2007

Who knew I’d live this long? It was certainly not my mother, who also had some suggestions on where I’d be spending eternity. I didn’t actually plan on making it past thirty, because all of my generation though they’d drop the bomb, just like Bob told us in Talking WW III blues. The atmosphere of the nation of my youth was fatalistic, but at the same time, giddy and frantically intense. Sex was generally more casual than today, with fewer consequences in the form of STD’s. In addition to an emphasis on “free love”, the Woodstock generation was not concerned with material processions, or power, or status. So what the hell happened to them? The globe is certainly no safer than it was back then, in fact, we may be closer to doomsday than ever before. What caused the boomers to abandon their ideals, vote Republican, and get us into another nasty unwinnable war? Oh, did you think I had an answer? Nope, I’m completely baffled. My politics are still the same as they were in my idealistic youth, unlike most of the people I still know from that era. I do run into an old hippie now and again, and we rehash and lament the loss of the power base that was going to change the world, but then the cocktail party is over and we both go back home and do nothing. Well, I actually do some things to volunteer in the political arena, but just enough to make me realize I’m not going to make any changes that way. In truth my power to change anything is limited to a very small circle, one about the circumference of my shadow at noon on a summer day. So this gets me around to the reason for my post, New Year’s resolutions.

First I should rehash last year’s resolutions and see where I stand with those. My main aim at that time was weight loss. It’s why I originally started this blog, although in doing so I found a new voice that had been greatly suppressed on my “family blog”. It turns out that my issue was not with weight at all (surprise), but with the reasons why I had turned to food to self medicate. As everyone in the fucking universe who has been within the sound of my voice knows, I’m so over that. I still have some of the baggage of my bad old days to shed, about 50 more pounds. That should put me back into the purple hip hugger bell bottoms I was wearing the night I met my husband. Okay, I won’t be wearing those again guys, but the point is, I will be able to fit into a 10 again by sometime in April. That was the extent of last’s year’s resolutions. I never make many, because the ones I do make I keep. I find they have a way of winding about and making me realize other things that must be changed. With my weight issue last year I tackled the elephant in the living room, my husband’s drinking. The beast is still sitting there, but making no pretense at invisibility any longer. Now all that said, I can get to my new goals for 2007. They are deceptively simple.

1. Demand that my husband get treatment for his alcoholism.
2. Start doing the things I was putting off because I was going to lose weight first.

That’s it boys and girls. Since last years single resolution has turned my little world upside down, I think these two should rock that world on its foundations.

I cleaned out my pocket book today. I say that like I only have one, and you know that’s not true. I sometimes take a few items out of my favorite and tuck them into another bag for show, but when I need anything, it’s always at home in my faithful alligator embossed black leather bag. Yes, I’m vegetarian, but I don’t care to justify leather shoes and bags right now, thanks. I’m not given to carrying my whole life around on my arm as some of my female friends seem to do, but I must say the contents I dumped on the floor do have something to say about me. You can decide exactly what:

- My favorite pen, the one I can never find when I need it.

- A pack of Parliaments. Did I mention that I don’t smoke?

- The lighter I found when I was cleaning the bathroom. I know the evidence is mounting for my smoking, but honestly I quit 25 years ago. Okay, I sometimes have one socially, like at a party. The last one I had was on December 20. I swear!

- A key card from a hotel that I must have inadvertently kept. Don’t ask.

- A $40.00 gas card from Sheetz they gave me at work. I have filled up the Prius twice and forgotten that I could have used the card.

- The fob from the same Prius, on a cord that says “Tolerantes, Brandenburg”. I think that’s a German town, but I’m not sure, but I think someone gave it to me in Iowa a few years ago. Go figure.

- Lists galore, many of them on the same sheet of paper with writing ideas and lines of poetry I intend to complete at some point in time. This one says Conjugated Linoleic Acid and the “wrongness of trees”. Humm?

- A little book, decorated by my sweet daughter-in-luv for keeping new ideas in when they spring to mind in the future.

- Powder and lipstick tucked into a small bag along with safety pins, tweezers and a nail file, a complete McGuiver/Mata Hari kit.

- Tissues covered with lipstick. Why did I put those back in the bag?

- Change and a few dollars. I’m not sure how much change, cause the lining has a tiny hole somewhere and some coins have escaped from the bag into the space between the lining and the leather. They sit there snickering to each other, knowing I’ll never be able to get them.

- My new health insurance cards

- Last year’s health insurance cards

- Insurance cards from my last job, expired in 2000

- Current car insurance cards

- Last year’s insurance cards for my old car

- Keys from my last car, on a chain with my house keys, the keys from my husband’s last car, and the keys from my son’s last car. I’m sure the house key still works, although we never lock the place.

- Cell phone, complete with pictures I took and haven’t figured out how to download yet.

- Appointment cards from Nesbit salon including the first cut from September, the Clarabell visit (don’t ask), and the one for January that I intend to cancel cause I found a better and cheaper place.

- Business cards from another salon, and another from a car dealership, plus the card from my manager’s boss with her personal phone number listed. Did she really think I would call her at home if I had problems?

- An appointment card from August 25 from a counselor. It was one I skipped in favor of blogging it out. Thanks guys, you saved me some bucks.

- Stamps that I intended to use to mail cards I failed to send.

- Checkbook with driver’s license and credit card holder. Oh, there’s the blood donor card they wanted two weeks ago. I wish they hadn’t told me that a little girl in Charlottesville had already been given 300 or more units of blood, but was brain damaged and not expected to live.

- My Ipod in its spiffy green case, loaded with great stolen music. I’m in love with Leonard Cohen’s “I’m Your Man”. I know I just might be too old to have his baby, but Lord, he has a sexy voice.

- Receipts from the grocery store, Total Wine, Tan A Chinese market, Target, Barnes and Nobel, and Bed, Bath, and Beyond, but none from the one gift I need to return. Did I mention that I started this clean out to find that receipt?

Well, you’ve wasted another perfectly good few minutes reading this, and I have wasted even more writing. Time to get to work. I do have just one more thing, something to add to my New Year’s resolution list.

- Clean out pocketbook more often

Just for Today

I am the most logical and irrational of women.
Loved by a man who is all too human.
He waited for me to realize
That if I really wanted to go
I would give no warning.

We won’t go back to life as usual
I will be the woman my mother was
Instead of the one she told me I should be.
Too many years have gone for me to start again
And while he is not everything I need
No one is.
I will take those things I must have from this day on.
I will not throw myself on the grenade
Or whimper quietly in the silence of my room.

In the end it comes down to this.
It’s not about the chaos he leaves in his wake
Or sex, or dreams for the future,
Or the damage he’s done, mostly to himself, but some to the children.
It’s about love, whatever the hell that is
And he loves me more than any man ever has
Because he stayed and put up with my crap too
And loved our children, including the one I bore before I knew him.
I never had to tell him to hold me when I’m hurting.
He knows to take me in his arms without a word.
He knows when I need to cry and won’t because of pride.
He knows me better than I know myself,
The same way I know him.

And now for the continuning story...

It’s been quite a week once again here in Peyton Place. John was found mysteriously asleep in the bathroom floor again, although he swears he isn’t drinking. Marsha would just give up altogether if it weren’t for the time she spent on her knees, and by the way, God’s going to send her, well, uhh, me straight to hell for that. I figure I’ll be in the good company of all you other Bloggers who come here to read about my escapades.

Somehow I’ve pulled the Christmas thing together while working more hours than there are in the week, spending more money than I made, and burning many more calories than I consumed. It’s all right though. My manager pulled me aside today to talk promotion, the floor under the tree is laden with packages, and I’m down 65 pounds as of this week. I don’t know if it will help me make a decision, but my oldest and I are going out for coffee Sunday morning to talk. The rest of the house will be sleeping, because he and I are the early risers in the family. We could just sit in the kitchen and be alone, but leaving to talk is symbolic somehow. I know he wants me to stay, and is going to want me to tell him exactly what I might gain by leaving.

My one confident at work told me I should make a list with the pros and cons, then make a decision based on logic. He is a delightful, and very happily married bear of a man, grumpy and growling in the morning, while I play little Mary Sunshine. He’s not one of the people I fool any of the time. “Maybe you’re right.” I tell him, lying. What I’m actually thinking is how little we of the opposite sex understand each other. I do need to make a list for Christmas dinner, and of chores to finish before Monday morning, but my husband’s pros and cons are twisted about like chewing gum in my hair. Somehow between now and Sunday morning I need to come up with the answer to a lot of questions, especially the one about what I want. I think I already have an answer though. It's printed on a sweatshirt my middle son got for his close to Christmas birthday one year...

and he stoppeth one of three

I felt I had to redeem myself by staying relatively sober and straight at the Christmas party last night. In September when I visited my friends Wayne and Kathy, I had to call and apologize the next day. Kathy told me then that I was funny, not at all indiscrete, and that actually my fall into the guitar case could have happened to anyone. It’s wonderful to have friends who lie to make you feel better, but I really don’t want to establish a pattern. I think I did better because my hangover was gone by 11 this morning. The worst I did was dropping a glass of water I drinking when I tried to alternate wine and water. Actually I did that twice, then decided it was time to slow down. I got a new glass of water, wondered out of the kitchen, and started talking to an interesting man in the hall. I had seen him when he came in earlier, grey hair and a time worn face, but with a twinkle in his eye and a definite spark in his manner. The conversation we had was about writing, which he knows I do, music, from the jam session going on in the other room, and alcohol, which he is not drinking and I am. He is not a man for small talk and he has no time for BS. He scans me like Jean Luc Picard at the helm of the enterprise, and I tell him the truth, that I am married to an alcoholic, and that I fear my son is taking that same path. He asks me why I don’t leave. I try to lie and tell him I don’t know, but he does not allow me my rationalizations. I try again.
“Maybe I’m afraid”, I say defensively.
“Or maybe you are playing the martyr” says Jean Luc.
“I know I have done that in the past, but I am trying to stop.”
“It’s your pride,” he states definitively.
“Perhaps,” I agree cautiously. He starts telling me about Al-Anon meetings and I start making excuses for why that won’t work. “I’m not religious, “ I tell him firmly, thinking I’m going to get a sermon shortly.
“I’m a Buddhist,” comes the reply. We talk for a while and he does what the Baptist that reared me called “testify”. It’s not the kind of thing I normally stand still for, but there was something about him that made the medicine palatable. Finished with the conversation, Jean Luc left me there to think. Pride is one of the seven deadly sins I do believe, an extremely tricky one. I mean lust is so clear cut, so simple, and I have no question that it has already earned me a place in hell. I just don’t know about pride though. Seems like if I had any I would have left long ago, but maybe it’s the martyr problem I have, the one I learned at my mother’s feet. I am so weary of this fence I’m straddling, and I know honesty is the only answer. Some people have a gift for holding a mirror for others to view themselves, and Jean Luc is such a man. I’ll let you know how the meeting goes.

A Word to the Wise

I was off from work today so I finished up my Christmas shopping, and since I was in the neighborhood, I stopped by Kiss and Make Up. I don’t think I’ve ever been so indulgent of myself as I have this year. My new friend Ruth who owns the shop told me that was a good thing. The man who did my hair today told me the same, and while I realize both of them have a vested interest in parting me from my money, I have to admire how good they are at doing so. While I was browsing through the naughty books, videos, toys, and sexy lingerie, many other customers came in, all male. The said they were buying those next to nothing outfits and videos for their wives, and I have no reason not to believe them. I just wonder where the hell those men were when I was looking for love in all the wrong places. A number of them were older than me and you know I just couldn’t help checking these guys out, discretely, of course. Let me just say that you can’t judge a book by its cover. I tried to be nonchalant when I asked Ruth’s helper about the warming massage oils the gentleman before me had just purchased. She told me they came in peach and vanilla, neither of which seemed very masculine to me. I asked if they had a strong smell, and she said no, very light, and besides they were edible. The next sound I heard coming from my mouth was an impious little laugh. I glanced quickly around the room and noticed the two males who heard the exchange were keeping their eyes down, but smiling. The girl handed me the bottle to try on my arm. It was nice, but of course, I just had to taste it. I was standing there licking my arm realizing that men were pretending to ignore me. I was definitely feeling the warmth, so I concluded my shopping and left with a wicked smile on my face.

My next stop was Target to spend the $100 gift card my boss gave me on Thursday. As I took my fast clip around the store throwing things in my cart, I passed by the small appliance aisle. I saw a man trying to decide which crock pot to buy, and he was not the only guy walking up and down considering gifts with a handle. Now actually, I like practical gifts more than most women, but I can’t help thinking that the men I saw in Kiss and Make Up are probably getting more than the Target set. I’m not sure if this is one of those chicken and egg questions or not, but men out there, if you haven’t decided where to do your Christmas Shopping I recommend the vanilla over the peach.

A list of things to do before Christmas

- Make 16 different kinds of cookies for my family and gifts to friends, and not taste any of them.

- Finish my Christmas shopping. I should mention that I just started it online Thursday of this week. I went out Saturday to do some more, but just bought things for myself. A girl needs clothes you know, and with the 60 pound weight loss, my old ones aren’t working. If I had more time I would justify the new shoes too, but actually I just like the way the 4 inch heels set off my legs.

- Clean the house. Can’t let Santa find any dust bunnies under the beds you know.

- Decorate the house. On that note, I finally got the pumpkins and fall leaf motif off the front porch yesterday.

- Put in many hours of OT at work. I did 15 in the past week, including a 1 to midnight shift on Friday that turned into 1 to 1. It’s a long boring story, but suffice it to say my company took on about a million new customers on the Pacific coast without understanding the concept of time zones so well.

- Not think about the fact that I need to make my decision on leaving my husband after Christmas. Why the hell did I set myself that deadline? Cozy family togetherness followed by the sound of a door slamming makes me look pretty heartless. In his favor, he rarely smells of alcohol anymore and is making an effort to be a partner in the marriage. On the down side, I would have to accept the fact that nothing is going to change in the bedroom. The DL, as one of my blog world friends so crudely but honestly put it, is keeping me sane for now. I almost wish I could conjure up some guilt for my actions, but for the life of me I can’t tell that we’re hurting anyone, and it’s making life sweeter for both of us. What I don’t know is if it’s easing my transition out the door or giving me just enough to make staying tolerable.


One of my friends from the good side of the blog force stated that he often made lists and included things that he’d already done, just so he could cross them off. I admitted that I have been known to do the same. Okay, I am a compulsive list maker, but I’m trying to stop, honestly. I’ll just put it down here in an inconspicuous fashion that I just finished what I think is a very good story and plan to try for publication after Christmas.

Right now I’m off to start on the cookies. My compulsive list thing, well, I could stop myself anytime, but not right now.

Elf Drops
Pecan Bars
Bourbon Balls
Peanut logs
Fudge Peppermint sandwich
Highland oatmeal
Molasses crinkles
Date pinwheels
Orange slice bars
Toffee bars
Coconut Strawberries
Lemon Meringue bars
Cranberry shortbread
Apricot thumbprints
Chocolate Mice
Sugar cookies

You won't need a title for this one darlin'

I have slept with you on my mind all night, and now, half awake, reach to find you again in the lonely hours of the morning. The pillow beside me is unwrinkled, the sheets still tucked. No need to lie longer with this yearning inside, I am up to greet the day when it finally comes around. Morning rituals cannot shake the sense you are just beyond my reach, teasing me, willing me to slip into your hungry embrace. The hot water of the shower draws traces over my skin where your hands did not venture last night. My own hands know those places well, and I linger in the spray, touching my mouth, my breast, aching for the sweet taste of you. My body is yielding and made smooth as glass from the milky suds. I will your strong hard hands to trail creatively over my softness, and impatiently guide your phantom member into me. Leaning breathless against the wall, I yield to the waves of passion you have unleashed. The moment passes as easily as it came, and eyes wide open, you retreat to the shadows.

Another day begins.

CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE

I see him staring across the room and I resist the urge to turn and look behind me. I look down at the drink in my glass instead, and then turn my head to glance at the imaginary interesting thing across the room. Casually, like a cat intent on a mouse, I turn my head back. When I reach the line that is connecting me to the other side of the room, his focus is still directly on me. I look appraisingly for a long moment. I can keep my mouth neutral, but I know my eyes always betray me. I look back down at my glass, but I can feel him moving, fumbling with the chair, straightening his clothes, picking safe spots for his feet, deciding what foolish line he will try when he gets here. He sits without speaking and I look up, momentarily taken aback.
“Oh, was this seat taken?” He smiles confidently, leaning a bit backward in his chair.
I pretend to be deciding, but he sees that I’ve already decided. I give him my best enigmatic smile,
“Evidently” That’s all he’s getting from me for now.
We listen, we pose, we breath the moment in deeply. This is the best part, and we don’t want to rush anything. The next line is critical. He shifts his body closer.

Easier than anything I'll ever do again

I heard our song the other day, that awful country thing you sang to me while we stared into each other’s eyes all those years ago. I thought of you standing there in the lavender shirt I loved, the one that picked up the lavender in your beautiful, soulful eyes. I remember the long dark lashes, the wavy black hair, and how …wait, I remember why you were there. You had just returned after having left two weeks earlier with out so much as a “see ya later”. I was the idiot who was tangled naked with you in the bed sheets within an hour of your homecoming. Okay, it wasn’t just the sex, you had to know I loved you and would have followed you down the toughest road you could imagine. You left again of course, giving up what could have been your salvation. I wonder where you are from time to time, but since I never knew where you came from, or where you went when I finally sent you away for good, there’s no point in looking. The picture of you standing there, sheepish grin, eyes flashing fire, fine as fine has ever been, will stay with me forever though. And that stupid song, it still gets me every time.

Dawn comes 'round again

I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth. I am working diligently on a serious piece I want to submit for publication. Eva’s whirlwind arrivals and departures always leave me a bit pensive, but mostly I dread the upcoming holiday season. I have noticed that Christmas lights are suddenly appearing in stores and houses, while my front porch still sports pumpkins and autumn leaves. As I passed through the living room last night my husband was watching “Charlie Brown Christmas”, reminding me of the deadline I set for myself for leaving him. While I’ve been gathering my courage, I have also been trying to talk myself into staying. I asked myself, why now? Heaven knows things are no worse than they have been in the past; in fact they aren’t as bad. I know I’m the one who has changed, regained my confidence, found my pride again. He made an effort after I told him it was over, but he can’t sustain it because it didn’t come from any conviction on his part. He says I have changed him a great deal, but I’m not sure of that anymore. I made his life more comfortable. I made him look good to all our friends and family. The only time I showed my anger was when he was too drunk to remember anything. By the next morning I was calm and reasonable when I related the horrors of the night before to him. I let it slide, year after year, and tolerated his duality. I was unwilling to leave the gentle, loving father of my children, but to have that man in the daytime I had to live with the drunk at night. For these few months I thought the vampire might be able to change his nature, but we’re almost back to where we were before. I just heard him pick himself up from the living room floor and head down the hall to the bedroom. I’m not going to warn him this time.

The Idiots Guide to Zen

The calming music is stuck on a 60 second replay loop and the room is dark and decorated in shades of brown, teal, and orange. There are flickering candles, and an atmosphere somewhere between a high class brothel and a hospital operating room. After charging through a busy noisy day, I am suddenly thrust into a deprivation chamber with no human contact, and I am beginning to have scary little visions of the world outside changing so rapidly while I am stuck in slow motion, that I will not recognize anything when I step outside the door of the spa. Facials” my girl said yesterday, “are amazing. We have to get one Mom”. So that was all settled, and here I am setting in the darkness, having rushed to make my appointment, only to be told it’s going to be a half hour late, that I can’t talk to my daughter who’s already in with Deborah getting her treatment, and would I please turn my cell phone off? I search through my pocketbook for a pen so I can at least write, but I must have dumped them all in the car when it overturned. I pace from end to end of the tiny room and then out into the hall. I am embarrassed to admit that I have no capacity for relaxation right now, no desire for quiet meditation, and no interest in even sitting down.

I make a dash for the front door and pull out my cell. I call my son to find out what time our dinner reservations are, but he has no idea as Eva had been gone with his car since early that morning. Cold in my light jacket, I decide I must face the music and head back to the muted tones of the perfectly appointed room. An attendant drops by to remind me of the importance of hydration, and goes off to fetch me water with lemon. I alternated drinking and pacing until I see a door open in the darkened hallway and a smiling Greek goddess emerges and immediately begins to apologize for being late. Eva is getting dressed she says, and I mull over in my mind why one has to get undressed for a facial. My girl gives me that do not embarrass me look the minute she sees me, so I keep my questions to a minimum. When my turn comes, I take my clothes off with out a murmur, slip under the sheet in the darkened room, and wait for the talented Deborah. She enters with a smile and tells me we will start with a sensory journey, which I would have sworn was total BS until the smell of the Bergemot hit me and I felt myself physically sinking deeper into the soft heated table. After an hour with her plying me with lotions, hot towels, massage, and some reflexology moves, I was not only relaxed, I was ready to reconsider my sexual preference. I’m not sure paying someone to make me feel that good is legal in Virginia.

When I emerged almost 90 minutes later, my children were waiting to go to dinner, but on the way we had to stop by the Apple store and buy Eva a computer. I floated through the evening calm and relaxed, extending my debit and credit card numerous times. We ended the night at an amazing restaurant where my children had all American artery clogging steaks, almost raw, along with salad and potatoes. Did I mention that she’s vegetarian too, but like me, not a real righteous one? We stumbled upon the weekly special at the restaurant, all wine at half price, so we had a bit of the hearty house red while Eva recounted her shopping adventures. She had just as much fun as I did at Kiss and Make Up and discovered she was also wearing the wrong size bra. She also got new running shoes to jog off that steak, and lots of accessories and clothing. Jason and I just sit on the other side of the table, totally entertained, me still calm, relaxed, and glowing from my facial. Tomorrow, or even next week I will think about the money. I am grateful now that I have excellent credit, wonderful children, and the good sense to live in this moment.

LUNGS...ON...FIRE!!!

Trailing my warm up jacket behind me by one sleeve, watching the retreating backs of my 20 something spawn of Satan. Oh, wait, those are my lovely children. This is my fault, as usual. Since I have been putting in about two miles or more on the treadmill everyday for the last three months, I insanely believed I could keep up when my daughter said, “Oh, Mom, would you like to go out for a jog instead?” I did pretty well the first mile, except for the intervals when she and Jason ran backwards and Eva insisted it was just so she could talk to me. I could still form words at that point, so after the mile warm up she realized if I could still talk I wasn’t pushing myself enough. Then the fun began. I am proud to say that I made it home alive and I did the ab workout with them afterwards. It was so good to lie down on the floor, even if I didn’t get to stay prone for long.

She’s in the shower now getting ready for another marathon, this one at the mall. She’s still on London time, so when I woke this morning all the empty wine bottles we left on the table last night after dinner were cleaned up, the table was pristine, and she even ran the dishwasher. I’m off now to make coffee and make sure my debit card is in my wallet. I know, but it’s a small price for the excitement she brings with her. I do love it when my girl comes home.

This from a dear friend, the kind every woman should have

WOMAN SHOULD HAVE...one old love she can imagine going back to and one who reminds her how far she has come...
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE...enough money within her control to move out and rent a place of her own even if she never wants to or needs to...
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE …something perfect to wear if the employer or date of her dreams wants to see her in an hour...
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE...a youth she's content to leave behind...
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE...a past juicy enough that she's looking forward to retelling it in her old age...
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .a set of screwdrivers, cordless drill, and a black lace bra...
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE…one friend who always makes her laugh... and one who lets her cry...
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE...a good piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in her family..
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ...eight matching plates, wine glasses with stems, and a recipe for a meal that will make her guests feel honoured.
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE...a feeling of control over her destiny...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW. ..how to fall in love without losing herself...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... .how to quit a job, break up with a lover, and confront a friend without ruining the friendship..and how to change a tire...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...when to try harder... and when to walk away...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... ...that she can't change the length of her calves, the width of her hips, or the nature of her parents...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW......that her childhood may not have been perfect...but it’s over...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW….what she would and wouldn't do for love or more...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... .how to live alone... even if she doesn't like it
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...whom she can trust, whom she can't, and why she shouldn't take it personally...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... where to go... be it to her best friend's kitchen table.. or a charming inn in the woods... when her soul needs soothing...
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... what she can and can't accomplish in a day.. a month...and a year...


According to this, I almost have it all. Wish I'd gotten the list sooner.

REMATCH

They didn't even have to ask me. My boss sent me an email this morning about the next paintball game. My exact reply was "Bring it on". I got a new email just now with many added comments from around the office. One of them said, "Told you she wasn't concerned about the bruises..." My only problem is that my cover is blown. Maybe I better get some practice in this weekend. Oh, and that new gun I saw, and maybe some better ammunition. Anyone else up for a game December 3?

Standing on the threshold is great for earthquakes, but not such a good place to live

My girl, the force of nature, will be here next Saturday. We’ll be in the kitchen together on Thanksgiving (American that is, November 23) cooking up free range organic turkey, probably stuffed with something that cost $30 an ounce and she needs about a stone, or maybe a little more for her recipe. Is that okay? I will roll my eyes and try to say no as she drops it in the cart and I’m still calculating the American equivalent in pounds. She didn’t know how to boil water 3 years ago, but she has since become a chef. She does nothing by half measures, charging full force through grocery stores and protest marches. She has no strings attached and she offers no apologies. Thanksgiving will be all warm, homey, family time. If anyone, and by that, I mean me, tries to bring up unpleasantness, she will tell us we need an adventure and whisk us off to Mexico, or maybe just up the side of a sheer cliff, with no rope or any visible means of support. I can just see her retreating backside, face turned around to mine, “Come on Mom. It’s not that hard.”

There will be no rain while she is here, or if there is, she will somehow stay dry and in the sunshine. Right now it’s raining like gangbusters and the basement is flooded. My husband took the week off to clean the gutters and do some maintenance on the house, but he never got around to any of the chores. The pump that empties the east end of the drainage field was clogged and not running. The gutters, full of those lovely autumn leaves, overflowed and sent torrents of water down unfamiliar pathway around the foundation of the house. I moved the electrical cords, turned on all the pumps, opened the garage door to drain that area, and then got him up off the floor where he was passed out again. I don’t feel like being down in the water right now, so I’m hiding out upstairs in the computer room because, well, it’s my birthday. No big deal really because I require no brass bands, or standing ovations, just an hour away from the deluge, please.

Someone put an emergency procedure manual in my cube the other day. I looked it over because evidently there will be a test. Each section begins exactly the same, REMAIN CALM. Everything from nuclear war to bee stings will be simple to deal with if we just don’t panic, according to my manual. It included floods, but had nothing that would help me with this marital quagmire in which I am firmly stuck. I try to remember the last time I panicked in a crisis and realize that would be never. I stood in the hospital emergency room holding a significant piece of my oldest son’s scalp in place while the overworked Doc went off to look for needles and sutures. I pulled a blue toddler from a screaming mom’s arms and removed the piece of hotdog from his tiny throat. I stayed inside and called 911 when my insane husband decided to clean the gutters in a lightning storm and fell off the roof. He does tend to procrastinate, but I saw no reason for both of us to die that night. So, we’re back to the rain. It’s still falling and it doesn't show signs it’s going to let up. So why do I whine to the computer instead of packing my bags? Do I love crisis that much? Am I such a big egotist that I don’t think anyone else can deal with this train wreck? Or just maybe, do you hear it boys and girls? That high childish soprano that rings out in the background, “Sun-ul come out Tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar…” I wish I could smack that curly red wig off her little optimistic head.

I DO LOVE THE GAME

My husband, you remember him, right? My husband came to bed at 2:30 this morning, sober, woke me, and asked if I wanted to go to a hockey game Saturday night to celebrate my birthday. Whoa! Can an old dog really learn new tricks? We haven’t been to a sporting event of any kind for more years than I can count and I’m not sure who is to blame for that. He is a spectator and will watch any sport on TV, but I never got the feeling he liked live games as much. No play by play or analysis no doubt. I on the other hand have not the slightest interest in TV sport, but the live games, well, what’s not to like. As I lie there in his arms, he tells me he likes the changes I’m making in my life. It only takes me seconds to analyze that one. I am becoming more like the girl he married, before the weary days of being the one in charge of everything weighted me down, figuratively and literally. After long years of taking me for granted, he still likes the chase, the feeling of insecurity I have given him. We have come a long way in the short time since I told him I was already out the door. I still don’t know what I’m going to decide, but my life is certainly much more interesting than it was before. I have the freedom I needed and it seems to suit him as well as it does me. He never asks questions about where I’m going or what I’ve done anymore, and he’s mostly quit drinking. That “mostly” thing is the kicker, but still, a hockey game! I have to give the man credit; he’s still knows how to get my attention.

Strange Day

I am feeling a bit nervous. Net nanny is gone I can suddenly access my blog and everyone else’s from my desk at work. One of my outbound calls today that came up automatically on my dialer was to my mother in law. That was a hoot. My candidate, the Democrat, won in Virginia. My boss moved me to a window seat, and there is a man hanging outside on the 3rd floor, washing the space behind my head on this windy, rainy, day. My boobs are covered with purple bruises.

Is that you God? Well, you can just forget it. I'm not changing my plans for the evening.

It was only a flesh wound

I smell like wood smoke, I have 4 technicolor circular bruises across my chest, a patch of pink paint I can’t seem to wash off my neck, and a pile of sweaty, leaf and mud covered camouflage clothing in the laundry. On a more positive note, I have no wounds anywhere on my backside like the IT guys I killed, my face has a nice rosy flush, and my adrenaline level is way off the charts. In other words, I have a new favorite hobby. It was righteous! All the bad hits I took were after I had already declared myself dead. Evidently yelling "I'm out" is the best way to draw fire in the take no prisioners paintball game. I took one clean shot to the head, and a few sideswipes that were in the rules as killing blows. I took out the best player while I was being fired on in two directions, and almost got the other sniper. The contest was declared a draw, but I think we all won a day of great exercise and good fun. I also think I shouldn’t have any more trouble getting my computer problems fixed in the future.

They're going down

I’ve been a busy girl today traveling both to the sex shop and the gun store. Now that got your attention, right? You think there was a story in there, wouldn’t you, but actually the two are unrelated, just a few of the errands on my list for the day. Before you let your imagination go too far I will mention that the guns my son and I purchased were of the paint ball variety. I took him home before going to the Kiss and Make Up because no matter how liberal a mom I am, well, he’s my son.

I had no idea there was a sex/spicy lingerie shop in our rather conservative burg until last week. My, my, that was interesting. A very nice Jewish lady named Ruth asked what size bra I wore, and then flung open my jacket, and so help me, felt me up! She then announced I was not a C, but a DD and went about proving to me she was right. After trying on half the store, I went home with nice unmarked pink bag of 10 silk and lace items more expensive per ounce than gold, and feeling pretty happy with myself.

I carefully hid my new naughty things in the back of the lingerie chest I inherited from my Mom, listened carefully for sound of enraged angels for a moment, and then joined my son in the back yard. We spent an hour racing about the yard killing trees with splats of yellow paint. It seems pretty easy and fun, but of course trees don’t fire back. I realized we needed more ammo after a short time, and headed back to the store. The sales clerk remembered me. After all how many crazy, red headed women come in to buy paint ball guns and camouflage on the average day? He looked me in the eye and said, “You’re really playing paint ball, hum?” When I answered in the affirmative, he gave me a cool appraising look and said, “ Take lots of pictures.” Our rendezvous with destiny is on Sunday, when we will be fighting it out with the IT department on 20 acres of woodlands in New Kent County. I’m glad Jason is going with me. Unlike the guy in the gun store, and the tech support guys on Sunday, he knows it’s dangerous to underestimate me.

Sixteen

 

Before the Storm

Finally it was the lurid rich aroma of the all-pervading honeysuckle that compelled me to pull on my clothes and climb out through the open window. The moon was to blame too, creeping through the blinds, spilling across the floor, even prying its way under the pink linen sheet of my childhood that I attempted to draw up over my head. It showed no embarrassment at its successful intrusion, but paved a sliver sidewalk across the wet grass where my feet could find safe purchase amid the shadows. I felt a brief yearning for one of the many dogs that always followed at my heels in years past, but they had been banished by my mother when we made our move to a more elegant part of town. All of them had been boon companions, big practical working dogs, attuned to my moods, and trailing silently along beside me for the reward of an head scratch or perhaps a bit of leftover dinner. Tonight they would not have understood my journey, and would have howled at being left behind as I got into the car, put it into neutral, and rolled silently out of the driveway.

I turned the engine over, cringing at the noise, and pulled slowly away from the house and my sleeping parents. I turned on the headlights when the car was finally past their bedroom window and tuned the radio to the Chicago station that only came in after all decent people were asleep. If my parents had known about it, they would have forbidden me to listen to the cutting edge music of the day. I don’t remember what was playing that particular night, but I was singing alone, windows down, watching for danger in the form of one of the two police cars that might be patrolling the county. I made it undetected for the mile it took to get to the drive in restaurant where everyone hung out. I scanned the line of cars backed into spaces behind the neon lit burger joint, looking for his aqua and white 57 Chevy. He was sitting there on the front fender, smoking a cigg, surrounded by a crew of other surly teenage rebels. I drove past, pretending not to notice him, and parked my car at the end of the row. I didn’t have to wait long before he opened my door and pulled me out for a kiss. He tasted like tobacco, a singularly masculine flavor to me, and the taste mixed with his aroma, a smell like terry cloth towels just pulled from the clothesline on a hot summer day.

Hand in hand we stroll back to his car, walking the gauntlet of jealous boys whose girlfriends didn’t have the reckless abandon to climb out windows on summer nights. I was proud to be with him for some unknown reason. He is my first real boyfriend, tall and blond, with a body that was all lean muscle from working long hours on the family farm. I had no sense of my own beauty or value, so I believe him when he implies I am lucky to be with him. The exhaust of his engine blends with the other cruisers as we pull out onto the highway in his car. He is driving with one hand, the other around my shoulders, our thighs touching, and my hand resting casually on his leg. We have nothing of any importance to talk about. He dropped out of high school after 9th grade and he knows I am college bound, but he is cunning, clever in the ways of courting innocence, and knows that I am drawn to the danger.

We parked behind the farmer’s co-op store, under the big tipple where giant trucks came to dump the bounty of corn, soybeans, and wheat that grows in the flat fields of black earth that stretched for hundreds of miles in every direction. The engine stops and we are in our usual clinch, his mouth hard and demanding on my own soft lips, his hands already pushing an assault past the last bit of ground he had gained under my clothing on previous dates. We don’t say a word, just kiss while I struggle against the Calvary charge of his demanding hands. The war was not going well for him, and it was time to pull out all stops. He backed away to his side of the car, angry and sullen, and says he is taking me back. I am puzzled and ask what I have done to displease him. He turns in amazement that he has to spell it out for me, the girl who had defied her parents and all social convention to meet him on the sly, but one look at my guileless face and he realized he has underestimated my naivety, and he knows what to say.

“If you really loved me you wouldn’t stop me.” There it was, the oldest line in the annals of male female relationships, but definitely new to me, and he thought I’d fall for it. I knew the right answer though, and it surprised him.

“If you really loved me, you wouldn’t ask when I’m not ready.” We both held our positions on opposite sides of the car, sulking in earnest. He finally gave in, kissed me a little brotherly peck and started the engine. We had been gone long enough for him to brag to his friends, and he is astute enough to know I won’t hold out forever.

The cloying honeysuckle smell seemed to mock me when I slip back into my window, unnoticed by man or beast. Mom should have waited until I went away to college to get rid of those dogs. My dreams that night were not of my boyfriend’s cold grey eyes, but of running through the woods with the big old black and tan hound that had been so loved by my father. I am ten instead of sixteen, and the air is hot, sticky, and smells like rain. I nearly trip over the dog’s enormous feet as he dashes back and forth in front of me, ears flapping, his tongue hanging out in a laughing way. I race to make it back to the shelter of the warm safe barn before the summer storm. I see the sky light up with the flash of lightning, and then I wake with a start at the sudden boom of thunder. It’s only Mom in the kitchen sitting the cast iron skillet on the burner. I am still in my clothes under the covers and have to hurry to change into pajamas and head to the kitchen to help Mom with breakfast. I am setting the table when Dad comes in with a warm good morning, and a kiss on the back of the neck for his busy wife. She pretends not to like it, and twists away, but I suddenly realize she is putting on a farce for my sake. Lightning flashes again in my head as I look at the two of them for the first time.

Uncharted Water

Danger slides in whispers under the bow.
The horizon blends seamlessly with the cold grey ocean.
I search for landmarks
Until my eyes grow weary with the watching.
My craft is tiny and unsuitable, my hands blistered with the task of rowing.
I lift my oar to listen.
Birds perhaps, or just a sounding whale, it makes no difference.
My course is set.
I have determined that any direction is better than none,
even if it leads to perdition.

Naked Almost Always Gets Attention

My daughter really needs a blog of her own, but of course, she’s too busy living life to write about it. Maybe when she slows down a bit, in 40 or 50 years, but I’m not even sure that will be long enough. Our morning phone calls always have very loud intellectual arguments going on in the background, but I did get the dates for her visit home, November 18 to 25.

“Would you book those tickets for me please Mom?” By book she means pay for, but it’s a small fee for the exhilarating whirlwind of her presence for a few days. She fills me in on her exciting life, no time to talk really, must run, but then she mentions casually that she was naked on stage in a London West End theater.

“What” I say, my interest peaked?

“Oh, you know, it was Phil’s show, The Naked Racist. It’s all about peace and love and anti-war protest.” Phil is her former housemate and known to both of us.

“And you were completely naked,” I say in the most non-judgmental mom voice I can summon.
“Yup, aren’t you proud of me Mom”, she jokes.

Our conversation ends all too soon with the usual promise of a really long talk at some mythical time in the future. She hates talking on the phone because for her it’s like being blind. She gets most of what people are telling her from body language and facial expressions. I know that, and I also know my baby is long gone from me. I get off the phone and google the Garrick Theater where Phil is playing. Established in 1889 it says, located at Charing Cross Road near Trafalgar Square, and seats 675. I roll it over in my mind, a sold out house of 675 people. My girl thinks I am beyond being shocked by her antics, but I keep thinking of the first time I saw her naked, lying in a bassinette in the hospital nursery. She had no protest at being plunged from the warm dark womb into a world of light and action. She lay quiet and awestruck, like one who had finally come down where she meant to be. She was the driven one of my three, and had her life planned from cradle to grave by the time she was 9. This London lifestyle and the failure of her struck-by-lightening marriage have put those plans on hold for the duration. I have no shame for her showing off her perfect young body, but her recklessness does take my breath at times. I will say it here, but never to her. She must find her own way home and I must wait, keeping my impatience to myself and loving her unconditionally.

Negotiations

And there it was, the surprise move from my husband I never saw coming.
“I sometimes think you should just have an affair.”
Of all the things he has said and done to bind me, this is the one that took my breath. I had been freezing cold when I woke after several hours sleep on Sunday morning. He was coming down the hall to bed, book in hand, when I met him. Through chattering teeth I asked him if it was cold in the house, a stupid question I know, but we are not often of the same mind on the subject. He looked at the thermostat and said,
“Well, let’s turn the heat on.” I can’t imagine how cold it actually was if he was making that concession, and I also realized the big old barn we lived in was going to take a while to respond to his tweaking. I followed him down the hall to the bedroom and crawled in beside him to warm up for a minute. He had been trout fishing all day with his best friend and was exhausted from the climbing on banks and over downed trees to keep up with his chum, and he immediately started making excuses about his energy level. I told him quickly that I just wanted to get warm and he gratefully gathered me in his arms, although the idea that anyone else can be cold when he is comfortable always seems to surprise him. We talk about nothing for a few minutes and I gradually begin to stop shaking. I know it’s not fair, but I realize this may be the best moment to talk about our issues, here in the bed we have shared, the scene of the crime as it were. I let the conversation drift gradually past the mundane into the danger zone. I tell him again about freedom, excitement, control, all the things I need. I have been dry eyed through our conversations for many months, but unexpectedly I hear tears choke my voice and my words hit the ground like a grenade.
“I don’t know why I was never enough for you. Why did you choose the alcohol over me for all these years?” He says nothing for a long time but holds me closely while I sob. That’s when the words roll off his tongue, “affair”. I’m not sure I’m hearing correctly. I try to think what I want to say, what he wants to hear. He continues.
“I know your sex drive has always been much stronger than mine. If that’s what you need I understand.” I dance around it, admitting nothing as he reminds me of a friend from some years ago who took a lover while she cared for a compromised husband. The whole thing turned into a melodrama because of her poor judgment. It was not her most shinning moment. He warns me,
“I assume you know it would have to be extremely discrete and that I don’t want to know anything.” It lies there on the table for a while, and finally my voice says,
“I’ll take it under advisement.”

“What do atheist yell when they come?”

I’m sure you’re familiar with that great Bill Hicks line. It’s one of my favorites even though I actually know the answer from personal experience. Those who are carefully brought up from childhood to put their trust in the mystical teachings of Jesus often fall back on his or his father’s name in moments of passion, even if they have long ago turned all the crosses in the house upside down. It puzzles me because neither God nor Jesus seem like an entity you would want to welcome at such times, especially if the deed is a bit illicit. I will note that Jews are not above converting to Christianity in moments of congress with Wasps, which surprised the hell out of me the first time I heard it. Yesterday I found myself intrigued with foreign affairs, like those of Buddhist, Muslims, Hindus, Taoist, even Voodooist. I wish I could do a survey to find out what name believers and non believers of these sects invoke in their quasi spiritual moments. Any of you who have something to contribute to my survey feel free to help me out here. Don’t bother asking why I was thinking about this particular subject.

Ain't No Mercy In My Smiling

I am an action junkie. Few people guess this about me until it’s too late. I don’t like roller coasters or amusement park rides so much, because even though they can be quite terrifying, I don’t like the control for my terror to be in the hands of the seventeen year old boy pushing the buttons, because we all know what he’s thinking about every 8 seconds and it isn’t my safety. I will take any leap into danger, eyes wide open, but I have never been able to pass the psychological trust test, falling backward into somebody’s arms without looking. I gained a lot of anxious fears when I married the second time, but I am shedding them like snakeskin as I eagerly anticipate a new day. My mind has been independently coming up with ideas to indulge my risk taking side, each more outrageous and death defying than the next. In the meantime, I am the ever constant in my duties at work and home, but always poised for the next Walter Middy type adventure in my head. Today it became a bit more real.

My workplace is always going all out for team building and friendly competition, and as much as I try to ignore the buzz over new games, I always reluctantly agree to participate. The game today was hitting a target with a dart gun that shoots soft suction cup tipped projectiles. The number of shots you get is based on floor stats. I protest that since I am doing training, my numbers aren’t all that high. I try to beg off because of lousy eye hand coordination, but in the end I line up, my back to the window, steady my arm with the other grasped on my forearm, aim, and shoot. All 11 of my shots landed within the 50 or 100-point circles, and I was high scorer when I left at 7. As I hand the gun back I am modestly talking about luck, but inside I am gleeful. I have a pocketbook full of cards for various restaurant, gas stations and movie theaters that go unredeemed from previous competitions. My manager came to me after and asked if I would be interested in a little challenge we had received from the IT department, a paintball game. I felt my endorphin level rising. I tried to sound casual when I answered in the affirmative, but my friend standing nearby heard the too quick and excited response and laughed with me. It should be fun playing with all the young Turks, slipping in under their radar in my middle age stealth mode. They’ll never know what hit them.

My life, the musical

I replaced the sliver of lavender soap in my bathroom with a new clear lemon chamomile bar Saturday morning, now all my fantasies have a sweet citrus flavor. My Friday off was a day of secret delights and revelations, some wonderful, some dreadful, some puzzling, but I breathed them all in like the scent of the soapy bubbles falling in cascades off my skin. I slip into the jeans I struggled to fasten last weekend, now freshly washed and easily buttoned while standing up. I am inordinately pleased with myself over such a simple act. I ignore the urge to seek solutions for other people as I drive through the damp and deserted streets of early morning on my way to work. The CD I picked is softer than my usual, the poetry of Towns Van Zandt, “To live is to fly, both low and high. So shake the dust off of your wings and the sleep out of your eyes”. I don’t know exactly when my feet left the ground, but I realize I have begun my flight. Looking down, terrified and exhilarated, I drop another bit of the ballast that has held me emotionally and physically to this unhealthy place. I turn my face upward, toward the horizon, strangely content with my trepidation.

OH, SISTER

As the weight comes off I begin to remember how I used to walk. Years ago a jealous female housemate made a catty comment to me about leading with my mons pubis when I stepped out, although I don’t recall her using those exact words. I realized she was right when she said it, because I tended to suck in my stomach, square off my shoulders, and lean back slightly, taking long confident strides. I also held my head up, noticing other people instead of where my feet were going, or worrying about what I looked like. A more supportive female coworker, and of course, one whose man wasn’t trying to hit on me, recently told me that I sure was looking sexy lately, and asked how much weight had I lost. I beamed and thanked her. In the ensuing conversation that was joined in by three other women, I shared my weight loss tips. They were disappointed that my success was based on eating practically nothing and burning that off by exercise, creating a negative calorie balance. I know they wanted magic, but still they rallied to my side hoping some of my motivation would rub off on them. They are all big beautiful black women who walk with a natural confidence regardless of their size, and I am blessed to have them around. Now I am still 50 pounds away from a place where I truly feel comfortable with that old walk, but I could feel it coming back as I stepped out into the parking lot on the way to my car. I saw a few heads turn to watch me go by, and I choose to believe they were attracted by my increasing self-assurance about my appearance. I realize I am humming my favorite song from The Near Misses, “This is Your Day”. The words ring true, “I may not be where I want to be, but I’m on my way”. I square my shoulders and lean back into the cool autumn air, smiling.

Dreams (visual per your request)

In dreams I spoke,
and the words flowed so achingly sweet and clear,
that angels waited by my side with their soft mouths open,
their terrifying eyes focused most dreadfully on my face.
I woke from the nightmare with a start, alone.
I spoke, talking to myself,
my voice a pale shadow of that remembered brilliance

And though a million words could not suffice to tell even one from my dream,
clumsy, halting, with all my soul laid bare
the words course on
telling tales from heaven and hell and all the strange lands in between
and all the joys that mortals still can share.

THAT GIRL

She looks a little blurry, standing there beside a guy she’d just as soon forget. No, you can’t see him, but trust me, you’re not missing anything. I’ll just call him “the stalker”. He and his kind were the ones who sent me scurrying for safety from the storm and into the arms of what seemed reasonable, safe, and sane. I know I’ll never have her back again, but I think that’s just as well. I have the best of her still inside me, even though the package is a bit frayed, it’s improving daily. I haven’t felt this alive and engaged in years, which is why I wish I hadn’t done a personal horoscope for the very hour and day I was born. I’m just going to throw it out here for you to read and hopefully, someone will tell me it’s total crap and I should go on about my business.

You are attracted to crisis, those transition times in life when people are tested, when their social masks do not matter anymore, and the true person is revealed. You may feel most alive and most yourself in life and death situations, whether you are involved in saving lives (as a doctor or healer), in destroying them (as in war), or simply by seeking out dangerous situations and dangerous companions. Often you will create your own crisis (especially in the arena of your close personal relationships) in order to pit yourself against the challenge. Other people may view this as a self-destructive urge in you, a masochistic (or sadistic) streak. The truth is you would rather feel pain, than to feel nothing at all. You want to be fully immersed in it, deeply and passionately involved. (Life for you is not a spectator sport).

Coincidence, right, enough monkeys and enough typewriters, stopped clock, etc? Tell me now because blurry girl and I need to know if there’s another stalker in my future. 

OCTOBER AND STILL HOT

I was lying on my bed sideways, my feet on the railing, which brought my knees up level with my head. I held my breath in anticipation as my hands grasped the button of my jeans, and suddenly, oh my god, I got them fastened!! That’s three sized down from where I started two months ago, and I couldn’t be more turned on by the changes. Still a way to go, but getting ready to go out felt like the good old days when I was bad, well, just bad enough to have fun anyway. I decided it might be a good strategy to focus attention away from my still too padded middle by drawing the eye upward to a location I do not normally expose. The sheer camisole top and almost not there undergarments were not so much covered as framed by a brown jacket, and the girls did not go unnoticed. I added a newly purchased pair of brown high heel boots to the outfit and felt good enough that I would have added a picture to this post if my freaking digital camera wasn’t in a pout about something or other right now, batteries maybe, who knows.

What a great night it was. The crowd was mostly younger and the whole bar reeked of sex. My girls sang their hearts out, but everyone was too busy making connections to appreciate them sufficiently. I wanted to get up and make an announcement, “Guys, talented poets up here with voices like angels, shut up and listen!” By the time the next act came on everybody had leaned in close and were paying attention. He was awesome and had the crowd with him most of the time, except for some rowdies in the back. My son would not trade places with me, so I had to flirt across him with the really, really adorable guy who kept trying to buy me an Irish Car Bomb. Even though he was polishing one off every 20 minutes or so there for a while, I knew I was the DD and declined. Sober is also good and keeps things real, at least for me. Jason got sucked into the next act, the hot girl with long red hair and the too electric guitar, but was disappointed at the end of the evening when a man came up and slapped her territorially on the ass. At least he got distracted from protecting me.

I had a wonderful chat with my favorite of all Ben’s exes, an amazing, beautiful, and talented woman, another child of my heart who has grown into a friend. We found we had a lot to share and it felt very good being able to do so. We look forward to more talks in the future. I gave her this blog address and want to welcome her to comment or not as she likes. Thanks sweetie for being non-judgemental, compassionate, and making me laugh. I still think drunk John was disappointed that he couldn’t get in on a threesome with us. Note to girls out there: if you want to get a guy’s attention, just wonder outside and try to have a private conversation. All kidding aside, every time I tell the tale I have a few private tears, and go away stronger. I am replacing the grief that I release with courage, as I replace the lies with truth.

KISSING FROGS

I recall my childhood annoyance with the insipid princesses in the fairy tales that languished about waiting for men to rescue them. My sister loved to read the stories to me, but I would interrupt her with questions like, “Why didn’t she just climb out of the tower herself?”. My ribbons and bows older sister would shake her head at me, barely moving her perfect black drindles and patiently try to explain the concept of passive femininity to me. One look at my unkempt braids and tomboy attire should have been enough to make her realize she was out of her depth, but she was patient, and sweet, the perfect princess. As soon as I could escape, I would head out the door to go run wild with the boys, leaving her there to play with her dolls and tea set. The little cul-de-sac we lived on was home to a higher population of boys than girls, and I was younger than all of them. They gave no deference to my age or sex and I asked for none. I was the first up for any rough and tumble game, but I refused to play the victim like they thought little girls should.

I did eventually learn that there were some advantages to being a girl, but that came later. Even in High School while all the other sweet young things were talking about what color they wanted their bridesmaids dresses to be, and conferring on china and crystal patterns, I would fain polite interest, but was totally clueless as to why these things were important. At the start of sophomore year a new boy appeared in my English class. He was considerable older looking than the other guys, and I soon found out it was because he had been held back, twice actually. He was a just a good old country boy, not in his element in school, but cute and funny with a habit of winking at girls. I was trying to ignore him, but I began to notice on a semiconscious level that he smelled really good. I quite sure they had not taught us anything about pheromones in biology, but I do know they were getting to me. He actually got up the nerve to ask me out, but was so overwhelmed by my parent’s money and my sweet innocence, he couldn’t even get up the nerve to try and kiss me. He just spent the entire evening repeating that he couldn’t believe I accepted. That’s the day I realized that as cute as he was, I really didn’t get turned on by dumb guys, but I definitely did get turned on by guys.

As the years went by I tried my luck at kissing frogs, but all that happened was that I began to develop a deep suspicion as to the intelligence of princes. All that racing about on horses and foolhardy bravado left me cold, not to mention the fact that they were infuriated when they found I had already killed or even tamed the dragon while they were sharpening up their swords. After the first disastrous marriage, I was certain I didn’t want to get tangled up with another man, but still, they smelled so good. Evidently I did too, because when I started playing the game with the boys, doors were flung open in my path. Of course I got into trouble when I started playing by their rules. I was always puzzled and amazed that a man would take a cavalier attitude with me in the morning after a night of passion, like what I did with him was different than what he did with me. The men I liked best were the smart ones who figured me out and still decided I was worth the effort. I can play the games with the best of them, but how tiresome that becomes after a very short time. I know I am an anomaly in the world of women and I am at a loss to describe my attitude, but I suppose the closest I could come would be to say I think like a man. The analogy is limited because no one meeting me would ever question my decidedly feminine qualities.

There was also a complication in the form of the real love of my life, the little spring lamb that changed all my previous theories about what was important in the world. For a little girl whose dolls were all given bad haircuts, stripped of their clothing, and tossed into the back of the closet, while she went off to swing from the hayloft and get into her brother’s chemistry set, I took amazingly well to motherhood. With twenty-twenty hindsight I realize that the leap I took back into marriage was driven in large part by biological imperative. Being a mother suited me well, and while my first husband grumbled to my expanding belly about the world being overpopulated, my second had the same nurturing instinct as myself, despite all his other issues. He was also financially stable, very smart, and had a great sense of humor. It’s really not as simple as saying I compromised after a calculating the odds of the hand, but it did go down something like that.

I pride myself on my logic, and while I have made a great number of decisions on the basis of cool-headed calculation of the odds, I have made an equal number on intuition, often driven by passion. I have made mistakes both ways. I think graceful exits are the most satisfying and I have always tried to make them with style. Many men have left my door wanting more, but still believing it was all their idea to go. I don’t know how this one is going to play out, but I’m working very hard to keep it clean and painless. 

From Heaven to Hell

Right before one of our many road trips to Kentucky, my then 12 year old daughter took a rushed visit to the doctor to obtain medication for pain and coughing. The doctor gave her a prescription containing codeine, and told me it would make her sleep. Instead, we spent 12 hours in a small car with the equivalent of a monkey on speed. I remember the Doctor’s calm collected scientific explanation of what he considered an interesting phenomenon, the paradoxical reaction. I realized today that it is also the perfect term to describe what I’m been feeling this week. I know I should be grateful that my husband has cut back on his drinking, that he is going about the house lucid, and even being helpful, but it seems to be having the opposite effect on me. I am madder than I have been in years, and I’m feeling like the perfect bitch because of my reaction. I need to own my feeling in this place where I have declared I will always be honest.

I know I am capable of deep love, the kind where my life is of no importance, only that of the beloved. That is the overwhelming love I have for my children. Perhaps it is a selfish love for flesh of my flesh, but it is tangible, perfect, and unrelenting. I know I am capable of great passion too, in varying degrees between yearning and outright lust. If I am honest, and I swear I am working very hard on that, I have no regrets for the things I have done out of passion, although I am still trying to stop a knee jerk apology for some of the those passions disapproved by current moral code. I have told myself for many years that I stayed in this marriage because of love, but reading between the lines of my life, I know that if romantic love ever existed between us, it has been dead for at least a decade. Stupidly, I still sit Shiva with other mourners fled, the corpse long buried and consigned to the consuming worm.

I pulled out my marriage certificate today, looking for a loophole. The most glaring one is the fact that there are two similar pieces of paper in my file cabinet, neatly tucked into a folder labeled “Marriage”. Both of them declare, “till death do us part” to be the extent of the contract, but it is obvious that these words didn’t hold me the first time. I also looked through the folder labeled “Divorce”, and found the handwritten note from my mother congratulating me on the dissolution of my first marriage. What a damn nice little touch of incongruity that was. Anger was not allowed in my parent’s home, no slamming of doors, no raised voices, no bickering children. I learned very early to turn my rage inward and chastise myself for being unable to control my emotions. So here I sit, seething that he is doing this to hold me, to bind me back before I have loosened all the cords. I know if I accept this compromise of self, it will seem like progress, but the pathway will loop and turn and bring me back to this exact spot again. I will hold very tightly to this anger for the weeks and months ahead, and I will gather it inside, but not in that destructive way I was taught. That fury will be my last secret, and should suffice as a weapon to gain freedom on my own terms. I will close the door quietly when I leave.

Angel

He was only 21, a bit awkward around an older married woman, and perhaps lonely for his home far away in Wyoming. We had met accidentally in the laundry room of the apartment house that was our temporary resting spot for the summer. Perhaps the thought of me had colored his dreams, but I was guileless up to the moment his lips touched mine. He saw no other way to stop my crying than by covering my mouth with his own, so our first kiss tasted of the salt of my tears. None of our previous innocent evenings together had prepared us for the startling and unexpected passion the kiss invoked. I hesitated only briefly when he suggested we move from my shabby rented room to his slightly shabbier one upstairs, in the interest of privacy and discretion. His narrow bed proved more than adequate for our needs as he proceeded slowly and gently through the lovemaking, kissing the bruises left by my abuser, making me believe in tenderness again. His body was an unexpected treasure; for free from the confines of his Clark Kent disguise he had a slim but muscular build, a chest and back covered with silky black hair, and legs and arms that were strong and well formed. He seemed equally delighted to discover my own body, and for one so young he processed amazing control, taking time to touch, kiss, and adore every inch of my skin.

His gentle firm hands ignited my yearning, and though I was the older woman, I gave in blissfully to his pace, his command. When his hand finally slid between my legs, my back arched reflexively to meet his exploration. He had been fully engorged for some time as I could attest to with my own hand as I rubbed the pre ejaculate in teasing circles around his swollen head. We rolled from our side by side position in one fluid motion, and as he rose and knelt between my spread legs, I smiled up at the beauty of his perfect young body. Sliding forward till my breast were crushed against his chest, he put one finger inside of me, and seconds later his cock took its place. I gasped sharply at the sudden insertion and he slowed, fearful of hurting me. My hands moved immediately to his buttocks to pull him more deeply inside, because I was wet and ready, and wanted nothing more than for him to press forcefully on, despite the moment of pain. My world narrowed to the ecstasy of our movements and I let the waves of pleasure move me past the trauma of past days and months. I don’t remember closing my eyes, but I recall vividly opening them to see him watching the joy he had given me play across my face. I wrapped my legs around him and paced the rhythm of his thrusts until he collapsed in shuttering spent rapture.

We lay together soaked in sweat with no desire to disengage, no urgency to ever leave his tiny room. Finally he rolled me gently with him back to side by side and I made a soft sigh in my throat as he slipped out of me. He pulled my face to his and kissed me again. I discovered I could still talk when he let me go and I asked a lover’s question, “Who taught you?”

“You did” came his unexpected reply.

I lay there speechless, holding him, feeling a pang of guilt that I had been a corrupting influence. After a very short time he took my hand and placed it on his newly risen member. Well, the deed was already done and he seemed eager for more corruption. There have been devils in my life before and since, but I will always remember his angel face as he pulled my long hair away from his stomach in order to watch my mouth at work. Long after the window filled with darkness, we were still delightfully entwined.

And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free. John 8:32

My son told me that if there were no guilt in my immediate reach, I would scoop it from the air with a butterfly net. I’m trying to give it up like I gave up religion, but it’s as hard to dislodge as the blood on Lady Macbeth’s hands, and just as imaginary. All those Catholics and Jews out there who think they have the guilt thing roped and tied could take a lesson from the Southern Baptist. I had a mother whose mantra was “let them be children as long as they can” which evidently meant to keep them ignorant of anything happening in the world, and at the same time to terrify them into believing they are going to hell because they breath in and out. When I finally realized I couldn’t meet the ever retreating standard required for heaven, I decided since I was going down there anyway, I might as well have a good reason to burn. On my way to Gahanna fire, I got sucked into the possibility of redemption in the form of a God and Mom approved marriage, which ended up being more like martyrdom than salvation. When Mom died, I finally admitted to myself that I just didn’t swallow the whole concept of Judeo-Christian philosophy. I mean, it’s a set up all the way, but as sales tactic it’s brilliant. You create a need, you make a product, and you convince people if they don’t buy what you’re selling really bad things will happen to them. It works equally well whether you’re peddling toothpaste or eternal salvation. Since Dad died I let go of the last of something that was binding me to guilt thing, but it left a big empty place in my personality that I have been struggling to fill. Gradually, oh so gradually, I am filling that void with truth. The closer I come to being totally honest, the happier I have become. I would say I had an epiphany, but it seems inappropriate under the circumstances.

I tend to walk with purposeful strides toward every goal, usually leaving friends or family trailing well behind. People often follow me because I look like I know where I’m going. Sometimes I lead them into brick walls, or glass windows. I am briefly embarrassed and bruised, but I always get back up, make a course correction, and head out again with equal determination. I just checked my compass and I am disappointed with myself for getting sucked into the undertow of denial again by pretending that I might be able to fix the fatal flaws in my marriage. Maybe it was just the hangover speaking, which certainly feels like God’s own punishment, but is scientifically explainable in much simpler terms; you play, you pay. As far as casual sex, I don’t think I’m capable of that anymore, but I will not preclude the possibility of something discrete and less casual. Of course, it's ultimately not about sex at all, but sex is one of the important readings on the marriage meter, and my gauge is still stuck on empty. The fact that I’m reading the gauge with a flickering torch in the middle of a hurricane should be my more immediate concern. I get it. Did I mention that I found my wedding ring and put it in my jewelry box?

No way to hold my head that doesn't hurt

After the talk we had, my husband has been mostly sober for several days now, so I used this opportunity to bring balance back into the universe by getting totally wasted at a party Saturday, including doing a bit of weed with my son and some 40 year old who would have been perfectly delighted to break my long dry spell of forced celibacy. He did violate my first rule for sexual encounters however; don’t sleep with anyone crazier than yourself. He might have been a bit restrained by the presence of my son and husband too. I did get home with my pants still on, but misplaced my wedding ring somewhere. I’m sure it will turn up eventually. I called my hostess this morning and apologized for flirting with all her friends, then I told her the truth about the whys. She’s known me for many years and has never seen me have more than a glass or two before. I didn’t feel any guilt, but I am glad that this all happened in a controlled atmosphere. I know now that I’m not really up for casual sex and I will be much more careful about the drinking in the future. I think I just wanted to make sure I still knew how, and the fact is that casual sex isn’t too difficult to find.

So the good news is that today I opened a dialog with my husband that scared the hell out of him, but also gives me some glimmer of hope. I don’t know if that’s good or bad at this point. He’s going to have to be willing to put a lot more work into this marriage than he ever has before, and I’m not sure he can. I wasn’t going to make a move until after Christmas anyway, so what do I have to lose? As exciting as it was to have men paying attention to me, it made me remember the down side of being single too. I have a feeling there are going to many stops and starts in this process. Regardless, the big secret is no more and I have plans to get together with a few girlfriends this week who now know and want to help. I think I'll skip ordering drinks when we go out.

Ahaa, the cold gray light of dawn, my favorite time of day

When everyone tells you the same thing, chances are there may be some truth in what they’re saying. I told all three children that I had officially given my husband notice of my plans to leave, and they are all solidly behind me. My brilliant middle child said, without prompting, “Don’t let him talk you out of it again.” We sat over coffee at 5 AM and he talked me down from the tower of guilt I had climbed like some victim in a low budget horror film. My feet are back on the ground now and I am determined to make my escape in a more dignified manner.

Noisy Reflection

It was that awkward time of day between strong black coffee and dry red wine and I sat contemplating if I should warm the half cup in front of me, or go find a glass and start on the half bottle left from last night. Life’s jumbled with negotiation, so I go out for a drive. I’ve quit using the air conditioner altogether because I find it so confining. I am yearning for freedom, escape, but I am still directionless. I think about the options while I listen to a CD given to me by one of my older son’s former girl friends when she and her husband visited us last Christmas. I love her wicked little sense of humor. Trac 2 on Tangos & Tantrums is “all his exes” and seems to be written especially for my unconventional elder son. I laugh and wonder if the singer, Sylvia Lewis, had been a guest at her club in Charlotte NC, or if she had especially picked the CD for my enjoyment. The timing of my excursion coincides nicely with the 2 pm awakening of my husband, someone I really don’t want to see until he shakes off his hangover. I also don’t want to talk to him about the fact that my middle son went to a party and didn’t come home last night. He’s way overdue for some fun.

I talked to my girl this morning and although it was 11 am in London, she was slightly drunk, still coming down from a hen party for a coworker the night before. I love how our conversations unfold, like some surreal children’s storybook. She said she had to be at work in an hour and she hadn’t been to bed. I suggested a shower and black coffee before hopping on the tube. She said she would have to get her blond wig and cheerleading costume off first. Before I could ask she said,” You know, crazy American.” We both laughed, because we understand one another perfectly. She said maybe the tub would be good because of all the bruises from the roller derby thing. I didn’t ask, it just made sense somehow. I suggested she get a pot of coffee on right away, and take a cup to the tub, and by the way, how’s your love life. She told me she had a date with a really great man in a few days, then mentioned that he was 20 years her senior, but really interesting, and incidentally, rich. It can’t hurt, as she just pulled $400 off my debit card this week, for which she apologized. I told her poverty wasn’t a prerequisite for love, but just be cautious. I know she will try, but I also know caution has never had an opportunity to take root in her soul. I think of the silly little poem I wrote for her right after she headed off for college. She has to run, so I tell her I love her, that I want to get on a plane today to see her, and that I’m doing great. We laugh, and then suddenly she's gone and the light in my heart flickers for a second, aching for her happiness. I recite the silliness of the poem again and know that she was worth whatever price I paid.

Once I had a little girl whose hair was dark as night
And later green, maroon, or blue, or accidentally, white.
I wrung my hands and cried my tears,
But nothing helped, except the years
So quickly flown, I caught my breath,
And she was gone, and I was left.
So here’s to her, my darling girl
I gave her words to fight the war
And pushed her through a veil of tears,
Away from home, despite my fears.
There is no safety in the world and yet she runs, her heart unfurled
To fight the fight, to right the wrongs, to live the life, to sing the songs.

WHAT'S SITTING IN THE MIDDLE OF YOUR LIVING ROOM?

My oldest son told me he really laughed when I started adding elephants to the family room décor. I protested that they actually fit in nicely with the sort of international, warm, cozy theme I had going in there. He told me that I was lying to myself again. I told him I had always liked elephants and they were very popular right now. He told me again, very gently, that I was lying to myself again. I strolled into the formal living room a few days ago, and noticed the large white ceramic elephant I picked up from my grandmother’s house about 15 years ago. It was sitting there giving me the evil eye, stuffed with magazines I had no interest in rereading. Yesterday I moved the grey elephant from the corner where it was sitting, and placed it in on the coffee table right in front of the sofa. My husband protested that it interfered with his view of the TV. “Well”, I said, as I moved it slightly to the right, “It makes a good conversation piece.” 

RAINCOATS HIDE A MULTITUDE OF SINS -A Story of Life Before Liberation

The most hysterical thing about the Baptist College that I attended was that they wouldn’t let women wear pants or shorts. When we asked why, the Dean of Women said, “Because they divide the legs.” They didn’t plan on the fact that mini skirts were going to come into fashion and I was going to single handedly bring them into vogue at the little backwater we liked to call Jesus Tech. Every morning when I came downstairs, I was greeted by a grim grey haired (and getting greyer each day) housemother. She would make me stop for skirt length appraise.” There doesn’t seem to be enough hem to let out in this one,” she would say, shaking her head and tut-tutting. I would act concerned, tell her I had tried to find one with a hem, but all the time not mentioning that I had personally put the stitches in them myself after cutting them off. Now there are a few things not so great about short skirts. One is sitting on plastic chairs in the heat of summer, and another is, no, actually, that’s the only problem.

Now a lot of girls just wore shorts with a raincoat over the top when they went out for picnics and such, but I was nervous about getting caught at first, which is how I ended up lying in the bluegrass of Elmendorf horse farm with a KA frat boy named “Sunshine”, in a green corduroy skirt that barely covered my ass. We had been out together a few times before and he had paid for the obligatory dinner and movie, and I had backed off from a first date kiss, just like good girls were suppose to. We had shared a pretty hot first kiss on our second date, and made out a bit on our third. Taking me to the frat boy picnic was part of his carefully staged seduction. Blankets were scattered about in front of the only remaining structure at Elmendorf, a set of broad steps that let up to majestic columns, then dropped off to green fields again. The owner had destroyed the house in 1929 rather than pay the taxes that were due. The frat boys identified with his defiance, but did not emulate it. In fact they all shopped at the same stores, drove the same expensive cars, and evidently all bathed in the same bottle of English Leather Cologne. To this day I hate the smell of the stuff.

Sunshine was busy trying to relieve me of my panties, the only barrier he could envision between his bulging jeans and a quick score. I didn’t mind the kissing, which he did with great talent and enthusiasm, tongue deep down my throat and his warm soft lips going for a marathon on my own willing mouth. I guess it was real confusing for him to have my mouth saying, yes, yes, and my hands saying, no, no. I have to give him credit, he was very persistent, but after a half hour with his fingers no closer to his target, he got desperate. I heard the earthquake loud noise of his zipper being pulled down and I jumped up like I had been shot from a cannon. Several of the other couples that had been busily engaged around us turned to see me tugging at my skirt and tucking in my blouse. I realized none of them had been putting out, just engaged in some above the waist groping, but then, they were all wearing those tight little Bermuda shorts. Sunshine had collapsed on the blanket exasperated, because he knew the gig was up. I had humiliated him in front of his crew and I felt a little sorry for him, but not enough to do it in front of the entire fraternity in an open field in broad daylight.

I will say he took it like a man, never berating me for being a tease, and taking me back to the dorm, opening my car door, and walking me back to the front steps like a gentleman. He didn’t call however, and I had let him pass out of my thoughts until a few weeks later when I was doing solitary laps in the indoor pool in the G-town field house. I heard a splash and realized someone had joined me, so I paused at the end of my next lap. His strong overhand brought him to my side a few seconds later. He stopped and said, “Nice suit.” I had on as little as I could get by with at Georgetown, a white two piece with hip hugger bottoms that came down below my belly button, and dipped pretty well in the front too. I had never seen him with his shirt off before, and I found him very impressive. He pulled me in for a kiss, for which I gave only token resistance. With so much skin together, there was no question that I had his attention. I backed away from him at the end of the clinch and started swimming, but when I got to the shallow end he was already there. I slid out of his arms and dived underwater, but when I came up for air, he was there laughing. He took me quite firmly in hand this time and gave me one of those mind-blowing kisses, and I began to melt a bit. Maybe it was because the water had washed off all the heavy cologne, but he smelled much better to me than he had in the green grass. He did a bit of messing around with my boobs, but the top of the suit was pretty tight, so he headed to the small bit of cloth that was covering his real interest, pulling me close to his body. He already knew I was a novice, so he took my hand and put it inside his trunks and guided me briefly through the basics of hand job 101. I came to college to learn, after all. When he saw I had the idea, he slid his hand back inside my suit for a bit more exploration. He came long before I was ready, but he surprised me by staying with the task until it was finished, and bringing me to orgasm, the first one I ever had with someone else’s fingers other than my own.

He called me a few days later, but I had a date and turned him down. Funny thing, I believe he might have been a decent guy if he had pulled away from the pack. I knew that was never going to happen, but I cheered him on at the football games the next year, and he always gave me the smile that earned him his name when we saw each other on campus. I hope he still smiles when he thinks of me, just like I do when thinking of him.