susan hayward photography

Note to Self: The Diva Gets Her Picture Taken

The new tampon (even though it's been around for years). Meet my friend the Diva Cup. 

Note to Self:

When you hear about a re-usable menstrual device called a Diva Cup, you immediately order one. When the Diva Cup arrives, you marvel at its genius. It looks like a small silicone baby bottle nipple that you can insert and remove, wash, then use again. Plus, it has measurement markers on the side so you can gauge your flow. It takes some getting used to, but pretty soon you’ve sworn off tampons forever. 

When your hips start to feel stiff and achy on a daily basis, make an appointment to get some x-rays, just to make sure you’re not permanently broken. On the morning of your appointment your period starts. Simply tuck in your beloved Diva Cup, thinking all the while how clever you are to conceal this from any one. After all, so deep in your body, no one will ever know it’s there.

When the x-ray man sets you up in front of a white background and tells you to stand this way and that so he can take a picture of your hips, you never once think that the Diva will end up in the frame as well. But as it turns out your bones are quite photogenic. And so is the Diva Cup. 

When the doctor calls you to the back room to look at your x-rays on a viewing screen, you stare at the lower half of the picture. There’s your Diva, nestled in your Nether Regions, half-filled with a dark liquid. 

“Oh, look there’s my Diva Cup,” you almost say. But you manage to stop yourself in time. It would be one thing to tell a woman, “I’m in my period, and that apparatus is just a menstrual cup.” But men don’t like to talk about these things. And really, you don’t enjoy talking about these things either. At least not with someone who doesn’t know what it’s like to leak every month while simultaneously loving and hating everyone and everything in your life.

Just pretend it’s not there,” you tell yourself. Maybe he doesn’t see it. But how could he not? There it is, in black and white, an upside-down tulip in the desert of your uterus. The doctor peers closer at the screen, clack-clacking as he moves the mouse across the ghostly bones. Pretend that you and the doctor are merely looking at a Georgia O’Keefe painting, and the Diva Cup is just there to balance the composition of the skeleton in the middle of the picture. It’s like a piece of driftwood or a special rock.

You are reminded of a Curious George story in which George swallows a puzzle piece and the Man with The Yellow Hat takes him to the doctor for some x-rays. When the pictures come back, sure enough, there’s an unidentifiable object in his stomach. “Now let’s see. . .There is something there that should not be,” says the doctor when they examine the X-rays.”’

The Man with the Yellow hat continues: “Why, that looks like . . . I think that must be the piece that was missing in our jigsaw puzzle yesterday!”

Likewise you envision your doctor saying this, his brow furrowed, his expression mystified. “Well, well, well,” the doctor will say. “What have we here?” he’ll lean into the screen, zooming in on your Diva Cup.  “My Gosh, Woman! What is that thing?”

Just when you think the doctor is finished examining the x-rays, he says, “Let me just look through these again to be sure.” The machine hums. The mouse clicks and clacks as he scrolls through each picture. You look at the ceiling, your feet, the pictures on the wall. You breathe quietly, silently praying that he’ll finish up and you can go home and snuggle up with a good book and your favorite heating pad. The doctor pauses at the image of the front of your hips, which is also the best picture of the Diva Cup. You attempt to watch him to see if he’s looking at the strange thing in your body or at your bones. It’s like having a huge zit on your forehead that people can’t help glancing at when you’re trying to have a conversation. “I have a big zit on my face,” you want to say, just so you can both stop pretending it’s not there. But you can’t say that here. At least not about this. 

The doctor leans in closer to the screen. “Hum,” he says, shuffling from one foot to the other. You want to laugh. Or cry. Then you want to hit delete or control-Q to quit the whole thing so you don’t have to explain what’s located in a most private part of your body, your Valley of the Unknown, the Dark Cave of Bellatrix. And now it is immortalized (much to your horror) forever in your files. Secretly you hope the office will catch on fire and your pictures will disappear with them.

“All right, I get it,” you want to say. “I’m turning into the Tin Man. Can we turn that thing off now?” 

Later as you’re driving home, you imagine the whole office crew gathered around the x-ray, trying to guess what’s inside you. Patients waiting in the lobby will eavesdrop on their conversation, hoping for a juicy morsel that will become a dinner table story later that day. They will imagine many things, some of them disgusting, some of them improbable, all of them embarrassing. 

“I think it’s some sort of Tupperware,” the desk clerk will say. 

“Baby bottle top?”

“My guess is an IUD?” another person will guess.

“Nah, too big,” someone with experience in these things will say.

“Could it be. . .a tampon of some sort?” a female will suggest. Collective sounds of recognition then, as they all realize that they’ve just walked in on you in the bathroom, figuratively speaking. 

You feel naked. Of all places, this area of your body was supposed to be private. But this is the thing about going to the doctor: Doctors can see parts of you that you can’t. You have no secrets, not even in the privacy of your own body. 

Letter to God: Hope Chest

Dear God,

Just a friendly note to you about a little--and I mean that literally--problem I have. I can't help but think that when you were giving out breasts you gave me the leftovers from scraps on the design room floor. I am writing to you today with the hope that you will grant me just a few more cups. I would be happy with even a smidge more than what I have. I mean, I don't need melons. But it's distressing to have only Nestle Kisses.   

Of course, things haven't always been bad. There were those three babies you gave me, with breasts to go with them. That was very nice of you. You could say I had headlights that blinked "I am a woman, yessirree." I wore snug sweaters and t-shirts, and nodded at myself in the mirror with approval. My husband liked them too. But you see, full of milk as they were, those breasts had a tendency to leak, which kind of ruined the affect. And as soon as the babies moved on to solids and formula, the breasts you loaned me disappeared. I would have been OK with this, but they seemed to have taken what little I had before the babies with them. Instead of headlights, I was left with pin lights.

Perhaps you were in a hurry when you made me. It could be that you ran out of material after you made Dolly Parton. (To be honest, I think she probably would have gone a little smaller had it been up to her.) I hope you noticed when I was in sixth grade and wore my first training bra to school. That was not a good experience, and I can't help holding you responsible for it. Had I been given a little bit more chest, things would have gone much better. My teacher asked a simple question, and my hand shot up to be the first to answer. That's when my bra scooted past my chest. I withdrew my extended hand and slammed my arm down to catch the escaping bra. The bra ended up nestled in my armpits, where it stayed for the rest of the day. Luckily I had a cardigan on over my shirt, which I hastily wrapped around me and secured with a belt. You may ask why I didn't just fix it in the girls' bathroom. That has occurred to me as well. I think I was too embarrassed. Plus, I wasn't so sure it wouldn't just happen again. I bring this up because as far as I can tell, had I saved that training bra, I could still wear it comfortably today. And, sadly, would still be in danger of bra scootage. This strikes me as not only pathetic, but terribly unfair.  

It has occurred to me that you wanted to save time, so instead of making me breasts in the Heavenly Factory, you decided to make a person who would invent plastic surgery so I could buy some breasts later on. But you know how thrifty I am. Every time I think of draining our savings account to purchase new body parts, I also think of how much I love traveling, and the travel always wins out. Besides, I've been told that there's a good chance that ten years down the road any breasts I buy now will inevitably bow down to the laws of gravity and end up like deflated and sad little balloons. I don't know if this is true, but somehow I don't think my kids would understand when I told them, "I'm sorry, you'll just have to skip college so I can buy me some more breasts." 

So I'm appealing to you. I have heard that you can move mountains. It seems to me that mine is a rather small request in comparison. Let me know what your answer is as soon as possible. After thirty some-odd years of being flat chested, I'm getting rather desperate. (I've actually considered buying a cream that is supposed to tell my hormones to pony up and enlarge my breasts by at least one cup size. However, this seems too good to be true. Also, I don't want to make a mess of my hormones. They are already a little unruly at times.) I can be reached any time of the day or night. And anywhere. Or you could surprise me with a new chest one morning. That would be nice too. 

Sincerely,

Susan

  

Twilight Zone

             

            You pick up Twilight and wonder what all the fuss is about. “I’m not into romances,” you say to yourself.  And you’re not, save one Harlequin paperback you read when you were fifteen, you haven’t touched a love story since.  “But Twilight’s not a romance novel as per se,” your neighbor, an avid fan who’s read the whole series, tells you. You tell her you’ll try it. “Watch out, it’ll suck you in,” she warns as she hands you the book.  “Yeah, whatever,” you scoff.       

            And then you read the first chapter.  

You meet this Edward character who is beautiful in a weird non-human sort of way.  What’s more, he seems to like an ordinary klutz by the name of Bella.  You fall into the story just like the neighbor said you would.  The kids walk in the room while you’re reading and you hardly know they’re there.  They ask you questions that you ignore or barely hear.  You forget to make dinner and send the husband to the store, grateful for the extra reading time.  Keep your eyes on the page—you might miss something.  Hastily eat dinner and then return to the book. Like a woman infatuated with a secret lover, you can’t stop reading. And when you must close the book to take a shower or to drive the kids to soccer, you can’t stop thinking about the story.

You fall in love with Edward.  You think it’s strange to be so attracted to someone who’s a) not real; b) sucks on animal blood but would really prefer to suck on your blood; c) has the body temperature of a Frigidaire; d) has a body hard as rock, literally; d) won’t ever get a wrinkle, gain weight, or get a gray hair; and e) thinks he can read a woman’s mind.  You have no control over the fascination you feel. Even though the most the characters do is kiss, you are completely frisky and attack your husband on numerous occasions.  Once, in the early morning, you wake him up and he rolls over, his eyes ringed in red and his skin pale.  He looks like a vampire. “Edward!” you want to shriek.

There are times when the cat curls up around your neck and then bites your neck.  It’s disturbingly familiar.  Vampire kitty? 

            You read the second and then the third books, all the while breathing shallow. You stop breathing when Edward leaves in the second book, but start again when Jacob shows up.  You didn’t think anyone could replace Edward.  But then this Jacob fellow reminds you of a guy you saw back in college.  You were hiking in the canyon with a friend when a tall Native American guy walked by.  You both looked, your mouths agape at his beauty.  His hair, black and silky, hung down his back.  His copper skin glistened in the sun.  His face was strong and narrow, his cheekbones prominent but not angular, his arms muscular and long.  You imagined those arms around your waist.  “Take me now!” you wanted to say, throwing yourself in his path.  But alas, he simply walked by without a glance.  And though you often looked, you never saw him again.

            That is until Stephenie Meyer brought him back to you in the form of Jacob Black.  You feel Bella’s conflict.  Jacob, with his seventeen year-old hormones racing through his body at the speed of light, is dangerous, precarious. You never know how he’s going to react. Suddenly Edward seems old.  He can’t kiss too passionately or he’ll eat Bella.  But Jacob, now that’s a fellow who knows how to let loose. He’s earthy. Jacob, you decide, is granola guy, sweet and nutty and spicy. Edward is more like cream of wheat. Predictable. Bland. Fibrous.  

            You gasp when Bella goes for it in book three and kisses Jacob with all the passion she’s had to bottle up for the last three books.  “I thought she loved Edward!” you say out loud to the empty room when you read the scene.  But then, you can understand her attraction.  Secretly, you’re glad that she kissed Jacob.  How could she not?  The guy’s hot.  Literally. With a body temperature that would kill the average person (you can fry an egg on his forehead), he had to explode some time. 

            You weigh the pros and cons of each love interest.  With the vampire, Bella would never have to make dinner.  She could simply call Edward up on his cell and say, “Why don’t you just pick something up on your way home?” But Jacob, now that’s a problem.  He eats as much as three teenage boys, which is to say you’d better start saving now for the grocery bills later.

If you chose Edward, you couldn’t have any pets.  How would you answer the kids if they asked, “Hey, where’s the cat?” and looked over to find Edward picking Fluffy’s hair out of his teeth?  With Jacob, you wouldn’t have to worry about getting a guard dog.  He is one.  At least, when he wants to be.  Or when he gets upset.  And then there’s the fascinating image of a man’s clothes flying off as he transforms into a big dog. 

You’d have to live in a really warm climate with Edward.  Otherwise, you’d freeze to death. But you’d save on air conditioning. On the other hand, Jake could keep you warm in the Arctic, saving money on heating.  But you could never go ice fishing or build a snowman together.    

You wonder about intimacy.  Both men are very attractive.  Jacob, with his earthy scent and unbridled passion, and Edward with his steamy stares and mesmerizing touch.  But really, how long could you stand to embrace someone who could give you third degree burns in delicate areas of your anatomy or someone who might give you pneumonia on your wedding night?  Hum…these are the questions you ask yourself.  You think about them in the car or when you’re reading a Curious George to your kindergartner, or when you’re making dinner. 

You are in a daze for over a week while you devour one book after another. And when you finish the last one, you get depressed. Your mind is still full of vampires and wolves, but with each passing day they begin to fade and your real life comes back into focus. You consider buying the whole set and starting the series over from the beginning, just so you can hear the characters speak again. You decide this is unhealthy and that you are like a meth addict, desperate for the next hit. You resolve to never buy the books or check them out of the library ever again. 

            But then, the movie comes out…

Note to Self: Crummy Christmas Cookies

Note to self 1:

 

December 22, 2008

 

Hopefully, you will read this well before disaster strikes.  I’m thinking of attaching this to the December calendar so that when I think that I want to bake millions of gingerbread cookies, I will stop and reconsider.  Remember this Christmas, when you spent roughly ten hours in the kitchen making dozens of cookies and then frosting them.  You thought you came up with a brilliant way to streamline the process, which was to roll the dough into a long rope, then cut slices instead of using cookie cutters.  This year, like every year, you think, “I should really sell these cookies, they’re that good,” but by the end of the day, you don’t even want to hear the word bread and ginger put together, let alone bake ever again. 

            So while you cook, you eat the cookies.  This wouldn’t be so bad if you didn’t know what went in them and you could con yourself into thinking they couldn’t be very harmful.  After all, they’re just flour, eggs, sugar and well, butter, right?  Yes, but when you eat perhaps twelve of them, these things add up.  It’s like when you go to the grocery store and the cashier tells you the total and you think, “How is that possible?”  And when you leave with the receipt, you stop on your way out the door to study your spending in black and white, which is almost always correct, dangit.

            And so it is with the cookies.  You will eat one from the first batch, just to be sure they taste ok.  Because you can’t hand out cookies that you haven’t sampled yourself.  Of course it’s delicious, all soft and sweet with a little kick thrown in thanks to the ginger.  The second one you eat just to make sure you were thinking clearly about the first batch.  Pretty soon you lose count how many cookies you eat, because you’re having so much fun.  However, the fun fades as exhaustion sets in and you’re faced with every horizontal space covered in naked gingerbread cookies waiting for frosting.  That’s when you eat to stay awake.  And when your hubby gets home from work, eats three measly cookies and declares himself stuffed, resist the urge to punch him, because you need him to deliver the twenty plates of cookies you just slaved over all day.  Which would have been twenty one plates of cookies had you not been the one to bake them, nibbling away at them like a starving child of China, the same ones your mother told you about when you were little and you didn’t want to finish your broccoli. 

            So please, self.  Do not bake cookies in 2009.  Consider giving out the recipe instead.  Or better yet, go out of town!