Sunday, March 30, 2008

What I Like About You

I chatted online late Friday into early Saturday morning with a man married for a decade+ years, who loved his wife, loved sex with his wife and who, sadly, had his heart broken when she left him. He’d not been with another for months nearing double digits. We related stories of lust and longing into the night, at times verging on innuendo. We chatted via keyboard about fear and rejection. Someone committed to the same someone for an extended period cannot fully understand the fear of taking your shirt off for the first time. A single woman, a single woman who enjoys regularly scheduled companionship, undertakes this heart-beating ritual often. He wanted to take me to bed. But he wanted his wife. She is his “type” and she’s the only game in town.

What is “type”? In the context of dating, relating and mating, we pigeon hole by “type”. Whether choosing a companion based on religious doctrine, societal mandate or silicone injected measurement, we type what we like. Join any online dating service and prepare to pen-and-ink a mate; Body type? Education? Smoker? Serial killer? Order up a potential forever as simply as choosing steamed or fried rice.

Type is about what suits us. Tall for a girl at a bit over 5’8, I prefer a taller man. Like the deep, oversized chair in the living room, being held by a taller gent envelopes you. I like looking up. Type fills desire. My work and my passion are words; proper spelling gets me hot. I appreciate and am drawn to creative types, those in possession of talent that eludes others. Usually musicians. The ladies like guitar players because the shape of the instrument is sexy, with curves like a woman’s body. We imagine having done to us what’s being done to it as it’s strummed and stroked. And there’s the occasional glimpse of “O” face. Singers dance, move their hips, use hands to emote. Drummers bang hard.

Type is physical. From the time I discovered boys, Mr. Cusack became and remains my primary celebrity crush. Tall, dark hair and eyes, talented, comical yet edgy. My love affair with the pale skinned-dark-haired Irish lad Bono continues as his middle age spreads. I even dream about the hair-so-black-it's blue, scruffy boys.

The only boy to ever break my heart? Blonde.

Saturday, March 22, 2008

It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood

After weeks of doldrums and swimming about in a thick pool of ick, it's amazing to emerge, towel off and feel really, really right again. To pass the litmus test, recognize the wonderful and remember all the good. I’ll take feeling bad for a bit to be happy the majority of the time.

I concoct the perfect brew in my morning coffee, strong enough to numb back teeth and with the precise dollop of soy milk. I drive to Boulder to work out. The fitness center I’d been going to for years left me like a casual encounter the morning after. Actually I left it. We all know, have known, have dated, hopefully not married, if so divorced and wanted to push down a flight of stairs the man or woman who finds thrills and purpose in self-spun drama. Such was the woman at the helm of my work out regimen who recently and abruptly fired a widely popular aerobic instructor, leaving behind a room of ever more gossipy women and negative energy. After a week abandoned, and getting a bit too soft too quickly, today I set out for Boulder. I was running late, of course. Question, when you’re driving a wee bit fast on the highway and you pass a cop car parked on the other side of said highway pointing radar in your general direction, can one expect a ticket in the mail soon? Down the way a bit, I find a metallic-orange-peel-colored Corvette pulled over. Serves them right. Orange???!!?!

In class, sweating and breathing hard, I realize I’d forgotten how lovely it is to work out in a positive, loud and bright atmosphere. On my way out the door, a woman comes running after to deliver the awesome ruby red (and spendy) Cross pen that dropped from my bag.

I went to college in Boulder, worked for many years in Boulder and have lived on and off in Boulder (the best in a faboo apartment - albeit with a stalker roommate - over a pub and ‘round the corner from a tattoo shop). I forgot how much I love the town. The beautiful people, the beautiful boys, the beautiful views. I zip over to Macy’s, where after an hour spent browsing endless sale racks, I walk away with a plump sack of goods and shirt for tonight that does my breasts good.

My belly having used up the soy-laden coffee, I walk across the street of the open air mall to Panera Bread for possibly the best damn sandwich of my life, so far. Portobello mushrooms, mozzarella cheese and caramelized onions on ciabatta, half-size please with a side salad of Fuji apples, spring lettuce and gorgonzola and a piece of bread so good the only thing it needs on it is my mouth.
As I drive home toward Denver, windows down enjoying the spring air, Kate Nash (cheeky English lass - think Lily Allen crossed with the nonsensical lyrics of Crash Test Dummies) coming over speakers, I’m caught off guard. I…am…happy. It feels so good, like breathing freely and deeply after a bad bout of bronchitis. I can fill my lungs. I'm breathing again. I feel like crying, the moment so perfect it's otherworldly. The heart does grow back bigger.

Tonight, off to see a new fave band and have some drinks. Better yet, I'm being driven. If I get laid - okay kissed hard, I'm really a nice girl - that will just be the cherry topper.

If a speeding ticket comes in the mail, I make this promise; simply smile and remember the amazing day it happened.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Not everybody does it but everybody should

While proverb speaks to the power of music to charm and soothe a savage breast, music can also arouse, ignite and enhance passion. The deep baritone of Barry White, soulful healing of Marvin Gaye or short, simple and to the point “Why Don't We Do It in the Road?” proposed by The Beatles can bring a girls knickers to her knees.

Some tunes are best suited to build a mood; the glass of wine. Others the shot of tequila, to enjoy in the midst or a knee trembler at mere listen. These are the songs to have sex to. Not making love, birds-do-it-bees-do it, no Michael Bolton (ever, never, ever), but gotta-have-you-now, sweating all over my body, heart pounding, good old-fashioned fun.

More than obvious, Nine Inch Nails “Closer” earns raves for those moments more…basic…in nature. It’s Top Five.

Also earning raves “Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin” - Journey. Steve Perry's slow wail and the thumpa thumpa thumpa of the drum and bass.

“I Feel Love” - Donna Summer. The synth backing track makes it work. And it goes on for six minutes. Plus amazing covers (Blondie to Bronski Beat) and remixes with even greater stamina.

Although not a great fan of Southern-Fried-Pabst-in-a-can-70’s rock, my top spot, my number one goes to Foghat’s “Slow Ride”. It’s perfect. A drum banging beginning, sleazy guitar solo and saucy lyrics, the tempo and crescendo building as the band wails “You know the rhythm is right. We gotta rock all night”, faster and faster. And bonus, fill in that blank and insert a fave activity and/or innuendo to create an ode to the bent of your choice ("We gotta _____ all night").

Oh, feels good.

Monday, March 17, 2008

Isn't It Romantic?

He sang George Harrison’s “Something” to me over the phone late at night. In what should have been a genuine and heartfelt romantic moment, all I can do is roll my eyes and imagine RenĂ©e Zellweger in the movie version of the scene; Nick and Nora flannel pajamas, lying belly down on a fluffy, pillow-ensconced bed, furry slippered feet waving enthusiastically. I do not have this in my DNA. Bring me Chinese and tequila, I’ll swoon. Fix the kitchen faucet that spews horizontally when turned on full force and my heart will skip a beat.

“God, he is trying so hard”, I think through cord progressions and falsetto notes, each more heart wrenching than the last, until the volume creates fuzzy distortion in my ear.

“CCCCCCCCCCoooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmeeee on. “ I think. Enough already. “Stopsingingnowstopsingingrightnow” repeats in my head. I admit, I do like a boy who plays the acoustic guitar. Kind of sweet in a barefoot, tunic-wearing, still get stoned kind of way. So why ain’t it doing it for me?

I blame my youth, the only girl in a family of boys. Not just boys, Toughskins boys, the type who broke bones and rode Huffy bikes straight down ravines. Moving often in childhood, I didn’t have consistent girl friends. My bros were my tribe. I wasn’t a tomboy so much (although I rocked the Dorothy Hamill wedge years longer than I should have), but I learned my adult social and emotional cues from them. I hate drama, don’t talk on the phone for hours (unless, oddly enough, with a man), I’m not overly weepy or emotional or gossipy and love, love the company of men. But I stall with the girly pampering. There was Lee who liked to paint my toenails (gave me the willies), Dave who took it upon himself to sit on me while lying on the floor watching TV to provide a shoulder rub (I immediately rolled away and into a cranberry and vodka). And shorter-than-me-ginger-boy-I-worked-with-whose-name-escapes-me who was absolutely sweet and lovely and took me for a drink one night who I passed over for co-worker Joel who had his hands down my pants on our first date.

I do, however, like doors opened for me. I have only a few love letters in a box in the basement, but those I adore. Walking arms linked. Having a bath run for me. Hmmm…perhaps there’s hope after all.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Leave this heart of clay

Rejection and loss. Two sad sack, Snuffleupagus, Schleprock emotions that are stalking me. I hate them as I learn from them. I mostly hate them. I want to eat a bag of chips to devour and swallow them.

I dare to find the soul who welcomes rejection, who just can't get enough. Most want to be the caramel goodness or prize floating in the Cracker Jack, not the up-popped kernel. Rejection feels like you’re simply not good enough just as you are.

"You're a bit too beefy", my Dad said to 9-year-old me as I attempted a frog stand in the living room. One of the first impressions a girl has of herself is the one reflected back from her father. I wanted to be cute and perky. I was "beefy". I carried not being picked by kick ball captains on the playground and being overlooked by the cute boys in high school into adult hood. Regardless of the degree earned in pennies and nickels, the house bought with one signature (my own), the lovely friends or career others envy, it’s sometimes easier to believe I’m still the girl who can't do a proper frog stand.

I believe in fate, serendipity and happily-ever-after. That at the end of the screenplay the knock on the door won’t be the UPS man, but him. He’s not coming. I wanted him to cherish me as much as I cherish him. The silence speaks volumes. So I look for more, another, but allow it to float away or make excuses until interest wanes. I struggle to connect. I don’t know how. I don’t know if I want to. I think I need to.

Loss is the flip side of the rejection coin. Most loss can’t be controlled or anticipated, but we believe we can pursue it, run after it and get it back out of hope and the fear of change. Loss can bring a family together; it can also pull the remnants of one apart. Loss can put you in the bed of someone whose bed you shouldn’t be in. Loss drinks until it forgets. Loss halts you like the bright red hand in the stop walk.

When I cry, I cry in the shower, just me. I release the fear and pain and shame in a stream of water so it washes away any evidence. When I step out, I’m still the perfect image of me. I hope my heart will grow back bigger. I want to rock the frog stand.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

We'll begin with a spin...

New York Governor Eliot Spitzer has been linked to prostitution and all holy hell is breaking loose.

It reminds me of a scene from "Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory." Violet Beauregard, phalange deep up her nostril in search of a green goodie, exclaims to Mr. Wonka, "Spitting is a dirty habit." Observing her behavior, his reply is simply, "I know a worse one."

Environmental failure, poverty, abuse, neglect, cow towing to special interests, lying, corruption. Morality and marriage aside, when it comes to government behaving badly “I know a worse one” than a man getting his Wonka waxed.

Monday, March 10, 2008

Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be

If I could exist for one day in a physical form other than that which I am, I would choose either 1) to be a man in order to experience sex with a penis, 2) a bird so I could fly far, far far away from here or 3) an empirically beautiful woman, the stuff of muses, the face to launch a thousand ships. Be the girl all the bad boys want.

They say beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder and once smitten we're drawn to something more than physical. We are, however, visual creatures, perhaps more so in our youth. Recently, to my surprise and SPANX relief, a man my age told me he’d come to a point of emotional maturity where he chooses to sleep with a woman while her clothes are on; it’s not the flash of physical that excites him as much, it’s something else.

But as a woman who falls in the "attractive" but not "breathtaking" category, I've wondered since girlhood what it would be like to be really, really pretty. Super hot even. What perks would befall? What challenges and sad realizations uncovered? Would I welcome or wilt from the attention, a first impression based more on tits than wits?

The longtime wonder gained steamed recently as I read the autobiography of Patti Boyd (nee Harrison, nee Clapton), a woman seemingly so lovely or in command of a gold gilded vagina to have inspired two of the greatest love/lust songs of the '60's, The Beatles "Something" and Eric Clapton's "Layla". Her '80's counterpart Rosanna Arquette spawned musical tributes as well, Toto's "Rosanna" and (it is rumored) Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes".

To walk in the stilettos of such a woman stirs thoughts of power, excess, envy, lust and (oddly) happiness, as if it's easier. Attractive people get better service in restaurants and at the car repair, move ahead faster in careers and earn larger salaries, all because of a simple genetic fluke and placement of the same human facial features. Millimeter spacing.

Yes, it’s silly and a bit self-effacing and (of course) a world of options exist to better serve the greater good, like being for one day the woman that can cure AIDS or cancer or put an end to the war in Iraq.

You’ve thought about what it be like to be king for just one day…

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

Shaking the Tree

Although I don’t like to be touched all that much, I would love a massage. My neck and traps. Not only because of the odd, spotty knots that that are sloping my otherwise lovely shoulders, but because it turns me on a little. I am a conundrum wrapped in a question mark and covered with riddle sauce.

Self-medicating includes a plethora of reckless behaviors. It’s drinking or emotional over-or-not-at-all-eating or working out all the time or driving furious down the highway thinking you’d welcome getting hit. Sex addiction sounds like a really, really good thing, but oddly no. BTW, sex - good; promoting God and religion to treat an overly froggy nature - sillysillysilly.

Peter Forsberg has returned to Colorado Avalanche ice but I think all he’s going to do is skate around a bit between periods, sort of like the bikini girls who hold up the round cards during a fight for whoops and hollers.

I just ordered updated office equipment (plus a zoomy new laptap on which I will write a Diablo-Cody-worthy screenplay, however I will not wear gold ballet flats to the Academy Award ceremony) and upped my DSL to warp speed. I don't “do" technology. Like water or electrical home repairs, I’d rather leave it to the experts. I don’t want to know how it works. I just do.

Since I work “from home” I can spend entire days in the clothes I slept in (a.k.a. pajamas). I sometimes create important marketing collateral, corporate sales copy to drive revenue and high-level executive communications while braless.

Ativan is helping lure me into sleep at night, but I tend to casually and randomly fall off my feet during the day.

I asked and my uncle mailed my Dad’s watch to me. It was stopped with the pin pulled out on the 17th. That had to be December 17th. I'd just sent him the silver watch for a Christmas. Knowing my Dad, he was saving it “for good”. I pushed the pin in because time exists in the now and is always moving forward.

I was not affected by the writer’s strike in the least and I found myself out and about and doing more with the real people. I do, however, enjoy a fresh SNL every Saturday. Conan was better during the strike.

When I was 14, I wanted a pair of red Chuck's and to be just like Riff Randell. I still keep a pair in my closet.

I wish I was more like Sadie the feral cat. She was lost and abandoned for a time, but wise and brave enough to find a kind soul with whom she dropped learned behaviors and eventually came to trust, survive and thrive. She’s still tough and in charge, but will randomly head bump or look at me with big eyes, tilting her chin up as if to say, “I’m right here” and just wanting for a minute to be loved and touched before getting back to tasks at hand. The cat gets it, why don’t I?

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