nakedjen

Ketchup Isn't Going To Help

During the last week of July, DearSweetDave and I absconded to Rhode Island for a family wedding.  His second cousin Charlie was getting married and his mother's entire side of the family was gathering in Newport to make sure that Charlie and Deb did it just right.

They did. 

DearSweetDave and I stayed on for a few days post wedding to visit with all the gathered relatives.  We went sailing.  We sang songs around bonfires.  We made sure to hug his grandmother and make sure that she knew she was absolutely loved the best of all. 

On the Monday, we found ourselves in Providence in the company of the most beautiful Impossible Jane.

What a lovely visit that turned out to be!  Impossible Jane took us to the cemetary where H.P. Lovecraft was buried.  We paid homage and dutifuly checked out his gravesite and then, of course, I did what any sensible person would do when she finds herself in a graveyard in Providence.  I got naked.  And stood under a tree.  A tree near H.P. Lovecraft's grave.  Proper homage and all.

After we left ImpossibleJane, we went to Brown.  Why?  Because at one point in my life I had wanted to go to Brown.  I think there's some part of me that still wishes I could go to Brown.  Have a do-over so to speak.  Of course, DearSweetDave reminded me that had I actually gone to Brown, I may not have actually become a playwright, I might have actually gone to law school instead and of course my whole life would be completely different than it is now and maybe even Clyde, dear Clyde, would not have been a part of it and shouldn't a girl like me who has had some pretty darn good blessings in her life just be happy that she went to college where she went and stop saying, "What if I had gone to Brown?" 

I shut up after all that.  But insisted upon going to the Brown Bookstore to find a Brown sweatshirt because, well, I wanted to go to Brown.  However, the universe did not want me to be a poser of ANY SORT and made sure that on that particular Monday the Brown University Bookstore was sold out of absolutely any sweatshirt that would REMOTELY do in size miniature.  Had I been a size XXL, no problem at all.  Loads of sweatshirts in that size.  But in minature?  Nada.  Even in the kid's section, I came up completely emptyhanded.

So we left there and wandered about campus a bit.  And found ourselves at the theatre.  I was a theatre major at that college that I did attend and we all know I have a pretty strong affinity for empty stages.  We wandered inside.  Their summer productions had just ended the night before and aside from one lonely person who seemed to be striking the set all by himself, we were on our own. 

We admired the headshots of the folks who were in the productions and DearSweetDave wondered allowed if Lucy DeVito was Danny DeVito's daughter.  I felt pretty sure that she was.  She was from Los Angeles and she looked like him!  As the summer production was a showcase of new playwrights, I felt compelled to pick up a program and take it with me.  I started flipping through it as we were walking back toward our car and then gasped out loud. 

There on the page in black and white was Lars Hanson.  Lars Hanson from Kenyon College.  More importantly, Lars Hanson from London.  My flatmate.  I hadn't seen him since last century!  No, honestly, I hadn't seen Lars since 1988.  And there he was. 

So I made DearSweetDave turn around and rush back into the theatre.  And here is where you will all laugh at the small little bubble that is obviously my head.  Guess whose head shot was right underneath Lucy DeVito's?  Ding! Ding! Ding!  Lars Hanson.  Doh! 

So there he was.  Lars.  The man who helped me construct the very first Sconehenge in existence.  The man who wrote Gardener America (I can still sing it!).  The man who helped me write quite possibly one of THE wackiest poems for HalfNakedRobin's 17th birthday. 

Lars. 

I asked the sole person in the theatre if he knew how I might get in touch with dear old Lars.  He told me he actually needed to mail him his paycheck and if I wrote a note, he'd make sure that he got it. 

I dashed off to the car to grab one of my business cards and quickly scribbled some nonsensical note on the back and gave it to that wonderful theatre man.  I have no idea if Lars actually got it, but I figure it I type his name here enough on my blog that perhaps he'll google himself (don't tell me you've never done that!) and find his way here.  A naked girl can hope.  Lars Hanson.  Lars Hanson, indeed!

So we returned from Rhode Island last Monday.  And then I jetted off for Los Angeles where I spent 72 hours of quality girl time with some of my favorite peeps.  There are pictures from that adventure, but I think the most important one to share with all of you is the one of me and Drew Barrymore. 

We all know how I feel about Drew.  Let me tell you, the way I feel about Drew?  DearSweetDave feels just the same.  Actually, I think he might feel even a little more.  She's on both of our lists.  You know, the list you keep of folks you have a "free pass" to sleep with should you ever get the chance?  That list.  Drew is on mine and she's also on DearSweetDave's.  Oh can you just imagine what might happen should we ever find ourselves in her company?  Here, I'll show you exactly what will happen.

Nakedjen:  Hi Drew.  I can't believe it's you.  Gosh.  Um.  Wow.  Um.  My husband wants to sleep with you!
Drew:  Security!!!!
DearSweetDave:  Don't mind her, Drew.  She's just overcome with excitement.  You see, you've been on Jen's list forever.  She thinks you're hot!
Drew:  Get away from me FREAKS!
Nakedjen:  Um, Drew, um, I have insomnia just like you.  We could be sisters.  And I love dogs.  Just like you.  And I have hair, just like you!  We're like twins.  Want some tea??
DearSweetDave:  Please ignore Jen, Drew.  She hasn't had her medication today.
Drew:  SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF HER LUNGS:  HELP! HELP! HELP! HELP!
Nakedjen:  Jeez.  Chill out.  You really do need Tranquilitea. 

Or something like that.  Honestly, it would not go well.  But when I saw this billboard in a parking garage at The Grove in Los Angeles, I just couldn't resist. 
And it turns out that there are other folks out there who couldn't resist, either!  That Drew, she's just irresistible. 

So yeah, I went to LA.  And when I came home, well, you all saw what I found.

Puppies! 

Clyde finally sent them.  And wow, are they just the cutest things or what?  They still don't have names, but we did go and visit them again tonight and I swear that since Monday they've grown!  I really hope they turn out to be nice big dogs.  They're very mellow for puppies, I must say.  They never cry and really just love to cuddle in your arms and lick your hands.  They give LOADS of kisses.  We're waiting to actually name them until they've really gotten a chance to develop their personalities a bit.  They were born on July 22.  So they're 19 days old.  And they'll be coming home to our house sometime in September.  We're still trying to work out exactly when.  But yeah, we're jumping for joy over our new little fur people.

Finally, if you've read this far, god bless you.  You've loads of stamina for the very mundane.

I have gone to the doctor recently and have had some not so pleasant news.  I think this is the reason I always avoid conventional doctors.  They never, ever seem to provide me with any news to jump and down and scream about. 

I recently had some moles removed as a precautionary measure.  Turns out that after close examination by those dear pathologists, the moles were, in fact, brimming with precancerous cells.  That news has sent me to a more experienced dermatologist for a complete body scan.  The good news is that the majority of the moles on my body are nothing more than lovely sun freckles, as he called them.  The bad news is that we have to do another surgery on the area on my back to make sure that we truly remove all possible cancerous cells.  I'm not too thrilled with this, but hey, better safe than sorry.  So that will be on Friday.

Now take a good look at those breasts that are sitting atop this page.  It's not the only picture of my breasts on this blog and if you'd like to go searching for more, feel free.  Give them a good gander.  Yesterday I learned that my right one is sporting a golf ball size mass.  I don't even play golf.  Okay, that was BAD HUMOUR.  Terrible.  But the truth of the matter is, my doctor discovered this mass and is quite concerned.  She wants a diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound and fine needle aspiration ASAP.  Not exactly joyful news, huh?  And she's also concerned about my blood sugar levels.  Says they're too high and she suspects diabetes.  Whoo Hoo!  I wonder what other problems we can dig up?

People, a cautionary piece of advice.  Do not get old.  I allowed myself to turn 41 and all hell is breaking loose!  It just baffles me that the woman who eats only organics, eschews anything with sugar, doesn't drink alcohol and takes her supplements religiously could be having all these problems.  But yeah, I am.  I'm just going to have to hope and pray that I can find all kinds of alternative remedies for whatever else we discover.  Lord knows that pharmaceuticals and I just do not mix.  You think that imaginary conversation I had with Drew was whacked.  Just add some pharmaceuticals to the mix.  Now that's a party no one wants to attend.

Kind of makes you wonder huh?  I can tell you it certainly does me.  I'm the most baffled of us all.

A Post To Keep Wendee Smiling

My friend, Wendee, has let me know that those of us in the blogging community that do not update our blogs on a regular basis, and she means every single day or even, gasp, more often, really frustrate her.  Now, since Wendee is one of my very best friends, I certainly do not want to be the cause of frustration for her.  Lord knows, we certainly have enough frustrated women on her hands as it is.  No need to add one more to the mix when all that frustration can be avoided by me simply taking the time to write a simple entry for my blog.

So here it is.

A simple entry for my blog.

It's Wednesday.  Which means it's been a while.  Wendee, please forgive me for that.  She already knows this, but I will tell the rest of you that DearSweetDave and I have started a new program.  What program is that, you ask?  Well, I'm going to tell you.  Even if you didn't ask.  So if you didn't ask and would rather not know, then just skip the next part.  I can assure you it has nothing to do with elimination or bodily functions (well, not directly), so the squeamish really can keep reading, but again, if you're not interested, please just skip ahead.

Good.  All those who have continued to read this part will now learn that DearSweetDave and I have begun Operation Early Morning Screenplay.  And it is exactly as it sounds.  Which, I can tell you, is quite a difficult undertaking for two night owls like us. 

In order to accomplish Operation Early Morning Screenplay, DearSweetDave and I have to get up at the ass-crack of dawn.  Why on earth we chose the week of the whole spring forward time change to put this plan into practice I will never know.  Oh wait, I do know.  We're masochists.  Pure and simple.  We like to make things as insanely difficult as possible for ourselves. 

So beginning this past Monday, we have been getting up with the sun (we have even been sleeping with the blinds in the bedroom open...and yes, this means that if you're meandering past our house you can just look right into the bedroom and see the Nakeds doing their naked thing) and have been dragging ourselves to LuLu Carpenter's cafe where we have chosen a table near an electrical outlet (if we're lucky enough to score one...it's quite competitive at Lulu's for those electrical outlets...you have to be strong and brave and willing to fight!) and have set up shop with our two little laptops and DearSweetDave writes away on his screenplay and I, well, I just write away. 

Actually, I write about holistic health mostly.  Because it seems given the popularity of the teas and this blog, that folks are finding me and asking me all kinds of holistic health questions.  And advice.  And help for this problem or that problem that has thus far proven unsolvable.  I'm really enjoying helping all these people.  Honestly, this is what I was born to do, I believe.  Help other people.  To get well.  To bring their own lives back into balance.  To find health and well-being.  They're the ones who do all the work, really.  I just offer some guidance and a few kind words and gentle suggestions. 

And while I do that, DearSweetDave works out scenes and dialogue and all that other stuff that goes into screenplays.  We do this together until about 9:30.  And then DearSweetDave packs up his laptop and heads off to the office.  And I usually sit there and continue until I find a good "stopping" point and then I head home. 

Now I act as if that has all been happening for weeks on end.  It's happened for three days, people.  And today?  Today I woke up with DearSweetDave along with the sun.  And because I was also greeted with uterine disasters of the most unfriendly kind, I looked at him and told him I was sorry but I was bailing.  I was going back to bed.  I was acknowledging the pain in my gut and putting knees to chin and wallowing in my own misery.

So he went off to Lulu's alone.  And I stayed here.  In bed.  Wondering how I could create a pain-killer that actually WORKED for the pain we women experience when we've got clots the size of watermelons.  We can make eight different kinds of medications that will keep a man's dick hard for 4 days, but we can't come up with a decent pain-killer for cramps?  Come on now, Pfizer.  Stop with all the erectile dysfunction.  Let's start concentrating on uterine dysfunction.  There are women lined up around the world who will pay you GOLD for that pill.  I know they will.  Why haven't you figured that out yet?  Oh, wait, I know.  Because you're all men.  And you'd rather have hard dicks.

Of course.

Anyway, if you skipped all of the above, here's where you should start reading again.  And I'll just end by saying that I hope if you have a blog that you're updating frequently.  Because Wendee is reading.  And she likes fresh and interesting material.  So go post something for her.

Thanks. 

Clots That Could Choke A Rhinoceros

hee. hee.  let's see how many google hits i get for that one, eh?

i know that i often talk about my period in here and today is another day when i'm going to do just that. if you'd like not to know, just skip this part. lalalala. so last month, on the new moon, we were in hawaii. and i got my period. and my goodness. it was like old times. short. sweet. to the point. not a lot of blood. no accidents. not cramping. three days. done. i remarked to dave that perhaps all that madness was behind me.

new moon was yesterday as you all should already know. period arrived right on schedule. in floods. gushing geysers. clots the size of my head. i honestly feel like a cow. a big cow with a ginormous uterus.

and of course, because i'm me, i went to the post office today. and because i'm me and have told this story so many times, you all know what happened. don't you? you already are going, "no, jen, please say it isn't so." but i can't do that, now, can i? because i have pants with blood soaked down to the knees. or ankles, depending on which side you're checking out. disgusting. and guess what else? they're my very favorite jeans. my high school jeans. my jeans that have been with me since i was sixteen. and now? now? bloody hell. just plain bloody hell. they look like they played a role in carrie.

i'm hopeful that the wash will bring them back. i walked home, gushing blood in amounts that just seemed quite impossible, and into our garage and ripped the pants off and threw them into the washer. with enough oxyclean to sink a ship. they're still soaking. the oxyclean bubbles are bright red. like a murder took place. yikes.

so here's what i'm thinking. i've been going for acupuncture treatments. i went in november. in december, whamo, blood like niagra falls. i didn't go in december because the clinic was closed for the holidays and we were off to hawaii. i went two weeks ago, because we were back. i mentioned to my acupuncturist that things are definitely productive! she gave me more special pills and herbs, and needles in places we don't really even want to discuss. no, seriously, you don't want to know.

and now, new moon. and a red river is flowing out of me like the amazon. along with the clots that could choke a rhinoceros. thank god i'm otherwise healthy. otherwise i might just faint from the loss of all this blood.

we'll see how long this lasts. it's day two. i want it all over tomorrow. somehow, i don't think that's gonna happen. but if i get to day five and i'm still bleeding all over the post office? well, national security may be at risk.

Menstruation Can Be Fun!

My period arrived last night quite unexpectedly.  When I noticed the small stain on my underpants, I actually stood up and cranked my head out the bathroom window to take a look at the moon.   It was there.  Sitting in the sky.  Which means it was the absolute wrong day for my period to have arrived.  But there was no denying that stain and the cramps that were creeping into my lower abdomen.

Lovely.  Just lovely. 

I was thirteen when I got my first period.  That particular day I was at Gay’s house.  Gay is my aunt, but is also like my older sister because for much of her life she lived with our family.  I discovered the blood on my underwear in her upstairs bathroom.  And I immediately looked under her sink for some sort of panty liner or something so I could deal with it without telling anyone.  I had seen the special movie they showed us in fifth grade.  I knew what was happening.  I wasn’t going to have a “Carrie” moment and think I was bleeding to death.  I didn’t want this to be happening to me since I was about the biggest tomboy on the block, but I was prepared to deal with it.  I just had to find some supplies.

There was a bong under her sink (the things you remember), but no menstrual supplies of any kind.  So I sat there thinking about what I was going to do and finally yelled downstairs and asked her to please come up, that we had an emergency. 

Gay played it cool and got me a Stayfree Maxi pad.  And then we both went about our business. 

Until my mother arrived. 

Gay told her what had transpired.  My mother being my mother had to make a huge drama over the whole thing and gush about how grown up I was and take me to Woolworth’s to buy supplies.  By the end of the afternoon, I had enough pads and tampons to outfit an entire nunnery.  I was certain they’d last me a lifetime. 

I guess perhaps I didn’t pay as close attention to that movie they showed us in fifth grade.  Or maybe they actually didn’t even tell us that periods are just one big royal pain in the vagina.  (I could say ass, but really, I should be anatomically correct, don’t you think?). The movie forgot to mention that your period hurts.  It really hurts.  It feels like your insides are trying to extract themselves completely from your body.  It also forgot to mention that those super absorbent tampons would most definitely leak and ruin your favorite underwear nine times out of ten.  It didn’t matter to me one bit that the arrival of my period every month meant I wasn’t pregnant.  I wasn’t having sex! 

In our patriarchal society, women who have their periods are considered unclean and even unsafe.  Suddenly, I was told not to go swimming when I had my period.  Fuck that, I was on the swim team.  I was swimming.  My mother suggested that I might not want to ride my horse when I was menstruating.  Fuck that, too.  There were girls in my class at school who were excused from gym class.  Come on, now.  Just because there’s a little blood spilling from between your legs does not mean you can’t play volleyball! 

When I went off to boarding school the next year, I learned about the very power of periods.  There I was in a dormitory with 24 other teenage girls.  Within three months, we were all having our period at the same time.  The boys were terrified.  There is absolutely nothing bitchier than a dorm full of menstruating women.  Trust me. 

That was over twenty years ago.  Which means, by my calculations, I’ve had my period at least 424 times.  I can assure you that the closet full of supplies my mother bought me wore out a few years ago.  Given all that practice, my body still doesn’t seem to have a handle on this whole period mess.  Like last night.  BAM.  Surprise.  Here I am when you least expect me.  And you’re wearing your favorite pair of underwear. 

My body had become very in synch with the cycles of the moon.  Every new moon I would get my period like clockwork.  It’s been that way for like the last five years.  Which is why, when it appeared last night, I jumped up and looked out the window.  The moon is shining.  It’s not the new moon.  My body is out of synch again.

However, given that I lost my job and have had a few other stressful events this last month, it’s probably no biggie.  Just no fun at all when the cramps arrive full-force and you’re supposed to be on your way to Pilates class.  No fun at all. 

I wonder how much longer this period business will last?  I figure at least another 15 years or so.  That’s another 180 times!  It’s good to know I’m more than two-thirds of the way to the finish line.  And truth be told, though I have horrible cramping, my periods only last two days, so I honestly should not complain. 

However, I’m a woman.  With her period.  So watch out.