As do most writers, tinkers or creative types I leave a trail of scribbles. Papers and notes, a jot here and there, ideas and concepts and quips. Some sit in this laptop, some in scraps and bits tucked into books, on old tablets and in the digital voice recorder bought for such a purpose; I leave the tiny metal wonder next to my bed to record fleeting thoughts and funny shenanigans as they occur. Grand idea, but I can’t figure out how to retrieve hours of sound bites from the myriad of folders I’ve created. Like dead artists before me, perhaps the musings will become my lost tapes.
Funny to come across tiny archives and trifles of thought, to revisit the space my head was in or realize how distance has changed circumstance, what a moment became or didn’t. Some seem outdated, some precursory and others fortune telling.
Some unfinished, some still in the making, some simply tidbits.
Are you ready to meet the love of your life?
Probably not. Or more to the point, nope. There's a buffet and it's okay to snack, at 20 or 40. Yet eHarmony® constantly asks from the glow of the 24 inch tube if I’m ready for the real thing. It’s worse than the constant stream of questions at family picnics past:
Dearinee, when ya gonna settle down? Find that special guy?
Last (and only) time my Dad asked I said I’d give him a thousand dollars if he found him for me.
Note: I failed to put words around the topic, but bookmarked this link. Months ago. Oh the stories I could tell, but won’t. Not now. And mine wouldn’t have been so sappy, easy and ill conceived. Those who can’t do write about it, and badly.
My birthday with Ben Wa
I thought they were Ben Wa balls. The initial thought, “Hmm, I’ve never given a sex toy to another woman…or man for that matter. How novel! Hmmmmm, maybe too novel?” Even the cheeky explorer in me found it an odd birthday gift, ancient Chinese secret metal spheres designed to be worn by a woman in a most curious of places. And jussoyaknow I’ve sat with Kegel balls, meant to strengthen pelvic floor muscles, create gentle stimulation and improve one’s…ummm...grip. Mostly they slid out slowly as I typed a piece of marketing collateral. Not a huge turn on but sure, I’d give Ben a whirl.
I soon discovered, however, the lovely inky blues spheres that tinkled like soft chimes from within are used to massage ones digits. Palming both balls in one hand, you roll them clockwise than counter to improve dexterity and strength. My best girl gave them to me to preserve my tools, my implements. My hands so I can write. Aside from a red ink ballpoint pen my Mom coated in acrylic, oily gold model car paint and gave me at college graduation, a symbol of the solid 14K pen she wished she had the money to buy, those balls were the only gift I’ve ever received that called upon my desire to write. I still have that faux gold pen, most of the paint since flaked off in tiny gleaming shards.
Scarlet H and a first date
Surprising life lessons to be learned in the form of a facial rash, a mark on the puss. I have a rash on my chin and am somewhat vainer and less comfortable with it than a strong woman should be. I bring it up first, just so you know that I know I have a pink blossom budding. And no, it's not the herpes, but a simple rash. I have a doctors note. Vanity aside, I bought Bette Page worthy red lip gloss, daring the bumpy mound to shine like a light on a Broadway marquee. I can’t hide it so I’ll tie a bow on it.
I wore it (the lip gloss and the rash) the night I first met him after weeks of talking by phone and chaste discovery. Dinner, wine and holding hands. Just a kiss goodnight at the car. The next night, music and amazing food and sitting close, stealing kisses and a little more under the table. Herbed flatbread, warm and salty with a chewy bite, dunked in hummus. I could eat it every night. Martinis $2 off and a band more enjoyable than some I’ve spent hundreds to dance along live to. He had all the pieces I’d been longing for...the hand on my lower back guiding gently from behind, pressing knuckles between fingers. I can’t recall a more perfect evening in recent memory.
He was here when I woke up this morning and told me I snore, at least right before REM steals me away. That he knows that is monumental in itself. I rarely sleep, or sleep well, in bed with another body. A lounging, lovely Saturday morning laughing at the cat and slowly emerging into the day and scheduled to do’s. His razor stubble left even redder patches on my chin. I didn’t mind.
Hair, there and everywhere
For women there are three types of hair - short, long and Mom. Of the three I prefer (and sport) long, longer yet when seen from behind and in an arched position. It tangles and goes a bit Rasta after a night sleep and sticks to fresh body butter slathered on skin yet I never wear it back. I feel like an onion with ears, a bald girl when slicked close to my scalp.
The aversion to short hair may come from childhood. My Mom insisted on the classic bowl cut, the mushroom cap, the bangs-all-the-around style of the 70’s sported by Toni Tennille of Captain n’ Tennille and Tootie from “The Fact of Life.” I kept only the bangs. Bangs are the new botox.