape of an old lady.”
Now that is the kind of wisdom that can only come with age!
Sooner or later in life, you have to admit that there is no wrinkle erasing miracle cream, fat absorbing super food, or flat-abs crunch contraption, at any amount of money, that is going to preserve youthful perfection.  If you have money to spend you may as well spend it on something that’s fun and you enjoy doing.
I am not twenty-six anymore.  I am never going to look like I am 26 again – despite the fact that my doctor seems to think I should still weigh what I did when I was barely full grown.  Heck, I am never going to look like I’m 46 again – nor will I weigh what I did then. I remember complaining about that weight too. I remember my sister telling me that in five years I’d look back and give just about anything to weigh that much less than I do now.  I will always remember that she was right.
There is no perfect size-eight in my future ever again.  Nor a perfect ten, in size or appearance.  I am the size and shape of a healthy woman my age.  And what vegetarian, gym-rat, fashion God says that’s not perfection?
So this year, my only resolution is to think more like the MAD Goddess that I am.  When pondering choices, contemplating my actions and making really big decisions of all kinds, I’ll ask myself, “WWMGS – what would MAD Goddess say?”
Still, a good plan for regular exercise is important at this age.  I think I’ll mosey over to the park and shuffle, (very, very slowly) along the fast lane of the busy jogging path.  I wonder how many of those running fools I can get backed up behind me.  After all, laughter is the best medicine.
Maybe I’ll give up snacking.  Instead, I’ll just eat the whole pan of brownies (a la mode), wash it down with a couple of mugs of Kahlua and coffee and call it a meal. Heck, I’ll even toss in a few chocolate dipped strawberries.  Fresh fruit is good for me.
I also plan on getting a pool membership so I can sit in the whirlpool and sauna on these particularly cold winter days.  Then, I’ll buy my clothes two sizes too big and tell people I’m losing weight.  When they ask me how, I’ll tell them it must be shrinkage.
I’ll take the stairs whenever I can.  Of course, there isn’t a single public building in my little village with more than one story so I don’t foresee that happening too often.
And come summer, I’ll use an expensive moisturizer with sunscreen every day, religiously – just before I go outside to worship the noonday sun.  I figure I may as well get used to the heat now.

. . . . . . mid

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September 15, 2010

SUNDAY DRIVES – DAY TRIPPING INTO RETIREMENT

By JL

“What are your plans tomorrow,” the hubby asks me as we sit in our double recliner after our earlier-all-the-time evening meal.

I briefly recall the recurring line from a cartoon my youngest child (and I) used to watch, Pinky and the Brain: Same thing we do every night, Pinky, plot to take over the world.

It’s seems that concept isn’t all that unlikely, after we’ve watch too many hours of CNN and Fox news, all the while debating the solutions to all of our country’s challenges. News was never meant to be broadcast nor watched 24/7. There should be a Surgeon General’s advisory put on the screen every 3o-minutes. WARNING: Watching this program for long periods of time will alter brain cells, raise blood pressure, contribute to weight gain and intelligence loss and may cause depression, rage or acts of violence in certain individuals!

I answer his question in my sassy way. “S.O.S.D.D (Same old s*#!, different day).”

Actually, retirement isn’t all that different from any other phase of life. You carve out a routine; this time one you are pretty much in control of as opposed to when you were a kid and your parents made the rules, or when you worked and your boss called the shots. Still, it’s a routine and like all routines no matter how enjoyable, you get the itch to shake it up once in a while. Much to my chagrin, we’ve become Sunday (substitute any day of the week here) drivers. Oh yes, those old people who drive around and gawk at the scenery with no particular destination in mind -that’s us.

Thank the heavens we’re not driving 20 miles below the speed limit, yet. I don’t think we’re an irritation to the people who rush from home to work, rush to school, rush to get groceries, pay bills and run other errands, rush to pick up or drop Junior off at soccer practice, then rush from work back home again.

“Let’s go to Hayward for lunch.” The hubby suggests. It’s an hour long road trip.

OMG! That’s what my parents used to do. My parents were old! I am not old. Still, the weather is pleasant and there are some early turning leaves. It will make for an enjoyable day trip.

So we hop into the VW Bug, I settle back into the heated seated, which I explain to hubby isn’t necessarily because I’m cold, but the warmth soothes my aching bones. Tune in the oldies station and off we go.

We have to turn the radio up and down alternately – down when we want to converse and be able to hear each other talk, up when an oldie but goodie comes on and we blast the radio and sing along like we did when we were young.

To keep it interesting, sometimes my better half will make a quick turn onto a road of uncharted territory. I’ve taken to noting the names of cross roads to see if they come out somewhere further down the line – a potential new route for next time.

“What was the name of that road back there,” I asked when I couldn’t quite make out the sign with my cock-eyed, cataract-in-one-eye vision.

‘You mean that field?”

“What are you talking about? That was a paved road. You didn’t see that road back there?”

“Yes I saw the road. Why are you asking me if I saw the road?”

“Because you asked me if I meant that field.”

“I didn’t ask you anything.”

“You didn’t say, that field?”

“Bradfield. I said Brad field. The name of the road was Bradfield Road.”

“You know, if we’d have planned this little trip ahead of time, I could have made us appointments at that hearing clinic.”

“Avoid what steering gimmick? I have both hands on the wheel, what are you talking about?”

“Hearing. I said hearing clinic.”

“Oh, yes. You should really go have that checked out. I think you’re getting deaf.” He reaches over and turns the radio volume back up.

At least they’re playing our song.

…….mid
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