Cold Snap

How forgetful we are of cold and of hurt.

I can't remember winter. Funny, considering I've experienced over two dozen of them. Yet I'll be damned if I can carry an accurate impression of the season from year to year. Superficial memories abound. Snow, cocoa, wet chilly wool? Those, I keep. Darkness, despair and marrow-deep cold? They begin to fade with the sun of each lengthening day. By the time the first crocus wriggles up, they're gone. Disintegrated and blown away across newly-verdant fields. For the next seven or eight months, the word will evoke naught but eggnog and evergreens. Winter has once again been Sanitized For My Protection.

It's like childbirth. Nature, cruel and clever, knows to slip you an amnesiac. Why else would you do such a thing again? You can never recall why things were so blackly, bleakly challenging. The past is erased, as it your ability to stave off a repeat... to run screaming for your diaphragm or one-way tickets to Ft. Lauderdale.

You forget. You can't dredge up the bottom-dwelling dreck from the hidey-hole of last year. And, as such, can't take a prophylactic leap off a short pier when autumn begins to eke out its last.

If winter's a knife in the side, Daylight Savings Time is the twist. Changes nature sensibly chose to distribute over a month or more are condensed into a single evening. It's a mutation of the nasty, horror-movie kind.

Until that fateful weekend, the season's a slow-moving beast, scaled belly scraping the earth, masticating another a few minutes of sunlight each day. Then the game changes. The clocks roll back, and sixty minutes - sixty of them! All at once! - are devoured. Snap, chomp, gone. That innocuous little lizard turns out to be more akin to Godzilla... rending the fabric of the day between mighty animatronic jaws, knocking the earth off its orbit with a flick of his tail.

The first Monday is hard. Not the hardest - that, you fear, is still to come - but compounded by shock.

I strolled outside, post-work, and it was... dark. "Dark" is a relative term in the city, of course. In the forest, the night is black, proper black, splotched with silver-white puddles of moonlight. Urban nights, for all their thrills, lack such stark beauty. It gets dimmer and muddier. The usual post-workday scramble is suffused with fatigue. People rest their heads against bus windows, eyes closed, utterly spent at 6 PM. They weren't so easily depleted a week ago. Yet again, it wasn't winter.

Exiting the bus and wandering home, my emotions were as dim as my surroundings. "Oh, yeaaah," I thought, "This happened last year, too. For a loooong time. How the hell are we going to get through this without killing ourselves?"

"This winter can't be as bad as last one, can it?" I asked Kateri, grasping for reassurance. "Can it? I mean, if I recall, it was… bad. Really bad.”"

“Yeah, it was bad,” she said, "But things were different then."

Truer words never spoken.

We’d each gotten our first taste of post-marriage life that summer. There’s no finer season to be newly single. The air’s heavy with lust and potential. Clothes, cares and inhibitions are readily shed. Even single parenting seems like a lark… long walks! Ice cream for dinner! Playdates in the park!

We were understandably enraptured with our independence. We had the world at our fingertips, babies on our hips, bite marks on our necks. “Aren’t our new lives awesome?” we’d comment, giggling while we sipped red wine and let our bediapered posse rip up the local café.

Flash forward a few months. It’s cold. It’s dark. And it’s bad. Really bad. Neither of us saw it coming.

“We had each other,” Kateri said, “But we didn’t have what we really needed.”

We didn’t have what we needed... or what we wanted. We didn’t know the difference between the two. And we didn’t know how to obtain either one.

We huddled inside, occasionally ducking out for a gallon of milk or a bad date. While the glacial weather was chapping our hands and faces, our nerves were being abraded by a series of spectacularly unsuitable men. Annoying, aloof, disrespectful, disreputable… they ran the gamut. And yet we couldn’t get enough. The slightest signs of affection were pounced on as though they were deep-fried Twinkies and we were starving… which we were. A few days of silence from our pseudo-paramours was enough to make us hungry, cranky, desperate.

“Heard from Mr. X?”
“Not since last Tuesday. Heard from Mr. Y?”
“Radio silence.”
“Fuck.”
“Fuck.”

From my current vantage point, I have no way of remembering the dismal drudgery of The Winter of Our Discontent. It’s been suppressed, like late-stage contractions or junior high in its entirety. I can imagine, though. Trudging through the snow, juggling diaper bags, groceries and a baby who wasn’t yet walking. Scattering my fire on the wind, blowing sparks towards a series of straw men, hoping one would ignite... and then being perplexed as to why my hands were burnt and my back was freezing.

Climate change be damned... that winter didn’t last forever. Things began to slowly shift with the first thaw. The warmth and light helped, of course. Finding a suitable bedmate seems a bit less dire when the comforters have been put away. Most important, though, was the fact that we’d survived. We hadn’t starved, frozen or slaughtered ourselves with ice scrapers. We’d spent a season alone. We weren’t just alive - we were better for it. The testosterone brigade’s text messages and lame excuses hadn’t sustained us through those bleak days. We’d done it ourselves. We’d kept relatively sane, performed home repairs, entertained the children during blizzards, prepared vast mountains of mac ‘n cheese, learned the measure of our own worth.

Our second summer of liberation brought further drinks, hijinks and late-night chicanery. It also brought, as I marveled, “... something I never saw coming! Well, um, except for in the dirty sense.”

Boyfriends.

We’d spent the summer in scorched-earth dating mode. This go-round, we suffered no fools. When our cell phones rang, we didn’t dive for them... we let them ring. Our bodies were sheathed in wispy, low-cut little numbers, but our hearts were armor-clad. “My date was late tonight,” I told Kateri, “And you know what? I realized I would’ve been legitimately happy if he just didn’t show up.”

We were badasses of love, refusing to concede an inch, guarding our emotions with heavy artillery “until things are absolutely, totally right”.

Imagine how surprised we were when they actually were.

Flowers started appearing on our mantels. Phone calls were not only returned, they were initiated. We were treated with respect, loved with gusto, mind and body.

“I might’ve just had an epiphany,” I whispered into Kateri’s ear, twirling a drink stirrer between my fingers. We were sitting in a booth at our dive bar of choice. The leaves and ambient temperature had recently dropped. Warmth was trickling from the earth, but we were, for the moment, still full of hope. And alcohol.

“... yet again, I might just be drunk.”

“Tell me! Tell me!” she said.

“So I was listening to ‘Pressure Drop’. It’s one of my favorite songs, ever, of all time. Love it! And it suddenly occurred to me that this might... possibly... maybe - fuck, this is scary -… be... the one for me.”

“Really?”

“I mean, I’ve had three Scotch and sodas. But, yeah. I’d be happy with that. Really fucking happy. And not for the wrong reasons. Not this time.”

Not this time. It’s nearly December. Winter’s nasty little fangs are about to clamp down on our asses (which, I might add, are decidedly smaller than last year). I fear the cold and the dark, the cabin fever and isolation. But this year won’t be as bad as last. It can’t. The boyfriends play a part - new love warms the room up more than a flotilla of woodstoves. But it’s mainly us. Desperation is a piss-poor fuel, one we won’t be using again. Our days of scattering embers are over. We built a giant bonfire, with our own hands. We stripped down to our undies and danced around, reveling in our handiwork. We chased away those who might steal our heat.

We’ll be hunkering down against the cold with companions who were drawn to us at our strongest... women who take no shit, take no prisoners. Women who make fire.

This year may be one we actually remember.

NaCroPoTiPe

Okay, so it doesn't trip off the tongue quite as easily as "NaNoWriMo" or "NaBloPoMo". "NaCroPoTiPe" sounds kinda like the Aztec god of crappy holiday candy ("Aw, damn... gummie Quetzalcoatls again!"). However, while it may lack the "prestige" and "other participants" of the aforementioned events, NaCroPoTiPe is a special time. A special time... and a special place.

What do you say... are you ready for National Crotch Poking Time Period?

---

I Have Always Been One of Those Ladies Who Takes a Really Long Time

A really long time. A reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally long time.

I was made aware of this issue fairly early in life.

"Why won't you come yet?!" spat my first boyfriend, scowling and flopping next to me in bed. I was embarrassed, upset and strangely guilty... I felt like he wanted his time back. "I could have been licking a non-defective woman!" was the implication, "Or at the very least engaging in petty vandalism behind the Econo-Mart!"

Thankfully (in my mind), most future conquests were unconcerned with my little "issue". Deeply unconcerned. Cupcake and I once discussed this phenomenon.

Cupcake: "[Then-Partner] has no idea whether it happens or not. I love it when he says, 'Nobody makes you come like I do!'"
Me: "... which is to say, NOT AT ALL?"
Cupcake: "Yeah... I mean, by that rationale, EVERYBODY makes me come like he does! Astronauts! Dogs! The mailbox!"

Over the years, my partners' competency levels varied. However, even with men on the studlier end of the spectrum, locating My Own Private Idaho was infrequent, elusive and usually more trouble than it was worth. I tried to identify patterns - did it occur when I was drunk? Sober? Thinking about licking the film of sexy, sexy evil off of Malcolm McDowell (60's era McDowell, not present-day McDowell, who looks like Sir Anthony Hopkins dove off a tall building and absorbed the entire impact with his face)? There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to my response, however. Sometimes it happened, and both parties were happier for it. Sometimes it didn't, and one party (read: not I) was a bit... frustrated.

The frustration always baffled me. I liked sex- I loved sex! Sex was the proverbial bomb! Sullying a perfectly good bed-tussle with an Orgasm Reconnaissance Mission seemed like interrupting a no-hitter to go kick a field goal. "But... but... but that was FUN!" I'd think, praying that the stars would align, Idaho would be located and we could resume lovin'. "I'm good at THAT! I kind of suck at this! No pun intended!" I loved the attention lavished on my body. I hated the pressure it always carried.

"Women have no idea how much pressure men are under." I've heard this dozens of times. "Each and every time, you can't stop thinking, 'Don't come yet! Don't come yet! FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST, don't come yet!"

However, "need for improved skill" is far different than a "mysterious, intermittent inability to perform skill at all". The former is forgivable; it's assumed that a little bit of work will correct the matter. The latter makes one feel like a damned freak - which is secondary only to "fire ants" on the roster of Things You REALLY Don't Want to Feel Whilst Naked.

---

And I Despise Samuel Beckett, Too...

Despite the associated trials, tribulations and hang-ups, I still experienced the occasional partner-provided Idaho excursion - and plenty of self-administered ones, too. That is... until eight months ago. Something... happened. What, I cannot say. I didn't make any major relationship or lifestyle changes. I didn't go on or off any medications. I didn't experience higher or lower levels of stress than usual. Things were chugging along nicely... when suddenly, my ability to get off ground to a screeching, smoking halt.

"Not even after half an hour," I remarked to one of my sisters, dejected, "Not even after forty-five minutes. Not with various unguents and lotions. Not with porn. Not with really depraved porn. Not even with the five-way detachable shower head."

"Dude," she said, sympathetic, "DUDE."

The aforementioned Waiting For Godot's Climactic Moment scenario was a one-woman play. With a partner? Forget it. I soldiered on, living (and lovin') as per usual. I tried not to let the diminished Southern hemisphere seismic activity bother me. At first, I succeeded. However, there were nights I wound up spitting angry epithets at my own lap. As time went on, they became more and more frequent. And a series of men - ranging in prowess from "half-decent" to "enormous, throbbing tower of awesomeness" - hammered away at the issue, baffled and hurt that their efforts never made a dent.

---

She Blinded Herself With Science

And then I got the idea of proactively addressing the issue. And sharing it with the internet! But I get ahead of myself.

The evidence was sitting on the coffee table, clear as day. Lube... and a copy of Cook's Illustrated.

"You... you... you READ while you're doing it?"

"Um... yeah," I said, "Because, you know, it might take a long time? I'd read my Norton Anthology, but it's kind of heavy and I'm afraid of it falling on my head."

I hadn't really analyzed my muffin-buffin' M.O. before. However, it began to dawn on me that my knowledge of my own body - my triggers, my responses, my thought and behavior patterns - might be a little underdeveloped. Make that more than a little. Some women daydream and fantasize. Me? I lay there, wondering if adding Gruyere to corn chowder would be a good idea. SOMETIMES, a warm and wonderful sensation occurs. A lot of the time, I wind up flinging "Carve the Everloving Shit Out of That Holiday Ham" across the room in frustration.

It's not surprising that my ability to get there stopped... it's a miracle that it occurred in the first place. Realizing that I didn't know a goddamn thing about my lady-area's operations was the hard part. It's time to pull up my bootstraps, pull down my pants and get to work.

The Tools:
One (1) bottle multivitamins (per a friend's suggestion).

One (1) bottle special sex vitamins, featuring BIG, LURID PURPLE LETTERING and a picture of a woman with hair like Farrah Fawcett's after several hours of vigorous yanking.

One (1) book, "How To Come So Hard Your Eyeballs Roll All the Way Back in Your Skull and Your Optic Nerve Knits Itself Into a Sock".

Actually, the book is excellent, narrowly-focused, written by a Ph.D. in Clinical Explosive Orgasmology or some such. It's somewhat heavy on the positive self-worth exercises ("Stroke your inner thigh with a feather while repeating 'I AM FULLY ENTITLED TO ENJOY THIS PLEASURABLE SENSATION!'". However, I'm keeping an open mind; the pile of KY-stained recipes on my bookshelf shows the extent of MY subject-matter proficiency. I'll be reading the book cover-to-cover. I'll be doing the exercises, no matter how asinine. I'll be popping my vitamins. And I'll be taking you, dear reader, along for the ride.

I won't be posting every day (do you know how sticky the keyboard would get?), but fear not, there will be reports from the field. National Crotch Poking Time Period has begun. It oughta be an exciting time. Come, take my hand...

... on second thought, don't. But stay tuned.

Gimme Fiction: "Performance, Art"

#9 made glass-chip mosaics, each the size of a coaster, the cheery iridescent blues and greens of all-inclusive resorts. They were almost suitable for Pottery Barn's summer line. The thing which made them unique, however, also made them profoundly unsuitable for retail sale. Each piece was topped with a network of maroon smudges. The marks had a dirty intricacy, like spider veins or muddy lace. They were a little too precise to be accidental, a little too ugly to be aesthetic. Unlike their shimmering cerulean backdrop, they did not evoke lounge chairs and gently tepid seas. "What... IS that?" people asked, squinting, fighting the urge to pick one up and buff away the grime with their t-shirt.

"... all this talk about the boundaries between artist and art," she said, "All this theoretical, lah-dee-dah, upper-level credit bullshit. I figured, hey, might as well do my part to liven up the chit-chat in the galleries. So I removed the boundaries, and removed that particular tired conversation starter. So... well, sorry."

The crowd chuckled and clapped politely. Hundreds of wine glasses and satay skewers gleamed under the halogens. She raised an eyebrow and stepped down from the podium. Nudging through the Chardonnay melee, she collided with the occasional sentence fragment.

"... Damian Hirst by way of Jasper Johns?..."

"... trite, utterly trite..."

"... am I, like, a philistine if I say, "Ew!"?"

The bathroom was blessedly empty. She fastened the little brass latch. The gallery was a former one-room schoolhouse, largely unrenovated; the drafty windows and exposed brick contrasted nicely with the poster-sized paeans to genital piercing and flour-dough models of Bergen-Belsen. She unbandaged her hand with this-won't-hurt-a-bit briskness. It didn't hurt, not really. Her fingers and palm were criss-crossed with itchy red lines. If things continued to heal well, she'd begin another series within the month. She produced a tube of antibiotic ointment, applied a series of pearly globules, re-mummified her hand. "Art" is a continuum, she mused, repeating the process on the other hand, And so much of it is more pedestrian than they'd ever imagine. Rinsing the bottles with rubbing alcohol... Bell jars and Rolling Rock empties, bobbing in a stockpot on the back porch. Patching herself up afterwards, protecting the investment. Buying bath towels and Clorox at Costco. There was, of course, the one cringe-causing "other". Hard glass shattering under soft flesh, destroying as it's destroyed, growing darker and slicker with each successive breaking. It was a small part of the overall process. But it was large enough to garner interest, spur chatter over the mini-quiches, pay down the student loans bit by bit.

Sometimes - a lot of the time - it seemed dishonest. The surrounding banality, that was where it was at. Wasn't there enough pain in the Costco runs and stain removal tricks? Was culturing pearls insulting not only to oysters but to natural order?

She walked out back and stood against the flagpole until her husband picked her up. There was a vanilla milkshake waiting in the Festiva's center console.

"Am I... um... a fraud?" she asked, closing her eyes as they drove through the dark.

"Who told you that?" he asked, incredulous, "Want me to kick their ass? 'Cause I'll totally kick their ass."

"Nah, nobody... it's just... I mean... how is what I'm doing any different than one of them accidentally smashing a glass while they do the dishes?"

"Well, for one thing, they don't do dishes. They have dishwashers. People with dishwashers get to buy art instead of hawking it."

"So I'm not, like... demeaning the pain of existence by... you know... ?"

"You're existing, right?"

"Yeah..."

"You do your own dishes, right? Sometimes? Maybe not always before the cheese gets totally welded to the casserole dish?"

She laughed and rested her head on his shoulder. They shared sips of milkshake as they drove home, and for that half-hour, it was totally clear... it was art. They were art. The Festiva, the sink, the collection of stained towels, the struggling and questioning and slowly-diminishing debt.

"It's all kind of cutting the shit out of yourself and hoping you'll wind up with something pretty, isn't it?" she asked.

"Sometimes," he said, "To me, it usually feels more like running into a bottle factory blindfolded and hoping I get outta there with my life. And, you know, my junk. Want the last sip?"

"I do," she said, reaching out a bandaged hand.