Monday, September 27, 2010

The importance of a full body inventory

Something or someone has taken a bite out of me, McGruff.

A small piece of my left earlobe appears to be missing. A tiny bite, Mike Tyson style, a concave edge running along the bottom curve of my left lobe. And in the charming words of my people from the Midwest, it stings like a mother fucker. Maybe that bit was always missing, perhaps I was born that way and the red and sore patch merely the result of a large, curious insect bite or errant flat iron burn.

It’s times like these one wishes they’d done a previous full body inventory. Did it always look like that? Has it always been that color? Was the smell more in the yeast or halibut family?

Trying to envision one of those recreations like you see on the Discovery channel (or 3D animation of how OJ killed Nicole), the kind with fluorescent blue laser beam object outlines and sniper cross hairs to pinpoint how it might have happened. Maybe Sadie the feral cat tagged me in my sleep much the way her ear was notched by the free clinic vet who took her wild lady parts. And if so, I blame my Super Friends power of reluctance to pain (see blog entry “Cracked hip and befuddled looks from doctors, x-ray techs and physical therapists”) for not waking up during.

Painted some Nu Skin - which I theorize is the same stuff packaged as airplane glue and adhesive at the nail salon that smells like a mix of cranberry, strong peppermint and embalming fluid - over it this morning.

Moral of the story, count your fingers and toes. And don't anger the pussy.

Friday, September 24, 2010

Afternoons And Coffeespoons

And so it (soon) begins.

I’m taking a short sabbatical from work. Two weeks (plus weekends) away. Some might call it a vacation, but it’s more. And a little less since I don’t think I’ll be traveling anywhere exotic or far. And although a cruise or weekend away with the manfriend sounds divine, we haven’t made that happen. I like to see and sit in new places, but don’t care to do it alone. Maybe I just should. I have open invites and places to nap among friends. But I don’t want to visit friends who haven’t seen me in some time – decades or two for some - in this fat. Vain and unnecessary, I know, but some of my cutest things are cutting a little funny.

I plan only to be nothin' to nobody. No deadlines, no schedules to keep. I’m going to nap during the day, drink in the afternoon. Have lunchtime sex. Write in coffee shops sipping from a porcelain cup, stirring in nutmeg and froth with a metal spoon and feel inspired more than tired, like the kind of tired I am right now. I’m going to linger at the gym and take long steams. Read the newspaper every day and spend too much time on Facebook and in the indie movie theater where they serve drinks and real butter on their popcorn. And eat birthday cake on Monday and Tuesday.

And maybe I will surprise myself with a last minute trip. Maybe to New York. I think I want to live there because I feel somehow boring and slow and safe here, not floating in the glitter you have to shake up from the bottom, like in the snow globes they sell in souvenir shops along Times Square.

Gosh I hope we get our first snow the next couple of weeks.

I'm starting a 1/2 hour early with this Grey Goose dirty martini, two gargantuan olives instead of the usual three. Because you have to start somewhere when getting back into smaller jeans. He's picking me up for a date in a hour. Dinner, drinks and the theater.

He likes me in whatever I wear.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

I've been standing here waiting Mr. Postman

Postcards are a dying art form. Love letters too, letters period. And greeting cards.

I'm bringing correspondence back.

Hard to find postcards to purchase, unless you're in a coastal town or tourist spot. Thought the book store up the street might carry a few retro, mod fabulous cards in stock but no luck. Later a quick run through Walgreen's scored a "Boulder, Colorado" aerial money shot for just 27 cents, tax included. Mailed it back east, Pennsylvania bound, this afternoon to the grandson of a young old friend, part of his first ever kindergarten project.

Years ago on a trip to Bermuda we stopped into the local post office; one of us suggested we purchase and mail ourselves a postcard, a reminder of the trip to be delivered once home. I've kept mine five years now, tucked into the ribbon bound to the board next to my desk. A glossy, brightly pastel colored photo on the front and on the back it says simply, in my own handwriting, "Welcome home."

Imagine a love letter that said that. Written in pen.

I'm a fool for card and stationary stores. Can literally spend an hour browsing the shelves, opening and reading each one that catches my eye. The prose must be just that, no bad writing or cheesy sentiment and I stay away from those that rhyme, it's too easy. Often I make a second lap around the store, perhaps a third. I mail and give cards for no reason other than how pretty they are or that a recipient is on my mind. I choose super sparkly and embossed, last years holiday card the pinnacle of glitz - a stocking adorned with shiny jewels in pink and white and red, a string of feathers like a boa encircling the top. Cost more to mail each one and I sent a full box (plus another of a different design.)

One is never too busy to sit with a stack of cards, address and lick and stamp each, leave behind a small note and signature. Never. I address and mail my holiday cards the weekend after Thanksgiving and hope for many to fill my mailbox over the next month. I stand each one up in the house like a decoration.

Recently I left a small gold card with an even more gilded small honey bear bottle - the kind you squeeze out into your tea from - inside a medicine cabinet. The next morning he was reminded, "Honey I love you" on the front and inside that, "You make my life sweeter." He found it the next morning, embarrassed and busted that I knew he'd gone to bed without brushing his teeth. He doesn't throw away quickly. The first card I ever gave him - a Valentine - I found tucked in his utility draw in the kitchen. I was looking for tape.

There comes the moment, however, you must decide to keep or discard. I have cards tucked and pinned up, stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a sugar cookie, more in the small basket that holds things like receipts and the charger to the cell phone, extra keys and take-out menus. There are stacks bound with rubber bands in shoe boxes in the basement. Along with a few love letters. Just a few. Some even written in pen.

And plenty of room for more.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

"So, what do you do?"

I write, it's what I do. I blog about things as simple as my too large key fob and love of strawberry-scented body butter to what it felt like the day my Dad died and all I could think to do was make coffee. I write PG-13-rated honestly about the men I've slept with (the boys too), of what scares me, brings me joy and the all the creamy filling in between. The blog is like my CliffsNotes.

But why do I do it? Why do you read it?

For a long time I wanted recognition and vaults of positive comments praising my prose. I wanted hundreds, thousands of blog followers. I wanted fame, to be discovered Diablo Cody style, imagining who would play me in the movie version and insisting on which bands appeared on the soundtrack. One of the best compliments ever paid me (and I was in the room to hear) happened between the guitar player and the man who booked a big music venue where he often played.

"This is Jodie Kash," he said as way of introduction. "She's a writer. She writes a fantastic urban blog."

My heart swelled, by bosom filled and my cheeks blushed happily. But I also felt I was getting away with something. I blogged, but was I a real writer? That plus I'm a good 12 minutes north of urban, in good traffic.

I've found reputable corporate fame and (comfortable) fortune as a writer and can claim myself one unequivocally. Every morning I sit down and do just that for six, eight sometimes ten hours. It's my job and has been for 10 years. At parties or mixers when asked the ever-vanilla ice breaker, "So, what do you do?" my retort is, "I write for a web site," then further clarify the type of sales and marketing collateral it is when asked more about it (and I always am).

There are dozens of sayings and cliches about passion and purpose. Living your dream, fulfilling a destiny, boats-at-sea-and-not-tied-to-a-harbor. I have grander goals for the kind of writing I do here. The kind I envision doing every morning for six, eight or ten hours. I like that you're here to read it, enjoy or giggle or frown at it. I hope you come back and want to read more. Because I'll be writing. And the next time people ask politely over get acquainted cocktails or cookouts, "So, what do you do?"

"Me?" I'm a writer."

It's just what I do.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

A bottle of red

I could go on for tomes if I weren't too deep into a bottle of red to be kind. And that's what the good and decent girls do. We play nice.

The ladies with the worst behavior get rewards from the men they manipulate. And the ladies with the good behavior, that you should worship, fucking hate that men are that stupid. Then pity them. Both.

God that's good. And I wrote it.

We stay neutral, like Switzerland. We ask for what we need and accept less because, after all, your needs are important too. We get that. Right good girls? Meanwhile my needs sit at the bottom of an amber bottle on bad nights and on the seat of a bike at the gym on better ones. Working it out, rushing it out. Damn if I didn't make it to the gym tonight. Wish I had.

Still you won't find me easily bashing women with so little self-esteem they stay in relationships for the security. Manipulate their way into declarations of love (whatever that is) with men who are okay with it. Accept it. And good girls don't reflect back insecurities about themselves and wonder why no man ever loved her so deep that she believed it...oh, I mean them...and wonder if they're simply too rainbow bright and fudge-ripple-with-sprinkles in a world of vanilla to ever be scooped out as more than sample spoon.

We make it easy for you to love us.

But tonight I have a bottle of red.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

I'll have the meat and two veg

The newest season of Survivor premiered tonight and the catch this year is “older” versus “younger," those under the age of 30 up against a tribe of 40+ year-old members. As someone who’s never really watched or carried on through a full season of the show (but finds herself with more time spent at home of late, just the cats, red wine and telly), I finally get the appeal. It's the men with lovely buff and waxed bodies running about in boxer briefs. My only complaint is that CBS censors pixelate outlines of penis and balls in the jungle, turning proper packages into anatomically incorrect, flat front Ken dolls. We’ve seen nipples for years, what’s wrong with a happy sack or divining rod?

Show me the full Huey Lewis and the News.

Genitals aside, and as someone who’d fall into the older tribe bracket, I propose age brings wisdom and stronger competitors. Knowing how things work, how people operate. Sure aged bodies don’t respond the same - there are more limits. So as the season plays out will the advantage be strength, stamina or something else?

But the girl with the fake leg? She has zero chance given chatter has already begun about the “sympathy” vote she would earn in a final duo. Reminds me of a story from years back. I was taking a corporate class in something silly but useful like the Meyer Briggs personality test or “Channeling Anger into Action.” After lunch we gathered again to find the instructor pensive and standing at the front of the room. He held his fingers in front of his face, upward and together like the steeple in the “Here is a church, here is a steeple,” rhyme.

“In the cafeteria just now I saw a man,” he said softly, speaking mostly into his hands. “He was…“ dramatic pause, “…in a wheelchair.” Long sigh. “And I thought for a moment, how lucky I am.”

What in the name of the Jerry Lewis MDA Telethon? Mirrored pathos, embracing and hugging out ones “good” fortune in the reflection of someone else’s "bad" is distasteful at worst and unfair at best. And as for that man in the wheelchair, I knew for a fact (given he was the brother of the man I was living with at the time) he got scads of pussy because he was engaging and funny and smooth. And made a shitload of cash because he was smart and talented and driven to do so. One happy bastard.

As for my Wednesday nights, I find Survivor Marty hot and hitting all my tingly spots. And on the “old guy” team. He should wear boxer briefs. And just asking, but why do older, folksy woman on these shows always speak with a Fargo accent?

Tuesday, September 14, 2010


Realized this morning that in a couple of weeks (knock wood) I’m going to turn 45-years-old.


Forty-four felt fine, a balanced double-even number that easily rolled off the tongue, 44 and feet off the floor. I don’t look my age and that’s not a haughty wish or vain compliment; most of my family is preserved like Dorian Gray. In my 20’s I looked like a teen and when I first landed a corporate, big-girl gig someone asked if I was, “One of those, you know, kid geniuses or savants. Like 'Rain Man' but not retarded.”

When I was a kid, 30 sounded old. My parents were 30 if not more and grown ups wore latex girdles, sweated yellow pit stains and sighed a lot. Nearing cuarenta y cinco I don’t see myself like that. I still wear heavy bangs and leggings and sparkly eye shadow (no glitter, glitter ends at cheer squad).

But I’m not 20. Or 30. Or 44 for much longer. The bucket list is shorter or replaced by "The Murtaugh List,” a record of the things (one believes) to be too old to do anymore. Inspired by the best and really only telly show I watch on a regular basis, How I Met Your Mother, it’s a reference to the Roger Murtaugh character from the Lethal Weapon series, whose signature phrase is, "I'm too old for this shit." Sat long and hard and without tumbling into pathos or mourning the bloom off my rose, came up with a list. A short list:
  • Get a facial piercing. I always found the “Monroe” comely.
  • Fit into a size 4. Or a 6. Fuck an 8.
  • Be the youngest in the room. Or the prettiest.
  • Wear a mini skirt. Or a choker. Or glitter eyeshadow.
But I'm also still going to:
  • Drink Guinness and fall down drunk on the cobblestones in Ireland.
  • Fall in love. Again. And again.
  • Swim with a dolphin (although I waffle on this one because, really, should dolphins be in tanks for us to straddle?)
  • Go back to New York (City, bitches). And Bermuda.
  • Possibly live there.
  • Return to the ocean, and this time be brave enough to wander into the surf.
  • Learn how to dance. Proper.
  • Learn how to play the guitar. Or bass. Or just stalk John Taylor.
  • Be proposed to. And I’ll say no.
By the way, the HIMYM episode ended thusly:
“After being drugged at a rave, Barney is finally forced to accept the reality that he is growing older and gives Ted the victory. Having re-watched the complete Lethal Weapon series, Ted realizes that Murtaugh still did the things he claimed he was too old for and decides he has more to live for than waiting to grow older.”

Okay, maybe I'll say yes.

Monday, September 13, 2010

I swallow a lot

Over on Facebook today, I posted a photo of a piece of original art I bought this weekend. It fits perfectly into the color and d├ęcor of my kitchen, right next to the hanging basket of limes and tomatoes and north of my collection of vitamins and herbal supplements. Guess how comments were about my pee? Well, two. And one selling me on the idea of a program that, truth told, I would try and embrace were it not available only via a pointy marketing pyramid.

Lack of comments for the artwork and my interpretation that it represents wisdom lies within aside, I swallow a lot. And not like that. I take vitamins and minerals and supplements every day. Some call them unnecessary, expensive, mostly peed out. But given the nature of the food chain and degradation of nurturing soil, I’m of the belief that adding to an otherwise balanced and crunchy diet is a good thing.

My belly and cells don’t take kindly to western potions and pills. They make me anxious or angry, bloated and urpy and prone to breaking out. I listen to and heed traditional doctors, but many still treat ailments as a “Been there done that.” Take this to cure that because that’s what most do. Same size, same dosage, same treatment, some side effects.

I take Vitamin D, E, C and Selenium (to build thyroid strength), Biotin (hair and nails and a great all-round B vitamin), Glucosomine (for joints) and Flax Oil and a metabolism booster of Kelp, Lecithin and apple cider vinegar daily. And I feel mostly great most days. Haven’t had to attempt Synthroid for a third nasty time, my thyroid damaged by an autoimmune event, also known as a goiter which is about as sexy as the gout or a thick yellow toe nail. I’ve kept it healthy and running to my endocrinologists liking with lifestyle changes and loads of research. I don’t get sick much and when I do blame it on the environment of sweat at the gym, where I do cardio for my heart and weights for my muscles and yoga for my head.

I eat well, absolutely, and don’t limit anything per see. Knock wood, but I’m not going under a bus wishing I’d had that dirty martini or plate of warm hummus and flatbread. I’m currently obsessed with sweet potato fries roasted in olive oil, sprinkled with salt, cracked pepper and herbes de Provence and topped hot with goat feta. Been eating enough red meat lately (because of the easy wonder that is the Hibachi charcoal grill) that my body wants it less right now. Fish takes center square of my white Crate and Barrel plates.

I like veggies more than fruits but whip together a smoothie of berries or peaches or stone fruits, Kerfir and a scoop of coconut oil most mornings. The candida cleanse (courtesy of the oil) has been…foamy. A pipe cleaning for the colon, it eliminates the bad fungi and replaces it with good, probiotic bacteria. Not pretty, mind you, but effective. Plus a slather of coconut oil on a couple of wheat saltines before a work out sends performance through the roof, especially for those (like me) who tend to exercise with little food in them. Full belly + heavy cardio = vomit waiting to happen (also known as The Biggest Loser money shot.)

And I pee clear. Rule #1.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

The ying and the yang, ping and the pang

Woke up yesterday bright and alert at 7:30 a.m. I may have even had morning wood. But like Robert Smith sang, Sunday always comes too late and I couldn’t roll my ass out of bed. An odd thing this life, the ying and the yang, ping and the pang. One morning ready to take on the world, Pinky, and the next wanting only more covers to roll up over your head and guilt about skipping out on 10:00 a.m. yoga to fade.

We’re happy, we’re sad. Fat and skinny. Coupled and uncoupled. Brave and cowardly. Pretty and ugly. Content and wanting. Sometimes all in the same day. Sometimes all in the same Saturday.

Maybe it’s the impending birthday. Maybe I’m just feeling old or wiped out. Or disappointed. Last year right around this time I had a new relationship and a new dress, and both fit so well. I felt good in them, healthy and sexy and vital and worth adoration. Now I'm tired. Told myself no more doctors this year, treating ailments with exercise and yoga and more soy, less dark liquor and more clear. I don’t want to begin again with tests or trials or knowing nods and succinct explanations because nothing is one size fits all. After my teens and into my 20’s I suffered terribly with acne, the small bumpy variety and large painful lumps. Used to imagine (wish perhaps) I could peel off my entire face and scrub from the other side, clean out all the crap and black plugs. Scrub it good and hard. Too bad we can’t do the same when our bodies or minds or hearts misbehave, cut into each cell and section and have a good look (although I guess that’s what one calls an autopsy). It’s so much guessing, so little science. Science and science fiction.

I’m completely drug free (my choice and insistence), save a couple Bayer aspirin in the morning and half-dozen daily natural, herbal supplements. Living clean, hoping fatigue is merely boredom, aches the treadmill. And I'm aware that sad is more than the opposite of happy, it's a litmus test for the possibilities and a reminder that happy will be back. Maybe tomorrow, maybe 10 minutes from now. Still, for all the kumbaya I'm not looking forward to holding myself up in a down dog in an hour. It’s a lot of weight today, even though I was two pounds lighter on the scale this morning (the second measured after a good poop).

Maybe some days all you need is a grateful, good morning poop.

Saturday, September 11, 2010

How to get a head with the ladies

If I ever found myself with a son of dating age, one of the best mingling tips I’d offer is don’t overlook the plain Jane (or Joe). If teen romantic comedies and Taylor Swift songs have taught us nothing it’s that the gal pal, the girl you laugh and share musical tastes and fart jokes with will end up, in the end, the one. She’s always the better fit than the blond who sprouted tits and pubs first, the one with Heather Locklear kind of hips that never go out of style, generation after generation. Case(s) in point:

Some Kind of Wonderful
Pretty in Pink (roles in reverse and a toss-up, considering Duckie was gay; but then Blaine seemed curious, too)
Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist

And when that hypothetical boy comes of age, how does one broach the topic of pleasing a lady? I assume fathers still do the standard penetration and keep your penis clean talk (my mother’s idea of “the talk” was a book with pictures; most of my childhood I thought babies were pooped out). But I’m talking technique, tickling the man in the boat.

Do I need to elaborate further?

Having a box lunch? Pearl diving? Away, away, away down south in Dixie?

If not fortunate enough to have a woman engaging enough to tell and show how she likes it, perhaps there are pamphlets, men’s journal articles or practice on a wedge of cantaloupe. Girls share every sexual trick and tip and there are scads of guidebooks providing step-by-step instructions (the double ball swallow an interesting concept and sideshow skill). I've heard urban legends of women who don’t care for it. I’m not one of those. You could pitch a tent, provide a cold drink and stay downtown all afternoon. Don’t blow it by blowing on it (it’s not like a nipple, you can’t coax it out with a breeze), use all your tongue, stem to stern, and hum if you really like it. Bonus, once you visit we’re more likely to reciprocate. Not the must-have-go-to on the appetizer menu but I order, devour and savor too. Best part is looking up at him.

And like your daddies told you, a clean peen is a happy peen.

With treasures and wisdom like that it’s a pure damn shame I don’t have a son.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

Yes, I can still see my toes

It’s creeping back. Hard like dough, not like when first made but after it’s been sitting under a towel for a time rising. Before you punch it back down. The belly.

It’s keeping me out of the five pairs of smaller size dark wash jeans and into the larger two pairs fast becoming more and more faded from the wash. Leggings and tunics hide wonders, but underpants that ride down over the hump or cut in at the edges serve as a reminder that the vanilla Absolut over ice (like I’m sipping now) and Rudi baguettes drizzled with extra virgin olive oil, Murray River flaked (and light as a damn snowflake) salt and fresh cracked pepper that I snack on like popcorn aren't doing me any favors.

Luckily I kept few clothes from my formerly fat(ter) life, given to Goodwill, tossed in the dumpster or folded into boxes in my basement (too large to wear, even now, praise be.) I don’t fit into women’s sizes ("The Scarlet W"), Lane Bryant and Torrid fashions cut with droopy shoulder seams and too high rises.

But damn if I’m not fat.

I could make a list of the why. The relationship, the one who heartily devours both food and me, injuries that have interfered with a regular gym schedule, the pills and the potions and the doctors and the white wine instead of red. And the bourbon. Oh, god almighty-Jesus-Mary-and-Joseph the good bourbon.

Oddly it's the fat person who'll feel most welcome and wholly accepted at the gym. I’m serious pudgies. For years I too was intimidated by the boys with large quads and small packages and overly tan girls with asses you could eat lunch off of. But I've found some of the most respected and encouraged folks sweating it out are the big ones. There’s little to no (zero-nada) stink eye or sideways glances. If anything there's an appreciation about taking charge of one's health. Doing it. Doing something. There are plenty of skinny fat folks wandering around, but the bitches who earn my respect have biceps. Nothing comes naturally – especially health – and committing to a workout regime is balls hard work, for the fittest and the fattest.

Cross my heart and jiggley thighs.

Ran into the fitness director morning, a tiny former dancer and cheerleader from somewhere in Cali where that  kind of thing equals celebrity, so slim a large man could palm her entire waist. She always remembers my name. Told her I’d been a bit absent mostly due to the crack in my hip and an intense, bone snapping fear of anything jumpy. She reassured me, told me to come to class and we’ll modify. Amazing people teach at my gym, like my spinning coach who likes when I call her Chrissy (Christy to everyone else). She’s certified, trained by Schwinn and just launched a web site that marries music and cycling drills to keep it interesting and challenging. I attempt (and succeed) in pacing her every stroke, every rotation of the heavy silver bike wheel. I do the same with her husband when he comes to class. Good folk both, solid and all-American. They must have a chocolate lab at home.

So don’t fear flabbies. I’ve re-committed to cardio, 5-6 days a week and as many steams afterwords as is healthy. But damn if I can’t quit the crostini’s. And the drink. It’s just bread, right? And wine. It's like god’s diet.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

City's Burning

Boulder, Colorado is on fire tonight. And not in the manner the city that's host to my college Alma mater and home for many years is often defined or portrayed in the media. And local pubs.

Initial reports say a car hit a propane tank over the holiday weekend in one of the woody areas up the hill and started a blaze that shot plumes of surprisingly white clouds at first, later raining ashes for miles and miles. As of tonight 140 structures are gone. "Structures" means barns and schools and homes. 140 photo albums, special pairs of boots, letters, books, things that don't matter really I guess. But look up from your glowing screen right now. Look around at wherever you are, at your things, your coffee shop, your library. Your people. Imagine what's been lost. Imagine being locked out, forced out by nature for the last three days.

One of the amazing doctors I met this year who treated me with care and comedy and pathos has lost her home. Saw her in one of those online videos anyone with an integrated camera can create and post to a news site. I'm not the praying type, but I pray in my own manner for her. For the people and the animals and the land and the loss. And yes, cynics, when you move to a hilly wild area there are rules, fire lines must be drawn. Safety number one. You anticipate and plan, the worry attached to the reward.

Doesn't make it any more palatable.

I ache for my city and for those dealing with beauty lost. Everything will return, the homes and the flora and the fawna and the dogs and the cats and the air that smells most often like grass and a flower I could name if I knew about those things. Tonight it smells like charcoal in the bottom of my Hibachi. It smells wrong and unwelcome.

I love Boulder. I love its madness and its pretentious nature and its patchouli stink and its transparent hold that welcomes me every time I descent over and past the highway lookout that unveils the Flatirons and the fourteeners and the fancy homes way up in the hills and the University that fed my mind and laid ground for my passion. And for the people.

People who want to touch it so much they live up the hills.

The hills that are on fire right now.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb

There’s music that plays succinctly as a soundtrack to life, events as they happen start to finish. Or that encapsulate moments of time, to remind you how it felt or simply make you smile when heard unexpectedly. I kept returning to track 7, comforting myself with track 11 each time it made me cry. Which was every time.

Little sister don't you worry about a thing today
Take the heat from the sun

I miss being and being called a little sister. Such protection in the phrase, as if there’s a boy or a man who’ll watch over you. Not a coincidence track seven is about the mysterious distance between a man and woman, because men and women aren’t merely lovers alone, but brothers and sisters, fathers and daughters, parents. I miss those men, sometimes more than anyone could think I can feel. Because a cavalier and strong candy coating, ready smile and hearty laugh buys that shelter.

Oh you look so beautiful tonight!
In the city of blinding lights

The last time I felt the part was alongside my only older brother, arms in the air at Madison Square Garden singing along with thousands and thousands. Rejoining in a city I love but have been to just twice. I miss it. All of it.

The mosquitoes have been bad this summer and each bite leaves an angry and swollen red mark. There are several on my legs. I seem to scratch at them again and again. Again.

But you can't be numb for love
The only pain is to feel nothing at all

I used to feel something, anything by creating hurt on my body. Because when one feels nothing one creates sensation to know they’re alive. It began innocently enough; a new kitten with pinpoint sharp claws leaving tiny, stinging marks, mostly on my legs. They hurt and stung the more I scratched at them. After a time I created some myself, soaking in Epsom salt, sometimes rubbing them over with alcohol to get rid of evidence of so much unhappy. So much that was imperfect. It took months and months to heal. If any or many saw it, just one commented. A couple of years past it I told my Mom and about the song I played over and over and over as a mantra to get through, to make myself better. She went out and bought the CD. Last time I saw it at her house it was still in the cellophane wrap. Not from this album, but I love and hate it each time I make myself listen to it.

So you never knew... how low you'd stoop to make that call
And you never knew... what was on the ground until they made you crawl
So you never knew... that the heaven you keep, you stole
Please... please... please...
Get up off your knees

See, I am bigger and deeper and wider and brighter than just cheeky stories about a fat belly and male genitalia. I'm a writer after all (says so on my tax returns). No worries, wrote this a week ago and have stories to share soon about why I miss being single, boys who date plain Jane's and cunnilingus tips.

Take this soul stranded in some skin and bones
Take this soul and make it sing (sing)

It's what I do.

Search me