Sunday, August 29, 2010
Found if you take a moment, get down on the floor and play a bit, it can be kinda cool. So is dinner cooked on the grill and "Almost Famous" on the couch built for one that still holds two and cocktails and penetration and breakfast of scrambled eggs with mushrooms and fresh dill and bacon on the side cooked while he tells you, "Stay in bed, have a lazy Sunday" and hear their sounds moving about upstairs. This afternoon I picked out cards, wonderful and sparkly cards for some of the people I love. And a birthday gift for a bright and beautiful girl who reminded me late this week of what and who I really am. She aspires to be me, and I reflect my own image back from her. It makes so much sense.
The truth takes courage and deflecting blows sometimes. Often in fact.
Been listening to Radio U2 a good deal, Bono the poet in the mostly wide open red room that is my heart. Lyrics that tell me what I know. Do you feel loved? How can you stand next to the truth and not see it?
I do, for reals. And I do. For reals.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Don’t you hate when you Google an ex? But damn if you just got to.
Worse is coming across pictures of him and the new wife. Married to the man afraid to commit, so stung by former nuptials he said he’d never do it again. Even though he loved you best, for a little bit at least. The picture is of just the two of them, obviously taken by someone else. He’s leaning in, close to her lips. Her face is mostly obscured by his, only a wide and toothy grin clearly visible, and I notice the hair; very dark and almost red locks with heavy bangs that look so much like mine. They’re about to kiss.
You can definitely see the big sparkler of a clear ring on her left hand.
He said "I love you" first. He was the first to say it to me ever. I believed it but didn't say it back. Thought once you said it it stuck forever and ever and I wanted to be certain. Ah, youth.
A decade-plus-a-little later when he re-appeared (as he did every six years or so), I asked him to care for me after my Dad died. Maybe pick me up at the local airport and help me around a town I didn’t know anymore, hold my hand so I didn’t crumble into dust. He said he was busy. Had a birthday party to go to. A party for a one-year-old, not his. The kids always come first.
So at 1 a.m. I can’t sleep and more to the point I don’t seem willing to let myself. I want to stay up all night. Feels like things are ending, more to the point feels like I’m letting them and I don't feel like waking up to that.
Found my Mom has a Facebook page. She’s moved on and in with a fellow I’ve never met. They work on their yard together. I know enough to know she met him last year or so right around the time I meet my fellow.
But he wants her more.
And again I said too much.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Men, take control of your birth control.
The scale this morning is finally heading in the right direction (who else misses old school scales with the pointer and the numbers? The digitals report paunch to the nth degree, and you can’t adjust down or up to make yourself feel better or play a mean trick). Happily I’ve shaved off 3 of the 9 pounds that have plagued me and which I blame on 1) a healthy relationship with a man who has cash and good taste and 2) the BC, the birth control pill.
Oh, and 3) leggings and tunics.
The BC and I go way back, to my mid-20’s. Wasn’t regularly connecting bits then, but stabbing ladies days had got to the point of bent over cramps and anemia before my doctor suggested hormones to balance my cycles. I loved it. Twist of the daily dial, click to the fourth green pill in and one Thursday every month I flowed. By Sunday, she was gone – in and out lickity split, quick like a bunny. Sad the number of years spent inserting only tampons. But I would have been bad, really bad in bed back then. Had much to learn.
Stayed with the BC for years, until my early 40’s, at which time I chose to go au naturel. Given I have no history to rely on in the area of perimenopause or what’s coming when, I wanted to see what my body – my wonderous internal machine – would do on its own. The BC merely tricks your uterus into thinking you’re pregnant all the time. Take the BC well into your 80’s, ladies, and you too can maintain your youthful flow.
After nearly 2 decades on it I was surprised at how my body returned to clock work regularity, running every 26 days thank you very much. But impromptu and morning and in the back seat of the car sex is so much easier on than off. Tried the diaphragm (which I like a good deal, no hormones, no wackiness). Condoms are okay, but unwrapped is better. So after many tests and talks with my new gyno that oh yes, I’m a prime candidate for twins over 40, I went back on the BC. Opted for a lo-dose version and the first month or two seemed fine. No muss, really no fuss and the big finish we both like. Then came the moodiness, the puffiness. The moodiness that lead to the little blue cloud of unhappy that lead to skipping the gym that lead to puffiness and tighter jeans and 9 pounds more of me, mostly on my ass and some to my back, which is oh so sexy.
Stayed back on the BC three months and have been off for two. I feel like the guy now – cutely exscusing myself at just the right moment to jelly up and insert my flying disk, cleaning up after (a careful roll off the side of the mattress and jaunty skip to the toilet while he stays splayed out and glowing). I hate being the dude in sex.
Broached the idea of a vasectomy. I think he either chuckled or flinched.
If only there were a pill for men. Of course unless in a committed-strings-attached-thing, girls would you believe at all times he was protected? The old fling sent a text message a while back. “Did I tell you I had a vasectomy?” Really?
Me and my plump juicy ovaries. At least I’m a not growing a mustache yet.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Pointy shoes, flats especially, remind me of the flare of 80’s fashion and black short zip boots the mods and Teddy Boys wore. Plus an extreme point elongates my otherwise Fred-Flintsone-variety-wide foot. In Duran Duran days, I wore and wore and wore out a pair of pewter penny loafers, bought at the Wild Pair in the mall, back then our go-to destination for MTV and/or new wave inspired footwear. Flash forward two decades where I paid full retail at Nordstrom for a fresh pewter fantasy, the find a coming home. I wore the hell out of them, snug and comfy as I skipped all over town. They rarely come out of the closet now, so overly worn and a bit musty.
Then I found red. The perfect muted shade of leather, they go with sweaters over leggings in the winter, high cuffed skinny jeans in the summer and every black Studio M dress I own. I've even written about them:
The handsome pair eventually found an open booth directly behind my party. In true flirt fashion, I swiveled my stool fully around, crossed and pointed legs towards them like the needle of a compass even though doing so somewhat clogged the path to the bathroom; I nearly hooked the testicles of several men with my very pointy red shoe.
Shoes so magical, the black pair made a fast celebrity friend (photo included):
While waiting at the bar for a rum Del Sol, I spot a petite blonde in navy crinoline staring at my shoes. "You must love them or hate them,” I say jokingly of the extreme pointy toed, testicle catching lovelies (I have them in red too). “No, I love them!” she retorted. “Those shoes are going take over the party.” Check out some visual art installations, check out the boys and find a seat on a squishy L-shaped and obviously brought in for the show excuse of a couch. Half hour passes. “That's Amy Sedaris...,” I exclaim in shock. "Amy Sedaris liked my shoes!”
Authors note: I just can't talk about my pointies without mentioning balls. Apparently.
Found them sitting on an off-season Nordstrom rack (along with the black and gold). They now have water stains, the foot bed is perfectly stamped with an outline of my arch and all five toes, and some of the stitching is threatening to pop. But I just can't quit them.
I tried and tried to - gasp! - replace the red, a search both high and low for just the perfect fit, the perfect color and feel. The perfect roach stomper point. I came close with a Nine West knock-off, but I've yet to wear them. I still reach for my first loves.
I’ll never let go.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Since when is comfort bad? Who doesn't love a leather flat or peep-toe sandal you can go miles with and not get a blister? Or panties that don’t ride up and in your crevices or skinny jeans with a bit of stretch (one of the best inventions of modern man). Of course being the tipping scale, look-at-life-from-both-sides-now Libra that I am, change is good too. Even the words for it are magical - metamorphosis, rebirth, revolution. Most of life I’ve awaited change, even ran after it. Sitting still was never really an option, instead the loose wires in the brain constantly buzzed go forward, move ahead.
It does one good, this wanderlust. Go to school, talk to a stranger, learn, read, explore. It also tires a girl out. So much so that she can get lazy. Because after years of the chase and the run sitting in a comfy chair feels good. Too.
And here in lies the conundrum. I’m bored mostly stupid. I eat and drink it away at night. As far as career goes I’ve worked hard, honed the elusive “it” quality needed for success in the business world and am really good at what I do. And it's dumb and unfulfilling (for me now). For months and months (maybe years) I've loudly pecked at a safe and warm shell that holds the nutrients to sustain me at the most basic level of existence but never cracked through. Because damn if it’s not perfectly adequate in there.
So I do nothing to change other than think about it, and have grown to truley dislike this about myself.
This morning I turned to an anonymous page in that fat little paperback that sits on my desk and read:
Action time: Zen master Tue Trung Thuong Si said, “What’s the good of discussing a musical masterpiece? It’s the performance that counts.” Be honest with yourself on the subject of when you’ve talked enough about your ideas and dreams, and when it’s time to put your planning into action.
I dated that passage with ink and folded up the bottom corner of the page. At least I did something.
Monday, August 2, 2010
But he laughs out loud when we watch episodes of “The Young Ones” and makes coffee on the mornings I sleep over and was there to put oil in the car when the red-neon-genie-lamp looking icon began flashing Saturday. He plays the 80’s new wave station when I ask for music and always keeps butcher shop bacon on hand for breakfast. I ask a lot of him. And I’m still not convinced that I'm wholly with him. And vice versa. We’re together because we like and love each other and like and love having company and care and the other to watch movies and have dinner with. And maybe that’s what it is. What it's supposed to be.
I know I feel calmer with him to rely on. I know it feels good when we're together, few pressures and a time to recharge. A lazy Sunday spent on the couch (one I would pay him to haul away). I know I have real fear of real issues and the times when I say too much, or want to say more but feel it's better I don't because, damn, if I can't talk and talk.
He told me once I deserve to be loved.
Maybe that's it.