Blogging the Cunnilingus Deficit

Really, what more is there to say?

Okay, perhaps an explanation is in order.

My daughters and I were chatting about rock music lyrics, and how rare references to oral sex are, and how the vast majority of those are about oral sex on men.

This led me to observe that there's clearly a cunnilingus deficit in rock music, and that this probably reflects a cunnilingus deficit in our society at large.

One thing leads to another when you're up late on a Saturday night, and so Cunnilingus Deficit is clearly the right name for an up-and-coming new band.

We're looking forward to making up the Cunnilingus Deficit, and having Cunnilingus Deficit open for our other rock band, Tropical Afterglow.

This is probably the time to talk about three memes of my young adulthood, the LUST movement, the I Have Genitals marketing program, and Vegetarians for Oral Sex.

LUST members wore a button with the LUST logo on them. LUST stood for Lover Under Strenuous Training, and LUST members took their charge seriously.

The I Have Genitals movement was based on the realization that everyone does, indeed, have genitals and that no one talks about it. For this reason, we designed I Have Genitals t-shirts and red crotch patches to advertise our possession of genitals.

Vegetarians for Oral Sex, naturally, promoted the consumption of The Only Meat that's Fit to Eat. If VOS had been successful in its ends, there would not now be a cunnilingus deficit in our society.

Annie Annie Annie Reevah Reevah

This summer has been short on long, lazy days spent in beautiful places, but we had one this week.

Morganne's old friend Sam is heading back to Reed College this week, and he wanted to get together with her before he left.

We went for a walk in Henry Cowell Redwoods state park and ended up down by the San Lorenzo River for the afternoon.

Morganne and Sam have been friends since they were 6 years old. They grew up together, tag-teaming each other on height until Sam finally pulled ahead for good.

They had a good visit, talking about everything and nothing, and strategizing about crossing the river and building rock bridges.

Sam's mom Tane' and Malcolm and Merlin joined us. Matisse had a date with her writing tutor, and Sam's brother Arthur opted to sleep  in instead.

Watching Sam and Morganne together, I had freeze-frame moments of all the good times they've had together: playing, discussing books, building with lego, acting in and directing plays.

The boys meanwhile added their Homeschooling: the Half-Generation touches. They looked for giant flying waffle-footed tigers, dragons, and gryphons. They performed Spot and Listen checks, and hunted for treasure in the river. Malcolm failed a lot of Move Silently checks in the river.

Indian summer is here. I think we'll visit the river in a different spot today.

Unvarnished Truths

In June, I was packing to help my mom out while my dad was in the hospital. The situation was grave, and we were warned that we might not see him lucid again if we didn't move really, really fast.

How do you pack for a parent's death bed? Can you fold the tears in with your underwear, tuck some hope in your favorite socks? Can one small suitcase fit all the love and sorrow you need to bring along? What sort of toiletries can make you look normal at a time like this?

In the spring, the children and I watched the BBC's Blue Planet. In one segment, orcas were hunting baby seals. When the orcas had caught one, they'd take it out in deeper water and toss it back and forth. The still-living baby seal would be tossed high in the air, and then batted back to the first orca by another whale. The orcas would continue their play for half an hour or so, until the baby seal was good and dead.

Cancer reminds me a lot of those orcas. It plays with its prey, tossing them up and down, letting them think they might escape, battering them more and more until the end.

My dad is still alive.

One thing I've learned from cancer is that you have to keep living every second you've got. We've had wonderful family moments long after we expected my dad to be gone. Times where he's seemed to have lost his lucidity for good are followed by days of clear sunny weather.

So we go on. One step in front of another. One moment of being tossed in the air, one moment of being deep underwater. Laughter made more precious because of the contrast with the suffering.

Cybersex in the Cretaceous

In my early days online, the online world was a very different place. People called it simply "the Net," and it was peopled by techies, academics, and military geeks. The core technologies of the Internet (DNS, html, ftp, even tcp) had not yet been invented. Network connections were too slow and disks too small to store much in the way of graphics, so the Net was a sea of text. Email had to be hand-routed and was liable to be lost if any machine or connection in the specified route was offline.

We early inhabitants of cyberspace found it wondrous. We could communicate mind to mind, without bodies getting in the way, with people who shared our interests around the world. We could argue about ideas with people we'd never meet, encountering view points that simply didn't exist in our own meat space. 

The level of discourse was high, although we didn't always recognize it at the time. Even the wackiest posters expressed themselves in clear, logical, grammatical, and correctly spelled prose. Commerce had not yet arrived online, and there was a sense of a freewheeling crunchhead frontier, free of many of the influences of mainstream society.

We prized freedom, particularly the free exchange of ideas, highly. We would arrive at the truth, and it would make us free. The Net could transform society by giving us the kind of public forum that had never existed on Earth.

The Net wasn't a perfect world. The military and academic uses of the Net conflicted from the start. In addition, every September, a new crop of freshmen would arrive on the Net. Discourse would fall for a few months with this influx of newbies, but the newbies could be trained, and the Net remained a playground for crunchheads.

Until, that is, the year September never ended. When AOL started bringing newbies online in droves, the quality of discourse fell and the face of the Net changed. AOL created its own playpen, with users isolated behind an interface that controlled their access to the net.  These users met with one another in AOL chat rooms, and developed their own, distinctly non-crunchhead culture.

The Net was never free of class distinctions, with the Military, Academia, and Techies forming clear castes. With the influx of the Great Unwashed Masses of AOL, however, the Net acquired an underclass. Suddenly, there were people online who had not gone through the university, technical, or military gate-keeping process. Anyone could come online, and some of them couldn't spell or punctuate their way out of a paper bag.

It was precisely these Great Unwashed Masses who invented cybersex.

Very quickly, the old Net guard pulled away from these AOL upstarts. We rejected their cute acronyms (to this day, I do not use "lol," which smacks of the chat rooms of AOL). We continued to focus on the transmission of ideas, and to cling to the view of ourselves as disembodied electronic minds.

So, naturally, my sort of people didn't do cybersex. We might, for sure, have online romances and share sexual fantasies, but we did it in our Old Guard style: abstract, cogent, lengthy, considered, academic.

This has left with an odd sort of innocence as the Net moved forward to become the Internet. Cybersex can have nothing to do with me. It can, in fact, go on right under my nose without arousing my notice. Since my sort of people don't do it, whatever it is that my sort of people are doing can't be cybersex. It must be something else.

Between the Sexes: the Middle Years

I've now had at least half a dozen people tell me that I don't look old enough to be the mother of a 12-year-old. It took a while to get over the shock of people of people denying that I am old enough to be the mother of my third child, who was born when I was in my mid-thirties. After it's happened a few times, however, it starts to look like a pattern.

A few days ago, it occurred to me: most of the people who say this to me are men. They didn't say it to me when I was carrying all that extra poundage, either, but they certainly do now. Perhaps they have an ulterior motive. Perhaps "you don't look old enough to have an X-year-old" is the middle-aged equivalent of a pick-up line.

Hmm.

When I last drove home from San Francisco, I had to stop for gas because I was running on fumes. I was wearing a dark green skirt and a tie-dyed t-shirt in shades of blue and green. When I walked around my car after finishing the job, I noticed a man staring at my chest. I gave him a sharp look, and he met my eyes easily.

"I was admiring your t-shirt," he said, "Tie-dyed, isn't it?"

Oh, nice recovery, I didn't say. I just smiled and said "Thank you. Yes, tie-dyed."

All the way home, I wondered whether men are really developing manners as they age. I've always admired the courtly manners of older gentlemen, and thought that their manners were the results of their mamas raising them right. Perhaps, however, men learn courtly manners all their own, simply by their interactions with women.

This could bode well for the future.

There's a particularly fun number at Jazzercise (Shut Up and Drive by Rihanna). The other day, the instructor remarked that the song was not about driving. The woman next to me rolled her eyes and said, "People think every song is about something else."

"Yes," I replied, "you'd think that all that women think about is sex."

In my case, that thought might not be far off the mark.

While bagging groceries, the checkout clerk and I were chatting about learning to care for thick, curly hair. A man with one item (men usually have much shorter shopping lists than women) breezed through to buy his item and said, "I'll leave you ladies to moan about the woes of hair care."

I felt slightly steamed walking out to the parking lot, where I got a good look at this guy. Bad haircut, bad beard trim, beer belly, big butt. 

"You could use some beauty advice yourself, hon," I didn't say.

Then I noticed his truck, a big black number with double rear tires that was altogether too clean to be a working truck.

"That truck's too big for you," I also didn't say.

As I followed him out of the parking lot, I didn't say, "And it needs a tune-up!"

I drove home with the satisfaction of a well-undelivered series of snarks.

A Short Time to Be There

Last Saturday, June 14th, I dropped Morganne at the airport for her trip to Argentina. I continued on to San Francisco to support my mom during my dad's hospitalization.

My dad was diagnosed with glioblastoma multiforme (the most aggressive kind of brain cancer) 20 months ago. Since then, he and my mom have done an amazing job of continuing to live their lives amidst medical treatments and a dour prognosis.

The prognosis is still dour, but my dad has lived (so far) 8 months longer than expected, even with treatment.

When I got to the hospital, things looked pretty bad. He was in the ICU, struggling to become conscious, and pretty much completely out of it. The right side of his body was paralyzed, and the doctors told me to call my sister and brothers and tell them to hurry if they wanted to see him alive, and conscious, again.

I was doubtful of the "conscious" part of that, myself, but my dad has rallied so many times that my mother and his doctors thought it was possible he might rally again.

Supporting my mother is always a challenge. Just about the time I'm saying, "Don't you want to sit down and rest for a while and read a book or something?" she's thinking that a dinner party would be just the thing. Right after visiting the hospital the first night, I drove her to a dinner party where most everyone spoke French.

The hosts have known me since I was a teenager, and it was pleasant to chat in French with the foreign guests, but the whole thing was a little surreal. My dad is sitting in the hospital, barely there. My daughter is on a plane bound for Buenos Aires. My mom and I are at a Thanksgiving celebration (really!) in June practicing our French.

I did get the (now familiar) thrill of watching someone faint when he learned I have a 19-year-old daughter.

The surreality continued. We spend about half our days at the hospital, watching my dad struggle. We spend the other half of the day socializing. My mom's giving me fashion advice, loaning me jewelry, and encouraging me to take special care with my appearance. I've never loved my family role as show daughter, but I submitted to it more willingly than usual.

I was also my mom's designated driver. As I wove my way uncertainly through the city, my mom encouraged me to drive more aggressively. "Go go go!" she'd exhort, "you've got to speed up or we'll be stuck at that light for 10 minutes. Hit your horn to tell that guy to get out of your way." Her language was a lot more colorful , though, and her road rage a lot more emphatic.

Okay, I thought, she's incredibly stressed right now, and she always drives like a bat out of hell anyway. And despite driving like a bat out of hell, she has an excellent driving record.

So we're very different, my mom and me. I like silence, solitude, serenity, and a slow pace. She's an extreme extravert and an adrenaline junkie.

I had my brief for this week: to support her the way she needs to be supported. Not the way I would need to be supported, but the way she needs to be supported. This required constant adjustment on my part, because my first impulse was almost always dead wrong.

So I went to brunches and dinner parties and ran errands that (in my opinion) didn't need to be run. I cooked and drove and tried to maintain my serenity. I met with an endless bevy of family friends, cousins, aunts, uncles, and, of course, my grandmother.

One night when we were driving home from a dinner party at a Thai restaurant, I told my mom, "I like all these people. I just find them overwhelming in such large, loud bunches."

The large, loud bunches energize her. I don't understand how this works. I don't need to understand how this works. I just need to accept that it does.

Meanwhile, the hospital visits continued to be agonizing. My dad was in a constant struggle for consciousness, almost getting there and then slipping below the waves again. He was in restraints, because he kept pulling his tubes out. He had frequent seizures and involuntary muscle movement on his right side because of misfiring neurons.

Also meanwhile, Morganne got to Argentina and started posting frequent updates to her trip blog. If I hadn't been so absorbed by my parents, I would have been a basket case with her going so far away. As it was, my basket-case-ness came from quite a different source.

And also also meanwhile, Garry celebrated his birthday with the three younger children. Morganne was in Buenos Aires and I was in San Francisco.

When my mother wasn't busy in other ways, she was on her cell phone. On Tuesday morning, I decided to confiscate it for the afternoon. I told her she could have it if she really wanted it, but that I'd make all her phone calls for her and answer it so she could have a break. By that time, even she was totally frazzled, so she agreed.

My sister arrived late Tuesday night, which was a relief.

On Wednesday, my dad was a little more aware. His seizures were under control, and he could focus his eyes for periods of
up to a minute or so. My sister and I spent the afternoon together at the hospital while my mom went to work (she's a therapist, and she still works Wednesdays and Fridays). We each gave the other one an hour or so alone with our dad.

During my hour, I just sat with him like you'd sit with a baby. I'd been wanting to do that, but my mother and other visitors
kept up a steady stream of chat. I sat, made eye contact when he'd let me, cried some, prayed lots, and spoke when he spoke.

He didn't speak much, and only in fragments. "Unnatural," he said, and I had to agree that the whole hospital thing was
unnatural. "Facts don't matter," he told me emphatically, probably because his doctor and my mom are constantly asking
him about irrelevant details like what year it is. (The year, in case you were wondering, is January.)

Science, he said at one point, isn't important. This was quite a shift from the person I've always known.

Finally, after an extended period of eye contact, he said "I don't like to be rushed."

So he's not going to be. He's taking his time about dying, and he's welcome to it.

My dad's always been pragmatic and a problem-solver. He was a programmer. When I was 13 or 14 and struggling with some word problems, he told me that he solved word problems for a living. He then sat me down and showed me exactly how you go about solving any word problem you run across. He was methodical and precise.

He never wasted energy wishing things are different than they are. When some crisis appeared, my mom would get all het up, go into what-ifs and it's-not-fairs and rail against the situation they found themselves in. He had no time for any of that.

"Here's the situation," he'd say, laying out the bare facts, "and here's what we need to do about it."

He's still doing that, I realized, watching him struggle with the smoking wreckage of his brain. He's still figuring out what he has to work with, what his givens are, laying aside the hypotheticals, and trying to solve the problem he's been given.

Maybe that's why he's lived so long, and how he's managed to regain function that the doctors believed he'd lost. All along, he's problem-solved around his limitations, and I could still see him doing it. He might lack memory and motor control and even the ability to stay conscious, but he'll continue to use what he has as long as he can.

No matter how out of it he was, he'd struggle to kiss us good-bye and tell us he loved us. Even if all he could do was move his lip a little and grunt, he did it.

I left San Francisco on Thursday.

Saturday was Merlin's (Remus John's) 9th birthday. We have a new rat in the family, the Rat of Khan. We celebrated at the pool with lots of friends, watermelon, and ice cream. It was lovely and hot, and the day in the sun was refreshing.

Basking in the Tropical Afterglow

My reputation as a selector of movies has been ruined forever.

Last night, we watched (and loved) Stardust, to the point where we consider it a serious contender to replace the Princess Bride in our affections. We especially liked Michelle Pfeiffer's evilness
and Robert DeNiro's buffoonery. It seems to fall down a bit in quotability, but we love love loved it.

Tonight, however, we watched the worst film we have ever seen. It's called Over California, and I expected it to be a natural history filmed from above. Instead, it was a collection of not-half bad aerial shots of (mostly) coastal cities accompanied by some nice music and the worst, most syrupy, adjective-laden narration it has ever been our misfortune to hear. We had hoped for interesting facts and amazing footage a la Planet Earth, but this film was amazingly short on facts for a documentary.

We seriously considered turning it off, but then there would be a bit of narration so bad that we were gasping with laughter. So, despite the fact that we hate hate hated it, we kept watching in the hopes that it would top itself.

Finally, the narration soared to meet our dearest dread. As the sun was setting over LA (the film had a penchant for sunset shots over cities, during which the narrator would bid them a fond farewell generously larded with complimentary adjectives), the narrator waxed lyrical about how LA was bathing in its tropical afterglow.

Tropical afterglow? Tropical afterglow? TROPICAL AFTERGLOW?

We have decided that we must immediately market something as Tropical Afterglow. But what should it be? A bath oil or cocktail seemed most appropriate, or perhaps a sunburn lotion or sexual aid.

Given the number of musicians in the family, however, we have settled on a rock band. Right now, Tropical Afterglow seems to consist mostly of drums and kazoos.

We have not laughed so hard in many moons as we did this evening. Don't get this film, don't watch it, and, whatever you do, don't steal the Tropical Afterglow brand idea from us.

A collaborative haiku on the subject:

haiku has no place
for tropical afterglow --
poison oak on fire