Sylvia’s Scraping Skies

Do you see that? Yes, that right there? I’m a part of that. Just an ever-so-small but necessary part of this microcosm. I say necessary because today I’m sitting at a table looking out on this daunting yet somehow comforting urban landscape and feeling that I belong.

Lately as I’ve been sharing with Erma before I can share with anyone else, I have felt like I’ve been playing Jenga; but today, this afternoon to be exact, as I furiously click away at the keyboard just rambling (I like to think of it as collecting thoughts) and trying to make chicken soup from chicken shit, I realized that I am not playing Jenga at all. I am a piece, THE piece, in the game. I’m that corner block, the one on the 39th floor, the one that has windows from top to bottom that always gets light. I’m the block that gets so much light that it can make the room uncomfortably warm on occasion. That same block also provides the only heat source at times. I’m also that single puzzle piece that when missing prohibits you from completing the game but only because you have no choice. That misplaced piece almost always requires the game to come to an end, an anti-climax of sort forever making the feelings of completion, fulfillment, and what some might consider victory elusive until that piece can be substituted, replicated, or replaced.

Erma: Sylvia, I have absolutely no idea where you are going with this. Are you saying that life would be incomplete without you? Are you saying that you are an integral part of life as we know it? What the hell are you saying?

Sylvia: Let me see if I can explain it better. I’ll pour us each a cup because this might take a bit.

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I don’t pretend that I am so relevant that life could not or would not go on without me; that’s not at all what I’m suggesting. The corner piece of the building does not hold up the rest; and obviously, it’s not a part of the foundation. It rests upon and garners its strength from all of its surround. Here’s what that block/piece represents though – it’s how I’m beginning to see myself. I’ve learned that while everyone does not particularly enjoy its presence (especially when it is unbearably warm in the summer sun, even with the air conditioning running steadily), there are many who count on it. Just being there to fill in. Well, guess what? I’m not replaceable or even an interim filler. I’m not an extraneous puzzle piece! I’m the biggest piece– in my game. So, if you make it to the 39th floor, and you can stand the bright light and the warmth, even when it is a scorcher of a day, participate in the game because here’s what I, Sylvia, and every Erma has learned over time: the 39th floor has the most magnificent and bold views. And once you have reached the 39th, there really is no need to go any farther. That corner room is the most welcoming, the brightest, the warmest, and the only piece in that game of Jenga capable, strong, and perfect enough for the place it occupies.

Be the irreplaceable piece in your game. Sylvia’s scraping skies, and she’s going to come out on top. If you want the view and can stand the fluctuating temperatures, join her. If not, the elevator going down is right there waiting for you.

Sunday Morning Coffee

Sometimes coffee is just coffee, but coffee delivered to a perfectly-appointed hotel room is a decadent indulgence that Erma always enjoyed on her girls’ getaways. So, this sunny Sunday morning, before Sylvia heads back home to weather another storm in life- just a little teacup tempest not full-blown furor-she’s treating herself to a deep, dark, steaming roast. In bed. It’s the jump start she needs.

For those of you acquainted with Sylvia and The Best Cup of Coffee Sylvia Ever Had, the coffee is steaming not steamy at this hour. But hey, the day is young. Enjoy, friends.

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Making coffee has become the great compromise of the decade. It’s the only thing “real” men do that doesn’t seem to threaten their masculinity. To women, it’s on the same domestic entry level as putting the spring back into the toilet-tissue holder or taking a chicken out of the freezer to thaw.
— Erma Bombeck

To “B” or Not to “B”

Sylvia’s been thinking about this for far too long – since summer actually. And now that the frigid temperatures have arrived along with the ice on the cove, she’s daring to dream again, especially of a warm-weather B&B. As she sits at the kitchen table with a mug of her favorite blend, a startling rap on the kitchen window brings her back to reality…

Erma: Pondering your existence again, Sylvia?

Sylvia: Oh God, no, Erma. Nothing existential about this at all.

Erma: Well, I was out front ringing the bell, but when you didn’t answer, I had a strong feeling you might be cooking something up in the kitchen. Now I realize that you were absolutely cooking something up. That coffee must be piping hot because you appear more than a a bit dewy, my friend. Dare I ask what’s on your mind?

Sylvia: Nothing. Well, that’s not true. I was just thinking about the prospect of a clean slate in a tropical locale. Promise me, Erma, no eye-rolling when I tell you what has me bemused today.

Erma: You know me, I can’t promise that, but now I’m really intrigued. Do tell, Sylvia, do tell. I’ll grab myself a mug and pour a cup.

When Sylvia met Cam little did she know that whether or not she was wearing her Spanx would be the least of her aesthetic worries. The concern that popped to the forefront quickly went from how the unbridled parts would look once they were set free of the constricting undergarment to the actual landscaping of the nether regions. Cosmopolitan, aka “Cosmo”, had long ago provided an in-depth foray into waxing and its stimulating benefits, but now Sylvia who hadn’t seen the tree through the forest in years -decades even- was curious. She thought seriously, “What would it be like to get rid of the thicket? And, if I don’t like what I see, will he?

Well, after a mentally and physically grueling appointment with her aesthetician (never mind what anyone tells you – yes, it’s painful and unpleasant, perhaps akin to how much it would smart if you were to catch the hair on your head in a Dyson vacuum cleaner; and I’m hazarding a guess and thinking for guys who haven’t manscaped in a while or ever, the pain might parallel getting kicked in the nuts with cleats), Sylvia sheepishly looks in the mirror that is handed to her. “Look, Sylvia. Prettiest pussy ever.”

Really, Sylvia? Can anything be left to the imagination at all? “To B or not to B” takes on a whole new meaning when one is staring at parts that have not been pampered and primed let alone examined by her owner in nearly three decades. Bush. Bikini. Brazilian. Bare. So, the obvious question begging to be asked (and answered) is, “Why now, Sylvia?” Much like when you deliberated over holding it in or rolling with it when faced with the Spanx dilemma, you need not agonize over something so incredibly personal. Your vagina. Your choice.

Erma, what I need to tell you and share with the other Ermas and Sylvias out there is that the process is progress. Learning to love myself, both the inner core and the outer shell, is a full-time job; and it is and should be a labor of love. There is no better time than now! It’s taken me fifty-plus years to accept myself and even give myself credit for a few things. I’ve been putting me off for a very long time. No one’s fault mind you, but now that I’ve become increasingly aware of what doesn’t bring me happiness, what doesn’t feel good, and what I don’t like, I’m all about discovering – perhaps even uncovering – that which puts a smile on my face, a spring in my step, and the ohs in “Oh, my; oh, yeah; and oh, God.”

Erma:  Who would have imagined what a woman can learn about herself from a waxing?

Sylvia: That’s just the point, Erma. You never know what you are missing until you open yourself up to new things. And by new, I just mean that everything old can feel new again. And it does. 

The benefits of waxing are so much more than not having to worry about stubble or the errant strands playing peekaboo from your bathing suit or sexy lingerie bottoms. Less is so much more in this case. Life-changing, in fact. Little did Sylvia know that the eradication of what some refer to as “vintage vag” would lead to a new lease on life. Seriously. All of you Ermas, you know a great deal and can teach us much, but trust your Sylvias when they say that if you withstand those thirty minutes of pain on the aesthetician’s table, you’ll unveil uncharted territory which just may lead to some of the greatest and most satisfying discoveries of your life.  If you’re happy visiting the same places, then that’s okay as long as you are happy; but if you are looking to be transported, you should seriously consider Option Bs.

Not that it should be the deciding factor when you decide “to B or not to B” but at the very least consider the following. Lovers and partners think that we make the decision “to b or not to b” taking into account two primary considerations: first, we may want to appreciate our natural beauty how God intended it; and second, we want to look good to ourselves and to them. Perhaps both are true. Indeed, Sylvia wanted to look good and feel good for herself and for Cam. When Sylvia met Cam, she was on the precipice of change. She was exhausted. In every way imaginable. In every way that a fifty-year old woman is when she has back-burnered herself to make everyone else’s life easier and their dreams come true. The choice to explore with Cam was uncharacteristic and unexpected; the decision to get rid of any barriers to pleasure of any kind, however, was necessary.

I have heard from a Saturday-night-filled pub of couples in the world that the difference between the Bs is much like the difference in selections on a menu. Is it appetizer or main course? Chicken or Steak? Palate cleanser in between courses or is it the bread basket that will stay on the table and be grazed upon throughout the meal?  I really don’t know. Neither did Sylvia.  Sylvia decided it wasn’t about providing a veritable smorgasbord for Cam (although his enthusiastic taste in the offerings only proved to her benefit); it was about discovering what fulfilled her and satisfied her appetite. It was about experiencing something new and exciting. Discovering what she liked instead of eliminating what she disliked. Just as some guys are only interested in the food and being full after the meal, some women – I’m venturing to say most- savor the total dining experience. For Sylvia, her choice “to B” provided her the clean slate that allowed her to enjoy, from her head to her toes, a destination that had eluded her for a very long time. It never occurred to Sylvia that the barrier to her happiness, to her finding herself, to her discovering what transported her from exhausted and people-pleasing to spontaneously sensual and satisfied would be her willingness to try something new. Sylvia’s decision “to B” was liberating and exhilarating. Inner core and outer shell, she was beginning to love it all!

Erma (pouring out the remaining coffee in her mug): Sylvia, and just think, you’ve only gotten to the Bs in the alphabet! 

 

Sylvia Sums Up Life in a Word…or Two

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Sylvia: There’s nothing that a good fuck can’t cure. Seriously. It’s one of the most honest, if not the most liberating, pathways to freedom.  

Erma: Well, I’ll take your word for it, Sylvia.  I might be a bit too old to go that route.  

Sylvia: Well, first of all, you’re never too old! But for God’s sake, Erma, I’m not talking about the act, although admittedly that can be therapeutic and invigorating, not to mention fun. I’m talking about the word. F-U-C-K. Yep, fuck. Best word ever.  

Well, well, well. There’s food for thought most certainly.  All of her life Erma has searched for the right word.  A word that is so empowering that it possesses the unparalleled ability to convey deep dark angst, utter disgust, and unbridled joy and passion, not concurrently mind you, but at just the right times when all other vocabulary escapes you.  And in one fell swoop and three old-fashioneds later, Sylvia, more frequently the student, becomes the teacher and Erma’s purveyor of the nuances and more deeply seated meanings of what Erma and her generation used to call the golden word. FUCK. Gilded by virtue of its forbidden nature– something you can do or think but never say.

Taking long, generous sips of their afternoon cocktails, Erma and Sylvia engage in what might just be the most meaningful, candid, and unexpectedly humorous conversation of their friendship.

“Here’s the thing, Erma. Fuck holds so much power because it’s multi-purpose. It’s universal. Fuck fits everywhere. In every exchange fathomable between two people, you can imagine, feel, and use fuck. It’s a noun, a verb, an adjective. It’s a word, an action, and an emotion.”  

“It’s also quite funny, Sylvia. I have to admit that just hearing you say the word over and over is titillating.  It makes me feel like a school girl. Almost a bit giddy and undoubtedly a bit naughty. Tell me more, my friend.  I have a feeling that I’m in for a real life lesson– one that may be immediately applied.”  

“Erma, all I can share with you is what I know first hand.  I never heard my mother utter the word. Goddammit. Son-of-a-bitch. Shit. Jesus Christ. Yes, all of those would come burgeoning out at full force, especially when she was agitated duly or unduly by one of her children, her husband, work, or the dog. It wasn’t until Mom’s early 50s that fuck came into play, that it became a part of her lexicon. I remember it vividly. She was making the bed, of course in a bit of a rush as she always was in her valiant and ritualistic attempts to get organized and out the door before 7am.  As clear as Sunday church bells in a small hamlet, I heard it. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck’r. Fucking fuck. Fuck. Little mother fucker.” And there it was in all its glory. Unbridled. Free-flowing. She had stubbed her toe- the bad one, the big one with the corn and the ingrown toenail- on the over-sized, maple-footed ball of the bed. And needless to say, it hurt so much that FUCK was the only word, the sole expletive that fit.  At that moment though, as Mom grabbed her toe with tears in her eyes groaning out fuck after fuck, I had an epiphany. My mother was human. Fuck rendered her mortal. The power of fuck had been unleashed.”

“Well Sylvia, that was nothing more than a gut reaction, don’t you think?” Erma suggested, almost apologizing for Mom’s foul language. “A spontaneous response to an annoyingly unfortunate event,” she added.  

“Perhaps,  Erma, but I think it revealed so much more.  I think it was a release for her. No other word in the world could have expressed her anger while providing her with such liberation and cleansing. With each fuck, each hard and exasperated fuck, came freedom.  And in all its power and glory, fuck gained instant standing and acceptance in my book because Mom had used it fiercely, passionately, and unapologetically.”

“I get it, Sylvia, but tell me, you can’t actually believe that one single word accommodates other life situations as well?  How can one word be so multi-faceted?  Give me examples–minus the obvious, of course. 

“Fuck in a nutshell is what you are looking for, Erma.  Here goes.  Disgust: When your significant other feigns concern about your well-being and then proceeds to ask if his whites are done and what’s for dinner. Are you fucking kidding me? Joy: When your grown kid texts you before his bedtime (not yours) to share a pic of his favorite diva whom he happened to sight on his way to the subway. That’s fucking awesome! Incredulity: When the person next to you on the plane puts a used tissue in the seat-back pocket. What the fuck? Anger: When you finally find the perfect parking spot at the mall, have your blinker on to properly claim it, and then an oncoming car goes around several waiting vehicles to steal the spot. Fuck you. (That one must be accompanied with a look of disdain and the appropriately inappropriate finger.) Fatigue: You come home very late, depleted of every ounce of physical and mental energy after an excruciating day, only to find that a raccoon has rummaged through your garbage barrel leaving trash everywhere including your neighbor’s driveway. I don’t have one more fuck to give today. Indifference: When there’s just no pleasing anyone. I don’t give a fuck. Fuck it! And even though you don’t want to hear about the obvious, Erma, it really has to be said. Consider it a reminder to all women that you only get what you ask for. Desire: When you are with your lover and he’s willing to do anything to see you fulfilled time and again. Fuck me. Please. So, see Erma, the word is pure gold.  It can be melted down and morphed into so many emotions.  But of all the feelings, thoughts, and deeds that it encompasses, none is greater than the other “f” word that all fucks lead to–the mother of all “f” words–freedom. Don’t you agree, Erma?”

As Erma sat swirling the remaining ice cube in her tumbler, she thought to herself, “Fuck?  Fuck, yes. Absolutely, Sylvia, freedom indeed.”

 

 

 

 

 

 



  

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Would Sylvia & Erma Have Met On Facebook?

Surely they would have. When they would have met and under what circumstances are the two bigger questions and maybe even more intriguing speculations. There is honestly no better, easier, or more comfortable environment on social media for women – in my opinion- than Facebook. 

Don’t get me wrong. You have to get past all of the bullshit that people throw out there. We are all capable of slinging it every now and again, but there’s a vast difference between allowing yourself to wade incessantly in others’ crap and occasionally throwing a little handful of it yourself –or merely stepping in it and getting it on the bottom of your shoe. The latter two are rid of easily and can be overlooked, even forgiven in the worst cases. The former,well, it can be so cumbersome that it’ll weigh you down.  It depends on how thick your skin is, how insecure you are, and if you’ve mastered the expression, “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

Here’s the difference for women though, I think, as it relates to the FB dynamic. Again, just a few random thoughts, so please hear me out. Women put themselves on Facebook for myriad reasons.  Women in their teens and twenties usually do it to self-promote and even garner attention about their looks, their loves, their lives, good or bad. Many of them “collect” friends. I’ve actually seen some with over a thousand in their collections. Really. Seriously? Come on, really?  So, that’s FB on Starbucks and with a membership at 24-hour Fitness. In other words, FB on steroids.

Women in their thirties and forties, however, seem to use it more for personal shared experiences and professional purposes. Their posts are evenly distributed between the two for the most part. Perhaps they are not the LinkedIn types.  Maybe they just want to take a few minutes in their day to escape- to connect with old high school friends or college friends with whom they’ve yet to lose touch fully (they are hanging on). Maybe they are even hoping that they’ll prove to everyone that life is great when we form those even deeper and more public connections with the friends and family they saw over the weekend or even last night. They may employ FB as a calendar of sorts for journaling or scheduling purposes; collaboration on childrearing, weight loss and body image issues as a result of childbearing and childrearing; marriage, work, and social engagements (namely vacations, date nights, PTA meetings, etc.); showing one another that they too can have it all and do so without giving a fuck. Here’s the thing though. They do give a fuck.  After all, they are on FB. That’s Facebook on Ritalin.

Women in their fifties- actually from probably late 40s on- utilize FB differently. I’m convinced it depends on where they/we are emotionally and physically. If they still have children at home or who are nearly ready to go off to college (or embark on their first adult living adventure), FB is a great tool to share helpful hints and soul-sustaining suggestions. What you’ll often hear from this generation of women is how quickly those years with their children have passed. Women begin to get more sentimental but also a bit more matter-of-fact. You’ll see either a lot more about their partners/ spouses/ SOs – or a whole lot less. (Admittedly, that’s where I fall to the extent that people wonder if I’m actually married. My husband isn’t on FB, and I’m glad. I like that it’s my realm in our marriage.)  Nothing against you guys, but as many of my FB friends well know, women in this age group don’t need to make everything about men or partners.  Actually, we may use FB as an escape. You can read into that or not because frankly this age group is beginning to master the art of not giving a shit. These women haven’t fine tuned it yet, but they are on their way. With the help of their FB friends, luncheons, dinners, movie nights, and girls’getaways; and coffee, wine, and/or chocolate, these women are becoming comfortable in their own skin.  It’s funny how that happens just as the skin is losing elasticity and lacks collagen from the hormonal imbalances inflicted by the onset and throes of menopause. One of life’s ironies, for sure. We share tips on healthy, easily prepared meals.  We commiserate and eventually find communal comic relief in topics like hot flashes, insomnia, and abnormal hair growth. We are trying to become a bit more egocentric without apology.  FB on hormone replacement for some. FB on anti-depressants for others.

Now, I’ve yet to reach my sixties, but I can pretty well say that women on FB at this age are beginning to achieve a balance. Most seem to have accepted their lots in life. These women post heavily about grandchildren and health issues, but they also demonstrate a certain level of acceptance in terms of self-image. They don’t seem to outwardly obsess about their looks or the physical appearance of others. In fact, they are beginning to see only the good. “I have really unsightly spider veins, FB friends.” Comments on such an admission will range anywhere from “Dot, at least you are still walking on your own steam” to “Be thankful they are only spider veins and not varicose veins making green-blue tributaries on your legs like mine.” They always see a bright side. Perhaps it’s because they also believe in the power of the FB share.  They tend to be more superstitious and will almost always share the posts and prayers that strongly urge “copy and paste” or else the wrath of Zeus will be thrust upon them and their loved ones. These are the women we can count on to save our collective soul. FB on 1,000 units of Vitamin D, increased calcium, and perhaps a glass or two of newly discovered Pinot Grigio, Chardonnay, or Merlot. (Malbecs are too exotic; champagne is only for special occasions.)

Women in their 70s,80s, and 90s?  Not much to complain about. They are the role models for the rest of us. They are who they are, and they are just extremely happy to be alive.  They post prayers. They share funny animal and baby videos. They don’t complain. They are looking back at the rest of us and saying, “Are you fucking kidding us, girls? Life is short and getting shorter. Get over whatever or whoever is eating away at you and move on. Eat the cake. Drink the wine. Spoil the children. Buy the shoes. Take the trip.” FB on pure oxygen.

I won’t begin to fathom when Sylvia and Erma would have met on FB, but this I know. They found each other. They read each other’s posts. They laughed and cried. They discovered that they were not going through anything alone.

Facebook. Solidarity for sisters of all ages.  Hit the like button. Get through life with a thumbs-up.

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