Tuesday, March 31, 2009

I will have you, yes I will have you

It’s not soul-feeding to lust after a thing, to love an object.

But oh baby, I gotta have this.

It’s a contraption in pen form that allows you to write on paper, spilling and capturing poetry and prose. Or whisper sweet nothings, moan as the muse is called. Once spent and sweaty, simply penetrate a USB port on your laptop or PC and all is released, left transcribed to soft.

Oh to the my to the goodness.

Spiral notebooks holding tiny explosions of thought are scattered throughout the house. In the car. I write in every free moment; with feet immersed in mani-pedi, naked in the tub, waiting for an oil change. I keep a mans-thumb-sized digital voice recorder next to the condoms next to the bed. There are hours of honey voiced files saved there, observation and realizations. Secrets and desires.

Mama needs it.

Monday, March 30, 2009

Gun sticking

Good lord, I can be swayed. Easily.

After a weekend of salty debauchery (and with lunch scheduled Wednesday with a boy - now man - from high school; nothing inappropriate, but given the unwavering crush I had on him for four years twenty-six years ago I must present in the least bloated light) I promised myself a health reemergence. Coconut oil smoothies, no wheat or gluten, mostly veggies down my throat.

And all I want right now is a piece of chocolate chip banana bread. A blogger whose tales I usually find overly look at me (then again, isn’t that the first requirement of blogging?) posted erotic prose about her breakfast this morning. Now it’s all I can think about.

It’s not just food. The married men who choose to flirt, I flirt right back. Sometimes consider more, sometimes take it to the edge of “Oh no you didn’t?!” Lest ye judge, I’ve read the passage about coveting thy neighbors’ bits and being a willing participant only exacerbates bad boy behavior. But it takes two to mambo.

And no, I’ve never slept with a married man. Or woman.

I’m a slave to the sales and marketing collateral Macy’s fills my electronic and in ground mailbox with. If they advertise it, and include colorful coupons with large lettering, I will come.

Not only can I be swayed, I can sway. More teen memories, senior year of high school and conversation in the girls room. Just a few friends considering skipping afternoon classes for a trip into Boulder and Swenson’s Ice Cream. Most on board, with the exception of sweet Teri Lynn. She hemmed, she hawed.

“Teri,” I connived, “In ten years no one will care we missed 7th period history.”

I think she got the chocolate sundae.

Sunday, March 29, 2009

I knew the pathway like the back of my hand

And on Sunday, we rest, replenish, reflect.

Forgive, bend and breathe out behavior lurking under happy, glowy surface that feeds on being unworthy of something more, something sunnier. The intention for morning yoga is respect.

Find clarity in H2O rather than EtOH.

Finally stop embarrassing myself. More importantly, others.

There is too warm a light in me. It gets hot and burns sometimes.


Saturday, March 28, 2009

I'll light the fire, you place the flowers in the vase

Thinking the past few days I’d rather be a renter than a homeowner. I enjoy watching the refund calculator add up positive when entering mortgage interest into Turbo Tax online, but I’m tethered to foundation.

And I’ve become more a chandelier swinging kind of gal.

I bought my tri-level townhome, the first and only, nearly 10 years ago. I was scared, nervous and so proud to make an investment on my own. When I was kid only the rich families actually owned a home, the rest of us rented their spares. But before the mortgage bubble burst, it was expected you bought, nearly everyone did.

"Renting?! BAH,” those in the know would spit. “Throwing your money away.”

But then the dishwasher springs a leak and fills pockets of linoleum with squishy bubbles (mostly air it turns out) and there’s no landlord to call to fix it, to replace a broken appliance. A sweet friend on the coast farthest from me said he’d get on a plane, come be my handyman. Pretty sure he was talking about the kitchen floor.

“I hate to talk myself of work”,” the mold guy who paid a visit yesterday afternoon said. "But I don’t see a big problem here." I could have kissed him, bless his decent, honest repair guy heart. Didn’t even charge for the trip out. He had lovely blue eyes. And a wedding band.

Although I’d rather run up a bill at Macy’s, I’ve changed how I’m looking at this unexpected expense, excited for the trip to Home Depot; after all the linoleum is old and sad and could use a spruce. Until the floor is pulled up, new put down and dishwasher from this decade installed, I have another few days of hand wash ahead. There’s something sweetly old school about washing dishes by hand, and damn if I don’t look sexy in yellow Playtex gloves (red heels and a flowered apron would take the scene over the top.)

And since I’m doing the kitchen and downstairs powder room, may as well venture to the master bath, throw down large grid black-and-white retro tile, maybe gray for a modern twist. Then of course new carpet, paint. Definitely replace the blinds.

Anyone know any local, single handymen? I tip well.

I’ve longed for months to move into a cute little bungalow in the cute little boutique neighborhood an 18 minute drive away, the one where I can walk to coffee in the morning and cocktails at night. The homes I can’t afford to buy, even if were to sell this one first. The difference between owning and renting is bit like married vs. dating. With one comes stable warmth and security, forgiving the cracks and leaks one must pay attention too before they become issues too large to spackle over. You can paint and renovate, redecorate should things become a bit dull. A swing set in the backyard more grounding than cement boots. A renter, like a serial dater, enjoys the freedom to explore, discover new places, new people and call on others to help clean up messes that occur.

Cozy and comfortable as I’ve made this home, I’m lonely in it. Few come in, there’s little to no room for company, the big bed too empty and meals cooked for one.

I’m ready to feed some more.

Friday, March 27, 2009

All the honeys makin' money throw your hands up at me

If you own a TV, and have it turned to the “on” position for any amount of time, you must have seen the FreeCreditReport.com commercials.

Warning: The following will stick in your head like bubblegum on dry hair:

Well I married my dream girl, I married my dream girl
But she didn’t tell me her credit was bad
So now instead of living in a pleasant suburb
We’re living in the basement at her Mom and Dad’s
No we can’t get a loan for a respectable home
Just because my girl defaulted on some old credit card
If we’d gone to free credit report dot com
I’d be a happy bachelor with a dog and a yard

Listen up all the single ladies, all the single ladies. The man whose heart you capture, whose soul you swim in, may rethink dreamy lifetime commitment if it turns out your bills aren’t paid. And he'll be happy. Thing is, the only big wad a real woman needs is of the pink wrinkly variety. The cash, I got my own, but I share. You'd think a man would be all over that.

Alas, all the women who are independent, some say that's not the case. Listened in to an hour of Oprah recently. I was off the O for a while, having grown weary of the cult, one where living your best life required cashmere socks, but I like the return of fat Oprah. And she’s ironing her hair. The show featured comic and now best-selling “Love Expert” Steve Harvey and 300 women.

Steve Harvey's book is flying off the shelves, and we've got him unleashed! Want to know what men really think? Steve's answering all your burning love questions!

Admittedly, I’ve been behaving a bit like Oliver Twist of late, running after the boys who make me flush and flutter, hoping for more, for something, from their bowls. I asked a few male friends if perhaps I needed to reel it in, does the playful activity make men uncomfortable? In other words, should I put on the petticoats and stop going commando?

One said I have, “an intentional shock value… but mostly you just have a saucy sense of humor.” The other simply said, “Nah.”

I want a man to take me home to bed and take me home to Mom, and that tandem isn't panning out. I don't have the girl game play down and it’s the girls who perhaps want or need some saving (and savings) that get the guy in the end.

According to Harvey, a man shows his love through the three P's - profess, provide, protect. He says, "A man has got to see where he fits into the providing and protecting role. If you've got everything, you can do everything…the guy is thinking, 'Where do I fit in here?”

If I could slow down and sip a coffee with one, maybe I’d find out. And I should let him pick up the check, huh?

Thursday, March 26, 2009

Big Ten Inch

The older of my nieces married a few years back in Florida, in February, and many of the immediate family trouped southeast for the event. The night before the morning nuptials a cold front began to move into the area. Newscasters zipped into puffy parkas - with hoods - warned of safety for small animals and the homeless and the need for bundling.

It was forecasted to drop into the 40’s.

Us of hearty Colorado stock merely laughed. “Cold?! You don’t know for cold!” we chuckled and removed another layer. After the non-stop chatter and raising of the arctic terror alert to "Blue Balls", I half expected the Abominable Snowman from “Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer” to pull up on a jet ski.

My black kitten heels were off minutes after the ceremony, as was the soft pink pashmina wrap, and I walked barefoot through nude fishnets most of the next day. We gathered on the beach after.


A front is expected to blow through Colorado and Denver proper today. Often in the Rocky Mountain region, when The Weather Channel calls for snow it may simply wallop high up in the hills. But this storm is setting up like a Jell-O shot, ready to unload almost a foot or more in the city. Best get to the market for bread and milk; how come when plight is bearing down everyone shops for bread and milk? What the hell are they making? You need eggs and Mrs. Butterworth’s for French toast.

Killer, Mrs. Butterworth’s shows up in spell check.

I hope for a frosty white pile up in double-digit inches. I’m in the mood for snow and a load of it, although I have little good comfort food on hand to prepare. Snow days are days for meaty chili you scoop up from the bowl with tortilla chips or pot roast sprinkled with Lipton’s Onion Soup Mix and cooked all day in the crock pot, homey smells wafting for hours. Sadly I eat none of that anymore.

I have bread. Whole wheat. I could make toast.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Metaphorically speaking

A friend is hurting. He doesn’t want to talk details (and I don’t want to know - I now wear an amulet inscribed “relationship mingling” encircled in red with a line drawn through it). The possible end of a romance, facing the fear and the “why?”, the loneliness and the hurt that sits in the bottom part of your stomach usually reserved for digestive juices.

How lucky to find and acknowledge the possibility of another. How brave to dive in not knowing how deep the water is at the other end, but lifting both feet from the platform anyway.

Me, I want to get hurt. Means the risk mattered.

The opposite of hurt is heal; it’s also happy. Can’t know how good chocolate tastes without eating some dirt. I hope he remembers once he swallows the mouthful he’s chewing, maybe choking on a little, that sweet will come. Again.

Because he's a good guy.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Divine Intervention

Intervention ran last night on A&E. With no offense, and in respect of those who face serious and debilitating addictions yet find the strength to heal, I have the cheeky monkey to ask…

What would your episode of Intervention address?

I’ll go.
Toppermost of the poppermost is sex. No apologies or weeping into a hanky while listening to consequence letters penned by loved ones, I grab on and hold with both hands. I was once handily advised I may have a sexual addition and to turn to God; funny since I call upon God in the midst of the behavior. There’s a line between that which we thirst for and that we become drunk on. I get my work done, pay my bills, care for those I love and operate in society all the while with one hand down my pants.

I love my Grey Goose, in the dirty variety, with chewy to the point of crunchy colossally large green olives swirling in murky brine. And coffee, iced or hot and never overly pompous. No need for sprinkles or a caramel swirl, I take it with just a splash of softness.

The potato, my lover and enemy. If I found myself stranded forever on a desert island I’d wish only for a wrinkly pink friend, Beatles CD's and potatoes in any form - baked, french fried, hash, chip, shoestring. Tot.

If that island was equipped with cable or electricity (the professor on Gilligan’s Island made a phone from a coconut, after all) I’d be happy for all eternity with Ab Fab. Wrong as it is right, I live vicariously through Patsy and Edina, hell, often along side and in the same Christian Lacroix, sweety darling.

Clean hair. Back in the day when clubs allowed smoking, I’d wash my long locks at 2 or 3 in the morning to rid the stale smell before bed. I get wet (then dry and flat ironed) for the smell, feel and swing of fresh hair.

Ironing, because I like to be “crisp.” Perhaps it comes from years of living poorly, when spare cash and a pair of jeans were few and far between, new clothes coming only at back to school time. And I always iron pillow cases.

Last, gimme some truth. Secrets, anonymity, suppressing desire and living quietly instead of out loud will kill, at the very least shrivel. I'm tall for a girl, reaching 5’8 plus in stocking feet and rarely found in flats, yet wish I were taller yet. Same for truth.

Because more is better, even when towering in heels makes others uncomfortable.

Some addictions can actually save your life.

Monday, March 23, 2009

Power to the (pretty) people

It’s an ugly truth. Pretty people need love too. The truly breathtaking are approached less often in a purely friendly manner, perhaps due to the “Somebody’s Baby” syndrome wherein us mere mortals believe they communicate only with others in the pack.

I say nay.

At the start of yoga Sunday morning, a young man dressed all in navy blue lingered at the edge of the packed, serene studio. The gym’s fitness director I soon found out. The yoga instructor, a Rose McGowen-porcelain-skinned-dark-haired-lovely, the kind who can wear red lips through a bendy hour without a smear, chided him to join. He resisted, then acquiesced and took a mat in the only spot available up front.

Reflected in the mirrors.

The practice of yoga is non-judgmental but unnerving; ass up, legs apart and luggage on display like a Samsonite showroom. Yet you quickly assimilate, join breath with the room and make peace with the grunting and occasional fart. Your intention and your body is the focus, no one else’s. However my eyes wandered left, especially at the half-way point when the blue polo peeled off in the rapidly heating room to reveal a white wife beater. And the arms. The kind of manly pythons a girl envisions eating off of, twitchy layers of muscles that flex and flicker at the slightest movement. If one side glance as he moved from plank pose through chaturanga dandasana and reverse cobra is wrong I don’t want to be right.

Before you accuse me of objectifying, the veiled leering is absolute appreciation and acknowledgment of the time and pain and sacrifice required to build the beast. I respect the journey and the effort. Health is not vanity.

And it’s pretty to look at.

The end of class, shoe retrieval, mopping brows and friendly chatter all around. None directed to the handsome man many had also...appreciated. He kept eyes down as he dressed, paying more serious attention than required to mat rolling. None of the students engaged him in after-squat chat. Well, one did.

“So, what’d you think?” I asked on approach. “It was amazing, not what I expected,” he regaled, face suddenly lit up and open, smile as dazzling as the rest of him. “Yeah,” I said, “It’s not all stretching and Kumbaya, is it.” Of course he laughed; I’m charming even when sweaty and pink.

“What’s your name?’ “I’m Jodie.” “Jodie, David. Nice to meet you.”

Nice to meet you too.

Sunday, March 22, 2009

Dream Academy

What secrets do I keep when I’m wailing in my sleep?

Once again, days of weird and wacky nocturnal storytelling. Maybe it’s the tequila and popcorn before bed.

Last night, instead of the teeth crumbling and falling from mouth, I can fly or naked before the big test dream, I lost my fingers. One I actually bite off myself. At least two or three total, definitely one from each hand; clean and non-bloody nubs, fully contained and wrapped up like the finger of a latex surgery glove filled with jelly. I was so engaged in the dream at one point I searched for (and found) a pulled phalange in the afghan. And no, I didn’t awake to rolled pieces of Tempur-Pedic® foam or condom from the nightstand blown up like a balloon. I'm troubled with my biting a piece of me away, especially from my hands, my tools.

The night before brought a tangle of intrigue and mystery and fear, starring a man and woman I’ve never met in real life but in whose lives I found myself pulled over the edge into (and in truth I did some jumping). Mistake, relationship mingling. And I’m sad it may have cost two potential friends. The dream says it did. Silence says it might have.

Perhaps I need to invest in a dream dictionary and work out the demons not expelled in waking hours that keep me twisted in sheets at night and confused when eyes open again.

In the practice of yoga, it's suggested you breathe in and return a word to the room, your intention, the thing lacking in the moment you wish to bring forward and address. My first week it was power - as in strength, not conquering or control. Last week I exhaled peace.

Today? I may ask for comfort.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

Love Me Do(o)

A funny feeling in my tummy may have saved me from myself.

Well, perhaps it was more like a rumble in the jungle.

A buddy e-mailed late this week, the kind with whom the topic of conversation extends little past whether the cowgirl is straight or reversed. A “frolic partner” he called it. We hadn’t frolicked in months, and I didn’t shy from but rather wholly embrace his suggestion we get together by the weekend.

Four months is a long time.

Friday, t-minus 12 hours to frolick and a planned day away from work. Slept in but made it just in time for an 8:45 a.m. spinning class. Shower and lingering lunch with the ladies, complete with crunchy Cobb salad and Pinot Noir in a deep bellied glass. Much catching up, much laughing, much that’s good for the soul.

Run through Macy’s for a thigh snuggly pair of black trousers. A Starbucks stop for an iced coffee, unsweetened. Found a strip mall nail salon and sank into a massage chair for a tag team mani-pedi (beautiful job, no bubbles in too quickly stroked on layers, but mirror-shine fingers and toes in shades of pinky-taupe and blood red black).

The gastronomical launch sequence first sounded alarm in the Macy’s dressing room. I blamed the crudité lunch plate and addition of coconut oil to my diet; suffice to say the pipes run clean. Within hours it had built to a gurgling crescendo, fueled by double-brewed coffee and cranberry-peppermint scented warm acrylic nail dust fumes.

Luckily I was well ensconced at home for total intestinal failure. Sometimes you just want the comfort of familiar porcelain to fully express oneself.

I quickly texted my frolick, said I was sorry to disappoint but I couldn’t “do” tonight. His reply, not somewhat unexpected, was short and terse.

Did I mention, hours earlier while heading in for the coffee, I’d run into a boy on the sidewalk, a waiter I’d shamelessly flirted with over breakfast a month or so earlier, who I’d rolled eyes with two weekends ago after yoga? Much too young for me. I seemed to make him nervous; he didn’t seem to know what to do with his free hand. So cute, so funny, so unexpected to have that affect on someone.

“I’ll see you around” I casually threw out before parting. I wondered if he’d kept the phone number I‘d scribbled on that breakfast check. I noticed my smile, a reaction to the reaction he’d had to me. Imagine running into him like that, just around the corner! You never know what's just around the corner.

Flirting feels good. That hair flipping dance. That new excitement. That funny feeling in my tummy.

Did I mention as I lay on the couch just now, downing another long glass of water, I replayed in my head playful banter I’d had online recently with a rediscovered high school chum? How after he had to abruptly go he’d e-mailed a day later, apologizing. He wrote, “I’ll make it up to you.” Sweet, isn’t it? As if he owed me attention.

And as much as I like frolicking, I don't want the buddy to smile shyly at me or share a sweet message. I just texted him goodbye.

It’s time for both butterflies and belly rubs.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

This foolishness can leave a heart black...and blue

Ever wish you had ready access to one of those strong man towers found at the traveling circus, the kind you whack with a comically oversized soft mallet to determine strength or hotness quotient?
Don’t you wish there was such a machine to measure happiness?

The blog of late has been a bit introspective, a little boo-hooing. I blame both spring and yoga for the deep look inward. And the fact I haven’t been laid in months. Kidding aside, it’s a time for change and renewal and recycling. It feels safe to express the gray out of my fingertips rather than face-to-face. I’m not brave, especially given the core of who I was and who I was told to be. My wants and needs have flip-flopped. With so much having fallen away, it’s a rebuilding time. I insist friends hold me up, where in the past I was the foundation. Can’t save myself anymore or, more succinctly, I choose not to. I want to trust hands will emerge and catch me when I stumble. I plan to stumble along for a while yet.

I’m still a flirt, a cad some think. But don't invite the saucy girl over and get mad if the top comes off, know what I mean?

If I run away briefly, catch me and stop me. If you want me. I don’t want to hurt, and I have been hurting. And left collateral damage, hurting others in the process. I apologize where I've helped make those beds. But I don’t accept the blaming. I get when I’ve been used.

Each morning I embrace the day. I love my spirit and my body and my choices, I’m aware of my loneliness as much as my independence. And I’m a good person. I struggle to understand why or if anyone does or would love me. That’s truth. Some do, I know, because the feeling reflected back in simple ways and manners empties my chest in joy. They know it. Those two are my spirit, like oxygen always there. I have to stop forgetting to breathe them in.

Because when I’m given nothing it’s all I’ve got. Stole that from Bono.

Love to you that love (or tolerate) me.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

It's not that easy being green

Timothy the Frog (née Kermit) got it right.

It's not that easy being green
Having to spend each day the color of the leaves

I’m often amused how a girl big as life, boisterous and red and joyful and outspoken and outloud is invisible, even in a crowd, even when shouting from her fingertips. Maybe amused isn't quite the right word.

When I think it could be nicer being red, or yellow or gold
Or something much more colorful like that

Not a shrinking violet, more a gerbera daisy with a hearty stem and thick, vibrantly colored petals. But most prefer roses.

It's not easy being green
It seems you blend in with so many other ordinary things
And people tend to pass you over 'cause you're not standing out
Like flashy sparkles in the water
Or stars in the sky

I’ve seen eagles soar over the small park near my house. Not as often as I did before a massive apartment complex sprung up on the land, more when it was open field and trees and grass. I’m still looking up though. Once years ago, in that same space, a baby bear was found up a tree, having wandered miles from home. Why didn’t the sloth, at very least the Mama Bear, notice he’d gone off alone? Guess bears are solitary animals, really (Wikipeida says so).

But green's the color of Spring
And green can be cool and friendly-like
And green can be big like an ocean, or important
Like a mountain, or tall like a tree

Maybe this afternoon I’ll treat myself to a green tea mani-pedi at the new salon nearby, my St. Pat’s celebration. It’s spendy, but 20% off on Tuesdays.

When green is all there is to be
It could make you wonder why, but why wonder why wonder
I am green and it'll do fine, it's beautiful

And I think it's what I want to be

Wasn't it funny how Big Bird was the only one to see the Snuffleupagus and the others teased him because they didn't believe there was such an animal? Maybe funny isn't quite the right word.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

Home is where the what is?

I have a recurring dream. So much so it’s not a dream I’ve had merely a handful of times, but in dozens of variations, always the same at the core. I’ve had the dream so often I recognize in sleep when it’s coming. Truth told, I’ve grown weary of it.

I had it again this weekend.

It’s not the result of sleeping naked and visions of tattoo parlors and being licked by a rockabilly rebel. Or the warm non-physical embrace of a curly haired boy who encourages me - through vodka fueled sadness - to walk in the shoes of a strong, beautiful woman.

In this dream I'm on my own, or want it that way. I’m moving or have moved homes and find my life wrapped in boxes and too much sticky tape. Sometimes the change of address features just me, most often it includes the family I once had, all in-laws and prodigy in tow. Never with a man or a mate. A couple of times friends from the past have appeared.

The move and initial time to settle is always chaotic and I’m always unhappy. Once the front driveway sank, grand slabs of concrete simply swallowed by wet, rich dirt I could smell. Another time the wood privacy fence, more than 12 feet tall and wide surrounding the front of the home, was torn down in the night by a crew of workman; I awoke in the dream feeling panicked and exposed to neighbors peering into roof-to-ceiling plate glass windows. In one version the backyard went on as far as I could see into the distance, but it contained only dead grass and weeds. I recall a house laid out in a maze of hallways and rooms connected one after another, so big I lost count after four floors of exploring. Everyone had already called a room, leaving me no space, no place.

At some point the despair comes, the feeling lost. Sometimes I’m just being ignored or not heard. “This is a mistake,” I say. “Why did I come, why did I change everything?” Because no one wants me here and they tell me with actions and without words.

But then I remember I have a home, a place to run back to. The two homes are always the same; the one I live in now and the one I lived in then. A townhome I never sold the mortgage on, that may sit empty or hold the remnants and relics collected over a near decade. The other times it’s a shoebox apartment, home during "The Ramen Years", cheap but clean with 1970’s avocado-colored appliances and little breathing room made warm and cozy on nickels and dimes. I still have a key to the mailbox and the front door. Once I went in and found someone else living there.

Perhaps the dreams remind me how I feel safer in my own head and my own space. There’s no surprise or unknown in the comforts of “home”, no confrontation. But there I’m always alone.

Then last night I had a sex dream about a boy I went to high school with and everything was all better.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

I'll see you, in your wildest dreams

The last guy I slept with just e-mailed.

Has it been a whole 16 weeks? I have quit smoking. I have joined a gym and make it there regularly, and it shows. I had not looked at your blog for a while, caught a whim. Still the refrain of approach/avoidance. Wish that I could have helped that. Hope you are well....hugs.

I'm amused by a perfectly placed passive aggressive poke along side the whassup since the quest to save me from myself apparently failed. Renée "You complete me" Zellweger really fucked it up for the ladies, chewing that line and swallowing it whole like a piece of salt water taffy.

Now you know why I gave up men, especially the overly-hormonal-more-girlie-than-me variety, for lent. Almost made it, peeps, but feel the need to blow off some steam and perhaps a broad-shouldered fireman or scruffy guitar player before the Easter egg hunt. Well, the weekend is coming.


Monday, March 9, 2009

Then you've seen me

Driving into Boulder, over the slope at Highway 36 from the scenic overlook, afternoon sun reflecting off the flat surfaces of the Flatirons to my left, a Springsteen song came on the radio.

Have you ever seen a one trick pony in the field so happy and free? If you've ever seen a one trick pony then you've seen me.

I'm not a radio listener. Classic CD's rule in the car, the iPod shuffle determines cardio rate on the elliptical.

Have you ever seen a one-legged dog making its way down the street? If you've ever seen a one-legged dog then you've seen me.

The lyrics Bruce half-spoke-half sang stopped time. Felt my heart rise and eyes focus on something but nothing in the distance, shutting out all distractions to hear even closer.

Have you ever seen a scarecrow filled with nothing but dust and wheat? If you've ever seen that scarecrow then you've seen me.

Something happens when we connect to words; in a blog, in a book, coming over the speakers.

Have you ever seen a one-armed man punching at nothing but the breeze? If you've ever seen a one-armed man then you've seen me.

Beauty and pathos, a few words strung together creating universal truth. A feeling we know, a place where we've sat and thought.

Have you ever seen a one-legged man trying to dance his way free? If you've ever seen a one-legged man then you've seen me.

The DJ (yep, some stations still have flesh-and-bone voices broadcasting live) told me the song is "The Wrestler" and from the movie of the same name. Deadline be damned, a day of hooky may be in order this week, just me and a bucket of corn in the dark.

Saturday, March 7, 2009

A bittersweet symphony, this life

Change is a funny thing, our reaction to it even funnier. Not funny “ha ha” but funny ironic. When faced with positive life altering events, whether leaving one high profile career for another or a move cross country, we want to hear a chorus of support from those who love us.

“You can do it!”

“What a great opportunity”

“I’m so happy for you”

On the flip side, however, there’s a tiny whisper of inner voice that craves hearing something else.

“Please stay”

“Don’t leave me here all alone”

“It could never be the same without you”

We just want to know that like a snowflake or a thumbprint, there’s no one else quite like us, definitely no replacement. Yeah, you're the real thing. Even better than the real thing, child.

When my brother died suddenly and violently, wrapping my head around the situation seemed impossible. I couldn’t make peace with the realization of no more time to build a grown-up relationship, or one at all.

“You’re not grieving for him, you’re grieving for yourself”

Of course, not entirely but certainly. Because when others change, whether positive movement or sadly permanent loss, we absorb and measure the effects of not moving along with them, or no longer having them by our side.

Change is a funny thing.

Friday, March 6, 2009

There is good and bad in everyone

Pants off to the bloggers who write each day, and write well. Me, can’t seem to muster the muse as often as I'd like lately, or at least do it eloquently. There’s laundry to do, no groceries in the ‘fridge. My toes are a mess. Deadlines roaring up and past.

I could write of 16 weeks without a warm, musky neck to burrow into and inhale, about the frustration of seeking a man who's drawer-worthy and the desire for more than casual, for mutual respect long past the next day. And having no clue how to go about getting there. I missed the "Real Relationships 101" lecture; must have been out sick that day.

Been on my mind lately how the truth won't necessarily set you free as much as muddy the view and require you clean it all up with a Shop-Vac. I could sigh about growing weary of (still) absorbing others frustrations in me.

Maybe I should adopt a dog. Dogs are wholly unconditional.

I want to explode and share prose of the joy of spring, the new sniffle and cough that reacts to budding spores and nature’s chemicals heating up, swirling in the air. Tiny blades of grass are poking through, and the windows are open most days. Renewal and rebirth, cleans out so many of the cobwebs.

I’m an exhibitionist, not a tits out exhibitionist (so much anymore) but want to talk as a truth teller. My own is easy, ask anything; the answer may not completely satiate but filters do little good and secrets merely kill slowly. I chose to let it out with abandon, like a feral cat who eats to the point of sickness because it doesn’t know when another meal is coming.

I could bemoan in my words how I’m tired of explaining myself, that if you want to hear me, just listen. I’ve discovered how to ask for help - I help define you, you help define me. That's friendship and beyond.

I’m Tommy. See me, feel me, touch me heal me.

There's a blog in me about how the truth shouldn’t be an excuse for bad behavior, or honesty an invitation to create chaos from the past, but rather a fleeting opportunity to embrace something better.

Maybe I really don’t know how to be a friend or a girlfriend, or a mother or a wife. Maybe something was damaged too long ago in too awful a fashion. Conflict often makes me turn and run and few have been strong or interested or loving or self-aware enough to come after me. That I don't know how to express, and that's what I want the most. Not only the courage to stay, but the knowing if I go, I won’t go off alone.

Because I’m worth getting a little breathless for. Too.

If only I could muster the words to write all of that.

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