Wednesday, July 30, 2008
It lacks chemical reaction, physical cues in the tilt of the head, the walk, the stance. I've gone melty from the way a man stroked the salt shaker, swooned at the throb of a deep baritone. Watching a mouth form letters draws attention to lips, mostly the lower one and thoughts of pulling on it gently with teeth (disclaimer: occurs most often after one or more Dirty Birds, a.k.a. the Grey Goose dirty martini). Internet flirting bars the casual-my-hand-on-your-knee-response to a pithy, funny or familiar story and begs lying about martial status, age, appearance; beware the profile picture of the handsome man at a Reagan campaign rally, reading “Life Magazine” and drinking a Crystal Pepsi.
"So you’re what, 27 or so?"
We shared photos taken May-June-July, three-month growth charts. Even shaving a few years to be kind, it was the best first non-date-line ever. He's in advertising, a Cali transplant, 43, with a head full of dark wavy hair and boyish good looks. He likes motorcycles and music. And sex. Yes, Virginia, most men seeking companionship online rapidly advance to "What do you 'like'" or send the beach photo in hopes to spark a nipple conversation and the unladylike use of the word "hard". It's all rapidly fast forwarded to the third date, the time one would typically put out.
I’m somewhat non-traditional, a woman who thinks more like a man than a woman. If the condom fits wear it. But is dinner too much to ask? Something kooky, like flowers on a birthday, a kiss goodnight?
I'm may try church goin' next. There's a wonderful, below the surface sexual pulse in "godly" men, the repressed kind. Amen.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
I think Sadie is sick. This morning, after an hour of sad meowing at my bedroom screen window to wake up already, I found unpleasant evidence on the patio, wet smears the color of that odd brown crayon in the 64-Ct. pack that wasn’t good for coloring anything but saddles.
Now she’s curled on the steamer trunk I use as coffee table and writing pod, Pavlovian purr (can cats do Pavlov, or it that merely a dog thing?) whenever my hand brushes her warm ear. Is that how you tell cats are feverish? Ears warm or noses cold? The indoor cat woke one morning last month spewing from both ends before a trip to the emergency vet ended in a diagnosis of tummy trouble and a $350 bill. You can’t ask where it hurts, or if a Corn Nut or Flintstones vitamin was found on the floor and eaten in interest.
My stomach is in knots when a pet is sick. Any animal, really, given I’m Mistress Doolittle; injured strays (ear nearly torn off), squirrels (broken leg) and birds (victim of something more ferocious or a really clean plate glass window) beat a constant path to my door. I used to tease I’d end up the crazy cat lady, never married, old and alone, dressing my pack of feline babies in hats and dresses and throwing them tea parties. Then I moved to the ‘burbs and they started coming ‘round, fueling my sad self-fulfilling prophecy. “NO!”, I resisted, “I’m a desirable, young woman. I will have men, not a furry substitute for love. This will not become my destiny.”
Future be damned, when a life form appears seeking care or simple sustenance, there’s an instinct. I’d rather be that person.
Besides, how often do I don a pink sparkle collar and set out in search of attention, affection and scratching behind the ears. Someone to feed me. Perhaps I should try a more canine approach, offer a simple crotch sniff hello.
Friday, July 25, 2008
I’m disturbed. Somewhat. But not really.
Last night I had what some would define as a saucy dream about a blog friend. "Saucy” if your definition includes toe sucking.
And he started it.
We find ourselves outdoors in the midst of a celebratory group, perhaps a company picnic or event where large groups of people who know each other a little but not really gather. We’re dressed all in white, he in pleated slacks and a pullover, me in a short swingy skirt, legs bare. I may have been wearing those awful Ked sneakers that aren’t really sneakers, just a thin coating of rubber supporting the instep, all eyelets and white laces. Maybe we’re golfing or playing a game of tennis, although I don’t recall balls of that sort in my palm (thank you…I’ll be here all week). I sit in what looks like a large white box or cube, set on its side like a play hut. In the midst of jovial play and thinking we're out of sight, he kneels in front of the box and kisses my exposed thigh, moves downward to shin then ankle and (in one deft motion) grabs a Ked edge in meaty hand, pops it off and peels away an anklet sock.
Toe sucking, although playful, is pure sex. It’s the act of taking flesh in mouth, forming the letter “O” with lips, pulling at warm skin and hard bone. I'm first to realize a crowd has materialized and gathered and we're encircled. Some roar in encouragement, most recoil in surprise and moral judgment. He stops, much to the relief of dream me; I don't want to expose my thoughts of him this way, like a grade-school crush revealed to teases and taunts.
The scene shifts and we’re alone, sitting side-by-side on the bumpy metal service of a playground merry-go-round, red paint chipped metal bars emerging from the center, bending down and inward like spider legs. Trapped in a web. He encircles my shoulder with his arm, leans in and whispers, “It’s just what you do to me.”
Was it the Anais Nin before bed, third glass of chardonnay or three months playing solo? Whatever the cause, Mr. Sandman, bring me, please, please bring me a dream. I'll even wear the Keds.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
I know I feel better after a good poke.
Research claims Viagra may help women on anti-depressants achieve orgasm. However, the little blue best friend maker does not increase desire or arousal like it does for men. Eh, the point? Is it really more about the destination than the journey? Give me the entire road trip, with stops along the scenic routes and lunch at a greasy spoon. Plus, "...43 percent of the women on Viagra experienced headaches." You can get there, weepy gals, just don't want anyone driving.
I’ve not been on the receiving end of the Big V, but have a concern its effects could outlast me, leading to a long night of taffy pulling. Creepier yet is the really, really old guy, giving it to the missus of 40 years way past their regularly scheduled 8:30 bedtime.
Man’s quest began with fire and continues, standing upright, for the chubby. Funny, as young boys, you shamefully hide it behind a book when called to the chalkboard; now you want the Steve Austin variety, better, stronger, faster. Women deal with the occasional (perhaps hormonal) decline in interest the old-fashioned way. Vodka.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
I have greater hope in the belief that perhaps, maybe, we do go on.
I never witnessed a man love a woman, a husband love a wife, so much with words shared from a pulpit. Last kisses and touches, hands shaking as pictures were pulled from a breast pocket and tucked into silent, folded hands. I had to look away, stare into my lap, such a personal, intimate moment. And, as we do, I reflected it back on myself for a selfish moment, wondering if I'll ever be so worthy. So cherished.
I don’t know the answer yet.
I know I want more laughter than weeping when my time comes for gathering and goodbyes. Secretly hope for standing room only.
And more hand holding right now.
Soon, I may pick up the phone to call her for lunch before realizing that’s no longer an option.
I know peace is better than ongoing pain.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
"A train whistle,” I laughed as I slipped back to sleep.
A friend of mine, a beautiful, vibrant, active and strong woman of 55, passed away last night. Cancer. She fought it hard the first time, fought it and feared it the second and stayed to say goodbye.
Monday, July 14, 2008
"Studies show willpower is a mind-body response; it's limited, trainable and using it depletes resources in the body, lowering blood glucose levels and causing fatigue. Given the limits, people should conserve willpower for times when they really need it.”
No wonder I’m so tired and having trouble concentrating on work. Why I can’t seem to get going on the projects running laps in my head or decide which mattress to buy. The willpower switch is in the constant “on” position, keeping me on the straight and narrow, in the gym and out of the chips, in my pants and not out of them with someone whose favorite color or Beatle I don’t know yet. Willpower compels me to buy a size smaller. Willpower assures me sometimes it's better to leave by the back door and throw away the key.
Willpower tells me I am happy.
It's not simply “think it and be it”; rather the other side of the it’s-out-of-my-hands mentality of “The Secret” or organized religion. It’s not wishing, doctrine or what Oprah “Knows For Sure”. Willpower believes everyday is Anything Can Happen Day and knows one must take action to be accountable.
Last night I met a handsome man in town for the week, on a business trip. He’s married but in a “separation situation”. He made a swank late night dinner and the chocolate and red wine decorating his suite sound like something more than an enticing hookup. Willpower took me home and took me to bed*. I continue to nourish myself in mind and body, not let a weekend alone find me on my knees with a technically-married-man or roaming the salty and sweet, soft and creamy internal labyrinth of the grocery store, the aisles where comfort foods dwell. Willpower keeps me in the healthy, crunchy perimeter.
The article closes:
”Forgive yourself when you have a setback. Fuel yourself with positive experiences so you'll be strong when you need to be.”
*Willpower doesn't completely disengage casual fun. But willpower demands respect. Willpower wants a proper date.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Gordon Sumner made me feel funny and ticklish, like the sensation of sliding down the rope in gym class or riding a horse. A sexually late bloomer, I spent hours one hot summer, watching MTV play a heavily rotated ode to the temptation and frustration of a young girl, older man. Those images begat as-of-yet-unexplored carnal thoughts, a beautiful blonde man seated behind a wooden teacher's desk, slowly peeling off a white button-down shirt, exposing one shoulder at time. The flash of a devilish grin. I wanted to be under that desk, although I wasn't sure exactly what to do (regardless of the pencil drawings of hippies in odd positions found in the copy of “The Joy of Sex" kept under my Mom's mattress and which I thumbed through often ).
I'll still do him, tantrically and for several hours at a stretch.
Mama needs a little alone time.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
God I’m bored.
Not that I don’t have loads “to do”. I’m (again and forever) on deadline for work, with muchmuch marketing copy to be edited. Get going on the article to sell to “People” magazine. Figure out how one sells an article to “People” magazine. Send some columns over, red rover, to the hip Denver weeklies; scoop up the random writing and outline the book proposal. The deck always needs another coat of stain; slap on some thick, shiny polyurethane and call it a day. Poly works like conditioner on split ends, smoothing down the splinters.
I crave fresh excitement, more so than the daily recommended dose. A ride in a convertible, with the sun burning into evermore freckled shoulders and hot wind swirling. A hand slid up my dress in public. A ripe, juicy fruit salad with blackberries that explode when crushed into the roof of the mouth. A long, long lingering kiss. A plate of crab legs, tearing apart and cracking out the flesh, butter streaming down palms and leaving a slightly shining ring on the lips.
I need a hot summer fling.
But, it’s 10:04 on a Tuesday and I’m on deadline.
God I’m bored.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Sweet, wonderful words from a sweet, sad soul.
Soaring as a fresh incarnation of myself, Jodie 2.0, I get what the words mean. There’s a monumental difference between “living” and being “alive”. I dress differently. I make mistakes and bad choices in men and forgive myself. I soak in those I want to be like and who inspire me, writers, musicians, artists. Men and women who are boisterous and eat every kind of food at least once and go to bed with someone even when it’s more great fun than true love and are comfortable with sexuality and who don’t flip off drivers in traffic but smile at them instead because why not and stay up all night listening to music they thought they wouldn't like and make the first move and want to know everything about everyone. I desire people I can start fires with.
Being alive is more than flesh and bone and breathing in and out. It’s keeping the blinds and windows open, stopping to pet a dog, burning loads and loads of scented candles for no particular reason, recognizing and ridding toxic behavior, refusing to let it soak in or the smell to linger. Alive is laughter, the throw-your-head-back-from-the-belly kind; striking a conversation with anyone anywhere, whether the man sitting alone next to you or the awkward boy checking out your groceries; playing music loud in the car; enjoying the dark chocolate orange scones just out of my oven and not being overly concerned they’re a bit underdone and crumbly.
I could go on and on and on…
Friday, July 4, 2008
I admit, I hate fireworks. The big booming, whistling ones, all bright colors and sparkles, eh, okay. I’ll ohh, ahh and oww tonight. I'll also passively aggressively wish for a bit of falange blown off the hand of the dumbasses who set them off on my street or on dry, dry wooden decks, brush fire a’waitin’ to happen and cats scared to piss.
I (wearing a fabulously bosom exposing summer dress) and a girlfriend will be at an upscale hotel on the hill, chowing on BBQ, listening to reggae and awaiting the big boom…and perhaps sharing fireworks with some out-of-towers. KaBoom!
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
A tangible and lingering sign of the twenty-five now gone, my stand-bys are failing. Time to restock some basics. The cotton panties now poof and droop in crotch and butt. I actually walked out of a pair of pink Nordstrom super soft hipsters while shopping; made it half way down my thighs before I found a private spot to remove them. The wife beaters I sleep and work out in hang loose, especially around the hips and shoulders, creating the constant need to slide wide straps back up and I'm into the third (and last) row of bra hooks. Two new winter coats became causalities before the last snowfall, sad because I so love the off-white, hip-length, double-breasted pea coat I'd have sex on it.
I’ve still a way to go (I want another thirty) but just how I quick smoking eight years cold turkey, once it sticks, seems to stick.
Wonder when I won't consider myself "fat" (the term "overweight" has no meaning or bearing - over what?) It's not a bad word by any means..."smokin' a fatty", "fat wad of cash"...but it gets a bad wrap. "When we see a hot guy with a 'fat' chick”, a former man friend asserted in best cro magnum fashion, “we think she must give great head, but he can't want to do her.” After a good deal of increasingly red-faced tongue lashing I retorted, “I’m a 'fat' girl and, trust, I’m a wide receiver!” “No, no”, he grunted, “you’d be 'fat' if you were shorter. At your height and weight, you’re good. You're not 'fat'." Think he threw in a "beautiful" for good measure and neanderthal apology.
Oh, and he's got a Buddha belly.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Few things make me as happy as watching Sadie the feral cat “play”. She was born and (mostly) bred wild, and still loudly prefers outside on warm, dry days without the buzzing intrusion of the lawn care company. But she’s embraced the indoor play. She always goes for the fake mice, wildly patterned fabrics, string whiskers and thin and silky, rope tails. She’ll take a plush body in her mouth, fling into the air, watch it land with surprised eyes and then crouch-booty shake-pounce. Once caught, she flop rolls on her side and happily rubs prey over head and face. Play must be an inherent thing. Her love of the down comforter, however, is a learned behavior.
Sipping on a heavily iced glass of 7-Up, remnants of a liter bottle from a Sunday morning hangover. Inconsequential? No, monumental. I rarely to never drink pop/soda/insert your choice of regional fizzy moniker here. Only when riding out an urban flu or bad tum will I desire it. It’s sickly sweet, really, and most of the fizz has escaped.
It’s 4:30something in the morning and I should be sleeping, but am done. Without aid, after mere hours, my body awakes to declare “sleep over”. I may be on tap to watch a friend’s last ball game of the season then catch live music tonight. I should sleep in preparation, add to the activity abacus. There’s a boy coming Wednesday (wink wink). I should rest up for that too. And shave.
When did a holiDAY become a holiWEEK? Round the corporate water cooler (in my case the virtual sipping hole) both work and the internet are quiet, quiet, I assume most absent in anticipation of the fourth this Friday. It’s like a "Twilight Zone" episode, beautiful solitude, and I’ve broken my only pair of glasses. Bored. Bored. Bored. However, I too had planned a few days off; I have to calculate time away between deadlines. But I’m a marketing whore and my work has caught the eyes of executives so the next round must equal literary genius. Because “it’s not who you know it’s who you blow” and when the big boys and girls turn eyes to a little fish in an overpopulated pond, one gets on her knees and performs.
I’ve a hankering for some Cheddar Triscuit’s, but salt is mine enemy.
I love getting e-mail. I send too much e-mail. Saucy and cheeky e-mail. In truth, I’m old-school and prefer the call, the meet for drinks, the card or letter in the mail. When IS the last time I got (or sent) a letter? A genuine, pen to paper, in my handwriting, lick the envelope tome? Actually, I only do script on checks and it’s unreadable scribble. I write in block letters. A handwriting expert once said mine indicated a “kinky” side. And he saw just handwriting.
5:37 a.m. Do I slip back into 350-thread-count or a wild blueberry bagel and coffee?