I even nearly bailed on the surgery at the last minute, like gown on and all, asking my surgeon if this was really the right thing to do, that I’d been reading about women becoming anorgasmic after surgery, and was she absolutely sure?

“It’s your decision - but the uterus is nowhere near the clitoris,” she said, with an impatient sigh.

Yes, but…

“Cancer.”

Okay. Let’s do this.

I’m happy to report, that my fears were unfounded. All is well. Enough said here, but if you’re in a similar position, I’m happy to chat further. Seriously, hit me up.

However, after getting through all that relatively unscathed, my libido has taken a bit of a nose dive of late. And I blame one thing and one thing only.

Babygirl.

Yes. I credit the Oscar-nominated, supposedly groundbreaking, supposedly truthful depiction of middle- aged female sexuality starring the Nicole Kidman for completely destroying my sex drive.

It’s not the subject matter. Bring on the kink, I say. Maybe that’s why I hated this movie so much - it took all the enjoyment and sexiness and chemistry out of kink, and made it this deep shameful thing that was just… not hot. Deeply, deeply not hot.

Also, there’s no way a woman that rich, successful, supposedly intelligent, and who clearly knows her way around a Porn site, would be so naive as to not know where her g-spot is - oooh, but I don’t want to peeeee. and - oooh, how does all wooork oooooh, young man explain it all to meeeeee? Sorry, but no.

I mean, maybe it’s because I don’t have extensive plastic surgery or not one but two multi-million dollar residences, but I just could not relate to this film, despite it being, you know, supposedly all feminist and groundbreaking and shexshy blah blah blah.

Anyway, every time I try to spark my libido these days, my brain keeps mashing up Babygirl with Moulin Rouge, and Nicole Kidman is lapping up milk while dying of consumption and singing “Diamonds are a Girls Best Friend” and THAT JUST DOES NOT WORK FOR ME.

I guess I’ll have to write my own script, damnit.

“She had the spark of life.” - Gordon Pinsent as Grant, Away From Her

I blame the polar vortex for my depressing movie choice. Going to my pre-op testing, in windchills of -30, I bundled up in faux fur, channeling Julie Christie as Lara from Dr. Zhivago. I hadn’t seen Zhivago in years and years and even then it wasn’t really my cup of vodka. But doing some online photo searching made me go down a Julie Christie rabbit hole so I figured I’d watch another one of her films. I settled on Away From Her, directed by Sarah Polley. I love Sarah Polley - I was always struck by her acting and then watched her evolve into an interesting, complicated filmmaker. Her documentary (?) film Stories We Tell, was a super indelible viewing experience for me, and I’m looking forward to seeing the Oscar nominated Women Talking.

So I mean, look, I knew what Away From Her was about - a couple married for 44 years dealing with the Christie character’s Alzheimer’s Disease and transition into a nursing home - and thought I could handle it. But no, darling readers, I could not.

I’m thinking you never know how things will turn out. You almost know, but you can never be quite sure.

-Olympia Dukakis as Marian, Away From Her

Watching Away From Her flooded me with memories of my mom, and the years she spent in a nursing home before her death. Like Fiona, Julie Christie’s character, my mom had a “spark of life,” a vibrancy and curiosity that led to a full, rich and connected existence. She rarely chose the path of least resistance, perhaps most vividly represented by her then somewhat scandalous choice to divorce my father at age 50 to embrace her lesbian identity and create a life with her partner, Karen. They lived a creative, loving, active life together - until my mom was diagnosed with glioblastoma at age 71. My mom had surgery to remove the tumor, and defying the odds, ended up living for nine more years (even, sadly, outliving her partner, who was a beloved member of our family). But, she was not the same person before and after her brain surgery. The rest of her life was much smaller, more insular, more limited. It really fucking sucked to witness, and I’m sure, to live.

My surgery is tomorrow, and my overwhelming feeling is just that I don’t really want to be doing this, I don’t. I don’t want to have cancer, I don’t want to have this surgery, I don’t want to need it, any of it. I just want to be living my dumb beautiful life and shivering in the cold with my preschool students, auditioning probably fruitlessly for shows, driving my college-kid’s forgotten pillow up to her at school, bringing my teenager to her wisdom tooth surgery this week, missing my boyfriend, dealing with my irritating dogs. I know things will be back to normal, or new normal eventually, but I have BIG FEELINGS about having to go through this, and missing the usual little annoyances of February.

Honestly, I’m just scared.

Deep breaths.

Sometimes you just have to make the decision to be happy. Just decide. Things aren’t ever what you hoped they’d be. Not ever. For anybody.

-Olympia Dukakis as Marian, Away From Her

We all know from hard experience that we don’t get to choose, despite our best efforts, the ailments and challenges that we’re beset with. Life is often unfair and stupid and cruel. Just because we have the “spark of life” doesn’t mean that you’ll live longer or healthier. But, as I tell myself repeatedly, we can still try to be happy, try to make positive choices for ourselves. We can try not to let ourselves fall into the swamp of worry and fear. We can choose to live a big beautiful life, choose big love despite scandal or complications or fears, choose as much fierce and radiant living as humanly possible. For as long and as well as we can.

And… we can choose to turn off the sad movie and watch Cunk on Earth instead.

Solid fucking choice.

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Trouble in Paradise

I sat in the crowded art house movie theatre in Rhinebeck, NY on Sunday morning as a sprited mostly senior crowd gathered to watch Ernst Lubitsch’s 1932 comic masterpiece Trouble in Paradise. Couples and friends handed each other snacks and chatted, relieved that the worst of the pandemic was over and that we could all gather for the joy of watching a movie in the dark. But there was not a whole hell of a lot of joy in my heart as I sat there alone, choking down a few pieces of popcorn before giving up on chewing for a while. The lights dimmed and the first glorious scene began, easy laughter of those around me filled the air, but tears streamed down my face.

Spoiler Alert! Cancer!

Oh, man… It hasn’t been an easy time for any of us - I’m so aware of how totally traumatized we all are… but, darling readers, I will confess that things have been really fucking hard. There have been some amazing things, for sure, but these past two years have brought the deaths of my mother (more on that later) and one of my dearest friends, an amicable but still deeply painful divorce, my kids growing up and beginning to leave the nest, the challenges of a new job and a new lovely but long-distance relationship, and a milestone birthday that may perhaps possibly have thrown me into a total freakout mid-life panic attack. And then for the cherry on top of this sundae of overwhelm, right before the holidays, I was diagnosed with uterine cancer. But, hey, my doctor said if there’s any cancer to get, it’s this one!

Back to the movie

Trouble in Paradise is a glam art-deco pre-code comedy directed by Ernst Lubitsch (the Lubitsch touch!) and starring the gorgeous and glam Miriam Hopkins (who died two days before my birthday so clearly we believe in reincarnation), stunning Kay Francis whose voice is so sexy! I did not realize, and as both of their love interest, Herbert Marshall. Oh! And also one of my very favorite character actors ever, Edward Everett Horton, who is delightful in many of the Fred and Ginger movies.

For me, old movies are a reliable pleasure, particularly if I’m feeling blue. And pre-code comedies are a particular favorite genre of mine. They approach sexuality as an important facet of adult life, a motivating impulse and a source of humor, delight and joy. A force that no puritan - or medical diagnosis - can extinguish.

Trouble in Paradise is about two criminals (Hopkins and Marshall) who fall in love, and the opening scene of their courtship is brilliant and charming. Their art-deco sexy shiny glam shenanigans did dry my tears and make me laugh, eventually. By the time this little gem of a joke about “the trouble with mothers” came around, I was laughing as hard as anyone in the theatre.

But the cancer

Though kinda perfect, that joke is a rough one. If you didn’t click on the link above, though you should, the “trouble with mothers” is, according to Kay Francis’ character Mariette Colet, “first you get to like them, and then they die.” Oof. Although the doctors have reassured me that my cancer was caught early and is highly treatable (the direct quote from my gynocologist was, “this will not lead to your demise” and I am holding her to that, goddamnit!) I can’t help but to worry, and to grapple with my own mortality, as you can imagine. I’m hopeful. But I’ve seen enough mothers, including my own, succumb to cancer to understand that the reason that joke lands is because it’s true. If we don’t laugh we cry. Or, in my case, we both laugh and cry, and that’s just how it’s gonna be, I think.

Comedy is tragedy plus time… hopefully lots of time

I’m not really sure how all of this is going to go. But I’m hoping to find some humor and some joy, to watch some movies and to write about it all. I’ll keep you posted.

xo Molly

(prop cigarette. doctors say: do not smoke.)

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