Good Riddance, Reproductive Years

I’m starting to think that the symptoms I was griping about may have signified the grand finale of perimenopause rather than the opening ceremonies, which is great. I looked at the log o’ periods I’ve kept since I was a teenager and saw that there had been a distinct change—they got shorter—about two years ago. I hadn’t thought too much of it, but now I think that was maybe the beginning and this is more the end.

Last weekend, when returning from one of my many recent dentist visits, I stopped off to see Peter and take him a token for his 34 years of sobriety. I hadn’t seen him in quite some time. He has fewer teeth now, pointing in more directions. I hung out with him at his care facility for an hour or so, and then he walked me to the corner.

After we parted, I stood and watched him walk away until he passed under a leafy tree, and I couldn’t be sure if I was seeing his head bobbing in the sunlight or leaves dancing in the breeze. That may have been the last time I’ll see him. He has had several heart attacks and strokes, and is ever harder to understand. He smokes a lot, unfiltered Camels.

I got a newsletter from the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) which contained a very distressing story about the treatment of farmed pigs, who had rods shoved up their rectums and vaginas, clothespins poked into their eyes, and endured many more acts of dreadful abuse. An accompanying photo showed a pig whose face had been spray-painted blue just for “fun” by some cretin.

Tom is concerned about animals being brutalized, but charitably notes that the workers who do those ghastly things have some of the crappiest jobs around—the situation is not good for the animals or the people.

I posted the picture of the spray-painted pig on my refrigerator to remind me that as long as there are alternatives, I will not eat the flesh of a formerly (or currently) living creature, including those from the sea. Also, to show that I, too, care about workers, I will not eat the flesh of the working man, woman or intersexual person.

I have in the past been vegetarian and even vegan for years, but it seems harder now, partly because I used to be perfectly willing to tell people who invited me over, “I don’t eat this and I don’t eat that,” whereas that seems more difficult these days; it seems impolite. But, on the other hand, it’s far from unusual at this point for people to be vegetarian.

Tom recently got a large book full of photos of classic hand-built bicycles, and assured me, with a twinkle in his eye, that this book is going to bring us “many, many, MANY hours of enjoyment.”

He and I watched several episodes of 30 Rock on DVD lately, with Tina Fey and Alec Baldwin. While I liked watching Alec Baldwin, on the whole, I thought it was merely OK, but Tom liked it, so we’ll probably see more.

Other DVDs lately seen:

Mr. Brooks (with Tom, on New Year’s Eve). It’s about a serial killer, played by Kevin Costner; his alter ego is played by William Hurt. We both thought it was excellent. Tom reported a few days later that he was still thinking about it. There may be a sequel one of these days.

I saw a whole DVD full of Alice in Chains videos, which I liked a lot. Gosh, I never realized how attractive Jerry Cantrell is, though I’ve always thought he was a musical genius. He wrote most of Alice in Chains’ songs, and his own two solo CDs are remarkable.

I saw My Father My Lord, about a darling young boy whose father is an exceedingly devout rabbi. It’s very beautiful and tranquil and features distressing events. I recommend it.

Tom and I also liked Cleaner, in which Samuel L. Jackson plays the owner of a service that cleans up human remains, and is tricked into removing the evidence of a murder.

I also recommend XXY, a slow-moving yet riveting film about a young person in Uruguay with both male and female genitalia (one of the intersexuals I have vowed not to eat), an original personality and ferociously supportive parents.

You can probably skip Hancock, though it’s always great to see Charlize Theron, and definitely avoid Tropic Thunder.

Things are tranquil at work lately. In all this irritation with my co-worker—I kept track one day of how many times he made that horrible sound with his lips, and it was 85 times; I’m sure it would have been three times that, but he also had to scream into his cell phone, yell anecdotes to his neighbor on the other side of the wall, and do a little singing (“We Are the World,” if you want to know)—I’d forgotten a key fact, which is that I LIKE this person.

I only remembered because I dreamed about it. The day after my dream was a day of the week that he works at home, but when I saw him the day after that, I did the exact same thing I do every morning that I see him, which is to say, “Good morning, Northrop,” or whatever his name may happen to be, except that this time, I meant, “I hope you have a good morning,” rather than, “Keep your trap shut or else.”

Lately “Good morning” has been the first and last thing we say to each other all day, but I think he picked up the difference in vibe that day, because he asked me something or other, and I smiled at him, just as if I like him, which I do, and answered him pleasantly, and you know what? He barely emitted a peep the entire rest of the day, and has been much, much easier to take ever since.

So either he was actually doing it on purpose, or else the bad vibes were making him tense, and when he gets tense, he makes noise, sort of the way I eat 73 hard candies in a row when I get tense.