Thursday, April 30, 2009

Controlled Randomness

Work is piling up, deadlines closing in like the walls in a secret vault at the bad guys lair in an old episode of Electra Woman and Dyna Girl. The weekend lures with salon time and a Sunday indie and I need to hunker down. But first, a few recent and random thoughts.

She’s a nasty bitch that Mother Nature. Pimples at my age? True, those of us who suffered oily skin in our youth now enjoy mostly smooth, plump lushness. But there’s a rumbler under the bridge of my nose biding time. Oh god, can herpes travel that far North?

Social media is neither, really, and a contradiction mentioned here. In a blog. Friday night on the way out a restuarant and after a too meaty meal, we passed several tables of couples; Noah’s Ark, two-by-two, IRL flesh and bone clicking and texting into plastic palms instead of engaging conversation. Sunday, with hands in the mani bowl, a trio of females arrived at the nail salon, clearly Mom and daughters. They’d come for a polish change for the littlest blonde (8 if a day) and a pedi for blonde Mom and blonde pre-teen-pre-budding daughter. I turned to the woman plucking my cuticles.

“That’s so lovely,” I said. “I never did that with my Mom.” She replied back her agreement in broken, but good, English and suggested I do it now. I felt myself mist up, realizing I’d never had or suggested a spa day. That, I dunno perhaps, I should try to put aside the hurt of who we really are and what we can’t change and, I dunno perhaps, attempt double-team foot pampering. And hey, if it went to shit at least I’d have soft feet.

I turned eyes to the pedi tubs, where blonde #1, #2 and #3 sat in a row, feet in the bubbles. Each one clicking into plastic palms, saying nothing to each other.

When it comes to men and women, men like the chase. The build up and the anticipation. They'll sniff around, act a fool, show up at your house in the middle of night. Ladies like that (well, this one does) because it makes us feel desirable and special. Sexy. Turns us on too. Eventually we acquiesce and after sniff around and act a fool wanting more. When I’ve had a taste, I want a meal. After a meal, I want the kitchen (stole that from a friend). More. More. Men, eh, they’ll get to it again. But some of the initial thrill is gone. Which is why we have lingerie and yoga (for extra bendy acrobatics).

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Please tell me why

Signs are funny, messages from the universe often overlooked. For months after my brothers sudden passing, in times I was coming a bit undone the song "Here Comes the Sun" would appear...on the car radio, in a television program, playing overhead at the grocery. It calmed me through grief and eventual acceptance, made me smile, faded as time began to heal. When my Dad died suddenly in January last year, the song returned.

I'm lucky to have eyes (and ears) open enough to receive it. The curse and the blessing of the soulful.

Last night, after a particularly moving hour of candlelight yoga, one of more gently aggressive stretching and opening of hips and heart that rough posing, I came to hard tears in final savasana (corpse pose). Couldn’t swallow away the burn in the back of the throat, my belly began to rise and fall too quickly. I was relieved to be in a mostly dark room, appreciative of the yogi who tapped into something core, but still awkward to share it.

And where did it come from?

The mostly sound proof yoga room spills out into the main gym, where music plays loudly over speakers.

"It's no surprise to me I am my own worst enemy. 'Cause every now and then I kick the living shit out of me."

No soothing George Harrison, mandolin-plucking love poem, but an ass slap needed none the less.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

IRL

Odd things happen in the mysterious 10-minute distance of the snooze alarm. This morning I was doggedly pursued by Dane Cook through a Mexican hotel, where instead of zipping around on a moped or Vespa I rode a mechanical cat. Yes, I rode my pussy all over town. Then I hung out with the cast of One Day At a Time.

Soon realized this all occurred in an hour and 12 minutes between snooze and awake. Good thing my schedule is somewhat bendy. I also had the old school “trying to find my way back home” dream earlier this week. I want to lie on a couch and have that one pulled apart. It’s chaotic and sad and makes me feel lost, unwanted. Don’t need a dream to convey that message.

Yesterday 29 people visited, maybe some stayed to read. No comments, just an e-mail from a man I'm not entirely sure is seeking something from me, and I don't mind I just don't understand it yet. I never was one to ask for comfort, let alone shout it through clear words. I ask now.

Today I’ll brush it away, work again at the coffee shop where there's music and lovely smells and the occasional smile or hello, showered and with my long red hair washed and smelling clean, and dressed in a cute new black lace long tunic/short dress that I'll wear over capri leggings with flats. Then lunch with a lovely woman who asked ME out to catch up and chat over a brilliant film I saw last week, alone in the dark, that her son had a hand in making, and I hope to come away more inspired than envious of dreams just beginning. Then probably back home to the needs of the J-O-B that’s boring me more and more, then 6:15 candlelight yoga. Haven't done yoga twice in one week, never been to this instructor, but feel the need the hug myself from the inside out. Then home, a hot bath and bed.

Too available. Too much information. Too much blurring of the line between emotional connection and daily existence.

Don’t know if I’ll keep doing this.

Monday, April 27, 2009

And feel the magic in your touch

In class yesterday, after the "hard work" as my yoga instructor calls it, we moved on to hips and spine. We'd just finished a “super person” stretch (love that she calls it that, not Superman or super hero) and baby cobras when she asked us to move hands down to our sides and place our left ear to the mat, bellies on the earth. Relaxed and eyes closed. She roams the room as she leads us beginners and in that moment of quiet and tranquil she crouched down and rubbed the small of my back in little circles. I smiled, appreciating and warming to the touch. Whether an adjustment or a lovely gesture I’m not sure. Didn't matter, the connection stayed with me to this morning.

But today I'm sad. I need to refocus wild, unleashed energy into deadlines and moving forward shining my heart. Would be lovely to know at the end of the day there was someone to rub tiny circles into my lower back. I'm a bit lost for true comfort, but then so many are. Can’t even play coy because every thought and emotion is released in writing and the exhibitionist need to show my soul to those who merely eavesdrop. I’m just sad today.

Happens even to the joyful and the unburdened.

Try to keep any little piece of my heart you may admire in safe hands, okay?

Sunday, April 26, 2009

Lady With The Spinning Head

I’m a bit much to take, an Energizer Rabbit stuffed full of fresh batteries who'll burn them out in one extended flick of the “On” button. I don’t like to stop when things feel good.

Two grey goose martinis and the second glass of red are better than one. Once I've relented to or been given a proper working over, instead of reprieve and satisfaction, desire increases ten-fold. Creativity flows, the bend in yoga becomes deeper and I become a hyper puppy sniffing at a crotch. I like to ride the roller coaster many times in a row, until legs are jelly and heart is beating vivacissimo (on a slow day or evening at the park, a flash of smile towards a young machine operator and “Could we go just one more time…please?” plea often does it.)

I crave constant stimulation is some form or another, the cure for my ants in the pants. My hands fly in motion expressing words out through palms and finger tips. Find my foot tapping over crossed knee when seated. I wander, in all forms and fashion, physically and mentally. Swear actual heat must generate from that motor.

I pop over to social media often, text and IM and call and e-mail and blog and seek connection to feed my head. I'm Julie the Cruise director, planning and plotting to put myself out of the house more than in. I work at the coffee shop now. I crave similar people. But there’s also laundry (did five loads this weekend), groceries, the time spent fueling the soul solo. Sometimes can't score a partner in crime.

Whether squishing tall blades of soft grass between toes in the park, or leaning into the concave and comforting curve of an old tree trunk reading, or throwing back shots while shelling peanuts onto an already sticky bar floor, or PBR in a can and rockabilly, or pounding hot zoo pavement secretly wishing for a dive into the seal pool, or belly laughing at clever improv, or indulging in closer-to-red-than-pink-wet burgers and crispy thick fries until the belly aches, or a head-scratching indy film at the Tivoli, I’m in.

Chances are I’m there already, but joy loves company.

Saturday, April 25, 2009

In The Flesh

Called for a massage this afternoon at a strip mall parlor (they aren't called parlors now though, sounds a bit “happy ending”). The appointment was with Robert and the woman scheduling it sounded excited at the prospect.

“Oh,” she purred. "You’ll like Robert.”

Not to judge (of course any sentence beginning with that statement is certain to do just that) but in any healthcare, public safety or “glamour” profession appearance is a point of consideration. You don’t expect to see morbidly obese nurses or paramedics, policemen and firemen. My hairdresser is the only mod chick in otherwise stretchy pants suburbia.

Robert weighed close to 300 pounds, stout and as wide around as he was tall. Think Weeble. A lovely man it turns out, if a bit chatty out of the gate, but the shell caught me off guard. As he worked my back and shoulders, I could feel belly bob against the top of my head while face down in the hemorrhoid cushion pillow. His breathing was laborious throughout, at times hedging on puffy and straining. On the plus side, pun intended, his hands dug deep.

He marveled at and confirmed the benefits of yoga to my overall structure; no back knots to coax out, just small tangles in arms and shoulders. The rest of me was long and flexible, even hips. Many years back, heavy snow broke a weak back and I landed in true-blue-hospital-prescribed physical therapy for months. Therapist Katie (the first and only woman to ever fondle my ass) would hover over my supine form, grasp left hip then right under each of her palms and press down hard to realign my womanly bear trap. My hips are straight and open now; a split may be possible before long, my first ever.

Try as you might to shut out the fact a stranger is roaming your unclothed body in a closed room with dim lighting, there’s a sensual element to massage. I shut my eyes and wandered, a couple of times split-second responding to the more “close in” areas of work. Next go ‘round I may choose massage therapy school and a young man just finishing his certification.

I can now fully relax and let my body go. Yoga no longer requires a teacher’s gentle push of shoulder to bubbly mat during corpse pose. I'm not so shy of being touched, of being naked, walking-on-the-moon-giant-steps for the girl who used to recoil from any tactile expression and refused to wear sleeveless tops or tanks. I still prefer wearing a slip “during” (the feel of a tiny strap peeled from a shoulder is divine times two) to cover my belly, the final frontier to complete nude comfort. The man finally allowed to fully explore my stomach will earn the right to plant a flag in my belly button. The freedom I have in and for my body is freedom beyond words. The one or two (or six or seven) who’ve rolled about with me have appreciated, even desired, the skin and bones I scarred privately and hid publically. Now I share it with some abandon.

And hell, I figured Robert sees tits-a-plenty daily.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Live Through This

Talk about a rollercoaster of emotions, a mind fuck of a day.

Tuesday night I enjoyed an amazing and much needed evening with a man I know only a little and it was good, the stuff of bodice ripping novels and “Dear Penthouse Forum” openings. Momentary connection and release, situational opportunity. Once the jitters shook out I lapped up every second. So did he.

You should learn when to go, you should learn how to say no

By Wednesday afternoon he hadn’t called, e-mailed or sent out smoke signals. I think like a guy, understand most in our situation don’t. And like him I’m “unburdened by...puritanical guilt."

Well they get what they want, then they never want it again

Mine's a lifestyle of overdue adventurous pursuit and I like it that way. Then Wednesday morning someone else, somebody in real life, offered something more, dinner rather than lunch, and I became hopeless rather than hopeful. Because somewhere in my gut I don’t trust, don't believe any of that possible, really. And that leaves me feeling nothing but on my own.

And the sky was all violet, I want it again but more violet

Connecting physically, regardless of the steps before or after, is often more honest, definitely more fulfilling, than the cheating spouse, straying boyfriend and in-the-dark girlfriend or hopeless flirtation. So another intelligent, sexy, devious and charming man turned my head and held my attention for a week then a few hours more. I don’t care to separate his fact from fiction.

Go on take everything, take everything, I dare you to

I dare you, too.

Monday, April 20, 2009

Look at this photograph

Back in the day I had a pager. Sat on my belt loop, a buzzing and vibrating nod to beckon me to management’s office. I’d set mine to real-time news updates and checked it often, clearly jealous of life unfolding outside sterile corporate walls. One bulletin came in the early afternoon of April 20, 1999.

“Jeffco Sheriff: Up to 25 dead in Littleton school shooting”

I raced home by 3 p.m. to feed my somewhat morbid fascination with such things, my need to watch. I tuned to local and national, saw it unfold. Beautiful gawky teens, girls in cotton tanks with thin straps and lightly faded jeans worn at the hip running. Running fast, arms behind heads. Many skipped over something on the ground, miming the “Eeek, I saw a mouse” jump-back motion when toes met immovable and unexpected object.

The object was a body. At that point, a dead body.

"My” girls looked like that, non-descript, dark hair often in a pony. I envisioned my girls falling, my girls running. But my girls, not by womb but more, were safe, both nieces not yet in high school.

The initial news blast turned out to be wrong, inflated, none the less soul punching.

An anniversary. Ten years. Why denote tent pole moments in time? The day we quit smoking, took a vow, lost more than we thought we could bear. Is it so we revel in what we’ve accomplished, to triumph what’s changed and chastise what's not? The tobacco not yet picked up again, the adultery not yet committed, the happiness yet found or forever lost. Is it to remind ourselves to mourn, remind us of the anger? Or simply recall what and who is no longer available at the other end of the phone.

Anniversaries. Do I choose to recall February 10th 1990 (God, was it the 10th? Why has it fallen so easily from memory?) the day breath left or celebrate September 16 and the day that would have marked 48 years, nearly 20 since a bullet ended a brothers life. Father's Day 2009 I hope for a safe place and comfort, drinking a greyhound in memory. I'm scared already of the anticipated sadness.

Peace to all today and in your anniversaries ahead.

Saturday, April 18, 2009

So dizzy my head is spinning

Nearly fell on my ass. I hoped for ass, a graceful, poetic and movie-worthy drop. More likely the dive would have gone sideways, a loud clunk into the wall.

My fault entirely. Wednesday, after a long morning and afternoon feverishly catching up to the corporate clan, a large coffee and larger cookie the only fuel in 18 hours, I went to spinning class. My norm, something I do three times a week. But pushing a dry motor can crack the block.

Must have slept wrong the night before and awoke with a neck strain, the kind where turning left or right requires a full tilt of the upper body. Once I mounted the bike and began a quick warm up, the neck cramp suddenly shot into my left shoulder then down into my back. “Water,” I told myself. “You’re just cramping and need water.”

I’d taken a front row seat in class. Should I step off? "No,” I bullied, “Push through this, you’re not a pussy.” So I kept going, because I demanded it and because I was concerned I may not make a graceful exit through three rows of equipment and heavy breathing.

Oh, just wait. My actions get even dumber.

The cramp flowed into my side then side butt with each pedal stroke and push out of the saddle. All on the left side, it flowed into my toes by the mid-way point of the hour. Then the dizzy came. “Son of a bitch. Is this a stroke?” I wondered, “Or did I get bad walnut in my walnut-oatmeal-choco cookie?”

I adore my spinning instructor and her husband, separately and as a duo. Both drink-your-milk, midwest handsome, all they need is the chocolate lab to make the picture rosy-cheeked perfect. She teaches class up front, he takes class, that day on the bike directly behind mine. In my control freak glory, I chose to push through pain and the enveloping dizzy fog instead of allowing anyone to help, even them. And they would have, those two. But all I could think was, don’t fall off the bike. Don't quit. Handle this yourself.

I made it through the hour and stumbled through a quick cool down, actually falling a bit off my hard shoes. Instead of staying in the gym, catching my breath or perhaps fetching more water, I beat a hasty retreat, got in my car and drove home.

I told you, classic stupid. There’s no better place to faint then in a room of firemen and muscle-bound trainers.

The lesson here is twofold. One, eat. Two, if I had fell ass over backwards, there was a real life person in front of me and one behind that would have picked me up. I didn’t have to pretend or push past or run away to hide a moment of weakness. That's In Real Life (IRL).

And speaking of real, a nice man went in search of a chocolate bunny, just for me, just because I said I wanted one. And my head is spinning.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Caribou, Day Two

This getting out of the house every morning, out with the 3D people, is good for a girl. I feel, normal and part of things.

Unfortunately, several days of a mostly coffee and stress diet have torn up the tum a bit. Odder yet, it took many moments to realize I'm in a COFFEE shop, which is also a HOT BEVERAGE shop and the peppermint tea is hopeful to help settle the urp.

I may be coming down with something. The down, I definitely got. Didn't realize until last night how absolutely and fully addicted I am to the Internet. Without, did all I could to busy myself. Lovely cold cocktail in a lovely hot bath. Dinner of sushi rice with butter and cheese (told you my eating habits of late leave much to be desired). Then the Jones. The need to connect. To communicate.

And fuck me if I didn't realize how deep that connection goes.

I want a friend like Dan, who regales me with lavish words to simply describe the color blue. Or Pearl, who may very well have the other half of this amulet I wear around my neck. Or Staci and shared tales of singular lifestyle and naked nerves. Or Jeff and a black-and-blue-flesh-wound sympathy contest. Catherine, her pies and glorious poetry. Or the new boy who's turning my head and curling toes for all the wrong reasons, but damn if he doesn't have the nicest teeth and similarly saucy appetite for casual fun. He'd like to come over tonight. I don't know his last name. I don't do that anymore, right? That's not the comfort I crave. Right?

But I don't want these people merely beaming out in liquid light. I want people like this here for arms around and long chats and disagreements and looking into eyes as we figure out needs and desires by saying them out loud to another. I want to touch and be touched in every sense. When did contact become so virtual, so out of reach?

Mmmm, that second sip of tea is helping.

We're due for more snow this weekend. Another wallop they say. If I could, and if you could, I'd invite you all over for soup (something lighter than stew and broth based) and crusty bread and bottles of wine and board games and real talk and real touch and real connection.

Besides the peppermint tea, it's all I really want right now.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

I'm an Internet orphan

The green blinking eye turned angry red this morning, leaving in it's wake a dead modem and Internet orphan. I'm left (at least for the next 24 hours) to stalking coffee shops and Panera Bread. My gym has free WiFi.

Actually, wandering has been good for my work at home soul. It meant buttoning and zipping into big girl pants (ones with a waist) and dusting on a bit of makeup. The Caribou Coffee offered $1 breakfast pastries with my large java; I have an oatmeal-walnut-choco-cookie lovely in my belly. There's mostly female indy-folk wafting overhead (I recognize the Kate Nash playing right now).

There's a perfectly tall and dark-haired gent who just folded into one of the deep leather chairs to my left, in front of the fire. Said he'd share the footstool with me. He's outside now talking on a cell phone. A high and tight rear view. I wonder if I'll be brave enough to do anything with this.

Goodness I like being out with the In Real Life (IRL) people. Been feeling a bit passed by lately. According to my inbox, the Internet missed me little; I Jonesed in a much greater capacity for it. If only my life with the flesh and boners was as full bodied as the ones and zeros existence I think I have. Something to work on.

I've been here two hours working. An older gent sitting to the front of my tiny table and younger girl with a cute page boy were here when I got here. No need to skedaddle just yet.

Where is high and tight?

Monday, April 13, 2009

You sing a sad song just to turn it around

Is it foreboding, foreshadowing or both to wake up with that awful song, “Had a Bad Day” stuck in your head?

No writing for two days and beating myself up a bit over that. I spent the weekend on the verge of tears. Never let them out, just allowed them to soak back in. A choppy ride down the red river may be partly to blame. Had full blood work done recently and - happily - still have the 26-day hormones of a teenager, to which a dear woman friend replied, “Oh really!” or “Well, duh!” I can’t recall which exactly but I got the gist of it.

Very much menstrual, thank you.

No, Uncle Joe just feelin’ kinda low at the junction. Sadness is born of what’s lacking in the moment, this I know, and traditionally family or kid centric holidays often bring a bit of the blues. I don’t necessarily believe in the family unit as one tied to biological strings and cells, but I’ve yet to build a new home, one of caring brothers and sisters with time to share and the desire to hold a heart safe. At least not in the tri-county area.

It’s having been a part of past traditions I miss - Easter brunch and hollow chocolate bunny ears. The peeps. With the malls closed, I did laundry and ironed most of what I already own, moved the spring and summer clothes up from the basement. It's rejuvenating to see a fresh row of filmy tops and dresses hanging in perfect unison, most of it what I wore last year. Need to pump up the weight loss, not that it will make me happier but rather offer a completely self involved act of taking care of myself. There’s value in that.

I used to imagine single adult life as chock full of fanciful goings-on, lunches, soirées, loads of dating men who wear suit jackets. Loads of friends calling with weekend plans for brunch and get-aways. I’ve somehow missed the train or it went past, me without a ticket.

And here’s where I stop writing because it sounds desperate and lonely, which mostly it’s not. Just a sprinkling, a sometimes dusting. But words can be wicked and what’s read into them dangerous. More than one man has wanted to “rescue” me after reading them. Rescue me from what? My pants? Myself? I think it’s less rescue and more protection, which I like and which I can take in bigger does than most realize. I very much like the hand on my back when being guided to the table outside, specifically requesting shade since I don’t care to sit in direct sunlight. I do want (or is it need?) more of that.

And a chocolate bunny.

Friday, April 10, 2009

Parenting in the Seventies

An ode to parenting past, activities and actions that may have arched the brow of social services. The at-the-time-somewhat inappropriate behavior that becomes the stuff of legend.

We used to play bartender with Dad. Set up, line up rows of shot glasses filled with beer (poured by our own hands from cans of Red White and Blue). Dad put away a lot of those shot glasses. And looked away when we did.

Wasn’t it a treat when he let us ride in the bed of the truck?

My Dad rocked. Hope he's bowling and drinking greyhounds with Johnny Cash in heaven. Pretty sure it’s heaven.

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Pretty Lame Woman

When did Julia Roberts get so damn boring?

Think back to Mystic Pizza, tallest of the trio of girls (although paling to the shiny spark plug that is Lili Taylor), colt like legs and brow in need of some shaping, teetering on unibrow. But you couldn't keep your eyes off her.

Of course Pretty Woman, the handguide to hand jobs and porn star career starter for misguided girls. She had the smile, big teeth nestled in bigger gums and a throw her head back belly laugh. And the hair, amber waves of wave.

Loved Sleeping with the Enemy, mostly because I’d always dreamt (still do) of a cute bungalow with a claw footed tub like the one her character moved into once she fled an abusive husband. That and the dancing to Van Morrison with the romantic, poetic drama teacher from the college. Pure chick gold, except for the slapping around part.

I first lost faith in Closer where she was woefully miscast in a sexually charged, shouty role next to the petite, scared looking Jude Law. The breathtaking Natalie Portman went and stole that show, her on screen interactions with yummy Clive Owen the stuff of Oscar® nominations and Queen Amidala wet dreams.

In real life Julia got married, got divorced, got married, got pregnant twice and went green. Made a compost heap on Oprah. Scolded the paparazzi. Stopped brushing her hair. Last night I caught a repeat appearance on Letterman. She’s become the sour in puss, the clam in Clamato, an AC-TRESS in the overly theatrical and thespian fashion. Annoyingly unlikable yet smothered in star quality sauce, she's caught the Sarah Jessica Parker “I’m-a-New-York-product-of-the-theater” way about her in interviews now.

Dammit, I miss Daisy and Vivienne. Erin Brockovich, her crispy fried hair and tits.

And don’t get me quoting Steel Magnolias.

But hell, if you don't have anything nice to say about anybody, come sit by me.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Work Is A Four-Letter Word

If I didn’t have work today I’d take in a yoga class this morning. Last nights roasted asparagus with feta and spinach salad with walnuts, blue cheese and dried cherries was winner, but the tilapia a bit salty. Feel the need to wring out some sodium. Instead I rolled out a few happy babies then took to the carpet for cat/cows and down dogs. Impromptu yoga while dressed in white wife beater and silly orange cotton panties with “Kiss Me” scrolled on the backside is comically sexy. I turned myself on a little.

If I didn’t have work today I wouldn’t have pulled out of bed at 5:45 a.m. to write, but rather spend an entire, luxurious day at it. A writer with credentials and a dust jacket once advised to write when you can, carve out nooks and crannies of time for it. Even at 5:45 in the morning. Since I’ve committed to writing daily - the real deal, no vlogging or slogging or sharing thoughts in 140 or less - the muse has awakened. And if I didn’t have work today I’d flesh out the book proposal now in cell form I’m taking to a friend who happens to be a publisher next week. I found it.

But I do have work today and once 8:00 o’clock calls I'm elbows and ass deep into retail solutions Web copy, a project that will grow my professional portfolio and add something special to the electronic resume I may take to agencies if and when. Oddly uninspired, though, like I'm fancying up a cigar box with glued on macaroni and spray glitter. Again.

If I didn’t have work today I wouldn’t keep one eye on the time at lunch with the boy from high school – now a man in the present – this afternoon. Last Wednesday, this Wednesday. I like this trend. Instead I’d enjoy the sleepiness of a glass or two of wine, nestling deep in a big booth and the flow of conversation.

If I didn’t have work today I’d create more soup for the soul, this time using less rosemary.

If I didn’t have work today I’d be naked in the Macys dressing room. The guitar player (yes, him) is releasing his first CD this weekend and something fabulous, perhaps corseted or slightly cinched at the waist, is called for. Look forward to seeing him again, it’s been months. I couldn’t be more proud of or joyful for him. Despite the drinking and flirting and escapades which created our odd friendship, I admire him beyond measure; his work ethic inspires me.

If I didn’t have work today, I’d have a lot of work to do.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Fresh as a daisy on a Summer's Eve

Much like a gorilla in the mist, I’m a groomer. I pick and pluck and razor and buff and shine and trim and polish my body suit.

Or is it chimpanzees? Baboons? I like the baboons because of those bubble gum pink bottoms they happily show off. But I digress...

I like to groom. There’s a rogue chin hair with the power to regenerate daily, just one, thin but prickly. My dentist just turned me on to a 3-minute whitening gel, strong and fizzy at 32% peroxide. Just a squirt into molded trays, few minutes inserted while in the shower, then spit, rinse and dazzling chompers. I like how it bubbles up in my mouth.

Of course, shaving. I shave every time my body comes in contact with water, trimming the lawn if you will. And girls, an old stripper trick learned from an old stripper - after shaving the bikini area (always, always use a disposable designed for this purpose; they’re smaller and easier to maneuver), a thin swipe of a natural deodorant stick to the biscuit with stave off pink razor bumps that look like your business has some funky business. I use Tom’s of Maine Apricot for a fruity finish.

Don't get wrapped up like a douche, Manfred Mann. With regular maintenance, totally unnecessary. Save the vinegar for a salad.

My newest find is the PedEgg™, a palm size cheese grater for the feet. This little nugget shears away dead skin and rough patches, handily capturing “shavings” in a storage compartment. Took some scrubbing, but did the trick. I didn’t produce the mounds of epidermis dust the ladies in the commercials file away, but I got a good sprinkling. Looked like parmesan cheese.

Oh Q-tips® cotton swabs, ohhh the Q, a product marketed for use other than what we all do with them. We want it deep in the ear canal, give it a good wiggle. Pure eargasm ecstasy, so yummy the tickle extends into the back of the throat. Give it up, Johnson and Johnson, you know what we’re doing with the Q. No need to be coy. Like the “back massagers” sold at Walgreens these fuzzy babies boldly go elsewhere.

Unlike the chimp, I don’t groom others and can absolutely, without fear of reprisal and in all certainty-vow-forever-and-ever-amen, that I will never squeeze anothers' pimple. Some ladies salivate, wait for the precise moment of pink swelling and poppage. Let it cure and fester, nails at the ready to dig in. Perhaps it's born of caveman beginnings or primate evolution.

I would rather lick any part of your body than free pimple juice.

Monday, April 6, 2009

Stranded in some skin and bones

Even after a weekend of scones and soup (the half can of cannelloni beans to the chicken rosemary stock created a lovely thick quality to it, without the guilt of cream) and not one but TWO dirties with colossally spherical and crunchy olives and the scale this morning is up just .6. And really, that near pound is a floaty pound, composed of bits water in the cells, air in the lungs and train coming down the intestinal track.

I like Jodie 2.1 and want to see her succeed, want this to be the new normal. I like how my thighs look in the dark wash skinny jeans I roll into large cuffs above pointy flats or wedge sandals, my uniform; if you were to dress as me for Halloween, the jeans, any INC top, large silver hoops, long bangs and flat ironed hair and you’ve nailed me.

Yoga has already made a visible change, body taller and leaner. And powerful. Friday I dropped and gave up five military style push-ups, ass down, up on the toes. I only stopped at five when I realized, “DAMNATION! I’m on my fucking toes, doing a man pushup!!” Sunday morning I got my first tripod inversion, first balance, knees on triceps. I’ll try floating those legs up next week.

I don’t crave alcohol so much anymore. My new thing is something I call “power water,” distilled water into which I slice lemons and limes, oranges and shaved ginger. The last batch I threw in ripe blackberries as well. I’ve gotten use to the coconut oil, a bit of a challenge. Never a big fan of smoothies. I'd rather crunch and squish my way through whole fruit, but it’s the best way to down it, the oil grinding and freezing into tiny hard beads. I also spread a teaspoon or two on a few wheat saltines before a workout, fuels the furnace and gets the big muscles pumping past where I think I can take them.

And heated it pops the most delicious corn.

My nails are growing like mad; I think it’s the addition of Vitamin D, a sorely missed element from most bodies.

I still have 40 pounds I wish I work off. I still shop the L’s and XL’s. My pants size is still a double-digit.

And dammit if I’m not sexy as hell.

Sunday, April 5, 2009

She Never Met A Man (She Didn't Like)

Fuck me, I’m a lady after all.

Wait. Strike that, reverse it. Spank me I’m a lady.

After a long run of throwing caution and panties to the wind, I’ve been holding my ground and my underpants. The during, always good; the right after and next day not so much. So I decided to reign it in a bit, focus more on my heart, body and spirit and get up from the quick and casual horizontal. Make friends with men again, or at least first.

Out of the blue and over Facebook, I invited one to lunch. An old friend from school, circa 1982. We’d met up again five years ago or so for a meal and a chat. Last we’d talked he was married with kids. Last we’d talked I was 30 pounds heavier and unhappy and nervous and trying too hard to impress.

Did I mention the unrequited crush I had more years of my high school experience than not? Or that it felt a little giddy to see that name pop up on my caller ID box two decades later?

Did we even have caller ID back then?

He complimented my appearance immediately and after a brief one-armed hug, went in for the two, tight and with something of a swing to it. “Is he trying to pick me up?” I thought to myself. “Literally and physically lift me?" Been years since a man picked me up in that sense. Or any, really.

Can’t speak for him, but it turned out more like a surprise date and a surprisingly nice one at that. Opening doors and walking to the car after and leaning in, on both elbows, paying attention to words, asking questions. He even paid the check, then sent a e-mail the next morning thanking me for lunch, apologizing for keeping me so long, but reminding, “…the time just flew by." Some of the men I’ve slept with haven’t even called or checked in the next day, mostly because I didn’t expect them too.

Who’d have guessed it would take a boy from the past to make me feel like a lady.

And yes, he’s single now.

Friday, April 3, 2009

It ain't what you do it's the way that you do it

Left the house 8:30ish to catch a Friday spin class, just an hour. Made it back home at 11:50.

The back row blondes chatted like a cocktail party through class. Don’t mind really; it’s why during mornings I choose the bike closest to the biggest speaker, put my head down and ride hard. After class another long time spinner made a point to come to my row. Dark, petite and with guns Madonna would envy. “You look good,” she complimented. “I see you here all the time, in class and on the machines, you’re working so hard. It shows.”

With a bitch of an upslope coming (the weather folk predict 12 inches tomorrow), made a quick stopped by the organic market to load up on fresh everything and fixings for weekend soup. I landed on chicken meatball-leek-cannoli-bean-rosemary with crunchy ciabatta bread - a small piece - on the side. Going to simmer the stock out of the carcass of the roasted chicken I picked up for lunch and fresh herbs. I may even get to baking the strawberry-white chocolate scones I’ve prattled on about for week now. Those will go to friends (I may nibble one over coffee Sunday morning after yoga).

The machine at the check out line I chose stalled processing payments, and in his attempt to fix the matter after many tries the sweet teenage boy with the too large ear piercings (like flat blue quarters nestled in his lobes) voided the entire transaction. A do over. The head clerk who unpacked my packages and re-scanned the order kept apologizing, even offered a pint of fresh strawberries for my patience. “No worries,” I said. And meant it.

In the car, as I leaned far left to pull the driver side door shut, it was nearly shorn away along with my arm by a car making a too large, too fast sway into the parking space over. A banana boat of an older model coupe and at the wheel an older lady that…how do I say this delicately…should reconsider driving at this point. She never even noticed, just smiled as she took off with tiny stooped steps. I smiled back, with a veiled bit of serious glint in my eye, but smiled all the same.

Right now there’s a black cat roaming the house. Somewhere. His name is Zipper, I call him “Black Velvet Elvis." He's shiny and smooth and dark as coal, only his lips are pink. His person lets him roam on nice days and he wandered in with the groceries. I’ll find him eventually. He’s a sweet boy, regal and Egyptian looking, always craning his triangle shaped head up, eyes half closed, for a few scratches.

The black cat is running after me, I’ve lost hours on deadline and found another project looming in my inbox. But I have a strong body and quick reflexes and snow and soup and scones and yoga and furry love to look forward to this weekend.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

I smell what you're stepping in

I’m not a smelly girl. When it comes to ladies fragrance, overpowering florals can bring a headache in moments. Mens fragrance is harder yet; musk is good, but once after a night of rolling around with an overly misted actor, I sweated new shoe leather and beef jerky aroma through an hour of morning cardio.

Ask any girl, her first anointment into fragrance was Love’s Baby Soft, a light and powdery squirt that smelled like the color pink. I graduated to non-descript Avon scents and those you could purchase at Walgreens before landing on my first womanly, grown up fragrance, Opium. What should have been reserved for special occasions and salty evenings, Opium became my everyday signature. Even now, one whiff harkens memories of college and boys in hair bands, Def Leppard, cigarette smoke and wearing bike shorts as part of an outside outfit.

A flowery and voluptuous character with hints of jasmine, lily of the valley and carnation. An oriental and spicy base, the scent is rich with notes of vanilla, patchouli and amber.

Opium smelled like sex, and it got even stronger as it warmed up. I love it to this day, but replaced it with a somewhat lighter mix, philosophy’s “Falling in Love,” a junior version, a less intrusive punch to the neck.

A soft blend of vanilla, soft florals, and ripe berries goes on sweet and dries down sexy.

Now the quest is more fruit. It started with strawberry body butter, an absolute addition. Slathered on après’ bath or shower, I’m tempted to plunge my tongue through the pink fluffy tub. Strawberry scented fragrance, harder to come by. The Body Shop (my butter dealer) offered up a strawberry oil, but my nose picked up undertones of patchouli and mint. No.

Ran to Sephora for a sniff of "Strawberry Flowers" but once mingling with my pheromones and body heat it turned sweetly flowery and dusty, like old curtains hanging in a church.

I’ve finally found my girl. From Demeter Fragrance (the folks who bring you scents like “Celery” and “Dirt”) and she’s a "Redhead in Bed."

Pause on that a moment, ponder it. It’s as if the scent was created just for me.

Two parts gin, splash of lemon, muddled strawberries and simple syrup. Shake together, garnish with strawberry and enjoy!

A true ginger (even an enhanced one) is a redhead in bed and life.

I picked up a little spray of "Strawberry Ice Cream" too, for those more playful days.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Yes, We Have No Bananas

Warning: The following is another in the continuing series, “I need to get laid.” Proceed with caution and typing one-handed.

After a few days of washing dishes by hand (haven’t found the time or desire to wander the Home Depot just yet), a realization; wash my pots and I’m yours.

Hip deep in bubbles last night, the mind wandered. Perhaps it was the warm over splash and smell of citrus, but I couldn’t help picture a tall drink of man, wearing a bib apron adorned with bright red apples with rigid stems (and little else). Washing my dishes. Something so clean can sound so dirty given imagination and circumstance. But then, so many terms related to the kitchen can be construed as wink-wink-nudge-nudge:

Peel my orange
Shuck my corn
Butter my biscuit


Food is sexy, eating erotic. From the aggressive snap of a fresh baby carrot to stroking fleshy stems of artichoke through butter and teeth, filling a belly is a turn on. The crunch of a tart apple and dribble that escapes lips held tight to the smooth surface, not wanting to miss a drop. The smell and the taste, the texture and the temptation.

No wonder we’re a fat nation, there’s always food in the pantry, satisfaction within reach. Close your eyes and picture red wine swirling round and round a deep bellied glass, leaving behind a ruby film. A steak, fleshy and pink, steaming under a slowly surrendering patty of butter. The velvet melt of dark chocolate warming on your tongue.

Then again, lately everyday activities and objects have veered to carnal flights of fancy. Pumping gas, the rouge bead of sweat running under clothes during cardio. A shoe horn.

I have a dentist appointment tomorrow, cute doctor fingers and hands lingering in my mouth. Will he notice wear on my back molars? God, when did I start chewing ice again? Urban legend (or is it myth) says you crunch ice due to an iron deficiency or sexual frustration. All I know is my jaw is beginning to hurt from cracking cubes against my bottom teeth before pulverizing them into dust.

I’ve taken a holistic approach to healing my engine, stoking the fan and the furnace with vitamins and minerals, clean foods and loads of exercise. Yoga and coconut oil. But there's a sameness to my food lately, little more than a barrage of bananas and roasted vegetables tossed with olive oil, salt and pepper and few crumbles of feta on top. I need to branch out, order from the other side of the menu and open the palate to new possibilities.

I need steak. Or a black olive, a cherry tomato.

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