Saturday, April 26, 2008
I feel menstrually betrayed. My sister and her BFF began menstruating on Friday without me. No memo was sent to my womb. Here I sit in a PMS stupor going it solo. While in the car with her last night, I courted her hormones with champagne, strawberries, chocolate, salty potato chips-n-dip, anything to entice the mones to mingle with mine so wombareena would bleed. This morning... bupkas. Refresh. Sigh.
In an effort to drag myself out of the thyroid closet that I've been living in for the past five plus years, here's the dish: I got fabbylish news last night from my endocrinologist about my thyroid. I'm 14 points away from having a balanced thyroid. Having been severely hyper and hypothyroid for so long, those 14 points have taken my wig off, I'm over the moon. Your thyroid regulates your mind and body. If that bitch goes awry, all bets are off-- youse are all kinds of jacked whether you're hypothyroid or hyperthyroid. Anyhoodle, in my forthcoming title (Emotionally Pantsed) from So New Media Publishing (check out their fly new website), I wrote all about my thyroid mishigos and, yes... disease (Graves' disease and a rare version of Graves' Ophthalmology). I could end with something wise ass like, "Eww, disease, who wants to fuck me, now?" Or "Is Jewgirl contagious?!" I won't and for the record, I'm not. Though I am still trying to figure out if my eggs are. I want to say (ha), I won't.
My website is almost done. I know, I know, I know, "Jewgirl, you keep saying that. Gahhhhd." The design is finished. After I update the content, she/me will be online. One more week, please. Loving...
Yikes101, I'm new to her blog and I'm crushing hard. She's a feminist, a liberal and outspoken in the very best way-- what's not to kvell about?! Her political posts are off the mothah fuckin' hook.
Politits recently created a new blog called Unglued chronicling her major life changes, separation, parenting, work, etc... Her posts about The Celibacy Project and falling off the abbywagon are outstanding and gut wrenching.
We all know and adore FreidaBee. Her posts are funny and smart and her poetry is beautiful. This particular post, What Up? provides a glimpse into, well, all of our heads, really. What Up is a barrage of questions chronically racing through FreidaBee's mind, and I think, our brains, too. Read it, it's hauntingly beautiful.
Only a few more weeks until Pilcrow, 4 to be exact. Have yas donated? See the ChipIn widget on the sidebar? Hit it, beautiful babies. A few more "Five With's" have been posted on the Pilcrow Lit Fest blog, Elaine Soloway, Jami Attenberg (phenomenal authors and dames) and Adam Deutsch, a fabulous poet with a new title out, North Park Gallery Series.
One of the poems I fell madly, wildly and desperately in love with is in the pages of one of the books I'm reading at the minee, "Women of the Beat Generation". So in love, I can't put it down.
I remember, when the moon shines clear
How I'd whisper in my husband's ear
Like a dentist saying "Open wider"
"Don't you want to be a good provider?"
"Don't you want to be the gracious host
In a lovely home of which you're proud to boast?
When my girl friends come to call
We've got to have carpeting from wall to wall."
After the carpeting he fought and bled
Trapped in the jaws of the Davenport bed!
He screamed as he vanished up the vacuum spout.
In triple-sealed bags it spat him out.
We chased his skull across the Twin Peaks stones.
Maud's pet Chihuahuas ate the rest of his bones.
Another gnawed ghost, another gone man,
Another mild husband in the garbage can
Served up colder than his marriage vows
On his bones let Chihuahuas browse.
Tell me this poem doesn't make your vulva lips twitch and your womb spontaneously combust with creative possibilities and promise.