Saturday, January 23, 2010

Random, non-saucy blog title

Update: Blog title changed because apparently using a word for the undergarments us ladies wear - sometimes - results in poorly written spam comments and a link to Cyprus call girls. Bitches, I got my own, don't need to pay Euro or Rubles for yours. What's the Greek word for "whore?"

Love the little shops that, at one time, were old Victoria houses, painted in pastels and with a bell over the door, a ding-donging and welcoming kind. And love when a real postman, complete with government issue pith helmet, a hard round topper that looks as if it could hold a hearty serving of soup or pudding, brings the mail in person, all bills and Elle Magazine.

It was in a place exactly like this where, this afternoon, I had my first mani-pedi in months.

The black runners toe kept me from a soapy soak and luscious colors for some time. Although I came to peace quickly with the jock aspect of my injured foot digit, girl ego and commerce kept me from a proper salon procedure; why buff and polish and paint a mostly black-and-blue-bordering-on-green big toenail, the queen of the toenails. It fell off a week or so ago; mostly removed from skin, one small pull and it was gone, yellow and thick like a talon. I kept it . Not sure what to do with it, maybe string a fetish necklace of it with some dead bird bones.

It’s been dry here in Colorado, more so than usual, and both my hands and feet are crying out in parched anger. I’ve caught a rough edge on the pads on my feet against the carpet and my hands are so pained I’ve considered a dunk in Crisco followed by Saran Wrap wrap. Feeling in need of pampering and the new toe nub coming in nicely, I determined today was the day. Jet tubs, fuck ‘em; bacteria and micros I envision as round with sharp-toothed smiles and a dozen hairy spider legs live in the chutes of jet tubs. Plus, the ladies vacillate between English and native tongue and one can’t help but think the lyrical sounds of the language is a personal jab, a reverse imperial stab.

Wash your feet, bitch? I giggle at your muffin top. Pick a color!

Found a tiny shop in a boutique neighborhood, one that touts freshly scrubbed wash bowls for feet. Spendy, $15 more than the “It’s a small world” variety found in any strip mall with a grocery and a Carl’s Junior, but worth it bacterially. My toes, what’s left of them, now reflect a gorgeous white shiny hue and my hands got hip. I don’t do manicures well since I love working with my phalanges, bite at cuticles and pull at loose bits. I usually go toes dark-to-black and fingernails natural but with a nubbin at best, I went purple black, short square nails on the hands.

Love them. Can’t stop looking at them. Hope they last more than a weekend.

The mailman, real story. The nail shop is old school cute with people strolling by a large picture windows and small dogs in sweaters, loads of indy coffee shops nearby and parking without meters on the street out front.

I’ll call it home. Someday. Soon, please.

And I got new panties. Ill-fitting panties, like jeans with the wrong rise, can leave you lifted and separated (a.k.a "camel toe" or "moose knuckle"). The Jenni “Boy Meets Girl” bikini with mock-penis flap is a cotton wonder. Bought six pairs.

I so enjoy being a girl.

Saturday, January 16, 2010

And I'm dancing with myself

The Total Body Conditioning (TBC, thank you very much) class I usually take Saturday mornings at the gym starts in 6 minutes and I’m not there. It’s a busy class, always full, and you can barely eek out space and territory. Like when you need to change lanes on the highway, once folks plop down a step and weights they don’t care that you need to merge but keep eyes forward, make themselves invisible. Don't see you.

Find myself working out more solo lately (dirty). I used to love the class format. Did Jazzercise for years and even after I left the bosom of middle-age jazz hands for the stainless steel of a for real gym, I took to classes first. Zumba and step, got quickly hooked on spinning, cardio and Power Pump (wait for it…dirty). Thing is, save spinning, the classes are almost always 100% filled with women.

I like the man energy, it pushes my work out, makes me hold in my stomach more and pull up my abs. Perform better. Plus the guys are usually in great shape. Nothing against my womankind - there are hot lady bods there too. I just tend to notice them less, except for their asses because we all wear those stretchy black pants that cup and curl, lift and separate and I take note of, envy even, the really lovely ones. Mine not so much, but I did like what reflected back in the mirror the other day as I bent over in my skinny dark wash jeans. More round, less flat.

In spinning I’d pick either one of the two coaches whose class I adore (both women) and match pace with them. But better yet, should a guy saddle up next to my bike, I’d take rotation to rotation, spin of the wheel for spin of the wheel, our knees rising in absolute unison despite the speed, despite the tension and despite lungs burning outward from my chest. I like to hear the heavy breathing, that slight grunting.

Same for yoga. When I don’t attend morning sessions (chock full of Mom’s, all blonde and all stay at home) but the evening power work or Sunday classes, half the students are men. With muscles and that wonderful horizontal stretch and line that runs shoulder to shoulder. They look good in plank. The focus is on my intent and flow, of course, but I also want to show my strength.

So in just a bit I’ll head to the gym and take root on a power incline treadmill or cross trainer. I’ll crank my Shuffle, hit heavy intervals and smile or nod at passers-by. I’ll watch the men and the boys and the gray hair gents and maybe I’ll strike up a conversation with the older blond fireman who always seems to be where I go lately (stretching on the floor, fetching water, on the piece of equipment next to mine). Seems like a friendly enough fellow. And he’s got wicked good calf muscles.

I’ll steer clear of the requisite assholes, like the brittle woman with the too high and drafty shorts who stays on equipment for hours at time, even while other are circling, hoping for a hop on. And those with the blind side, the “I don’t see you” straight ahead stare (see above). Or the guy who is there only to check out the ladies with great asses in the black stretchy work out pants.

Admittedly, I glance a package when a package is worthy.

Friday, January 15, 2010

We can work it out

Okay, okay. So I’ve only made it to the gym twice so far this week.

But I’ve had double that amount of company, the real-deal-full-on-penetrative-stay-in-the-moment-then-shower-after-arm-slung-over-the-hip-spooning-warm-and-snug-sleep variety. We’re evening and morning people.

So, I’m good.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Were my cheeks red

In an effort to save money, my HOA recently hired a young man, paying him $12/hr, to do light maintenance, repairs, snow and ice removal and such around my little community. He's that young kind of yummy that makes one ponder 1) yes he legal but 2) I could have quite possibly given birth to him.

He's friendly and clean cut and wears a black leather racing-type jacket and jeans and work boots. He always says hello.

This morning I ran into him on my front stoop as I stepped out to feed a hazel nut to a squirrel and while wearing a too-past-the-knees-to-be-any-kind-of-sexy nightshirt. With sock monkeys on it. Only Velcro curlers, fuzzy slippers and lit ciggie at the corner of my mouth could have completed a more crazy old lonely lady collage.

At least I had my panties on.

Sunday, January 10, 2010

Closed on Sunday

Has it been two years? Or three? Couldn’t recall off hand.

Know for certain I have a stomach ache today, the combined result of nerve endings and that only a soy latte is swimming in it at 2:00 in the afternoon. Drove all the way out of the way to treat myself to a fresh scone after yoga this morning, only to find the bakery closed on Sunday.

Closed on Sunday?

Sigh.

January 10, 2010. 01-10-10. Seems like a day to buy a lotto ticket or get married or something, numbers round, aligned and balanced. And two years (had to check) since everything changed.

Know for certain in time I’ll remember only that it happened in January, that I won’t recall exact dates. I think my brother died February 12th. 10th? Definitely early-to-mid February. So after a while I’ll only recall early-to-mid January. No need really and today I’m sad and a little angry because the pragmatic-forward-looking me says bemoaning a parents death is stupid. Weak. Circle of life, we all end up there eventually; our job is to simply fill in the holes between born and die. Making a muss and fuss only gets you the, “Oh, I’m sorry” head tilt (if that). So keep it to yourself. The last step is acceptance after all.

But I miss him.

My Mom accused me of putting my Dad on a pedestal after, that death elevated him in my world. That’s not entirely untrue. I think she was jealous he died first and got all the good attention. Some of the family rolled like that, perhaps still do. We haven't really spoken in two years.

I’m not that far removed today from where I was one year ago when I wrote about it happening a year ago. So I guess I do write from the gut.

Know for certain I have a stomach ache today

Friday, January 8, 2010

Carry on

Read in a chick magazine or boys online journal once that men with children make good companions. They have more patience and greater ability to sniff out what’s real in relationships, more so than stopping at the polished candy coating. Heard the same about men with dogs versus cats; men with cats can roam and prowl for days, but those with dogs know if they don’t come home, there will be piss on the rug.

I have a girlfriend, a young widower with two kids. When I expressed to her feeling sometimesmaybeperhaps a bit left on the shelf she assured me most assuredly that wasn't case. But when it comes to dating + spawn the kids “win." They have to.

Fair enough. No argument.

The manfriend has a son. One that's seven. Haven’t meet him, haven’t wanted or felt the need to and we’ve had that talk. The moment that gauntlet is thrown the relationship changes. Our time together is spent exploring sushi restaurants and fun menus, having sex and curling up for a movie on the couch previously meant for one comfortably that now holds two. Once the boy comes into the frame it changes, activities and expectations are different. A child’s world is small, especially a young one, and they see what’s in the moment. I become part of the picture, one that’s not fully developed yet. We’re still in the middle of discovery, past the how do you take your coffee, not yet to hopes and dreams and, “Hey wanna live together?”

Once I meet the boy I can’t slip out sideways undetected. Not that I want to, but no one has an infallible crystal or Magic 8 ball.

It’s getting harder dating a man with a kid. Every other weekend is off limits (save Sunday, sometimes late Sunday). After a long work week would love nothing more than the filthy dirties and pizza pan plate of hummus and chewy flatbread at our favorite joint. But he’s got company so I’m cooking dinner and planning a bath. My circle of friends, especially those like me who can come and go and do at will, is small. Microscopic. And I’m not really all that interested in finding trouble - not the kind I used to. My last casual relationship had a girlfriend; the live-in kind he was cheating on, double dipping if you will. With him, I was the baggage, albeit a a piece of carry-on.

And I'm good with time apart, time just for me. Despite my ENFP Meyers Brigg definition, I cherish and recharge in time spent alone, decompressing, regrouping and farting out loud.

But it’s Friday night and I’d rather be anywhere but here. With him. I'm making pork chops for dinner.

Nearly done.

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