Anne Nahm

On vacation, I read The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath.  Word to the wise:  Best not to read a story about a chick losing her mind while you yourself are on vacation and are trapped in a hotel room while taking care of three kids who have been eating a steady diet of gas station cheerios and complimentary hotel breakfast donuts.

It was a little disturbing how much 1950′s style mental crumblings did not strike me so much as OMIGODCRAZY as kind of familiar  and how easily I found myself whispering at the book do not drink the sexually unliberated Buddy style KOOL-AID, Sylvia!  Get your diaphragm and be free!

Then I got to the part about crawling under the house and taking 50 sleeping pills, and I closed the book and decided I’m going to think much more seriously about my mental health.  So I took the kids down to the hotel pool and we all had a great time.  Yet, my head still kind of feels like a helium balloon that is floating around, way above the rest of my body.

In other media, I am totally in love with True Blood.  Since I live in a cave with no HBO or understanding of current viewing trends, I am just now watching Season One.  How did I not know this show was like a thousand times better than Twilight?!  All that Edward pillow biting bullshit I had to read over a thousand pages to get to? Worthless!  Especially when True Blood is basically soft core porn.  Am even reading Sookie Stackhouse books because I am completely infatuated.  Is kind of embarrassing: my first tv crush since Remington Steele.  If Bill has an episode where he is pointing that butt at the camera (and that is like every episode)?  My husband automatically is getting some.  Thank you God, for making fireplaces, and counters, and all those other waist high objects that Bill can lean against so the camera gets a good angle of his butt!

OK, re-reading, this is clearly a little TMI on thirty-something sexual repression, so am leaving the house for a while so as not to have to think about what this post says about me.

The universe is conspiring against me to get one effing thing done on my own this week.  Three kids is no joke, people.  They can successfully get out of pocket, outnumber you, grab you by your ponytail, throw a saddle on you and ride you with spurs on, and all sleep around the clock on different schedules, keeping you wide awake for 36 consecutive hours. Until you are hiding under the bed, calling 911 and begging for rescue.

Stuck inside my own head, with Lady Gaga on infinite play I’ve been pondering:  I think I’m a little crushing on the Edward panties.  You’re hovering over that link, but I know that if you are a sexually repressed housewife like I am, you’ve already seen them.  And conversely, if you already know what’s under that link?  Well then, welcome to my world, Horny McMommypants.  My kids are old enough to rattle the doorknob.  What’s your excuse?

The fascination with EdPanties09 makes me feel like I should have a comb-over, a yellow corvette, and a beer belly.  And yet?  Cannot look away.  Or stop thinking inappropriate things.  Mostly about how anybody could get all the way to putting Edward inside the panties and yet not be bothered to get an open mouth shot.  And ew, just writing that gets me right back in that self loathing place where I feel like I should smell like a roller-skating rink and have fuzzy dice on my rear view mirror.

But!  It has been thought many a times and so must be said as well.  Why with the closed mouth?   Much like the Twilight series itself, it gets so close to delivering some totally inappropriate and yet vaguely satisfying sexual thrill, but then just leaves you hanging… out on Ed’s face.   I’ve said too much, yes?  I must have, because there is that painful burning sensation at the thought of posting.  Yay!

As a super gross addendum, Middle sister called with a question about birth control and strokes in our family history.  Except she kept saying “I don’t want to stroke out,” which, in my vocab, is a sexual reference, even though in hers it is a medical term for brain bleed.  But double weird because we were kind of talking about sex-related things, but in the sterile atmosphere of birth control.  And also, it was my sister, and we’re tight, but not really on the level where we freely exchange masturbation talk.  Finally, I had to crawl under my desk and ask her to just. stop. saying. that.  But I couldn’t exactly say why, except for it was like a hotdog rolled in grape jelly – sisters and sex talk and strokes is no good together.  Ew-ew-ew.

And PS:  I was in a state of constant amusement this week how many people assumed I would not stumble to the idea of having a lock on the bedroom door.  I am laughing right now writing that.  I love that you guys think I am the kind of bad ass who would boink around without heavy barricades in place.  Even with them there, I am still having a hard time getting satisfaction.  One more week of nighttime only sex and I might seriously turn into the girl (over 15) who wears the Edward Panties for realz.  I can’t stay up until ten to have sex!  I am the mother of three children!

*I can’t watch The ’70′s Show because it looks like it smells bad.

*I was watching the Travel Channel last night and heard Anthony Bourdain refer to a monkey as having nipples like buttplugs.  Closed caption would not comply with this commentary and simply called it an ugly monkey.

*Six days ago my husband and I made a pact to have sex every day.  Because I saw it on Oprah and thought it was a good idea.

Like the  Stages of Grief, there were many emotions that went through my head the last week as I crawled into bed.  Of course, most of those stages looked like Whooo-Hoooo! And Guess What, Honey, I Just Watched New Moon Previews in Slo-Mo for Ten Minutes*.  However, at least one of those nights included a stage called:  I spent all day with your children bouncing on my butt and sucking my nipples.  If you start up the same with me, I will scream. Subcategory:  Not in the good way.

But yesterday, my husband and I reached the stage called ‘acceptance’.  As in, we have three small children, we’re old, and rugburns aren’t as fun as they were when we were 25.  We just couldn’t do it any more. I mean, come on people: Five days.  In a row. It’s harder than it sounds.

Lying on the bed

ME: God, I’m tired.
HIM: Soooo much sex.
ME: It’s like some kind of crazy pie eating contest.
HIM (laughing): Like those hot dog eating contests.
HIM (not laughing so much anymore):…. Well, for me, I guess it is like one of those pie eating contests.

*With the sound turned completely down.  Enjoy!

It finally happened for me, peeps. I mean, it has happened for me in short bursts before, but this time was a good twenty minute exercise high. I was high! As a kite! During 9:00 step aerobics!

It went like this: Hard and confusing, hard and confusing, hard and confusing. And then after a while of red cheeks (both sets, I assume – I have that Irish skin) I was just hopping around with no difficulty at all. Still? Thought maybe I just brought my A game.

Then the theme song to Ghostbusters (I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!) came on. No de rigueur Staind or Madonna/ Michael Jackson dance combo. Oooooh no, Instructor Chick be bustin’ out soundtracks for our stepping enjoyment.

I was able to maintain. At least until Chipmunk speed John Travolta started up with Grease’s You’re the One that I Want. I’m lucky I didn’t break an ankle with all my mirth, singing under my breath, and thoughts all starting with the word “duuuuuude”. Guess I must confess that I apparently get high to really bad music, despite all my poseur Phish albums from sophomore year.

I can only assume I have finally made it down to the legendary College Ass Fat. That fat made at 3:00 in the morning with the delicious help of Steak & Cheese bombs and firmly encasing various other … substances… I ingested during college. Slumbering there, waiting to be released these many years in the future, giving me a nice buzz.

Oh Monday Morning Ode To Ass Fat: I love thee, little time capsule of interest in an otherwise boring morning! Those days gone, yet ass fat memories live on.

Universe being what it is, the down side being that by the time I was getting to the fabled land of Exercise Pulling Its Own Weight for Once Instead of Just ‘Being Good’ For Me, I had already rented some adult entertainment in video form with which to surprise my husband*. You know, trying to get my MILF on.

I should have known something was up when the video rental employee handed me a movie that appeared to be different from the video I had kind of blindly grabbed from the back room whilst trying to not A) make eye contact with anyone B) be captured on the back room video surveillance, or C) touch any surface with my bare hands.

At the front desk, where I was trying to be all cool and casual, like hey, you guys sell it all day, I’m just renting this one, baby? The employee charged me about twice what I would expect from renting two videos (the other being the last Harry Potter movie) and I was tempted to ask her about it. But then a woman with about 14 teenage boys came into the store, and I was not gonna be the chick at the counter complaining about the price of porn to that audience.

But I should have known these were bad indicators and just dropped the video in the return slot unwatched. But instead? I watched it.

Three take away points from this story? 1) There is something out there that sucks worse than the last Harry Potter movie, 2) I am apparently being stalked by the Curse of the Goatse, of which I saw three before I could vomit and then poke off the TV with my big toe from the floor, where I was still fairly trapped with dry heaves 3) It is possible for women parts to shrink back into one’s body like the head of a turtle and not come back out for …. 48 hours and holding. MILF points accumulated from this experience: – 1,000,002.

* For my husband’s sense of privacy, I must state for the record: Maybe he was there and maybe he wasn’t. *Shrugs* Perhaps I was just sliding down the proverbial staircase banister while he was away at work. I clearly have a warped and perverted soul, but it is completely possible that my innocent bystander of a husband had no idea what I was doing.

(Part One of Spa Day here)

At around 4:00, Middle sister and I got out of Satan’s Butthole and parted ways for 90 minutes. Middle went to get a full body massage, and I went stumbling out to the meditation gardens, having not eaten since nine that morning and pretty high on sulfur fumes. Which is exactly how I like to burn an hour or so before dinnertime.

Oh and PS? As I was walking across the parking lot to get to the meditation gardens? I passed a shiny black Mercedes with the license plate SAT260. Think it was random? Or a vanity plate giving a very nice eff you to standardized testing?**

Meditation gardens? Pretty much felt like a kooky dream or funky art house flick:

The entrance to the gardens was obscured by multiple varieties of sunflowers in full bloom, and standing about 10 foot high. So basically, you walk into a garden where the flowers look down on you instead of you looking down at them. You? Tiny bug. That’s pretty much the message.

While I was stumbling around trying to find where I was supposed to go next, a boy about the age of 10 and his guardian caught up with me. They were the only two people I saw my whole time there. He grinned at me and said, “follow me! I know the way.” and proceeded to run ahead and duck between the a pair of enormous flowers. On the other side, I saw him running across the clearing to the labyrinth. I waved at him and went left to the other garden.

In the center of the first garden was this:

and a sign:

Which reads in part, (as well as I can squintily make out from the photo taken when I have it enlarged):

Cairns are ancient forms that have marked holy sites from Scotland to the Himalayas. When an individual arrived at a sacred place on their pilgrimage, they placed a stone to symbolize their prayers.

Oh, and also this blurb:

Uhm, hello? What is the purpose of the Cairn if not to leave a stone? As I walked away, I got more irritated. I mean, Double You Tee Eff, Meditation Garden? This must be some kind of cosmic test or something, because you can.not. be serious with that not disturbing the stones line. Right?

So like the totally classy chick I am, I started hunting around for a rock I could leave.

Because I’m a rebel, that’s why. A loofah’d, yoga’d, rebel straight from sitting in Satan’s Butthole. Don’t mess with me.

Of course, the wise people at the spa didn’t leave any loose stones around the Cairn, so most of my prayer included being able to find a stone to deface their non-stone-donation-accepting Cairn. And thusly, feeling one part stupid, one part rebellious, and one part totally justified, I hunted around until I found what I was looking for and went about disobeying the sign.

Take that, sign:

And I see you looking at that little broken stone and being majorly unimpressed. Sheesh. It was symbolic. It was me taking a real life moment to unclench my chokehold on ass clenching rule following. And so, accordingly, my prayer was to be able to see the difference between stupid societal laws and the rules that would keep me protected and doing right and living fully.

So here is the labyrinth I then walked to. Which, hello! Is where they were hiding all the stones:

And here is me starting out at the very beginning.

Shut up about the shoes! They are so comfy. And I totally brought my MILF heels for dinner. Can you tell by my feet that I’m nervous? And I’m taking pictures of my feet to avoid the ten year old boy who is dancing around in the middle of the labyrinth as I take this picture.

A labyrinth is kind of like a maze, except you can only go one way and you go to the center and then you come back out again. Kind of like a big projective test. I guess depending on what kind of labyrinth you are expecting, you might think a minotaur was in the center. Or trapped spirits in the passages. Or enlightenment. Or death in chewy nougat form.

Anyway, you go back and forth and back and forth and it seems like you are getting nowhere and holy cow how long is this going to take? Because dinner is coming up and I didn’t wear my watch today and my buzz is kind of peaking and crap, did I mention this is totally frustrating? And holy shit, this maze is exactly like my life right now – with no direction or movement or understanding and I’m not even making any decisions to go where I want to go.

And as I was pacing through the labyrinth, I thought about my illegal Cairn stone and my prayer to not be bound by stupid rules, and I thought, “I am totally just going to step over these rocks. I’m an idiot for staying on the path.”

And the moment I made that decision? As my pink smurf shoes were twitching to cross the line? The ten year old boy cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled to me, “You are going the wrong way!”

In real life, he was just coming back from the center and kind of teasing me to get out of his way. Totally cute kid. But at that moment? It was like a message from God. Totally stupid, huh? Except I just felt it all in my body and my head and clear as day: The labyrinth was the path of my life, and the path was clear if I just stayed on it. I didn’t know where it went, but it had been made for me with careful structure and consideration. To step out and make my own path was to lose only real path there was.

So I started crying a little. Which probably bought that cute kid about 3 months of therapy even though I tried to tell him it was completely OK. Or I don’t know. Maybe he totally understood. It was hard to tell as he disappeared out of the maze pretty quickly after that. Sorry kid! I thought you were channeling the Voice of God.

I followed the maze to its center and back, arguing with God under my breath for most of that time. Lately, when I am beefing with the big G, I get tied up with questions about personal glory and how God isn’t really ‘into’ that part of my character. And here I want to minimize or justify ‘personal glory’ with lots of bitching about life and age and loss of personal power. But either you get it or you don’t and the more I try to explain myself, the more convoluted it gets. Anyway, that’s pretty much how I felt talking to God about it, with him giving me no joy on following that path. And maybe spanking me a little for my foolish thoughts.

So if it is not enough for you to know your friend Anne was crying and muttering to herself in a big stone maze, I’ll tell you it got stranger. At one point, all the stones around me were like faces watching me. And it was as if God’s question was whether that made me happy. You know, if I lived in a world where my personal glory ended with many people paying attention to me.

It didn’t make me happy. So maybe I learned something. But then again, a labyrinth full of half-hallucinated heads*** sticking out of the sand has its own special brand of freaky.

I escaped to the center and back out with more questions than answers, and feeling vaguely like I wasn’t able to get to a peaceful place. And although I was late to dinner, I was reluctant to leave. I saw someone had pulled up a rocking bench to look over a stream at the back end of the labyrinth. I walked over to see what might be looked at.

In the chair was this graffiti, which makes me just as nervous as it makes me peaceful:

** At least back in the days of yore when I was prepping to take the S.A.T., the rumor was that while a perfect score per section was 800, they would give you 200 points if you filled in the bubbles of your name correctly. So a score of 260 would indicate failing so badly you couldn’t do much more than that. Hell. That would be funny even on a beat up old Gremlin a la Wayne’s World, in my opinion.

*** I didn’t actually hallucinate. I merely suggested in my head. Quit looking at me like that. Damn.

(Also, I am not pushing Jesus per se. My understanding of the supernatural is based largely on the framework with which I grew up. I’m trying to understand it using my own inner workings, but I don’t think that my way is The One True! Way! or anything. Have it your way if you like.)