Sunday, June 29, 2008

Baby Hold On

I always thought my writing raw and vulnerable, sometimes shocking in its candor. But a link from a friends’ blog lead to words about human contact, touch and the fear or lack of it that startled even me. In reading this beautiful woman’s words, and subsequent brave comments, my first reaction was how sad to desire something so much and not allow it to unfold. Didn't realize how many don't know how to.

Myself included.

Often, one can feel like the oddball, without the Batman decoder ring, a beat behind. Emotion, behavior, lack of social savvy, sexuality, connection and companionship create questions and concerns about what’s lacking. “Everyone else can do it. Connect. What can’t I? Why don't they understand me?"

Thing is, they do. We do. Stare around and past the blinders worn and realize, your story is just like mine. Or his. Or theirs.

I shared a fantasy with a male friend not long ago. Told him I wanted to be held down. Not rough, not dominated. But I have a bit of trouble with emotional touch. I only get held with a man on top because that's really all I can handle. But this time, I wanted a man to hold me down and have it feel safe and heart pounding...knowing he wants to touch me, breathe close and fast with me, look at me. But I'd have to be wrestled a bit. The fantasy is less about the sex and more about the connection. Someone who wouldn't let me to squirm away, literally and figuratively. Emotionally and physically. The story just got him hard. I didn't mind.

One day shy of two weeks after my Dad died, I confessed in this blog:
Sometimes, pain can be so huge and so desperate you need strong, willing, passionate arms tight around you to keep your heart from bursting through your chest. I haven’t been held like that in the last thirteen days.

Since then I’ve been making the effort, decided in that moment I wanted and needed to create relationships that would help hold the pieces in should I fell apart again. It’s been great fun. It’s been making mistakes. It’s been reconciling the want of emotional connection with the need of purely physical. As worthy as I am of having my hand held when I’m upset, sometimes I still want you to just leave right after. I still suggest casual couch time.

Maybe I don’t fear touch so much but all that comes with it long term. Until I find the balance I’m left straddling only the fence.

Friday, June 27, 2008

Bow Wow Wha?

My age is showing. Again.

Got a concert e-mail update from Ticketmaster. Read Bow Wow is playing a show at the Ogden in August. "What fun!", I thought, "'I Want Candy' is a fave song of summer!!" Then I got it.

Sort of like the time I couldn't figure out the connection between The Duchess of York and "My Humps".

Break out the spice cake at lunch.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

Don't Let Me Down, Again

And, I found, most of them are sweet liars.

I crave attention, attention from men. It’s not FC (Feminist Correct) or empowering to admit, but I do and I am. I want to be special and like no other woman, someone to dream about. The best sex. To realize at the end of the screenplay it was me all along.

I’ve been kidding myself.

Most everything I thought was (or could have been) genuine isn’t. Never was. For all the easy let downs, the simple truth would have meant feeling less like a stupid girl. Gullible. I thought I had better in me. And I don’t. I even flirted back again with the married.

All that echoes right now is what I lack, the faulty ingredients. I’m disappointed to let it affect me for one second, one phone call, one e-mail, one night of lonely and a slip into old and thoroughly embarrassing behavior that shone a harsh light on reality. None of it’s been real. None of it is has created friends, or lovers or confidantes. Just a girl who thought more of herself. I’m not so special after all. Mostly it hurts. Yes, I got hurt. Mostly I feel the bricks and mortar coming up.

Life is funny, how realizations and events come crashing down one after another, like a house of cards; the “rule of three” where bad things come in a trio. Maybe we believe that coda in order to tell the universe, “Okay, three. That’s it, I’m done. No more bad” and await the good. In three days, 72 hours it all unraveled. I don’t think tears have a place because I don’t want to cry. I want to be better than it. I don't what acknowledge my failures. I don't want to be let down again.

When people show you who they really are, believe them. I read or heard that once, it’s not mine. I’ve had a bit of writing creating itself in my head about emotional empathy, and the lack of it. “Empathy Deficit Disorder (EDD)” it’s been tagged:

"We unlearn whatever empathy skills we've picked up while coming of age in a culture that focuses on acquisition and status more than cooperation and values ‘moving on’ over thoughtful reflection. Cultivating empathy has its own rewards: The more you do it, the better your relationships are and the more you want to continue."

Amen. I’ll start with me.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Foot Fetish

Regular exercise makes one strong and gets the blood moving, which in turn makes a woman sexier than any drawer of lingerie, flowery, fruity or sweet smelling creams or glass of red. Cardio conditioning increases endurance, ready for more adventure and exploring; weights create lithe muscles leaving one more comfortable naked. Stretching equals bendy. However, the constant pounding also leaves a body a bit road hard with unprettty stops along the trail, most due South. The feet.

First, the bunion. I’ve seen crazy, old feet with twisty, bulging knots of skin and bone protruding from toes. Mine’s not that. I sprung a baby bunion left of the right big toe. You can’t push it back in, pound it down or shave it off. Tried “Yoga Toes”, soft and rubbery contraptions like the toe spreaders worn during a pedicure, to align piggies after a rough ride at the gym or in high heels. They offer big relief, but the bun is here to stay. Sexy.

Now the nail on the second toe from the big on the left is lifting from the bed. Not due to a fungus, but trauma and working out wearing Mary Janes commando instead of lace up trainers and thick cotton socks. The nail has gone white and I fear it’ll simply pop off like a Lee Press-On the next time I peel off a sweaty shoe. Then I’d have to paint the skin. Eww.

Good thing feet aren’t my bent. Speaking of, when sharing stories of a more saucy nature, site clicks explode like a fervent Clap-o-meter, yet comments clam up. Perhaps it's just the thrill of peeking in a bedroom window with the drapes left open. Maybe it makes some blush. Or is it the typing with one hand?

Sunday, June 22, 2008

Don't Let Me Down

When it comes to romantic relationships, I’m Teflon, non-stick. The gal pal, the bridesmaid never the bride, the beard. The just friends.

With tongue firmly planted in cheek, I previously shared the tale of my magic vagina, how once explored it will lead a man to (or back to) the woman of his dreams. I’ve a second talent; the easy let down.

Whether the breakup of an ongoing relationship (of which there’ve been few; my crushes and encounters rarely last through a holiday or buying concert tickets in advance ), I tend to receive the let down, being released from thoughts of romance and forevermore, in the gentlest, most caring manner. I’ve never been labeled the bitch or the bore or too fat, too old, too ugly, too career minded or too immature.

It’s rejection, all the same, but mine has a crunchy candy shell.

There was Tom, who said the sex was great (he was a bit - quick - but a tall good looking quick with a voice that made me crazy), yet he’s a homebody and I live a "little too far away". He’s 15 miles, 26 minutes in traffic, per Google Maps. There’s Steven, the programming guy, who gladly accepted my offer of casual couch time, only to quickly rebound in less than a week with a first date and possible girlfriend material (hmmm…I think it was a girl). He wanted to see where this something-long-term could lead. He was ten years younger, and may be more bi than he realizes.

There’s John. We met for drinks before I proposed summer fun. "Maybe I'm weird for a guy”, he said, "but casual has just always left me feeling empty. I think you're a really cool person, but not sure there's relationship potential between us. Just shooting you straight.” I like straight shootin’.

There was the married who said “no regrets” after (perhaps) we stuck toes over a line - I don’t define lust as cheating - and his conscious got the better. That let down I gratefully acknowledge. It was right and changed some perspective. We backed away at the same time.

The gentle let down has historical roots, dating back to my 20's. Chris chose to pursue a girl in his zip code and time zone, 2000 miles separating us. Despite 15 years of longing, he says we’re more like brother and sister, an icky thought given late night, and recent, team participation phone calls.

Of course, the guitar players words ring like poetry. He said early on, “I'll always take ‘smart’ over ‘hot’, but in a nutshell there's the girls I like and the girls I fuck and they seem to be mutually exclusive.” Guess which one I was? He caught up via e-mail not long ago, wrote that he’s very happy with his new girl and that he was, “…lucky to meet a top-notch gal like Jodie Kash.” He chose the “top-shelf gal” instead, a titty bar bartender, my age no less. At least he’s not entirely rock star clichéd, going for the 20-somethings.

In an odd turnabout, there’s Daniel. Sweet Daniel, he won’t accept my gentle let down. This time I'm not feeling the sweaty spark. But he’s hanging in there; I think he’s open to exploring something in whatever form I name it. That makes me feel I’d be using him. Sometimes the gentle let down is just that; care for another in the moment before you realize you may cause hurt. I should rethink him. I could be wrong.

So I continue to share salty experiences along with a grain or two, making light as I go deeper. Sometimes you just don’t feel the heartbeat in places other than your chest. Much as you want it, there may be no shared chemical rush, no biological IV. A male colleague and long, long time friend told me once, “Men are like not too bright dogs, you have to tell us what to do." I want a smart dog. Then yeah, I'll happily be his bitch.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

You like potato and I like potahto

I should be having sex right now. More to the point, I should be having sex with a man who turns me on, who knows I put ice cream in the micro to soften it a bit and how I take my coffee (strong and with a generous splash of vanilla soy) who makes me want him slow and who will call me tomorrow.

Instead, I’m getting stoned. My drug, Lay’s Classic potato chips. I gave in, figure I could eat all the grapes, rotisserie chicken breast and cheese in my ‘fridge or do it right, do it fast with a handful of crack. My salty gems. So at 8:30 p.m., got in the car, drove to the grocery, stood in a short, sad line and purchased a crinkly bag. Once home, once I park my car in the community lot and begin the trek back inside, a neighbor calls from across a grassy square. “Goodness, look at you! Look so good…still losing weight!” Fuck.

Matters not. Like Tatum O’Neal scouring the streets of New York on Sunday afternoon, I need a fix ‘cause I’m going down. Figuratively, not literally. Sadly. Which brings us back to sex.

Truth told, all a girl has to do to get laid is go outside. The casual thing fills a need, a hole if you will. But I want to kiss and mean it in bed (or on the couch or on the floor of the bathroom or in the car). I want anticipation and butterflies. I want the the guitar player but he doesn’t know me and doesn’t really want to. He doesn’t read the blog (the quickest and most direct path into - and out of - me head), never called, won’t meet for an absolutely I’ll-keep-my-hands-on-the-table-I-promise chat about music and writing and literature and influences and who are you really. He doesn’t even think if me sexually. He chose the girl whose greatest contribution to art and society is the ability to pour, and it makes me want him even more when I shouldn’t want him at all. I don’t know him either, except for how it felt the sparse times we hugged hello/goodbye and he held my waist in his hands in the second before we parted or how he looked at me the first time we met and said, “I know you, don’t I?” or because he reads “The Economist” or that he’s a marketing whore just like me and knows how to sell his talent and shake the right hands or how I smile wide when I watch his hands and fingers flying over guitar strings and neck and how in awe I am in what he taught himself to do. It’s crushing when someone you want to get to know doesn’t want to get to know you back. I can theorize to the bottom of a crunchy, greasy bag and won’t find an answer. He doesn't want to know me, hasn't the time and desire to discover charming and deeply caring (doled out in small, special doses) and driven and exciting and mature and silly and worth it.

If I got him, maybe I'd throw him back. Maybe he knows that.

Maybe that’s why I’m not attracting something real.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

“Amy Sedaris liked my shoes!”

That’s right, bitches. Amy Sedaris.

Was RSVP’d to a preview of a new art installation at a new gallery. On a Tuesday night, what the hell. After checking in, headed up to the airy outdoor terrace for complimentary (that means free all night and not skimping on the alcohol) cocktails. While waiting at the bar for a rum Del Sol, I spot a petite blonde in navy crinoline staring at my shoes. "You must love them or hate them,” I say jokingly of the extreme pointy toed, testicle catching lovelies (I have them in red too). “No, I love them!” she retorted. “Those shoes are going take over the party.”

Check out some visual art installations, check out the boys and find a seat on a squishy L-shaped and obviously brought in for the show excuse of a couch. Half hour passes. “That's Amy Sedaris...,” I exclaim in shock. "Amy Sedaris liked my shoes!”

Fast forward 20 minutes, Amy Sedaris sits on the excuse for a an L-shaped couch and we chat about my niece in Florida, swimming in the river(?), her fab dress, my fab shoes and a stay at the Ritz Carlton downtown which, oddly enough, provides a book of Mormon in every room. Snapped by whatever photags in the house, I felt like Britney Spears entourage minus the crazy. By night’s end, I went all fan-ny and asked for a photo. She said make sure you get the shoes.

Monday, June 16, 2008

The Morning After

----- Original Message -----
To: Jodie Kash
Sent: Monday, June 16, 2008 9:36 AM
Saturday was a lot of fun. Glad we went to the street fair.
How did you do yesterday with father's day? I was thinking of you.
Christine

----- Reply Message -----
From: Jodie Kash
Sent: Monday, June 16, 2008 10:13 AM
Saturday was fun ;) I had a great time and glad you liked the band. This is why sometimes when I feel like I don't wanna go out - just stay home and watch Lifetime - I go. It's easy to stay in and mope, but more often than not you feel so good after.

I was actually okay yesterday. After I got home Saturday I was up until 3 a.m. writing about it in my blog. Something happened during the Hickman-Dalton set that sort of let some of it go (and I talked to Jim Dalton about it after, when he was signing CD's - he is such a sweet, oddly shy man, asking, "Was the show okay? We weren't sure about doing an acoustic set outdoors. It was okay?") He always gives me a nod and smile from the stage and a hug. Remembers my name. He's a spirit I was supposed to meet, however casually, wouldn't even say we're friends. I first met him right after my Dad died; he and Johnny Hickman played a pickers night at a guitar shop and some friends took me to lift my spirits. Jim's Uncle had just passed and another of the musicians had lost his Dad too (just weeks after mine). It was one of the first nights since all the crazy I felt peaceful and noticed I was smiling at the music; sharing grief and absolute pure joy. Music saves me from damage every time; it's no wonder I want to be close to the people who make it. To close the set Jim asked for "Will the Circle be Unbroken", not what was planned, because we all wanted something uplifting and to honor the loss in the room. I always disliked country music, you know that. My Dad loved it. Called himself “Joey Kash" (which is why I write as "Jodie Kash", an ode to him). Maybe he had a hand in me finding this, maybe it's why it makes me feel really good to be around it, maybe why I finally embrace and celebrate the artist I am. It's not just a crush on another guitar player ;) I never thought I was worthy of a good man (parent, friend or love) because I never felt good enough for my Dad. But before he died, I started loving me and loving him and I actually feel the change in my head. Change your mind and change your life. I'm still boy crazy and a little awkward and over the top at times, but I know how valuable I am and how a good man is a fool to pass that up. I never, ever could say that and mean it. Really.

Okay, enough Oprah. Talk soon,
Jodie

Sunday, June 15, 2008

Can you hear me when I sing

It’s just hours into the new day. Today is Father’s Day, June 15th, 2008. It’s the first ever without. On the verge of weepy all week and living a bit in my head. Ironic. It’s because of my Dads’ unexpected death a few months ago that a new version of me emerged, built back stronger after shattering like a pane of glass and with thousands more reflective rays. Never really believed I was worthy of respect from a man, love from a man, any men. The first love affair a girl has is with her father, and it shapes every male relationship to come after. But in an all-too-short handful of months, after 40-some years, I let him love me. Exactly as I am and exactly as he could. And he did. And I loved him right back. He’d love me even more now because I finally do.

It took his heart to stop beating for me to get that.

Saturday I went to hear music my Dad would have liked. He turned me on to Johnny Cash; I knew “At Folsom Prison” front and back before grade school. A singer introduced a tribute to his late, and obviously much beloved, Uncle. He sang of a man, “drinking his greyhounds”. I wept behind big, black shades, tears that had wanted to come for days. I chatted briefly with the singer/nephew later; he introduced me to his son, Jake. "A greyhound is vodka and grapefruit, isn’t it?” I asked, knowing the answer. The question threw him before he replied, “Yes, yes it is”. My Dad drank greyhounds, called them his “juice”. I may put back a couple later today.

This year I could have perused the racks at Hallmark without vetoing a majority of the cards, being careful with selection and sentiment. I could have sent any one. Maybe just knowing that means something more than a heavy paper stock signed, sealed and delivered via U.S. Postal. Still wish I could have sent one, though. And I wish for time I can’t have to expose more of the surface we scratched.

But we got through a thick layer.

Friday, June 13, 2008

You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Loves You

Are they irked because the club exists, or because they weren't invited?

"Neighbors say an underground swingers club is bringing down the neighborhood"

The trouble with swingers, online casual encounters and such is the choice of party partner, more than likely, isn't the stuff of fantasies. Often, it’s the middle-age bored couples and tattooed young boys with little vocabulary skills, and fewer teefs, partaking. I’ve seen enough amateur swinger porn to define it as such. Trust.

Same for nude beaches and nudist resorts (the term "colonies", apparently, is no longer in fashion). Gawking is discouraged and given the abundance of an older clientele and naturally occurring drooping and flopping (do they let the older men do calisthenics?) I wouldn’t need reminded twice. However, given my…uhh…well-documented-in-this-blog interest in the male of the species and appreciation of…uhh…particular regions, I imagine I would stare inappropriately and if in a hypnotic trance. Like cartoons or episodes of “Ab Fab”; I could watch all day.

Same with lesbians. Most men envision women-on-women encounters as moaning, sexy, hot and steamy, perhaps including stilettos. Bet you don't picture Rosie frenching her girl.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Road Runner, that Coyote's after you!

Just finished a piece of marketing collateral for a new high performance computer, code name “Road Runner”. In a nut, this supercomputer, built for the Department of Energy's National Nuclear Security Administration, will help ensure the U.S. nuclear weapons stockpile is safe and reliable without testing and possibly eradicating us all to dust.

I now cannot get the “Roadrunner” theme song out of me head. Don’t know it? You must not be a) older than 40 or b) a long-ago fan of Saturday morning Looney Toons and The Bugs Bunny / Road Runner Hour. Ahh, Saturday morning cartoons. Kids today really got the fuzzy end of the lollipop; with cartoon cable channels and DVD’s at the ready, cartoons aren’t special, as sacred as they were to those who arose early each weekend, big bowl of Cookie Crunch cereal in the lap and wearing jammies that smelled like our warm sleep. We sat and gazed for hours on end. You knew it was all over when “Soul Train” came on.

Unfortunately, the tune, in its entirety, now loops in my head and occasionally bursts from my throat. I’ll be singing it all fucking day. I don’t recall everything I learned in college, but dammit if I don’t have surprising pockets of useless stuck in my gray matter.

Sunday, June 8, 2008

Me And Julio Down By The School Yard

"My name is Jodie!! What's yours?? Let's play!!"

Remember how easy it was at eight to make friends on the playground? The absolute abandon, unburdened by the fear of rejection and long walk back. Wish I had the nerve as a grown up lady.

Saturday night and margaritas downtown at The Rio Grande. "The Rio" boasts the absofreakinlutely best and most lethal margaritas in town, the real deal, none of the antifreeze-green-colored-slim but loads of top-shelf tequila, fresh lime and salt. The secret to the concoction (learned via the sister of a friend who worked for years as a Rio bar keep) is a splash of apple juice and Everclear. Yep, Everclear, the stuff of freshman year college dorm, jungle juice and Jell-o shots and making out with a random boy, usually in a shower stall on the men’s floor. The Rio limits consumption to three maximum and, oddly enough, calls last call at 11 p.m., allowing for some time to sober up and get your ass home by day break. I recommend them highly. But I digress.

I was invited along by a friend to celebrate the birthday of a friend. By 9 p.m., the place was beyond packed, humming with activity and energy and men. Loads and loads of cute men in packs. It's a lovely thing to see and appreciate so much freshly scrubbed, crisply ironed and lower-downtown hip of the male species. It's then I spot a glimpse of tall, dark hair and dark eyes (yes, I get it, I have a type) out of the corner of my eye. John Cusack and Javier Bardem morphed into one beautiful man. He stood for a bit, awaiting a booth for he and his male friend to commandeer, casually sipping a light green beauty, licking the rim on occasion. I made eye contact, flashed a shy but dazzling smile before turning away, stared a little longer than appropriate. He stared back, often a little longer than appropriate.

The handsome pair eventually found an open booth directly behind my party. In true flirt fashion, I swiveled my stool fully around, crossed and pointed legs towards them like the needle of a compass even though doing so somewhat clogged the path to the bathroom; I nearly hooked the testicles of several men with my very pointy red shoe. So where's my opening? How do I get in there? Do I hop from my stool, sidle up and introduce myself? Start with a lame opener - “Excuse me, does my tongue taste funny to you?" Ask for a pen? Wait for his approach? But I froze. He left and I never said hello. I never said a word.

Damn.

It was all so simple in the days of Keds screeching on hot pavement and introduction based purely on the fun factor, looking for someone to play, run around and get breathless with.

Then again, maybe he was gay.

Thursday, June 5, 2008

All you wanna do is ride around Sally...

I’m surrounded by relationship talk of late. My own, others, men, women, married, single. Somewhere in between. One topic comes up again and again; monogamy and/or the lack of it. The desire to dine out (wink wink). It started with an article on The Huffington Post and my introduction to polyamory (a word, btw, not found in spell check).

Main Entry: polyamory
Part of Speech: n
Definition: participation in multiple and simultaneous loving or sexual relationships

It’s not merely sleeping around. It’s not even cheating. The concept of polyamory is shared and known physical and emotional connection with others outside a primary relationship. Doable and sounding suspiciously like the definition of “Dating after 30”. Or 40. I’m polyamorous. The buffet is stocked, and I like to eat and try new flavors. Don’t confuse the lifestyle with casual sex. The physical is easy and it takes surprisingly little effort to fall back on the couch. Adding an emotional element may be more satisfying in the long run, so behave. Try to. Work in progress.

But I’m single and polyamorous; I’m not 100% certain I’d engage if-and-when I committed to one someone seriously.

Marriage, like any other kind of relationship – friends, work, religious – requires work and faith. But people freelance, people are agnostic. Fidelity may be fully possible, but I know of few to no relationships where one or either partner has not strayed. Flirting as a married, fine. Putting you mouth anywhere on someone other than your spouse, probably cheating. With both partners on board, polyamory sounds a more truthful way to go.

Or maybe I’m just greedy and want all the happy endings.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

You haul Sixteen Tons, whadaya get?

I almost peed myself.

The scale in the women's locker room gauged my weight 5 pounds heavier than last Friday. Roughly 72 hours. 1.7 pounds gained per day. Too much salt?

I bought a scale of my own in a mad-dash-of-a-detour home.

I'm the same weight I was Friday. Whew. Never owned a scale. Wonder how soon I'll become obsessed, step on it daily, hourly, after a poo. Weigh my cat or a boob.

I can now pull off my “big girl” pants (i.e. the spendy clothes worn when I worked in an office) without undoing them; they slide off like sweat pants. Sexy, no?

Monday, June 2, 2008

Sad and the City

Like hordes of women nationwide (and from the looks of my late-night theater, very few men, straight or otherwise), I partook in opening weekend of the long-anticipated and awaited, Sex and the City movie.

To echo Jen Lancaster, “Carrie Bradshaw is a fucking liar."

I didn’t watch the show during its six-year run on HBO, but have seen (and even enjoyed) a helping of sanitized episodes shown in rerun on basic cable. Yet aside from some truly funny and truthful moments, I found the underlying message at the heart of the series sad and stereotypical. The right man will save you, provide the fairytale ending and fill in everything that’s empty, all wrapped up in a grand tulle bow.

I love strong women. I love strong writers (men and woman) who write solid, truthful, strong roles for women. But for me, this ain't it.

I do like the shoes. I can afford those shoes, but would never buy them, except on the Nordstrom Sale Rack.

Just as when the series first ran, women (and worse yet, young girls) salivate for this film; the opening credits alone were cheered at my showing. They bathe in a fantasy world of $400 shoes, men who lunch in power suits and have a BIG shiny black car service, running blocks in stilettos, massive apartments and, apparently, more than high-paying careers. Women plan the evening around the movie and dress for it, yet often times in shoes from Famous Footwear, not Ferragamo.

The only redeeming qualities I found in the movie?

Spoiler Alert

One, the character Miranda takes back her straying and deeply regretful husband. Finally. Two, Samantha Jones chooses to go solo, to “love me more.” BTW, there’s a very unfunny and mean spirited scene regarding her characters apparent “weight gain.” I had to poke my friend and ask what they were talking about.

I get the escapism. I just may be one of those broads who find the sex more enjoyable (and authentic) than the sap.

And one of those broads who save(s) themselves.

Search me