I Love You But do I Have to LOVE You Every Day?

In belated celebration of my one-year blogiversary, I’m reposting the post I posted exactly a year ago, 13 days after arriving in Bloggingshire. There’s no particular reason I chose today to celebrate being with WordPress for nearly the gestation period of a manatee, except that I’ve been meaning to look back, and I finally got the chance. So here we go:

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Due to operator error, yesterday’s post was not published ’til this morning, marking my official Off Blogday debut since September 13. My sister (the one who has ten shelf-feet of National Geographic (as compared to Mom’s forty, see Saving the World, One Stick of Secret at a Time), suggested recently that I post once or twice a week. My friend Solveig suggested that a decade ago. Of course I ignored both of them.

I ignored them because I liked the idea of a daily meditation that results in a completed thing outside of myself, little and whole, like a nut.

I still do.

But I have a paying job (a manuscript to edit), and query letters to send, essays to complete, and Midgets who need me to be present outside my head.

Urging me to cut back on the blog, another friend, who wished to remain anonymous, cited a married couple who’d had sex for a hundred and one days straight. People get around the world on rafts in fewer days than that. Annie and Doug Brown did it, literally, so they could write a book about it, like a naked heterosexual version of Julie and Julia. “Can you imagine?” asked my nameless and knowledgeable friend. “I’m sure it got to, ‘Can’t I just enjoy thinking about it for a few days before I have to mount it?”” 

Apparently the book, Just Do It, published in 2008, has a happy ending. After their project, the couple reported that they touched more and felt more intimate. One could argue that soldiers in a foxhole evading flying mortars feel more intimate toward one another afterward, too.

Not that posting 400 words can be compared to either.

If blogging has made one thing abundantly clear to me, it’s how insulated and safe my middle-class American life is.

But back to the point: This post is my official notice that I may miss a post or two. Not that I don’t love to be with you, WordPress. But can’t I just think about you for a few days before…?

Have you had too much of a good thing lately?

Location, Location, Location

The best kind of subliminal messaging. (via cakeboule.wordpress.com–go there! It’s British, it’s great!)

So today Aunt Susan and I were at Fashion Square in Scottsdale. By Square, they mean a square mile (or more) of indoor zero-lot-line retail establishments designed to strip you of your disposable income in exchange for Really Cute Shoes. Or a Really Cute Watch. Or a Really Cute Espresso Maker. Or maybe an after-shift meetup with the Really Cute eighteen-year-old server behind the counter at the Nordstrom Cafe. A high point of the day: seeing two men taking a break from shopping. One old, the other older. At each set of thin white ankles sat a Hollister bag like the ones pictured above. A lovely juxtaposition. A study of our time. Of our culture. Of human nature. Maybe the men had bought polo shirts for their grandsons. I doubt it.

I bought a garlic press. Over a pair of 5″-heeled $790 Prada suede sandals, I discussed the possibility that I may be being colonized by an embryonic bunion among the metatarsels of my right foot. Entering the Tahari department of Macy’s, Aunt Susan (not MY aunt, the bots’ aunt. My sister, in town briefly for a conference) observed that distribution of body fat seemed to make a very big difference. “Location, location, location,” we both intoned together, and then laughed hysterically.

Awkward moment of the day: After dessert at the Nordstrom cafe (having NOT picked up the eighteen-year-old in charge of Salad Orders), our server, Xavier, who could have been in the Cirque du Soleil for all the cartwheeling he was doing to make sure our every dining need was met, finally asked if there was anything else he could do. “Now that you mention it,” I said, “A massage?” Then I quickly added, “A shoulder massage?” I mean, he was so eager to serve, and our shoulders were a little sore from carrying our shopping bags. Across the table, Aunt Susan was again in hysterics. Let the girls out of the zoo for six hours and they go wild.

Poor Xavier laughed, sincerely, not dutifully, but there was a note of nervousness that led me to believe I wasn’t the first mall matron that had suggested he might be able to provide something more than an apres-meal mint.

“Whoops,” I said to Aunt Susan.

We found our car, I dropped her at her nearby hotel, and I drove across town toward home, wondering: Is everything at the mall–from shopping bags to salads–pregnant with sexual innuendo? Thinking about how much a part sex plays in our consumer society, and how distanced I am from it, due to, well, the consequences of having sex.

 

 

Reflexology: The New Safe Sex?

You can't get pregnant by touching people's ears!

It is arguable that if the ancient art/science of Reflexology was taught in junior high school classrooms, teen pregnancy rates would plummet.

Surely, even the Right Wing Christian faction would support a bill channeling government funding into such a program (although it does fall under the auspices of Education), when it is obviously such a win-win solution: all of our hormone-saturated larvae get to feel each other up and get felt up, all while keeping on their fig leaves (although they wouldn’t be able to keep one foot on the floor, but there are so many exciting ways of getting around that one anyhow.)

For those of you who haven’t experienced the joys of being on the receiving end of a talented Reflexologist’s fingertips, or for those of you who don’t have a sister like mine, who, after a session, relates it in such vivid detail in a six-minute voicemail message that by the end, I’m reaching for the cigarettes that I’ve forgotten I have never used in my life, read on.

Reflexology is basically this: the health-promoting practice of stimulating energy and relaxing tension in the body by releasing any blockages in the flow of said energy via manipulation of only the hands, feet, and ears. It’s holistic, if you haven’t figured that out already, and some people think it’s hocus pocus, but it sucks to be them: they’ve obviously never had their ears fiddled with properly, nor do they have a sister like mine.

I admit, I had my feet fiddled with once, but although the fiddler worked at a spa, she wasn’t a registered Reflexologist, and she basically gave me a lower leg rub followed by a dip in hot paraffin that made my feet soft and the rest of me wish I’d just gone for the full-body massage. But my sister has sold me on trying it again.

Color chart of pressure points and their corresponding organs. Apparently, we are all wearing our hearts on the balls of our feet. (reflexology-usa.net)

She described lying on a massage table under a sheet with only her head, feet, and hands exposed and manipulated. Soft music played, and the table vibrated in time to this music. She described in breathless tones what she claimed was the loveliest, most relaxing and at the same time invigorating experience she has ever had, ever. Ever. And this is a woman who enjoys her massages, and who sails down narrow mountain trails on bicycles at thirty plus miles per hour.

It was her suggestion that Reflexology could be hailed as the New Safe Sex. Then The Guru suggested that perhaps the Shakers did it. The Guru’s knowledge extends far, encompassing the sexual mores of a near-dead religious sect that most people associate only with old spindly-legged furniture. Apparently, in order to perpetuate their clan of woodworkers, the Shakers either adopted children or indentured them, because they didn’t believe in intimate fraternization and in vitro hadn’t  been discovered yet. Then indenturing went out of style, and that pesky law forbidding religious groups to adopt children was passed in 1960, and their numbers spiraled downhill. No wonder there are only three or four left. But I stray from my point.

All those in favor of drafting a petition to introduce Reflexology classes into America’s public schools, not only for the future health of our nation but as a creative new form of birth control, write to your Congressman. After watching this video, I also vote to practice it regularly on the GOP candidates, with the hope that they, like the Shakers, will stop attempting to reproduce.

Reflexology works on all species, maybe even politicians http://www.thehealthylivinglounge.com

ABC report on last Monday’s March protesting Roe vs. Wade decision

Here’s a direct link to the newscast.

Who’s in favor?