Elder Sex in a Heartbeat

These days we are in the rhythm of being separated during the week and reunited on Fridays after work. Husband leaves the cottage in the country on Tuesday morning for the 50 minute commute to his office. Why bother coming home he says, when I leave the office at 7 p.m., don’t get home til closer to 8, then we’re in bed by 9:30. Hardly seems worth it. I can’t disagree. So, now we have three nights of independence for both of us! Why? He says the obvious answer is the price of gas. He says he is saving about $250 month by sleeping on the sofa. I know for certain he’s not fooling around. I kinda like this arrangement though I miss him. It gives me a chance to live the single life once again. No worries about checking in. I can arrange an impromptu after work let’s get together for a glass of wine meeting with a girlfriend. Work late if I want to. Stay up all night or go to sleep early. No one to cook for or disagree with. A peaceful interlude.

One reason, I think, that he wanted to do this is that he anticipates that our sex life will improve in a heartbeat the moment he steps back across the threshold. So far, I am dubious. We’ve been running this experiment for the last two months, and instead of an up-tick in our sex life we’re on hold. It appears that “absence makes the heart grow fonder” is not as compelling for us, the 60-somethings, as it might have been when our hormones were raging full strength. I’m not sure if I should be hopeful or discouraged. Right now, I’m feeling more discouraged. True, we have this great Friday night date reunion. We meet up for dinner, review the events of the week (even the ones we shared by telephone or email in the intervening days), hold hands across the table, smile lovingly, sip a glass of wine or two, and then make our way home, one following the other (usually him behind me), hug or touch each other tenderly and fall asleep.  I’ve discovered that sex with a 60-something husband is better in the morning.  But it usually takes a hit of Viagara to get us going, and that means planning, popping the pill an hour before the intended consequence, and spontaneous love goes out the window.  It’s a bummer.   So, lately I’m thinking that perhaps I’m complacently content to have my best friend next to me, we nestle like spoons, and it’s good enough.  I hate it that my body and brain are totally not connected on what I want to do and what I can’t do.  It takes too much lubricant and intention to make love making happen.

The Crotcheties

It’s Saturday morning and we’re sitting in bed waking up with a cup of coffee, drapes open looking into the expanse of field.

He: No, I’m not shoveling the mulch this morning, there are other things I want to do, this is your project. I think that what we really need to do is put a web camera right there on the window jam, record our bed conversation and make some money on the Internet.

She: I have an idea. We could move it down a little and instead of us being the talking heads, we could be the talking crotches.

He: Oh, that’s good, talking crotches. (Roaring laugh)

She: Yeah, we could call ourselves The Crotcheties. (Laughter)

He: That’s good, the crotchety Crotcheties. Yeah, the old fogies still do it, point the camera to our crotches, spread our legs. Plenty of people would pay for that.

She: Are you kidding?

He: No. We could open a PayPal account and sell it pay per view.

She: Okay, but it has to be anonymous. I know, we open our laptops, lean back against the headboard, knees up so when we open the screen, the only thing people can see is the back of the screen …

He: and our genitals.

She: yikes, I’m not sure about this. More coffee, dear?

He:  What do we call this?

She:  Sex and the 60’s.

He: You need to spell it out.

She:  Oh, I know.  Elderhostel sex.

He:  Is that when you get beat up with a wet noodle?  That’s pretty hostile.

She:  Get back to your Google.

He:  Have you ever Googled sex?  seen how many entries it pulls up.

She:  That’s it, more coffee. (Thinking, if we can’t web cam it, we can blog it)

Marketplace: An Unconsciously Conscious Experience

My mother would be appalled. Today at age 92, she still shops at the top of the food chain on her dwindling retirement income. It’s only Whole Foods and Good Earth for her. So be it. Look at all the money she’s saving on gas by not driving a car (my sister took it away from her at age 88 when she did a slow roll into the rear bumper of the car in front of her at a red light). Me, it’s the double whammy — high gas prices and over $4 for a 1/2 gallon of milk (okay, so it’s organic). Poverty row for the middle class is how I see it. I’m earning not much under $100K per year and I feel poor. My car is 13 years old, still kickin’ A, 192K miles on the ODO, getting 27.8 mpg and I intend to drive it until it disintegrates. But, recently, I’m usually eyeing my gas gauge and odometer, making decisions about driving 55 mph instead of flooring it to 65 or 70, to save a few vapors. I am not making random trips to out of the way places, and I’m trying to combine trips to be more conscious. But, today at the food store I had a really unconsciously conscious experience. After paying $12 to get my hair cut at Great Clips, I walked into the market and grabbed one of those mini-carts, the kind you see that have a small shallow upper shelf and another one below it. They kind of look like go-carts for supermarkets. I unconsciously thought, I later surmised, that if I had the smaller cart I wouldn’t be so inclined to fill it up. I also decided not to stroll the aisles window shopping for what I might need (oops, want), and made a bee-line to the the 6-8 things on my mental list. I didn’t buy the honeydew melon; it wasn’t on sale, but I picked up two cantaloupes for the price of one. Then, as is my custom of late, I beat a path to the section where the butcher puts the soon-to-be-outdated meat, reduced 50% from the original sticker price. I can’t ever remember my mother doing that! She never “skimped” in the kitchen. If food was on sale, she thought, there was something wrong with it. So, there I am, picking through the packages, picking up chicken breasts, a roast, turkey scallopini, and putting them into that little cart. Next, I made a pass by the rack at the back of the store where they shelve the discontinued, dented, outdated and poor sellers. When I do this, I feel a combined sense of shame, horror and pride. People do not flock to the bargain bins in the supermarket, they stroll up nonchalantly, secretively, make their choices quickly and move on. There is a reckoning of sorts I believe that comes with knowing that many of us are living on the edge of barely making it, even though by appearances it might seem otherwise. I am far from being a bag lady, but I can certainly understand the feeling that comes with making ends meet. A few weeks ago, before $4 a gallon gas and $4 a 1/2 gallon milk, I was not in this frame of mind. And my pride is not so important as to be able to save a few dollars at the check-out line. Final bill: $51.85. Better than last week. I’m also wondering if this desire to be thrifty in these difficult economic times is also a function of my 60-something age. I’ve never been that careful, carefree is more like it. The stock market rallies and drops unpredictably. NPR Marketplace reports that the big box discount stores are making 20% profits because people want one-stop bargain shopping to save on gas and food. I know that unlimited supply, low fuel prices, abundance and prosperity are dreamland. As I’ve watched my retirement fund tank, then sputter, then topple, then climb some and the net result is loss, I am feeling a sense of loss. And, perhaps this new habit of food shopping for bargains is one way I can exert control over my life that has been impacted by the economic follies of this nation’s inept leadership and my own failure to recognize that some day I would be old.

My latest worry at 60-something.

It’s not that I haven’t thought of this before, but it’s been seven years since I have actively looked for a job, and in that intervening time it occurred to me that lack of youthful vigor (translate that to mean hair colored straw blonde, age spots on my hands, a few extra pounds around the middle and flat dress shoes) would surely be a deterrent should I ever want to make a career move.  Career, you say?  Gee, she should be thinking about retirement.  So, now, as I edge toward the time when I should be cashing in on Social Security, I’m competing for a position across town.  The first phase phone interview is next week.  My voice sounds like 32.  I can easily cross this hurdle.  Why on earth would I want to change jobs when I like what I’m doing, I’m pretty comfortable, have adequate vacation time, and do meaningful work?  I ask myself, Is there a correlation between the 7 year blahs of being married and the 7 year blahs of working in the same place?   I am looking for excitement and adventure and a new challenge?  YES.  So how many years do I have left in me.  Everything I read says that the workforce is aging, that talent is scarce, that people with seasoned experience (that’s what they call it now … Not Old) can garner those coveted jobs.  So, that’s what I’m shooting for … a longer commute, a bigger title, a salary commensurate with my experience, and one more great job before I really decide to call it quits.  So, I’m a little scared because I wonder if my roots (hair, not family) will show when I show up for the face-to-face.  They said they are looking for someone to stay for the long-term.  For me, that would mean five to seven years, and that will take me to closer to 70.  I think, my goodness, do I have it in me to create another entrepreneurial venture, muster another sustainable surge of energy, and woo the interview committee?  Am I still an attractive hire?  Or am I too old, and that’s the scary thing, because I don’t feel old, haven’t lost my creativity, but it’s hard to tell what others will perceive.  I think of the face off between John McCain Aging Statesman and Barack Obama Man of Vigor and know that there are doubts about McCain’s health, energy, and goodness knows what else associated with his age.  Youth is much more attractive, no?   Of course, Ronald Reagan snowed us all (not me, I knew he was senile) with his well-hidden Alzheimer’s.  Will my memory remain in tact?  So, as I write this, I think Go For It because that is what will keep me young.  After all, I think I could pass for 54 and I took the college graduation dates off my resume   Then, again, men do this all the time.  Why not me?  Funny thing is, I wouldn’t really want to BE any younger unless I knew everything I know now.

Marriage Vows Remembered

This anniversary, our sixth, should not have been that remarkable. What are two 60-somethings doing trying to cavort like our children, with surprises, impassioned romance, champagne glasses raised in toast to the miracle of being together one more year as we get to the place where sex — oh, excuse me, love making — is as good as our imaginations can put together. We sat on the veranda of the swanky southern hotel at the edge of a very proper private university looking out onto an idyllic scene of pristinely manicured golf course bordered by 50 foot pines. This was not our usual habitat. I’d say, the celebration fete was definitely a success. I looked into his blueberry eyes (one of the reasons I married him) and we recalled the circumstances by which we came together eight and a half years ago. He, claiming he never wanted to remarry. Me, claiming satisfaction in just being together in a committed partnership after years of foiled attempts at connection. He, saying he remembered the day, that Fourth of July, when I was on the grill, the grill queen reigns, turning the chicken, so competent. (No woman in his life ever handled a grill with such aplomb.) He steps toward me, arms outstretched with a platter full of corn to add, and blurts, I think it’s time we got married. We are best friends.

What makes a marriage work at 60 when it doesn’t at 30 or 40? How many times do we make those vows, then participate in the disintegration of the fantasy before we get it right? This time, we are seasoned, expect less than perfection. Our ideals are focused on political and environmental issues not on the ideal spouse. We walk through life holding hands, smiling, content, the roller coaster of emotionally charged atmospheric electricity that kindles procreation is past. We sit on the green rockers looking out at the apple orchard growing taller each year, at the society of geese on our front lawns, imagining what it may have been like if we had met at 30 or 40, and knowing it would have been a failure then for us, too.

Now, we start our seventh year of marriage.  The stormy years between seven and 10, when marriages go asunder, partners stray or disengage, marital bliss turns to a nightmare.  We are smarter now, we think.  We know what to expect.  So, when we raise this toast to taking the vows of marriage, we are recommitting to the promise to listen and not try to fix it, love and not withdraw, address conflict when it happens, soothe and support, ask questions.  Still no small feat.

Often, I ask myself what is at stake here?  This could be my last chance to get it right.  I realize that I may have 20 good years left to live.  More, if I’m lucky and my gene pool is consistent and I take better care of my body — my life support system.   At 60 there is less urgency and more thoughtfulness about my intentions.  I am less compelled to travel the globe and more intent on getting to know people more deeply.  My body clock ticks to a different rhythm — child bearing years are long past and I look to a future that finite.  This scares me.  I have never wanted to die.

At the swank hotel dining room, his grown son is waiting our table.  The walls are paneled in rich dark wood, the chairs are deeply upholstered tapestry, oriental rugs cover the parquet floors, lush lined draperies swag the windows, a mouth-blown opaque globe radiates a glow of warmth across the room.   The surprise evening plays out perfectly course by course.  We are too full of wine and red meat and chocolate and champagne to do anything but gently kiss each other on the lips, climb into the plush hotel room bed and say goodnight.

An Ocean of Wheat

Sit on the beach. Look out onto the horizon. It’s Santa Cruz, Santa Monica, Mazunte, Topsail Island. Never mind. It’s Iowa. What’s the difference. There is a sea of waves, the water surges, undulates. A wind blows the wheat, a big sea of wheat waves and there is nothing to disturb the horizon so vast that it is infinity as if I am sitting here on the beach of rich black earth and the waves are real. So what. There’s nothing to say that waves must be wet — amber waves of grain.

On the front porch, on the green rocker, I rock, look up — a North Carolina sky is blue like cornflowers. Pines disturb the long view, there is no ocean in the Piedmont. A hot pink rose climbs the arbor. Fresh planted Confederate Jasmine, smell so sweet like a gardenia, imagine Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, pungeant, sickly sweet, deliciously decadent, twirls up the porch post. We’re in the South now, honey. There’s the cemetery of Confederate soldiers just up the road, Silent Sam faces north in defense of the generations, and a breeze blows across the lawn. Remind me why I am here. The magnolias are beginning to bloom. In the cottage there is no forgiveness because the sisters did not listen to their mother and they are bickering now in their middle age. Over what? you say. Was there not enough to go around? When was there scarcity and when was there abundance? I was the older one and took care of the children, changed their diapers, calmed them when the woman I called mom slept late from nights too long in argument with the man called Your Father, husband she didn’t love. Me, the lonely one, llittle mother, washing dishes piled up from days of despair. The breeze blows and I can smell the jasmine and this is a different place from home.

This is a near perfect day. I want to think that the sisters will reunite, will soothe each other like they used to as children, curled up together in bed as if in mutual protection from the world and the distance sounds, the muffled voices and swallowed cries they didn’t understand. Scratch my back, count to 100. I want to go last so I can fall asleep to the touch of sisterly love. Now, we live far apart, at the two coasts of the continent, barely speaking. Oceans apart. Tomorrow is her birthday. I mail a card. Sign it, hugs and kisses. Hope for the best.

Dancing with the underdogs.

The Los Angeles Times posted that Obama made a “secret” trip to Chapel Hill to meet with John Edwards who may be holding the Ace card that will choose the Democratic nominee. I read that “H” had been more actively courting Edwards, speaking to him regularly, paying him the attention that would woo him over to her side. I’m calling her “H” since we have been trained to call the current One “W” to distinguish him from his father. Same last names for presidents can be confusing, don’t you think? Obama has been absent from the H woo-machine now that he is the overdog and H is the underdog, and evidently he has been advised by his aides to pay some attention to the man who holds the cards. Now, I like Edwards. Probably would have voted for him and it may make a difference to me if he comes out with an endorsement. It may help add some clarity to this muddy situation of having two perfectly suitable candidates. I am finding myself, however, leaning with the current underdog, H, who may be more substance than image, who is comfortable with issues and ideas rather than spellbinding oratory, and who has the backing of one of my favorite Hollywood guys, Rob Reiner, plus the United Farm Workers Union. It will be interesting to see if Obama can make any inroads in Texas Latino support, and that contest may be very telling to see if he can coalesce another group of underdogs whose bark has finally been heard. I wonder when the press will start calling her “H” and him “O” — the other “O”.

How to clean root vegetables.

Stick the tines of a fork securely into the stalk end of the root vegetable (beets, turnips, etc.). Holding the fork handle securely, position the vegetable firmly on a cutting board or counter. Use a vegetable peeler in the other hand to begin taking small peels off the vegetable, turning it as you go until it is completely peeled. Slice off the stalk end and cut as desired.

Land of illusion, imagination and impression.

Clothes punk is bountiful along LaBrea and Melrose where consignment shops are packed with the closet discards of generations. Travel east and south of Beverly Hills to where pink and purple hair, decorations of silver skulls and crossbones, and giant plastic earlobe studs define the personal fashion style of Hollywood hipsters. The vintage shop, JetRag, at 825 N. LaBrea, must have 250 women’s leather jackets in all sizes and colors, razzle dazzle aprons from the 60’s, 70’s, and 80’s, more belts than you could shake a stick at, and a motley array of real and fake fur, not to mention racks upon racks of dresses, in a warehouse atmosphere at better than bargain prices. There’s even a back room filled with children’s clothing, too. Here, we found a very stylish and orginally very pricey 100% cashmere man’s coat in very good condition for $48 — and snapped it up. I passed on a 60’s Jackie Kennedy style long tweed coat only because I didn’t need it — as stunning as it was — complete with rolled collar, raglan sleeves and original buttons. The other find is the American Cancer Society thrift shop at 9300 Pico Blvd. between Beverly and Doheny. It is much more selective, full of Ferragamo shoes and designer clothing at a fraction of their original price, plus some home furnishings, too, and a comfy sofa for a companion to rest on. This is the L.A. I love.

Moving east of the West Side toward Hollywood and downtown, is Little Armenia and Thai Town, where little corner shopping arcades are filled with great restaurants that might seat 30 people, and the array of ethnic culture pulsates, contributing to what makes this a great city. There’s revitalization and regentrification going on in these neighborhoods that were, until recently, considered undesireable by the trendy elite and are now considered chic. The renters are being displaced as apartment buildings are bought up, fixed up, and converted to condos. The ramshackle stucco bungalows are infused with new life: fresh paint in every imaginable color of citrus, elaborate cactus landscaping, refinished wood-carved front doors. I noticed a strange phenomenon punctuating neighborhoods…a stand-alone door at the intersection of the public sidewalk and the walkway leading up to the house…just a door fitting into a door jam, as if the entry to the house began at the sidewalk…no fence, perhaps a few bushes giving the illusion of a boundary between public and private space.

In the land of illusion, imagination, and impression….why not?

A stroll among the starstruck.

Today I landed in Beverly Hills via Super Shuttle from LAX to meet up with the son who moved some years ago to the mythic land of my youth. He makes his living in the back office of a high rise on a corner of Wilshire Boulevard, smack in the Upper Kingdom of Opulence. He then goes home at night to the real world neighborhood of Koreatown, an ethnic mix of Latinos, Asians, and young professionals trying to put it together in a high cost city world. Waiting for his work day to end, I took to the streets retracing the steps I used to walk when I worked in BH at my first job out of college. The iconographic geography of power, glitz, tan, casual chic and svelte was even more pronounced than what I remembered. I followed a razor thin young woman in tights, knee high boots and short pleated skirt toting shopping bags emblazoned with Gucci, Prada and Versace, long streaked-blonde hair artfully arranged so as to blow perfectly in the afternoon breeze. Along Rodeo Drive, natty Japanese tourists were seriously shopping in Harry Winston and Van Cleef and Arpels examining the oversize diamonds, emeralds and rubies, while a family of oversize midwesterners took turns taking photos of each other in front of Tiffany’s. An impeccably attired power woman, clicking along in 3 inch heels in the opposite direction, cell phone to her ear, red lips pursed in purposefulness, exclaimed into the receiver, “they’re just perfect to do the deal.” At the sidewalk cafes, the Italian-suited men armoured for success, huddled in conferences so serious as if they were in final Middle East peace negotiations. Young women (or were they molded by a recent face lift?) driving the latest model Range Rover, BMW convertible, or Mercedes coupe — cars that don’t exist where I live. I was struck by the starstruck visitors, the ogglers, lookie-loo’s, and lollygaggers craning necks to see if they recgnized anyone famous. The immense display of wealth, the taunting of wealth, the ultimate adoration of materialism was so over the top that I found it humorous that anyone could take themselves so seriously in all this splendor. And, the walk reminded me of why I was so uneasy living in Los Angeles so many years ago, the lifestyle of the entertainment creators permeating the very skin of the city, promoting the values of all that is superficial and transitory (for entertainment magnates come and go). This magnet city for the seekers of fame and fortune gauges identity by what is worn, where it is purchased, the steering wheel emblem, who is the object of love and affection, where one is seen and by whom. At the western edge of BH, just beyond where Wilshire crosses Little Santa Monica, is the medical triangle. The little streets are filled with the offices of restorative dentists, cosmetic surgeons, aestheticians, laser treatment specialists, stylish salons. Through the window at the latte cafe, I see two blonde women tete a tete, deep in conversation. As they rise to leave, they lean on each other, stepping slow and carefully, and I see that despite good grooming, they are well into their eighties. I wonder what it is like to grow old in this youthfully idealized environment. On the windowsill is a magazine touting the simple life.