Senile vaginas

There's a debate scheduled at the university next week about the feminization of medicine. I had pretty much forgotten about it, until the other day when I was reading an article that mentioned a condition known as senile vagina. It's not enough that in the final bloodshed of menopause I feel like my sex life and just about everything else that makes me a woman is going to die, but now I have to worry about some psychiatric condition taking over my genitalia. I'm imagining a personals ad written by a postmenopausal woman: “Vagina senile, but cognitive abilities intact.”

Who in their right mind would coin a term like “senile vagina” anyways? Some demented doctor who didn't have much respect for women I suspect. I know older men's genitalia don't always have an easy time of it, but erectile dysfunction isn't a direct attack on the penis. It sounds like what it is: a clinical condition amenable to pharmacologic intervention. So the aging medicated penis can continue to stand proudly at attention, head held high. Unlike the senile vagina, which sounds like it needs to be shunted off to a long-term care facility. It would be particularly galling if at some point in your life you had shelled out money for a designer vagina, only to have it lapse into senility.

I know monologues can be powerful, but in this case maybe one voice isn't enough. Maybe we need The Vagina Lobby. To convince legislators in Washington, Ottawa, Wellington, Canberra and everywhere else to ban the use of terms like senile vagina.

Love eclipsed

Once for about a week I went around asking people what had made them fall in love with the partners they were with. Some people had an instant answer, others couldn't exactly say why, one friend said she wasn't sure she had ever loved her husband (they're still married). I've been in love twice in my life, and I'm not sure the first time should count, since it was in high school and was no doubt hormonally induced. Or is that was makes love at any age? The second time was when I was in my early 30s. I thought I had met my soulmate. Unlike my first love, this time it seemed like the two of us shared the same interests. Except that he started developing other interests and eventually left me for someone else. It took several years for me to get over it. And then, with somewhat bizarre timing, both Tino and Lorne called me when I was 40. I had no interest in meeting Tino again. This was kind of strange, since usually I'm pathologically curious about other people's lives. I realized though that I didn't want to disinter my past. So when he called me again and left a message saying he was going to be passing through town and did I want to meet for coffee, I never returned his call. Lorne was a different matter. There was still some unfinished business. He had moved to Ottawa and I hadn't seen or talked to him for 5 years. We met for breakfast, and I got to say everything that I hadn't said to him when he left. The oddest part of our meeting was realizing that I felt nothing for him anymore. I was with someone else at the time, someone who I had met through Lorne. They had been in the same men's group. (I worked my way through ¾ of that men's group, which isn't as bad--or good, depending on your viewpoint--as it sounds as there were only 4 of them, not 8, 12, 16, 20 or some other multiple of 4.) But I don't think being with someone else was why my love vanished. It's still a mystery to me how that happened.

I'm not sure why I started thinking about this. Maybe it was watching the moon turn that haunting shade of orange-red last night, capturing the light from all the world's sunrises and sunsets. It doesn't happen often, and when it does we may not see it. And then slowly the moon turns a brilliant white again, still beautiful, but cold. The show's over. I turn my back on the universe and go to bed.

Yes, I admit it, I'm a crazy old cat-lady

Although I personally believe that I'm one of the most normal people I know, because I'm single, approaching 50 and have 3+1 cats, I've become a crazy old cat lady. Here are the creatures who have made me the cliché that I am.

Charlotte: She's been studying the sleeping habits of humans for years, and has figured out that for a really satisfying sleep you have to get under the covers, lie on your side and put your head on the pillow. So now when I wake up in the morning I often find that Charlotte has insinuated herself under the covers, is lying on her side and has her head on the pillow. Except it's my pillow, not the other one, and she's purring loudly. It's almost as bad as having someone snoring beside you. Plus she gets to sleep in every day, which annoys me to no end.

Bo: Because of his size and energy he looks like a kitten, but he's at least 7. In good weather he waits at the end of the driveway. As soon as someone walks by he abandons all pretences of dignity and throws himself at their feet, begging for attention. More people in the neighbourhood know Bo's name than mine. One guy has been coming by for years, sits in the rock garden with Bo on his lap, has long and earnest conversations with him. The woman across the street tells me how special Bo is. Numerous people have said if I ever want to get rid of him they would love to have him. The teenager 2 houses down periodically tells me that her stupid brother and his allergies means they're stuck with a dog. Whenever I approach my house I scan the road, hoping that there won't be a little black and white body lying in it. Bo loves to visit the neighbours across the street. If he ever does get hit by a car, I'm sure the neighbourhood will have a memorial service for him.

Festus: Festus is the problem cat. A few summers ago I suddenly noticed how thin he was, and realized I hadn't seen him eating for a while. I took him to the vet's and they found that some of his teeth were infected, and pulled a bunch of them. Cost: Approximately $1000. The next summer he stopped eating again. They pulled more teeth. Cost: Approximately $800. Except this time he didn't start eating again. They put him on steroids, on valium to increase his appetite, on painkillers. Cost: Approximately $500. None of it worked. He dropped to 2.4 kg. He was literally starving to death. I was frantic at the money I was spending and at having to watch him in such pain. They ran more tests, and discovered he has a rare inflammatory disorder, where the cat's immune system reacts to the plaque on its teeth and the gums get so infected and inflamed the cat can't open its mouth. I asked the vet what she would do if it were her cat. She said she would take him to the clinic in Toronto where there's a vet dentist, and have all his teeth pulled. (Apparently, cats can eat without chewing.) So one morning at 4:30 am I found myself driving to Rosedale, which if you're familiar with Toronto, will give you a clue as to how much this surgery cost. When I picked up toothless Festus he was eating, but stopped soon after. I brought him to the vet again. They were mystified. They tried more drugs, ran more tests, force-fed him until he vomited. Finally I decided I couldn't do this to him anymore. I brought him home to let him die in less stressful surroundings. He stayed outside for two days, not moving. Then one day he came in and started eating again, and he's been eating ever since.

Sometimes I think about how much Festus' life cost. I could have rented a villa in Tuscany instead. But if I had done that, both the villa and Festus would now be a memory. Instead I still have Festus, and can still dream about renting a villa in Tuscany.

Spike: The “+1”. He's not officially one of my cats, but he's discovered the cat door. Even though I often find him stretched out on the couch he still looks like a stray cat, yellowed fur, scruffy, angular. And he hates other stray cats. I put food for one on the back deck and when Spike spots him he becomes a Noh actor, creeping painfully slowly towards the invader. His neck extends like E.T.'s and he crooks it slightly, giving him an alien appearance. He makes strange cries. The other cat ignores him. Finally Spike realizes his posturing is having no effect and he sits down, looks forlorn. He's having an identify crisis. He's not a pet cat, but he's not feral either. I'm not sure which existence he'll eventually choose.

I guess it could be worse. I could keep my mother's body in a rocking chair in the basement. Lust after teenage pool boys. Or collect stamps.

The Job Interview

I went for a job interview today. I was a bit apprehensive, because the last interview I went to I wasn't asked any of the usual questions like “Why do you want this job?” or “Why are you the best candidate for this position?” It was a competency based interview, so instead they asked things like “Give us an example of a time that you came up with a creative and successful solution to a problem.” I finally asked them to skip to the next question, but at the end of the interview they went back to it. Dead silence for a couple of minutes. Finally I said I thought I was a creative person, but I just couldn't think of an answer to the question. They said to take my time and think about it some more. Talk about flogging a dead horse. More dead silence. Then one of the three interviewers, the sour-faced one who never smiled through the entire interview, asked me “Well, what makes you think you're so creative then?” Couldn't answer that one either. I slunk out of there, deflated. Not only had I not got the job, but my self-image was shattered. (And it was a good thing they didn't wait around for an answer, for it was not until 6 weeks later that I finally came up with something. I put a moat around the cat door at night so the cats wouldn't bang on it and keep me awake all night. Except that only worked for a while, and then they figured out that there were no crocodiles in the moat and they could actually step in it and bang on the cat door while simultaneously treading water.)

But the interview today was fine. Only one person, who laughed a lot. Easy questions. She even told me that since the job mainly involved writing, and that some people write better in their pajamas, the person could work from home. What a dream interview. What a dream job. It's almost too good to be true, so I'll just assume it isn't and maybe I'll be pleasantly surprised.