Sunday, April 11, 2010

Mushroom Scout

Tomorrow I go into work.
I have assembled my men's upland hunting boots, with long-haul walking insoles. I've set out my polartech 3000 longjohns and filthy camping jeans (the ones that make me look like I have Pioneer lady butt). Omit mention of presence of or lack of panties. My unmentionables are nowhere near over the line for publication, but I'll go over the line later and juicier.

I am now pushed onto a sidetrack concerning the term "unmentionables" to describe underwear. Also, come to think of it, for the entire vulvo-vaginal region. The almighty dictionary lists "unmentionable" as "
inappropriate, unfit, or improper for mention, as in polite conversation; unspeakable."
Ooh. Likin' this. The connection with underwear comes from trousers or breeches. When women began wearing bloomers or more pants-like garments under their voluminous skirts, it was certainly thought of as radical and threatening. Thusly, for women, wearing "man pants" under her proper dress was thought of as "inappropriate or unspeakable." I release us all now from the tangent.

I'm excited for my first day of work tomorrow. I have my oiled cattle rustler duster out and gloves and wool socks and what. Packed sandwich, Audubon mushroom book and small knife. Soft brush for clearing dirt from my treasures. Not that I expect to find any tomorrow, mind you, I'm scouting. I'm a scout.
North of Sisters, Oregon, is a long and majestic volcanic ridge. Green ridge runs for miles amid humps of tree-covered forest that run alongside the Metolius River. Its my backyard. Abbott Creek and Candle Creek and Prairie Farm Creek---up there its wild and its wooly and this naturally predisposes me to seek it as my office workplace.
The black morel will be surfacing soon. I'm like a private eye, studying the textures of manzanita, pine needle, cougar poop. Spring has come to the High Desert and her mushroom fields, and when I'm out there under the Ponderosas I can feel them under the dirt. Acres of webby mycelium criss-crossing the root systems underneath my feet. I'm horny for mushroom season to come. Next week I pick up my commercial picking licence from the Forest Service. I will breeze into the office, put my elbows up on the counter and say lasciviously: "make me a happy woman..." and whatever nervous tasty young Forest Service employee happens to be behind that counter will sheepishly hand over my papers as I eye them hungrily.
Millions of dollars? Probably not. I'm interested in sex and consciousness, so I've practically given up on the prospect of millions of clams in my future---But I'm also going hunting for mysteries.

Ah. Clam. I do love it when euphemisms for vagina or vulva come up naturally in my speech or writing.
I voice my curiosity. Helpfully, while strolling through the hearth room as I write this post, my lover offers helpfully: "That's easy. Someone looked at it, said: 'that looks like a clam.' There you go, word origin solved..."
Lets learn this one. Clam, bearded clam etc. Or, as my father has been known to call it: the snapping clam. If you accompany the words "snapping clam" with putting your fingers together in clam teeth fashion and snap them open and closed you will capture the effect of this concept. The Germanic 'klam' means to press or squeeze, and later became the word "clamp." This I like, as the vaginal canal has immense and wondrous power to squeeze and operate as a healthy and vigorous set of muscles.
"Happy as a clam" refers to the idea that when clamshells are open, they appear to be smiling. This I really enjoy as well, as I think happy vulvas are smiling vulvas.

My vulva is really gonna be smiling when I walk along that ridge day after day after day---as I will tomorrow at a hysterically early hour---and I see it. Morchella angusticeps: the Black Morel. I feel almost like a pirate hunter with my basket and my knife. The Black Morel. Never mind that these things look more like Tom Robbins' Elf testicles than they do delicious edibles.

Yes ma'am I'll be packing my workbag and scouting every day through April and May. Waiting for mah babies. Doing Qigong next to the big burned stripe where my tiny friends will arise to romp with me. My unholy army of the appetizing. Ciao naanies!

Friday, March 26, 2010

Crying Game

When I was 12, I realized that I cry. A lot. As in, gushing broken bucket lot. My father would ask: "What's wrong?" And I wouldn't know. The only thing wrong was that I was crying. Heave-sobbing. My little shoulders would raise and fall, my little ribs would cave, my lip would quiver, and my face would bloat like a rotted sausage. And I would cry enormous onscreen tears and wail and shake.

When I was 17, I realized I was beautiful when I cry. I was working at the Ponderosa Lodge Best Western in Sisters, Oregon and my precious little vulva was wracked with a yeast infection. Nature hath no fury like an overgrowth of yeast. I was still working though, and crying heavily. A Mexican fellow, Gustavo, commented that when I look so sorrowful I remind him of the Virgin of Guadalupe. "So beautiful, so sad."

When I was getting home yesterday to make some dinner for my famished self, I cried. There were either absolutely no reasons for it, or a perfectly explainable million and one reasons that I could neatly list for anyone unable to accept the reasonless event. I'm tired. I just finished two years of university and now I'm back home. There's no place to hang my clothes yet. My grandmother is dying. I'm hungry for orgasm. I need to stretch. I'm feeling too big to fit in the world today. My sisters are squabbling. I'm still sick. I hate Nyquil.

Lots of reasons. But none of them was directly connected to the crying. I just cry. Usually I save this for private time when I'm unable to make anyone else uncomfortable with the tears. But I broke open at the sink surrounded by new male room mates.

I explained as hot salt skittered down my freckles and fell into the salad I was trying to tear that this just happens to me, and please don't be alarmed. I tried to explain that my body was rippling and thrilling with energy, and that the tears just come. No reason (except for a million ones) and I'm not going to die. Just please, let me cry without trying to fix me.

One slightly uncomfortable male room mate looks at me across the kitchen, shrugs, and pantomimes taking a deep breath.

I am the sexiest woman alive when I cry.
Take me.