Day 131: Is God Regulating Michelle Duggar's Lady Business?

I was at a loss today as to what to write and then, while perusing the interwebs I stumbled upon the Duggars. Yes, that ever-growing family that I try so diligently to put out of my mind keeps finding its way back. I came late to know the Duggar family, but apparently they’ve had a TV show exalting their superfluous ability to breed for quite a while. If you don’t know who they are, the Duggars are a family of 18 children with one more on the way. That’s a 21 member family, people. I could barely tolerate four. The founding principle guiding this unending brood is that they will let God decide how many children they should have. I have one little problem with this concept, since it’s not God who’s knocking up your lady, then doesn’t some responsibility lie with how much you’re getting busy?

I’m not going to take issue with their religious beliefs or even with their apparent need to repopulate the Earth with their own little clan of Duggars. What I feel is necessary to point out is the flaw in the logic. The Duggars cite God as the miracle worker behind their large family and while I’m not going to debate pregnancy as a miracle, I think the bigger miracle is that a couple married since 1984, with a dozen and a half kids is still interested enough in each other to make babies. Every parent I know is exhausted and views sex as a luxury and/or trade off. Michelle and (I’m not making this up) Jim Bob have more kids than most married couples have sex in an entire year. I feel inadequate and plan to attack my husband with my excessively birth-controlled girl parts as soon as he gets home.

I may not want to breed, but I’ll be damned if I let a couple who sign their website letter with the too chipper and a little creepy, “With Joy Because of Jesus” have more sex than me. I am now in competition with the holiest of Christians to prove that I have a potent libido, despite not giving birth to 18 kids. I’m honestly a little impressed that Mr. Way too Many Kids still wants to hit that. I’m pretty sure my husband gets bored with me from time to time, but after turning my lady business into a freeway I’m not sure he’d be so excited about hitting the on ramp.

All I’m saying, is that before we blame God for the soon to be 19 kids, we should acknowledge the fact that the Duggars themselves are somewhat to blame. If you start popping out a baby at an almost one per year rate, I’d say your excessive hormones, phermones or possibly diehard fantasy life is also partially to blame. If you can have 18 kids and not be too tired to make the effort or find the time, then the rest of us had better reexamine our excuses.

Day 130: I'm an Intellectual, Haven't you Seen my Books?

I have an unnatural attachment to my books. There is something about the smell of the printed page, the glue holding the binding together, the texture of the book cover. I don’t often borrow books and I never utilize the library or electronic readers. I must own the books I read, an insistence that has caused quite a stockpile over the years. Now, as I try to Fall clean my condo I find myself with two boxes of books I no longer want, but I feel like I still need them. We all make hard choices in our lives, mine was to analyze why I felt I needed books I may never read again.

Over the years, and during the course of many moves across four states I have lost books. I never noticed at the time, but in the unpacking and reorganizing on my shelves I realized the sudden absence of Plath’s The Bell Jar or Hunter Thompson’s The Rum Diary. Somewhere, remnants of my life are scattered about without my consent. I’ve always been aware that my books are a big part of who I am. It is only now, as I begin to examine my somewhat neurotic book fetish, that I am starting to discover why. Books are a security blanket. Much like big hair distracts from aging skin or big boobs blur recognition of a few extra pounds, my books pad my insecurity about my intelligence. I read, therefore I’m smart. The books are intended to convey that I am smart despite my lack of career or advanced degree.

I get a personal satisfaction from seeing my books displayed and I hate that I’ve run out of room and many are still boxed up. The addition of my brilliant and well-read husband’s collection of mostly non-fiction reassures me all the more. I read his books too and periodically go back to reread certain titles of my collection. Having the books I own staring back at me provides a comforting security blanket. I like the way they look on the shelves and I like knowing I can write in the margins or dog ear the pages. Sometimes, I just look over the titles and soak in the fact that I’ve read them all or rearrange them to best display those titles that are most advantageous to me should someone come over and notice them.

I have a first edition Hemingway, a birthday gift from my husband, that I long to read, but keep in a glass enclosed bookcase to protect it instead. In a way, this one book encapsulates everything I love and fear. It is wisdom and accomplishment, but if you cannot see it, how will you know it exists? That book sits proudly in its case begging to be read, begging to be seen and admired, begging to not be forgotten. If I were to simply read it and stash it on the back of a shelf somewhere would it lose any of its value? Would it cease to be a first edition Hemingway? Maybe not, but if something is valuable we display it in a place of honor and hold it in high esteem.

I cannot display my intelligence or untapped employment skills, so I boost those up a bit with a physical recognition of my smarts. Yes, I read. I read a lot and mostly things I am proud to display. Maybe one day I will be able to get my graduate degree or find a career that suits me or perhaps I will learn to be comfortable enough with myself to not need both the French and English versions of L’Etranger. Until then, you should know that I have them and I’ve read them both.

Day 129: My In-laws are Great . . . Unfortunately

We all have in-laws. Well, okay, not ALL of us, because we’re not all partnered up, but the concept is a familiar one to most. My in-laws are what you’d call . . . great. They love me which helps, they are liberal minded like me, which I approve of heartily, they gave birth to my beloved husband, so that’s a plus and they live far away. All in all, it’s a pretty good deal, except well, they’re kind of odd.

For one thing, they are incredibly interesting people on paper. My Father-in-law is a Episcopalian priest, with a deep love of scotch and a genial eye toward the ladies. My Mother-in-law is a native born Canadian and classically trained pianist who made it into Julliard when she was a girl, but after one day in New York wigged out and ran back home. They are both hippies at heart with a love of the outdoors, foul mouths and a hatred of anyone with the last name of Bush. In fact, the first time I met them, I happened to be wearing a tee under my sweater that said “My Bush would make a better President” and when they happened to see it, they loved it. Awkward, but funny.

So how did these two liberal, peace loving, hippies raise a cop and an Infantry officer? And why when they’ve never been anything but incredibly loving and supportive to me, do I fear extended periods of time with them? When we lived in the city, they came to stay with us in our 700 sq. ft. one BR apartment. They stayed for six days and nights. SIX! We gave them our bedroom complete with closet space, a TV, cable and DVD player, but they spent every moment with us. The living room became our bedroom and yet, they stayed up with us until we practically kicked them out around midnight and they were up even before we arose for work in the morning. I love them, but not that much. I worked long hours when I could just for some “me” time.

This holiday, we will be spending five nights with them in Wisconsin, sleeping on a full size mattress that is slightly less comfortable than the cold cement floor of the garage. The mattress and box springs currently reside on the floor, because the last time we stayed with them, we broke the bed, but not from doing anything fun. This bed is so seriously uncomfortable that even my husband who has slept standing up during Ranger training cannot sleep on it without major back pain. So what do I do? It’s a small house that they keep too cold like many of the budget conscious AARP set, Dad controls the TV, Mom hovers nervously and the two German Shepherds and two cats run amok and shed hair or drool on every surface.

Anyone that knows me knows that I am not a patient person, nor do I do well in situations in which I do not have some control. Being trapped in the snow blanketed hamlet of WI, without a car, without a warm and comfortable place to sleep, and in a position that I have to be nice ALL THE TIME. Being nice is not really my thing and while I love my in-laws, I love my personal space and alone time more. I do have one trick up my sleeve. I know their weakness and I’m not afraid to exploit it. An expensive bottle of scotch for Dad and a big bottle of red for Mom and I might induce a little quiet time for me. Now if I could just figure out how to bring a huge lint brush and a memory foam mattress topper without offending them. Then again if I saved the scotch and wine for myself, the rest of it probably wouldn’t bother me.

Day 128: The Stones are Crazy, Time is NOT on my Side

Time is on my side sing the Rolling Stones in their 1964 hit. Is it really? When have you ever thought that time was on your side? I often find that I have too much time or too little time, but never that it’s on my side. I am much concerned with this idea lately. Yesterday I wrote about feeling my age and the effect the passing of the years is having on my body. Today, I caught myself singing that little Stones ditty and just yesterday I mentioned to a friend that I am no longer just trying to get into shape, I am trying to get into the shape I was in five years ago so that I can then begin to get into shape. No, time is definitely not on my side, though a few extra pounds might be.

Five years ago thought I was fat. I distinctly remember getting on the scale and groaning at the number that looked back at me. I told my husband, then my new boyfriend that I hated my fat legs because of the way they rubbed together. At this he told me to stand up with my feet and knees pressed together and we both peered down at the distinct gap between my inner thighs. So they didn’t actually touch and I was needlessly obsessing over my weight, but they touch now and the scale tells me I am five pounds heavier today than I was that day.

This realization serves to remind me of the futility of working out and dieting. I have been trying to get in shape since I was a teenager and yet each year I am a pound or two heavier so that now, I’m not even trying to get into shape anymore, I’m just trying to get back what I lost. Time is slipping by while I avert my gaze from the truth looking back at me, I might one day attain my physical goal, but I will never be that girl again. Time is a lot of things, but it’s more like a kick in my ass then a reassuring sidekick.

Day 127: Can Rigor Mortis set in While You're Still Alive?

I am fighting a battle against time. This isn’t only my fight I realize, in one way or another we are all fighting against Father Time. Aging, death, the early morning alarm, work deadlines, these are all typical battles we fight involving the impending future. My battle is with my body. I feel my good years slipping away as my back troubles, arthritis, flexibility, headaches, vision, memory, insomnia and circulation all become issues of concern. Who’s body is this?

When did I start to have chronically dry skin or spider veins on the backs of my legs? These days when I have a cold I can no longer fight through it and go to work anyway, instead I am flat on my back and down for the count. I am working out harder than I have in years and with each pound I hope to lose I am not trying to get to a better body, I am just trying to get back to my weight of five years ago. Through it all, I am also fighting the ticking of the clock that moves me ever closer to my suspected end. I have muscular-skeletal issues, my spine is crap causing lifelong headaches and chronic pain as well as reduced upper body mobility. My arthritis, currently visible only in the slight skew of my fingers, will likely result in debilitating pain and gnarled hands.

I am working to keep myself healthy now, but also because I feel the future bearing down on me and I don’t know how long my body will last before it betrays me. There is book called the birthday book and in it, is a listing for every birth day and a specific reading for those born on that day. I read mine nearly 15 years ago and it predicted both the muscular skeletal issues and an eventual confinement to a wheelchair. I think about this often when I inventory all my physical ailments. How long until my neck and shoulder tension causes a hump, rendering me a stooped over old lady? Will my legs be mottled with raised and swollen purple snake-like veins choking off my circulation? What about my hands? If I cannot write or hold a book won’t my mind slowly decay along with my hand dexterity?

I realize the future is unwritten and perhaps I will be lucky and my body will hold out, but there are some things you just feel. This body, however I take care of it, has an expiration date as do we all. I worry that I feel mine slipping away and its ability to rebound and heal lies slightly beyond my grasp. A gypsy told me that I would die relatively young so maybe I can outlast my body after all. I’d rather die while still able to enjoy this shell. The best could still happen, but just in case it doesn’t, I’m lacing up my running shoes because this one looks to be a real foot race.

Day 126: "She-Bop" is Like my Personal Anthem

Masturbation: to stimulate one’s own genitals for sexual pleasure. This is the official definition of one of my favorite activities. While it may be the official meaning, popular opinion still defines it more like shameful, dirty, and aberrant behavior. Why this stigma about something that is so natural? On second thought, I should reword that to ask why female masturbatory practices are taboo when male self-love is joked about openly. Personally, I’m going conspiracy theory on this one and say that it all goes back to our Puritanical roots.

The best way to keep people in line is to make them believe sex is for procreation reasons only. I think we all know the historical role of sexual intercourse and its evolution, but masturbation is a whole other issue. If good girls don’t have sex, then they certainly can’t touch themselves. I’m not sure where this fear comes from, is it that society thinks a generation of women who puts into practice Cyndi Lauper’s infamous “She-bop” will suddenly become raging whores or that we will go the opposite way and not need or want male companionship at all? It’s perfectly fine to acknowledge teenage boys locking themselves in the bathroom for an hour, but we want to pretend that girls not only aren’t getting off, but that they haven’t even discovered they have a self-activated pleasure spot.

Why do we pretend girls don’t jack off and for that matter, why are so many of them actually not? If it feels good, you have the tools and it doesn’t hurt anyone, why wouldn’t you? Believe me, we all have the tools and it’s not going to hurt. They’re called fingers, or toys, or select vegetables, or even a spinning dryer in a pinch. You want to prevent your daughter from getting overwhelmed in the heat of the moment and giving into a boy when she’s not ready? Teach her about masturbating. She doesn’t need a boy to get off, save that for when she’s mature enough to handle it. For those of us that are old enough, it doesn’t mean that every time I want action I want a man. For one thing, my man’s out of the country, but even when he’s home we’re not always simpatico.

Without self-love, my life would be much lonelier and have much less pleasure. Let’s face it, men are human, but a Duracell lasts for hours. I don’t think it makes me a dirty girl because I not only do get myself off, but I talk freely about it, what makes me a dirty girl is . . . well that’s between me and the husband! The Puritans and their modern day conservative counterparts who fear my solo sex life, fear what I might discover. If women discover they are strong and independent and have the power to please themselves, then they might put down the lipgloss, stop bickering with each other over men and focus on fixing the world. Imagine the horrors of a world run by focused women who do not need men! What they’re missing, is that we all still need people for friendship, love, and yes, even sexual fulfillment. As much as I love my collection of inanimate friends, I still love and need my husband. I’m not about to start a revolution of masturbating feminists bent on world domination, but I’d be happy if women finally recognized their own capacity for vaginal domination.

At the very least, let’s bring it out of the shame closet and make it at least as acceptable as male behavior. I’m pretty sure we’re all aware that so-called “skin mags” have an ulterior purpose beyond showcasing the toned and plasticized bodies of women. Hustler isn’t intended to be a beach read, so let’s stop pretending that women don’t have the same thoughts or needs for physical release. Besides, a lot of women I know can tell you that even when they do rely solely on men for gratification there’s a lot of false happiness going on. So why not just agree to equal rights for self-loving and move on, no more taboo, no more unsatisfied women, and heck, it might even make your mutual sex life better.