Dear Body. What the hell are you doing to me?
I thought we’d come to terms with what our relationship was to be to each other when you first started to change things. I was going to ignore what was happening and you would do what you wanted to me. I would like to revisit that pact. You've gone rouge and I don't like it one bit. You see, the boobs were a surprise, but I think I dealt with them well. They came in pretty handy - no pun intended - at times. Although I do stand by my statement that they should be removable in certain situations, like in seedy bars with icky men or when one wants to go running. And I'm really not sure why you've designed them to droop. Or why they didn't come with a built in bra. Or why not one person who makes bras can make cute ones that fit that you'll be able to find year after year. But I'm dealing with that. So I'm in a jog bra most of the time. Husband has an imagination and the Internet. He's fine. I have sort of come to terms with the fact that I’ve not treated my knees and my back well. I am dealing quite well with the consequences you’ve imposed for my years of bruising and banging them about. I have even handled the degenerating discs in my back with some dignity – if you can call popping pills to stop the spasms, epidural shots to stop screaming and walking like I’m eighty to stop the pain, dignity. So I occasionally look like I’m immensely constipated. At least I’m still walking somewhat upright. As for the rest of my body, well, I’m working on getting used to my hands not working the way they should. The random swelling and the inability to open a bottle or a door has been a challenge but it’s made Husband feel strong and useful. I've only got stuck in the bathroom a few times and I've used that time to clean. After the cussing, that is. And the sounds that now come out of my mouth every time I get up from the floor, well I’m choosing to find those funny. Everyone around me does. I have even made peace with the mutation you chose to grow in my baby maker. The mutation that caused me to look a lot like a pregnant woman, cry like a baby and bleed like a stuck pig. I’ve embraced the resulting scar and actually take pleasure in showing the picture of my poor uterus being overtaken by the mutant tumors. You see, together, they look like a heart, a fact I find ironic. I’m even ready to deal with whatever you’ve decided to do to my lone ovary and ‘bulky’ cervix. Heck, it’s already been quite a story to tell, I’m sure it can only get better. Thank you for the multitude of grey hairs. They have been an interesting addition to my hair adding nice depth of color and interest. I love the way you’ve finally answered my plea for straight hair by making only those straight. I also love how you’ve gotten them to stick straight out of whatever ‘style’ I’ve chosen to go with. It’s neat to watch the kids watch the hairs dance when I’m giving notes and arguments with Husband are more vocal when he stops me mid point to pull one out. I really feel they are adding to my wild and arty personality, so thanks for that. But, dear Body, what the hell is going on with the little tiny annoying hairs you’ve decided to add to my face? Why have you decided to, not only change the texture and color some of the hairs but, also to have them pop up in random places on my chin and cheek? And always at a point in my day when there are no tweezers in sight and I have no way to pluck the offending hairs? You know this results in me spending far too much time obsessing, my fingers drawn again and again to the tiny irritating hair that feels as large as a splinter and yet, I am unable to ever get a grip on it to pull it out. And now you’ve added to that joy by decorating my neck with teeny skin tags. What the heck? They have begun showing up around my neckline, little tiny dark freckle shapes that protrude and catch the chain of my necklace. I know I’m African American and we’re prone to skin tags but only part of me is so stop. They will never look as awesome on me as they do on Morgan Freeman. Folks have pulled me aside to tell me I’ve got a piece of lint on my neck. And then clumsily tried to brush it off! Seriously. Dear Body, there has been a lot I have let slide. A lot I have elected to laugh at, to share with others at the expense of my ego but enough is enough. Stop with the changes! They are seriously pissing me off. When I was a kid, if I hurt my leg, my mother would joke that maybe we should send away to the factory for a new one. I wish that was true, that there was a factory of body parts. I have a lot I need to replace.
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Feeling very fuzzy today. Don’t seem to be able to finish or even somewhat finish a thought or a story today. It might be because of the weirdness of yesterday with it’s windy warm high 70’s followed by a rainstorm that’s brought us a grey today. Or it might be that we sat up late and watched pretty people on TV award other pretty people awards for singing or writing or being pretty.
Doesn’t matter the reason. I just can’t seem to formulate full sentences more than usual. So I'm going random. Well, more random than usual. For Halloween I considered being Spider Woman, mostly because I found a spider dog toy for $5 at Marshall's. It was orange and rattled and the plan was to attach it to my shirt or my head. That’s as far as I got. Sadly that that’s how most of my projects go - I don’t get much further than planning and, in this case, buying the toy. Anyway, Halloween was last week and I was a tree and a Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and not Spider Woman so I gave the dog toy to Tigger the Dog. This failed project worked out well, I thought, as Spider Woman is, after all, a dog toy. What I didn’t know is that the bright orange spider toy that ratted apparently also had a squeak. Or rather, a squawk. That sounds like a dying duck. On steroids. TTD loves it. And squeaks it. A lot. Usually when we were trying to watch a show or sound like grown-ups on the phone. At one point, I caught her on her back, legs a wiggling, as she squawked away, happy as can be. Sadly there is no video of that wonder. I did, however, get a video of TTD having her way with Spider Woman. Which I planned to post for your enjoyment. But then I realized I'd have to upgrade this site to allow video. And I am just not awake enough to contemplate the cost vs. benefit ratio of upgrading. So, on my fuzzy non-thought formulating day, please enjoy a snarky picture or two of TTD having her way with her lion. I am Kenyan. And I am American. My father was Kenyan. My mother is American. I was born in Kenya, lived there till I was eight and then I lived in America. I am Amerikenyan. The American elementary school kids were fascinated with my history, with the fact that I came from Africa. They would hold up National Geographic magazines and ask me if recognized anyone in the pages. With a serious face, they would point at one of the Maasai women with no tops and pretty jewelry and ask me if she was my aunt. They asked me if I lived in hut. They asked me if I wore clothes. They asked me if I had a lion for a pet. Or an elephant. Or a cheetah. After awhile, I got tired of saying no, of seeing the disappointment in their eyes, and I started to say yes. A totally sarcastic "Yes!" but a yes all the same. Funny thing, saying yes with a modicum of truth tinged with obvious sarcasm does not work well on 4th graders. They just didn't get the sarcasm part. It was all truth and awesome tribal stories to them. I’m sure my wild Afro; my penchant for storytelling and my accent didn’t help. Yes, I am a tribe’s person, of the Kamba tribe. (True) Yes, my father is the chief of the tribe. (False) Yes, when I get old enough, I will marry the son of the nearby tribe in order to build tribal relations and foster peace between our tribes. (So obviously false) One time, my father had to drink the blood of a cow to show his respect to the Maasai elder. (Totally true. And awesomely gross) Yes, we wear clothes unless we're hunting in the bush and then we just wear our tribal skins. (False) Yes, I can kill you with just a bow and arrow. (False but only because I hadn't tried) Yes, I did have a pet lion. Everyone did. (False.) The questions were so absurd and my answers were so outlandish that I was sure no one would believe me. And yet it continued, as I grew older. When the movie ‘Out of Africa’ came out, my friends and I trouped out to see it. As the movie started, with a long pan across the African plains, a friend leaned over and asked, “Do you recognize anything?” “Yes.” I said, sarcastically. “Yes. That tree right there is where we used to picnic.” Because I’m that good that I can recognize a lone tree in acres and acres of bush as the one tree we used to picnic under. Because that’s what we did in the bush, picnic. No need to worry about the wild animals or anything. When we wanted a picnic, we went to that tree and picnicked and the lions and cheetah and wild buffalo etc left us alone. Heck, we'd hand feed them when we were done. People believe what they want to believe. And growing up in Africa, knowing someone who grew up in Africa, that’s a pretty cool story. In fact, years ago, long after elementary school, a friend introduced me to a new acquaintance as someone who grew up in the bush. “This is ej.” She said. “She’s actually a tribal princess and when she grows up, she has to go back and marry the son of the neighboring tribe!” I turned and looked at her and burst out laughing. “What? Where in the hell did you get that?” “From you.” You told me that in 5th grade.” It turns out she’d been telling my “story” for years, to everyone she introduced me to or talked about me to. I was the Kenyan tribes person who would one day be a chief's wife. I was so sad to have disappointed her. Of course, now if I mention I’m Kenyan, people think of Obama. They have a better idea of what it means to speak with an American accent and have a history like mine. Now that I’m in the South, lots more false impressions come with that history but I just smile, tell them we’re from different tribes and change the subject. Don’t get me wrong. I like my history. I like my different upbringing. I like that I do have stories of lions, and a rhino did actually charge us once but, while I am Kenyan, I’ve been American longer. No need to talk about the lions now. At least until I go back ride one, like I used to do. I’m at a bit of a crossroads with iamwhaleshark. I started this blog to get the things out of my head. Hence the name of the blog section: Emotional Maintenance. But I’m finding I’m not using as emotional maintenance. Even though you are all invisible to me, I find myself unable to share everything. It’s still a bit too naked, too exposed. Besides, who wants to read about the whispers of panic that can stop my heart over their breakfast or on a break from work?
It’s funny that I say that because I met Husband online. He was just one picture, a mop topped Paul McCartney look-a-like, to me for months. And I was me as a twenty year old me, in a somewhat blurry picture, laughing because I thought the world ahead was bright and shiny. I was able to share with him all my deep dark secrets behind the safety of the screen. Of course, I kept the good ones; the ones that might make him run screaming, till later. Till we were in love and married and he couldn’t get away. He didn’t find out that I was manic when on caffeine, that I litter partially used tissues about the house, that I don’t put shoes in their correct place until years after we wed. Much like this blog, I only really told him the funny awkward stuff online. The stuff that is so absurd, it couldn’t have happened to someone, let alone me. The stuff like falling off the stage while flirting with boys and landing on a chair with my face causing concussion number three. Husband only told me his awkward funny stuff too. And boy did some of his stories top mine in humor and in shock value. But they are his stories, not mine to share here. Which is too bad because how I found out his second fiancé married a murderer is a fantastic story in itself... But I digress. Again. Husband and I have been married almost nine years now and I think most of our skeletons are out of our heads and bouncing about our lives with us. They've become funny stories to share with friends or punch lines to our arguments. Except the ones too dark to talk about at all. The ones that go bump in the night, we’ve kept to ourselves or only spoken about once or twice and then pushed back down into our darkness. But do I share everything with you? Can I share everything with you? The idea when I started this was yes; yes I do share with you all the icky things that are in me. The scary things that make me squeal. The pure moments of terror when the depression has hold of me and I’m not sure I will be able to get out of the gloom. But that’s not light reading. There isn’t much funny about wondering if I’ll make it through a day, if my breathing will stop and my body will just cease to function, if this shaky calm will last a few days longer and the claustrophobia will fade. That’s not the person most of you have seen. That most of you have known. That, in all honesty, is the movie I’d likely change the channel on. So, I’m at a crossroads. I know it’s an answer that has to come from within me. I know it’s one that I may not be able to make right now. But if I choose not to go down the dark path with my sharing I cannot truly call the blog section Emotional Maintenance... But not sure how long I can keep up with Funny Things That Have Happened To Me or Keep Happening To Me... I leave you with this picture from the exit to the Stanford Hospital's Psych ward. I feel I should point out, I was not a patient. It is a doozy of a story - Jesus features heavily - that I cannot share here because it's not mine to tell. The picture does really say it all. The end. At a five-year-old party yesterday, the mom – a wedding planner – went all out. She had the kids name, Bob – not his real name – spelled out in large vintage metal marquee lights. She had napkins offset from the plates which were topped with a second napkin, also slightly offset and topped with a cupcake, which was topped with a mini sugar Bob's 5th Birthday sign. There were glittery pom-pom strands in the center of the table and playing cards strewn about that were probably intentionally perfectly placed. The mini bottles of water were wrapped in a Bob’s 5th Birthday label. She’d covered the walls in white paper and placed multi-layered multicolored signs with Bob’s 5th Birthday on them. Little hanging flags decorated the walls about the signs, each flag a letter spelling out Bob’s 5th birthday. And, as each child walked in the door, she handed them a shirt to wear that said Bob’s 5th birthday on them.
It was beautiful. It was nuts. The kid was five. Who does that for a five year old? The parents were impressed. They oooh’d and ahhh’d. After handing out the first shirt to his friend, the one mom had had stenciled with 'the girlfriend’ on it, Bob just wanted to play. The kids just wanted to play. They didn't care about how pretty the table looked or how pulled together the theme of the party was, they just wanted to chase each other and scream and scream some more. In all, it was a great party with fun had by all. And after, while I was helping the relatives clean up what had taken Bob’s mom more than two hours to create, I was ruminating on Bob’s mom’s efforts. Who does that? Two hours of party prep and countless hours of pre-planning for ninety minutes of screaming and cake? Hours and hours for a kid that won’t know how much effort was spent on this party until years and years later and will only thank you when prompted by grandma? I have a friend who just posted a pic of her Halloween skeleton head cupcakes - at two in the morning – and then got up a few hours later to get the kids off to school before heading off to work. She often stays up and cuts box tops for her kids’ school and then, organizes all the collection of box tops from others so that the school can get extra dollars for things they need. She works in the classroom every week despite her full time job. She teaches a noon art class at the school that requires hours of prep work and little acknowledgment from others. I read her posts and shake my head in wonder at the lengths she goes to for her kids knowing that they will likely not realize what she's done until years later. When we moved to America, my brother and I were suddenly exposed to a glutton of TV adds for thing we’d never seen before. And we wanted them, we needed them right now. I can’t remember what Brother’s want was but mine was the weird head of a woman/girl, the one you could put make-up on and style her hair. And a Barbie. I wanted a Barbie, not because of her skinny big boobs and pouty faced looks. I wanted Barbie because all my new friends had one and she had lots of clothes and shoes you could take off and a doll that had clothes that could be changed was awesome. That Christmas, Santa did not bring me a Barbie. Santa brought me a generic doll with brown hair and bangs. I was disappointed until I saw that the doll came with a full wardrobe of clothes, dozens and dozens of pretty new clothes. She even had an evening dress and green velvet cape with actual fur around the edges. She wasn’t a Barbie but one costume change and I got over it. I played with my doll a lot. My doll was bit of a diva. She had a very busy social life and I always had to change her for the various events she was going to. It wasn’t until years later that I figured out that Mom had made all my doll's clothes, including the velvet cape with fur. I should have guessed. The clothes had the same fabric as the clothes Mom made us. But all I knew at the time, all I cared about was that she wasn’t the doll I’d seen on TV, the doll everyone else had. I thank Mom for my doll all the time now. I thank her for all the things she’s done for me and for Brother – the things I know about and the things I don’t. That doll and her extensive wardrobe are a perfect example of all the efforts a mom, a parent, puts into growing a child. It wasn’t a party with my name in lights but it was pretty freaking cool. One day Bob will really thank his mom for his pretty party with marquee lights and offset napkins. Hopefully sooner than I thanked my mom for dolly's green velvet cape with the fur trim. I’m optimistic. Bob seemed pretty smart. |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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