GIRLFRIENDS: THE OTHER WOMEN

  I almost called this piece Girlfriends, Slutdom and Mom because they’re all of a piece, a patchwork perhaps, that once assembled became me.

     

        Boys were always easier for me. We liked being outside and played rough, whereas I was never sure how to engage girls in anything beyond dolls, which didn’t interest me. They also tended to stay in the kitchen with their moms. 

        Mom proudly announced that she’d been a tomboy, too, and followed her twin brother in his rough and tumble play. As she grew older, mom embraced the “sexy” Latina image. I think it gave a boost to her self-esteem, but it meant that her goal was to get a man which invited competition from other females. At her core she embraced a 40’s cinematic femme fatale role model and distrusted all women . . . possibly even me. A girlfriend who is of my mother’s vintage recently gave me advice on how to deal with my husband over some petty argument.  “Have great sex and then do what you want anyway.” Manipulative, I said. She expressed no distaste for that word, “There’s a long line of women just waiting to steal him from you."

 She reminded me so much of my mom that I only felt affection and pity for her generation. And wonder. Could she be right? I’ve seen that certain look–threatened, possessive, and defensive–on other women’s faces when they’ve watched their husband’s reaction to a beautiful woman standing in front of them. No, the beauty wasn’t me.  My preferred role is observer, and I love women, need them even. Women take the lead in The Sandoval Sisters’ Secret of Old Blood, and sisterhood is explored in all its contexts: childhood friends, lovers, girlfriends who think nothing of cheating with your husband, a sinister mother-in-law, witchy ex-girlfriends,  daughters, blood sisters, maidens, mothers and crones. 

I’ve written previously of the bullying I experienced in elementary and middle-school (Bullied: Diversity, Differentiation, Distinction). That experience effectively isolated me and I stopped trying to make girlfriends. I had a brief respite in 9^th grade when I lived with my father and stepmother in East Texas. A few girls in my neighborhood actually seemed to like me and we rode the bus to school together. No one was really dating then, but there was adolescent flirtation.

Back to New Mexico for high school and the pressure was on to date. Fortunately, I liked nerdy boys with a sense of humor. An assortment of males liked me; the girl’s locker room became hazardous when a boy sought after by one of the “popular” girls asked me to prom. Sometime in the 10^th grade I was labeled a slut and I don’t think the slur came from a boy. It was the girls who shunned me.

The irony is that even though I’m now an outspoken feminist and embrace my inner slut, I remained a virgin all through high school. I refused to French kiss until I’d cleared it with the nun who taught an after-school religion class. “No it’s not a mortal sin,” she said. I’m forever grateful that she didn’t follow up that statement with what it could lead to. Perhaps she didn’t know, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway because I wouldn’t allow my boyfriend to touch my emergent breasts because of the pimples on my chest.

The slut-shaming worked. I wasn’t sure what I’d done wrong, but in order to remedy the situation I let down all the hems on my skirts, stopped dating, and stayed home from school as much as possible. The problem with that was 1) my mother’s fear–not that I might not graduate– but that I might not get in enough practice to find my future husband. “You’ve got sex appeal,” she said, which only terrified me more. The second part of that phrase was fine, nothing wrong with appeal. But the “sex” part was a problem made all the more complicated by 2) my extreme horniness and guilt over it. 

What to do?

           Fortunately, I got to go to college in the late 60’s. The Second Wave ruled! Birth control was readily available and there were savvy girls from all over the world at UNM. What was even better, they knew nothing about me. Sure, I was a little weird, but weird was in. I could blend. Somewhat.

I’d always had opinions, but had feared speaking out. My task was to overcome that sense of powerlessness, to embrace outcast status and make it work for me.  Learning to do that was huge and the women’s movement helped me. Not only were there plenty of outspoken women from whom to learn, but I recognized the other me, before emergence, in women who came to consciousness-raising meetings. I could help them.

In grad school, my girlfriends and I had brunch every Sunday and read women’s sexual fantasies out of Nancy Friday’s My Secret Garden. Our laughter could be heard from down the street and we could have written our own book of sexual exploits, real and imagined. Peggy, one of the brunchers, met me recently in Venice Beach (A 70’s Redux.)

 Santa Monica Beach, 1977, with my friend Annie (the other bruncher.)

When I started a business, almost all of my clients were male. Female friends were rare. If it hadn’t been for my friend Susan, I wouldn’t have had a baby shower for my first child or a partner in my new business. More women entered the workforce. Now I had female employees and a new challenge balancing friendship and business: I didn’t always make the right decision.

Keogh, O'Briant & Brown, 1979

Girlfriends are still not easy. More often that not, I let them pick me. As often happens, friendships with women grew easier when I entered my 50’s. I’d relaxed, accepted that some women were not going to like me, and that it wouldn’t hold me back from expressing myself or reaching out to them. Older women have experience, both good and bad, and we all just want to have a good time. Here are some vintage thoughts from some of my girlfriends. They reflect my experience now. I'm so grateful to have arrived at this point, something I don't think my mom ever achieved:

Susan:  “My women friends have outlasted everything in this life: husbands, parents, youth, and now . . .  Even if we're not together, our laughter still rings in my ear.”

Bonnie: “No matter what I was slogging thru in terms of  family stuff, work, life in general, girl friends sustained and supported me more than any other relationships.”

Melody: “Laughter; tears; support; brutal honesty; fun; sharing of wisdom; gossip; fashion help; basic survival; boy-friend hating; physical, mental & spiritual healing; having someone really listen to our story-telling without judgment; reminders that we are worth loving, even if we do not love ourselves at times!”






Me and Anna, Runyon Canyon, 2012                  

Cindy, Missy, me: Cuba, 2012

Happy and peaceful women.

Quintana Blas Olleras,1851-1919

A 70's Redux

 

     Met my friend Peggy at Venice Beach this past Sunday. 

My friend is a loving grandmother, and she'd come out from Arizona to visit her daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter who were meeting some college friends at Venice Beach. They dropped her off so Peg and I were able to talk alone and without inhibition. Not that inhibitions were ever a big concern in our circle. Or being inappropriate. Or politically correct. 

We were roommates in graduate school.  I had been living in the graduate dorm at ASU, which was a converted motel complete with an outdoor pool in the center of the complex. Since I didn't know how to cook, dorms were no problem for me, but I wanted a cat. 

Felines were fine with Peg, but she wanted to be completely honest with me. "I date black guys," she said. "That's okay . . . I date women." It was 1974, Black Student Union was active on campus and the Women's Movement was in full blossom. Hawkish Senators, batshit crazy Governors and Border Patrols were aspects of Arizona we didn't encounter. Experimental was the catch-word, at least for me. We bonded over disco and went dancing at least three nights a week. I got a job in academia, but eventually moved over to the business side. Cut my hair, moved to California. Peggy remained in Arizona.

  My Student ID

She married a white guy and had two daughters. I married a man and had two sons. We've both managed to stay married and except for the intense years when our children were young and our careers surging at full force, we've stayed in touch.

Peggy has maintained the luminous essence of her youth. We weren't maidens back then–we shirked that veil with joy–but curiosity about the world and our part in it, is still there. Not all of my friends have that quality. Some of them have rushed into cronedom with relief, it seems.

Our afternoon came to an end all too soon, and we met up with her daughter and two of her girlfriends. "This is my friend, Sandra," Peg said, introducing me to the young women. "When we were roommates she used to walk around the condo naked." The young women studied a crack in the sidewalk. She wasn't finished. "Sandra is an author and her book won two prizes, plus she was on a list with Sonia Sotomayor!"

"Nudist's Who Know It All," I said. They looked stunned. "Just kidding, guys. Her autobiography and my historical fiction were on the same top 10 list." They'd been holding their breaths and laughed with relief. I said goodbye so Peg wouldn't volunteer any other info, and believe me, she knows too much.

I used to rollerskate at Venice. Now, it's all about skateboarding.

 Shadow of a skateboarder about to take flight.

Only female skateboarder that afternoon.

On the walk back to my truck, I stopped at a Vintage Clothing store. The rack of jean shorts brought back memories. Short shorts were the rage back-in-the-day and under the hot desert sun. I texted Peg to tease her. "Remember your thong jean shorts? Those babies were just a seam and lots of air!"

Not sure she'll share that piece of history with her daughters. 

Sex and Death

Beardsley, "Climax"

In 2012, my birthday falls on the launch of the Chinese New Year, and I'm happy to report that I've maintained the positive attitude toward aging that I wrote about in 2009. While I regret the loss of certain parts of my youth, namely the snap back from physical injury (I'll never jump off a 17-foot-high cliff into a river again), I'm enjoying the flow into my demise. I credit my husband for making the transition easier. We didn't do a lot of things right in our marriage, but the sex has only gotten better.

Circa 2009, I wrote the following:

Sex and death seem to be team players in literature, in movies, and with dangerous people we all know.

Never quite made the connection until this past weekend. Had a major birthday on Friday the 23rd. Been railing against it for over a year, resenting any indication of being assigned to the crone heap of outdated thinking, and wondering if my options in life were inescapably narrowing.

My friends refused to let me forget my birthday. I made a breakthrough, past resistance, past resignation and arrived at rejoicing. Spent the weekend in Palm Springs with my husband, ate lightly, made love deeply --- part calisthenics, part practice made perfect. Add imagination, resourcefulness, humor, and finally that rare ingredient missing from my youth: recognition of death. Specifically, my own. For the first time, I let it play a part in my life, especially my love life.

Many older couples weekend in Palm Springs. I like looking at the affectionate ones, their veiny, blotched hands intertwined, wrinkled faces smiling at each other, still engaged with the personality of the other. I wonder if they see the wrinkles?

I never thought I’d live this long, certainly never thought I’d stay married this long. My adolescent self was sure death would prevail, and tragedy, dark and merciless, would snatch any joy right out of my grasp. Back then I focused not so much on real death, but on suffering since that’s where the drama is. It’s also part of my birthright; all the females in my family suffer.

Thought I’d cast that emo teen out of my life long ago, but she’s still there, lurking along the edges of what I’ve done in my life. She’s the sadness in Sandra, the underside of what I show the world. I’ve learned to treasure her pain, it flavors my writing, and it sometimes makes the world an exquisitely beautiful place to be. Recognition of death’s nearness made every moment of my birthday weekend special.

Sex and death, oh yeah, baby. Now, I wear my cronedom like I wear my halter-tops, with cleavage showing. If you’ve got it, flaunt it.

Yoga Retreat: Crone Power

These experiences are almost four years gone, but still live within me:

Just back from my first Yoga Retreat. Not so great at yoga, but needed a weekend getaway, and this one was held at La Casa de Maria which is part of San Ysidro Ranch in Montecito (near Santa Barbara), an easy and beautiful 90 minute drive north of L.A. It's on a bosque, which is Spanish for forest, and it originally stretched down to the ocean, which is very close. I could smell it over the eucalyptus and oak.

There's an Immaculate Heart Center for Spiritual Renewal on the property, and nuns disguised as ordinary women. There were several groups seeking renewal on the grounds this past weekend including an assemblage of mostly older women attending a conference: Gather the Women, Save the World based on Jean Shinoda Bolen's work. She wrote Goddesses in Everywoman back in the 80's, which I own and haven't looked at in years. Also The Millionth Circle, a sort of tipping point for focusing women's circles and thereby changing the world (I imagine ever-widening ripples on a lake), and the intriguing, Crones Don't Whine.

Her conference was a call to action for women of all ages to save our planet, our society, our economy. A big bite. Huge. But I admire the strength and energy of post-menopausal women since I've arrived there, intact, and full of curiousity and not afraid to ask questions and challenge one and all. Even myself.

All the various groups gathered at the same cafeteria, so I had a chance to meet many of these women. I met some gorgeous 80-year-olds. Not in the hiked-up, pulled-back look of the unfortunate women I see in Los Angeles, but women who have lived a life --- done stuff, knew they were doing it and lived to tell about it. "There was a time when I knew the streets of Paris better than the streets of Santa Barbara," one told me. Now, why didn't I ask her for her telephone number so I could hear more?

The 80 + year olds were fascinating. An inspiration. Bhavani, my yoga instructor, didn't want us to discuss politics in our group, but the Crone group had received no such warning. They were eager to share their opinions: they liked Hilary, but had a soft spot for Obama. A few felt the two were unelectable, so were counting on Edwards. If there were Republicans present, they didn't speak up.

Of note were the women my age, all of whom looked, dressed and acted older than me. Not sure if I should take comfort from that or clean up my act.

I slept in a room with four other women, yoga aficionados one and all. Never went to summer camp. This may be as close as I'll ever get. Didn't sleep much (curse of the light sleeper) what with the alien snoring (not my husbands's) and middle-of-the-night bathroom visits (theirs, not mine). But I'd selected my narrow bed well. I faced a bank of windows (the vertical blinds were inoperable so the windows were bare) where the tops of trees swaying in the wind were my first visual.

Plus there was a 6:00 a.m. meditation, which I think is insane, but probably means I'm not evolved enuf to get it. Three yoga sessions a day. Figured I would do one. Brought my laptop and the first draft of my vampire novel.  It's all marked up and I planned on working in the rose garden, but it never left the trunk of my car. On the first day did two yoga sessions. Skipped out on the third yoga class and sniffed the flowers in the rose garden, befriended the black cat named Poki (who killed a lizard for sport, gutted it and walked off flicking his tail), and talked to an ex-nun who gave me the history of the gigantic stump (at least 15 feet in diameter) of an oak which formed the centerpiece of the rose garden. It had a vine with orange flowers encapsulating it.

In addition to the two yoga sessions (one at 7 a.m. because I was awake and had nothing else to do), I subjected myself to an arousing five-mile hike in search of a waterfall with a young woman from Baltimore who does construction. The hike was easy for her, but I was breathless, probably because I was flapping my lips most of the way. She asked me if I needed to rest. I said, "Where there's shade."

I pointed out a small corner next to the back gate of another Montecito megaplex-in-construction (a private home) with a hose snaking beneath a gate. "Would you like me to spray you?" she asked. I flashed on prison movies and the unfortunate inmates being tortuously hosed down. Conversation as follows:

"Do I look like I'm about to have a heart attack?"
She said, "No, you look hot."
I tested the hose --- it had a trigger handle. "Okay," I said, handing it to her. "Point it up."

The water burst forth in all its pressurized glory. At that moment, a Mexican construction worker came out. The drops fell, cooling my skin and the Mexican worker smiled, and we --- the sprayee and she, the sprayer, smiled back.

Also went shopping at a huge fund-raising event in Montecito --- May Madness --- a giant garage sale at the Music Center where I stood in line and spoke to yet another interesting 80-year-old woman discussing dragons (she wore heavy, solid silver, two-hundred-year-old bracelets with dragons on them that were once worn by Chinese farmers). Went inside and found a whimsical iron dragon! Will try to post a picture of it later.