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03/12/2004
I don't just have issues. I have subscriptions.
This morning I went to my local gynecologist to get some tests done before my next IVF in May. Since the practice shares a waiting room with a general practitioner, I had my pick of a wide array of current periodicals — I was dazzled by the choices, much more varied than I'm used to.
Because I have a keen and questing mind, I went a little crazy.
First I decided to learn more about menopause. A brief flip through the thin and earnest magazine dissuaded me, though; despite the upbeat editorial tone, I just couldn't get too interested in the admonitions to use birth control even if you think you might be in the throes of perimenopause. Nothing like a reminder that plenty of 45-year-olds can still, despite it all, get pregnant. Seems like I have all the drawbacks of menopause — hot flashes, hormonal fluctuations, and a vaginal dryness so profound that I'm feeling a little thirsty just typing about it — with none of the possible payoff.
Grimly, then, I turned to the task of learning how to please my husband. Yes, my husband, for the magazine specifically insisted on spicing up my marriage. Good thing we're legal. Otherwise I might not have felt that the article really spoke to me. Not a moment too soon did Paul make an honest woman of me, in fact: I would hate to have missed out on a single scintilla of the relationship-saving — excuse me, marriage-saving — secrets the article divulged.
"Try experimenting with edible underwear," the author recommended. "A warm bath in candlelight will help put you in the mood." "Champagne, chocolate, and strawberries are sure to send sparks flying."
I am not making this up.
The tip that most intrigued me began thus: "Read aloud to your husband from Nancy Friday's My Secret Garden." Okay, fair enough — although on a good day my own tastes veer closer to Macho Sluts, I can see how some might enjoy that. Nothing unusual there. The intriguing part came next, when that suggestion continued: "Memorize a favorite passage or two to whisper in his ear."
Memorize. I'm already supposed to light candles, ice the champagne, buy chocolate, wear impractical underpants, warm the massage oil, cue the saxophones, and slip steamy notes into his briefcase. (I am assuming "I'm ovulating so don't eat a heavy dinner, please" counts.) Now I have to memorize?
But I already know plenty. My mind is full of memorized pieces. I wonder if he'd like the Pledge of Allegiance. First 20 digits of pi. Gettysburg Address. Opening monologue from Iron Chef. The phone number we had when I was eight. The spelling of onomatopoeia. (You can sing it to the tune of "Old MacDonald," you know.) First paragaph of Gone With the Wind. The fates of the six wives of Henry VIII. The conditions under which you use the subjunctive mood in French. "It's Not Easy Bein' Green." My Social Security number and his — what could be hotter than that?!
Once I'd learned to please my husband, I decided to branch out a bit. I directed my attention to a treatise on loving a black man. Although Paul is perhaps the whitest man in America, beating out stiff competition here in the Caucasian wasteland that is my small New England state, I value knowledge for its own sake, so I thought I'd take a gander. But before I could get too deeply into it, the nurse called my name.
As I gathered my belongings (purse, coat, veins, cervix), I tried to convince Paul to read the rest of the article so that he could report on it when I returned, but he firmly declined, pretending instead to be thoroughly engrossed in last month's Field and Stream. I was forced to conclude that he is either racist, homophobic, unnaturally fixated on water spaniels, or some creepy combination thereof.
When I confronted him with this charge, he refuted it with vigor and no small heat. It could be that I still have a bit to learn about pleasing my husband, after all.
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"O-N-O-M-A-T-O..."
God damn it. It's stuck now.
I'm so terribly sorry to hear about your husband's...proclivities. If only you'd listened when they told you to wear the edible underwear! WHY DIDN'T YOU WEAR THE EDIBLE UNDERWEAR?!? At least the vaginal dryness would have prevented premature dissolving of the crotch.
Thanks for teaching me how to remember onomatopoeia--an incredibly handy trick!
I don't know why anyone would want to eat edible underwear, they taste like stale fruit roll-ups.
I always wondered what those things were made of. I was thinking it might be ham.
HAM PANTIES! Oh, Lord, as if I weren't laughing hard enough already. Julie, your list of things you have memorized only scratches the most superficial surface, I know. But for God's sakes, that was one of the funniest things I've read in a long time. First 20 digits of pi. You're going to think this is too nuts, but one of the things I did to calm myself down at the rental car counter the night we arrived in Victoria was to recall EXACTLY THAT. Although I only get to 15, I think.
Friends always want me to sing the list of prepositions (to the tune of "Yankee Doodle") or my Julius Caesar quotes, which I put to tunes like "Happy Birthday" and "Jingle Bells" (it all has to be lyrics, for me. I remember lyrics better than anything. And phone numbers, for some reason. That got me too, the phone number thing).
Well, suffice it to say that you have jollied me, yet again, this time out of a deep, filth-inspired funk. No, not that kind of filth. Porno always cheers me up. This was just gross.
P.S. I have always liked the idea of edible underwear forged of that tender rice-noodle paper or whatever it is they make fresh spring rolls out of.
Of course ham would actually be less likely to cause yeast infections then all of that god damn sugar so it might be better for you all things considered.
heck, i have lifetime memberships, a la consumer reports. :^)
i had to laugh at the line. just rang all too true. i wandered over to your blog quite by accident and was forced to sit a spell. you seem to have that effect on folks.
god bless you, you made me laugh in spite of myself. after today, i'd petulantly declared no mirth would cross my lips in the forseeable future. this works out much better, although there's something a little warped about your situation jolly-ing me out of mine.
wish you lots of luck. hopefully i'll find my way back, and see what else you have to say. i'm sure it will be irresistable. i'll hope it includes good news as well.
ndp
If you put on the edible undies after the hot bath,would body heat melt them?
I hasten to think what havoc a progesterone suppository could bring down on edible panties. It staggers the imagination.
I'm glad I'm not the only person who memorizes weird stuff. I can still name you all of the cranial nerves, in order. This is from high school, when I thought I wanted to go to medical school. Of course, I can't remember where I put my damn keys, but bring on the cranial nerves.
eh, the only odd thing I have memorized is the litany of ingredients (if they could be called that) composing a Big Mac--backwards. Got it tattooed onto my cerebral cortex at the age of 12--nothing can now be done (lasering it off would probably be the equivalent of a lobotomy I guess). "Bun seed sesame a on ..."--you get the idea.
So I got nuthin'--except a pretty funny story of when I, myself, purchased my personal copy of _Macho sluts_. I was with a friend--happily, a very bent friend--and I recall when I brought it to the checkout counter, the bouncy-bright, scrubbed and freckled young lady cashier halloooed,
"MACHO SLUTS! WOW, what a GREAT TITLE FOR A BOOK! MACHO SLUTS--I LOVE that!"
So, while I usually think of myself as a bottom, whenever I think of this little episode I tap into my top potential.