MENstrual Cramping Our Style

Have you read the text thread between a mom and her 13yo daughter about trying to locate feminine products aisle in a large superstore at midnight?  Ever been there?   I know I have.  Under PMS brain, usually accompanied by a raging headache and cramps, you are out in public in the darkest, baggiest pants you own wandering the aisles looking for something to staunch the flow.  

You look in the diaper section, near the Depends, in the lube and condom aisle, by the pregnancy tests, in the toilet paper and facial tissue aisle – only to find them with the shampoo or among the baby food. In a store with any sense of logic, it would be chocolate, ice cream, pain relievers, and feminine hygiene products THEN pregnancy tests.  Because if you all of the sudden realize you haven’t needed the first half of the aisle in a fair bit of time, the second half  is the logical next step.  

The condoms and lube should be at the very end of that aisle, so that men get over their hang-ups and acclimate to the concept of one day purchasing feminine hygiene products for a woman they love, so that she can remain in the comfort of home suffering from her menstrual sentence.  If they know what's good for them, they should also bring a trashy magazine and something from the PMS food group - chocolate.  This would serve to remind them that even if they are getting lucky now, in a few weeks they need to pay tribute. Why do men even have a place in THAT word - menstrual?  If we lived in a matriarchal society, it would be named something positive and grand like biological cleansing, womenstruation or life flow. 

The banter and militant feminism exhibited in the text reminded me of some interesting anecdotes from my past.  When my mom realized I was dabbling in premarital sex (with the only guy I’ve been with in 30 years, I might add…) she marched me down to the local drug store’s pregnancy prevention display and proceeded to explain each and every products use and mechanics so I could make an informed decision to prevent an unwanted development until I was ready to support children.  She didn’t seem to notice that an elderly gentleman in the aisle with us seemed to be getting his jollies while listening to her educational speech on spermicides and sponges. Ten years later, when I had a 2.5 year old and she saw a pregnancy test in my grocery bags, the stunned glance from the toddler to my abdomen spoke volumes. But that's a whole nother story...

With an 8 year span between my sister and me, I was in my early 20 and dating the man I eventually married. We went grocery shopping with my sister, then in her teens. Not only did my boyfriend walk down the feminine product aisle, he noticed that my preferred brand was on sale and picked up two boxes.  My sister could have fainted.  Our dad refused to walk down that aisle of the store for years and would always send one of us to retrieve “the lady products” when KOTEX appeared on the grocery list.  This became the litmus test for her own boyfriends and potential spouses.  

 

After 2-3 years of throwing away pants, panties and taking towels with me in the car and to visit others homes due to hemorrhagic cycles, I had an endometrial ablation.  And WELCOME to menopause… you can wear white pants, but you’re going to sweat through them…  not all the cause for celebration one would think.  Between the night sweats, the hot flashes, weight gain, skin issues and mood swings; if your white pants still fit after all that, wear the F*** out of them.

Our boys were very young when my system stopped requiring “monthly lube and oil changes”. They thought tampons were fun to launch through the house.  We used them on occasion for nose bleeds in karate tournaments. Maxi pads were kept in our Cub Scout first aid kit to staunch the flow in the event of a severed artery.  But for the most part, their experience with feminine products was a thing of the distant past.  Then the puberty talks in junior high reared the ugly subject again.  “Mom, why don’t we have tampons or maxi pads in our house?”  “I don’t need them anymore.   I keep 3 in the bathroom cabinet in case your guests need any.  Can I show you where?”  Once they knew that they were for female guests and were no longer play things, the discussion stopped.  They were just getting bombarded by the puberty subject – menopause was something way beyond their security level.  

When we shop in drug stores, my sons’ comments, “How do you choose from the plethora of options in the fem hygiene aisle?  A whole wall!  It looks overwhelming.”  It is.  There is a video that gives men the opportunity to experience an “overflow day” and their sense of empathy is much different after having that experience.  They are far more compassionate and grateful that their anatomy doesn’t just inexplicably bleed for any length of time.  If men had periods, they’d be called something fantabulous.  Art would abound glorifying its power.  They would compare volume, color, stench and saturation rates.  It would become a competitive sport more than likely.

In a matriarchal society, red would be a badge of courage.  Red would be powerful.  Red would be a symbol of fertility, maturity and a force to be reckoned with.  It wouldn’t be a taboo, an embarrassment, hidden, spoken of in whispers and euphemisms.  Embrace the power.   You might as well have a handful of Oreos, a dose of ibuprofen and a soda, while you are at it.  Won’t menopause be great?

Link to the text thread I mentioned in opening:

http://www.refinery29.com/2016/09/123057/mom-daughter-tampon-shopping-text-messages

REAL live whirlygigs!

This week has been uncharacteristically chaotic and I've decided to suspend writing until I can focus after a week or two... So, I give you a weekly whirlygig video to peruse.  It transfixed and relaxed me.  Hoping it will do the same for you.  At some point, I need to film my two favorite local Federal Way kinetic sculptures and post them here.  Enjoy and be filled with childish wonder...

All That It's Cracked Up to Be

In researching a talk subject on brokenness and wholeness.  Without giving away the whole gig, I've settled on the concept of broken pottery and how ultimately useful it is to upcycle.  It can be utilized in arts and mosaic creations.  A broken vase can become a bowl or plate, house a fairy garden or plant.  With a candle inside it becomes a whimsical path light.  In ancient times, a broken water jug was repurposed as cookware and serving platters.  Pottery is virtually indestructible and lasts for decades, even found intact long after the civilizations that created it have long perished.

Aren't all of us broken in one way or another - mentally, emotionally or spiritually?
Are we as aware of the times we excel and function well we are when we are lacking?
Or is it that we spend so much time being down on ourselves it's hard to recognize?  
Why do we feel weak when we need medication to feel less broken?
Why is it a liability to be a work in progress?
Why do we judge ourselves and others for not meeting our expectations?

A story that beautifully illustrates the value of cracked pots:
A water bearer in India had two large pots hanging at the ends of a pole that he carried across his neck. One of the pots was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water at the end of the long walk from the stream to the master's house. The other pot had a crack in it, and by the time it reached its destination, it was only half full. Every day for two years the water bearer delivered only one and one-half pots of water to the master's house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments—perfect to the end for which it was made. The poor little cracked pot was ashamed of its imperfections and miserable that it could accomplish only half of what it had been designed to do. After two years of what the imperfect pot perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer and said, "I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you."
"Why?" asked the bearer, "What are you ashamed of?" 
"Well, for these past two years, I have been able to deliver only half a load of water each day because this crack in my side allows water to leak out all the way back to the master's house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all this work without getting the full value of your efforts," the pot said.
The water bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said, "As we return to the master's house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path." Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot noticed the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path. But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because half of its load had leaked out once again.
Then the bearer said to the pot, "Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of the path and not on the other pot's side? That's because I've always known about your flaw and took advantage of it by planting flower seeds on your side of the path. Every day as we walked back from the stream, you watered those seeds, and for two years I have picked these beautiful flowers to decorate my master's table. Without you being just what you are, he would not have had this beauty to grace his house." - from Joyce Meyer's page, see below.

How often do we see only our shortcomings and failures rather than witness to the light and guidance we provide for others?  I think it lends credibility and approach-ability to others not to have it all together 100% of the time. Imperfect people are more comfortable to interact with and their advice holds up under the pressure of day to day life.

By the way, if you have a broken pot, bowl or vase I could use as a visual aid especially if it will let light diffuse through the cracks, let me know.  Might have to break some ceramics in the near future.

For another viewpoint on this subject:
http://www.joycemeyer.org/Articles/ea.aspx?article=doing_your_best_with_what_you_have

Stumbling through Road Trips

For the record, I'm not a big fan of road trips.  Spending hours continuously confined in a vehicle with the members of your immediate family is just not my idea of a good time.  When Mr. M and I were first together we had to stop every hour on the hour when traveling between Seattle and Forest Grove OR to visit his family.  By the time we got married, I could ALMOST make it with just one rest stop in Longview/Kelso, or a shopping break in Centralia.

It must stem from childhood trips with my family.  Dad could spot a brown sign from twenty miles away.  We would veer from our planned itinerary to experience the largest tree root, biggest stump or oldest fossil of dinosaur dung in the immediate vicinity.  I'm sure I've seen every dam, waterfall, vantage point and wide spot in the road in all the remotest areas of Washington. My sister and I reached the point when we would create a diversion, fight or require an immediate potty stop to distract him from seeing those blasted brown "Point of Interest" signs.  By whose standards is this deemed a point of interest?  If some enterprising individual took the initiative to construct an ice cream stand or gift shop near said attraction, then I might be persuaded.  Going just for "the experience" was always highly over-rated in my book.

Mr. M and I joke about brown sign stops - his threats to divert from our planned path to view the scenic route, oversized rock or significant crack in the earth are met with a stony glare. If we decide to venture forth and find it not to be worth the effort, it is forever a comparison for other things.  "It was about as compelling as fossilized dinosaur dung." "Remember the burial spot of the first settler in Twisp?  Me neither."

We didn't take our boys on many road trips, until they got into Scouts and many weekends were commandeered into hiking, camping and badge acquisition excursions.  Just getting to the ocean, Canada or Oregon for us was a 3 hour tour.   Anything beyond that made Rx necessary for mom to be a willing passenger. When we drove 18 hours to take our son to college orientation weekend, I was ready to bail after about the 10th hour.  The guys were ready to leave me on the side of the road.  Whining like a caged pet. Now they know why it was often the three of them alone on trips to St. Helen's and the like.  Leaving mom at home was the best option.  Wine, bath and chick flicks for the win every time.

For the longest time, my sister and I agreed that these signs were brown for a reason - a crappy reason to stop and there was usually a bad smell in the area as well.  When Dad is old and feeble, we're going to take him on road trips and make him stop at all the brown signs.  He'll probably forget he's been there before, and that will be OK.  Because we remember each of the ones that has ice cream or a great bakery in reasonable proximity.  Cle Elum Bakery, Vantage Cafe, Winthrop ice creamery = Road Trip!  I call shot gun!

Operation Dorm Drop

Several close pals are packing up and evacuating bedroom, boxes and bank accounts as they drop their offspring at college for the first time this year.  It's a time of mixed emotions - reminiscing about their own early adulthood or college experiences, wisftulness that the kid that has been right underfoot for the last 18 years is going to be several hundred miles away connected only by text, cell phone, skype and bank transfer requests. Then there are the sleepless nights over college expenses.

As a veteran of this adventure once, and still waiting for that adventure to materialize when the determines his destiny, I have some anecdotes and bits of acquired wisdom.  The first is "just wait."  There will be trials and tribulations, there will be moments you want to rush in and provide maternal nurturing, adult advisory skills and parental propoganda.  Just wait.  They will figure out where the dining hall is... once they swallow their pride, which does not quell hunger, and muster the courage to ask someone.  Just ask my sister.

This is an opportunity for you to sit back and test your parenting theories - of what you taught them well, and the basic common sense everyday skills they still need to develop.  They will learn that waiting until all of their laundry is dirty makes for interesting attire choices.  And find like-minded souls in the laundry room at the eleventh hour.  Snacks, stain removal theories and friendships are formed and tested in that arena.  There is a whole nother story to people once you've seen their underwear twirling in the dryer... And that first visit home, they will bring you dirty laundry.  Sometimes you even get to pay for a second suitcase as an added bonus! 

Testing the limits of each other's communication thresholds is another common area of discord.  We may want a daily check-in call.  They may have time and energy to do so at first, but other priorities take hold.  What was once a 30-minute Sunday Skype session, soon became a quick check-in phone call mid-week when a large bill was due and is now a quick "You good?" before mom succumbs to the pillow in the evening.  He knows he's thought of.  If he responds within 10-30 minutes, I know he's not lying in a ditch missing vital organs on the border of Mexico somewhere - although my mind has already created that scenario in vivid detail.  The use of text, skype, face time and other pocket means of communication still makes you feel as though your teen is just down the hall in his room ignoring you.  Without the heady aroma of stinky socks  and moldy backpack contents wafting down the hallway.  Now those things are his problem.  See, there are benefits.

The pets or siblings still at home, should be prepared them for some over zealous attention over the first few weeks.  Our maternal natures need outlet and this is why so many moms with college students replace them with purse dogs.  All the attention and none of the attitude of the missing teenager.  Plus cool accessories.  Our youngest quite enjoyed being an only child for the first few months.  Then he realized that all of his activities that had flown under the radar were now in question, all of the household chores were now his and there was no one to blame when the last of something was eaten or used.  That appeal wore thin quickly.  Then he realized that with 3 "adults" in the house formalized dinners were waning and more foraging in the freezer was becoming the way of daily life.  When someone bangs around in the kitchen, he pops his head in to see what might be emerging before returning to endless hours on the computer with other college orphans.

The good news is four years will pass quickly, academic and life lessons will be learned, friendships to last a lifetime will be formed, holiday visits will be more precious and some spoiling will occur.  Won't hurt anything.  When I pick up a returning mom at the airport tonight, not sure if she'll need Kleenex or just a kindred spirit to welcome her home, but both will be at the ready. 

Faith Formation under Construction

Typically, I'm not one to talk much about my own faith formation journey in the company of others, especially among strangers on a three-day retreat weekend.  Nonetheless, while assembled on a team coordinating said retreat, was delegated the task of doing just that.

I don’t even preach the Good News to people known for decades, so why this task?  The answer may surprise you as much as it surprised me.  Because no one is the type to evangelize their faith, so why not you?  

You’re not going to come off with an attitude of righteous indignation.   

You’re not going to use big theological words.   

You’re going to keep it simple, present in the common everyday surroundings and may integrate a brief anecdote or two.

Now how to illustrate the desired points for a variety of age, education levels, learning styles and keep it interesting for eight to ten minutes.  There is a list of points that have to be worked into the final presentation and some critical review opportunities by the whole team. No pressure there.  Then there is the whole issue that for one ministry that I feel called to participate in, requires participation in a ceremony of being received into the community and sent forth to bring the Eucharist to people who are too ill or infirm to leave their homes to attend church.  Received and sent forth by the patriarchal structure that is the church, no less.  A whole nother story there...

One of the reasons we migrated from the Roman Catholic Church to the Episcopal Church was the lack of high church formality, a greater acceptance of people whose life journey’s included transitions beyond the typical white, Anglo-Saxon, heterosexual experience and the sacrament of Confession no longer being a requirement to receiving Eucharist.  “Catholic lite – all the tradition with half the guilt,” is the way it was explained by the vicar.

The path of my faith journey has had some crossroads, detours and overpasses in its progress.  Raised a fifth-generation Catholic for the first 20 years of my life, where every weekend and every church event saw factions of my family from start to finish setting up, preparing or cleaning up after every activity. Married in a full Catholic wedding to a spouse raised Baptist who now considers himself a Taoist by nature. We (I) continued the Catholic tradition for the first part of our boys’ lives with Sunday school, confession, communion and the like.  

A move to a different neighborhood, after the death of my Catholic grandmother, brought us to an Episcopal church in walking distance of our neighborhood.  It was a uniting factor to walk through the neighborhood park with my sons on Sunday mornings to attend services and then meander back through the park home.  We had some interesting conversations on those walks.   And often a stop to swing which should be built in to every Sunday afternoon.

When the boys entered their teens, a change to a church further away due to personnel changes.  At that point, only my oldest son would attend with me when he had audio-visual tasks at services.  Both boys and spouse would help at social events when asked – illustrating acts of service as a form of faith, but none are fervent attendees of the worship service.  Now I work administrating home health and hospice services for a Methodist based non-profit organization whose base motto comes from the quote most often attributed to John Wesley:

“Do all the good you can. By all the means you can. In all the ways you can. In all the places you can. At all the times you can. To all the people you can. As long as ever you can.” 

Why do I attend church without the rest of my family?  It has been an issue over the years.  It can hurt to see complete families all in a row when mine is scattered over miles.  It has become my time to renew the vessel that is poured out each week in support of others through supporting my coworkers, family, friends and the world at large.  It is a big and taxing task list that I carry each week.  My extended family is at church.  Many of the women I am closest to are 20-30 years my senior.  My parents attend the same worship service. The opportunity to do a one-stop shop check in with each one and monitor their social, physical and mental progress in the aging game is best done in the supportive community with others to help if needed.  The accountability to and support received from the greater community sustains in time of need and rejoices in time of thanks.

My spouse completes yard work for elderly people in our church community as his ministry to care for creation and live out his Taoist philosophies.  Our sons do tasks when asked by me or their grandparents that are often menial or physical labor that is more easily completed when many hands assist.  In this manner, they learn cooperation, how to integrate instruction from various persons and the satisfaction of a job well done.  Work completed with a senior generation imparts a work ethic not often found in this generation.  The expectations are high, but the results are achieved.

Husband didn’t attend services except when pressed for Christmas and sometimes Easter.  First son stopped attending regularly after high school.  Second son at the ripe age of 5 said – NOPE.  Not doing that routine.  So I waited for him to come around.  He’s 18 now and still waiting… he considers himself an apathetic agnostic – don’t know, don’t care.  Faith will be there when and if I decide it is important in my life.  Just not right now.  They may be on to something… there are several days when the opportunity to sleep in and not be responsible for anything is highly appealing.  Then that old Catholic guilt kicks in and here we go on that merry-go-round again…

The benefits of avoiding eternal damnation vs. the investment of an hour or two a week of effort seem to be worth it.  I also have the concept of a forgiving God who won’t separate me from my loved ones for all eternity.  But you can bet I’m going to remind them often that it was my efforts that brought them along for the ride.  And if it turns out not to be the case that the eternal life exists, we’ll all find out when it’s too late for regrets or retributions.  So there is that.

House Guest Encounters of the Slobbery Kind

One of our nurses had a bad experience the last time she boarded her dog at a kennel.  He came home dejected, malnourished, with bite wounds, an eye infection and kennel cough.  Cost her $350 and the kennel fee to get him back to normal.  His bouncy demeanor was subdued and it took him weeks to bounce back.  She was looking for other alternatives.

Since I have a 18 year old son at home with no summer job.  I thought this would be a slam dunk. Then he got jury duty.  And an attitude that he did NOT want to do this, but we were already committed.  Anyone who knows me is keenly aware that once committed, there is no other alternative.  But that's a whole nother story.

Her house is 50 miles away, so the dog had to be moved to our place.  When she said large bulldog, I was thinking 30-40 pounds English bulldog; not 85 pounds American bulldog.  We moved him crate, leash and oversized food bowl into our home.  Complete with jowls, big feet, dandruff, stink and attitude.  Dwight is a big guy with more brawn than brain, but also some interesting quirks.

Dwight - our house guest

His favorite treat is a strawberry or an ice cube.  But, freeze the strawberry IN an ice cube, BLOWS his walnut sized mind.  Has no idea what to do with it.

If he walks into the room while you are dressing, he turns his back to you to give you some privacy.  He WON'T leave, but he'll ignore you.

He doesn't bark unless he's frustrated - has wound his leash around the posts outside and can't move.  But squeaks to get attention.

Seems to recognize the theory of the word HEEL while on a leash and will think about it momentarily, then fakes complete dementia and does his own thing.

He doesn't poop while on a leash.   But won't pass any vertical pole without a through smell and watering.

Grunts while he eats his dinner.  The only way he will chill out and lay down on the ground is if you put a bare foot on his back and use him as a footstool.  The day I put lavender lotion on my feet and then put him on the floor he wrapped around them like a dinner roll and zoned out.  He was in his crate and snoring by 8pm.

The guys have been hard-pressed to spoil him, we had to give him thyroid Rx in his food, spray him down for dandruff treatment and keep him tethered outside due to a fencing issue.  Dan let him sleep on the bed for a while, so he may return home more spoiled than harmed from this venture.

I'm cured from thinking fostering dogs from the humane society would be a brilliant hobby for us.  Our house stinks like dog, our furniture is decorated with dog slobber, the floors ARE pretty clean for once, except that he likes to chew bits of wood into tiny splintery pieces.  I've decide the proceeds from boarding Dwight are going to a thorough house cleaning to rid all the dog evidence once he's gone.  Then there's the toxic waste clean up of the back yard to be dealt with as well. Gloves, boots, ventilation mask and shovel may be required.  The deal for the kid to tend to the dog for the week was that I would assume dooty duty. This kid may have a future in negotiations...