Thursday, October 28, 2010

Pull on a ski mask and it’s one step away from Furry

Back in my day when you were cold you put on socks and a sweater. Now entire fortunes are made by stitching a felt throw into arms, cutting a head hole and calling it a Snuggie®. On those days you just can’t get out of bed, you can wear it. There are Snuggie’s for babies, Snuggie’s for dogs and now Snuggie sex.

The just published Snuggie Sutra features more than a 100 erotic positions including "The Matador" (check out the Keith Herring-esque erection outline) and "The Mel Gibson" where, "he gets to wear the Snuggie, because he fucking deserves it." Guides to self pleasure and happy alone time included (the Snuggie is machine washable.)

I find going down under the covers a bit claustrophobic. I like my head out. But I'm wholly and wooly intrigued by "The Pitched Tent."

It's tingly in a bad way that what look like the blue and pink plastic peg people you stick in Hasbro's Game of Life car demonstrate positions. My head goes to the kid on the box cover, all freckles and 1970’s orange turtleneck. He didn’t have a Snuggie chubby.

But this is an actual book, a book what got published and will no doubt find itself inside stockings this holiday season. I can play too, sell a little of my soul for an Amazon.com listing. Putting aside heartfelt confessions and completive personal essays, Chapter One:

How to Get Down and Dirty (Then Clean Again) with the ShamWow.

Coming next Christmas. Don’t steal my idea.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

There was a little girl, who had a little curl

Nothing last forever and few things stay the same over time. Water streams over and smoothes rough edges of river stones, sand becomes a pearl. Charlie Sheen is back on the drink and the hookers.

As we age, body metamorphosis seem to happen overnight, often to ones surprise or chagrin. You awake to a couple new pounds, a deeper marionette line or less snap-back in the skin on the top side of hands (is there a companion word, the opposite of "palms?")

Noticed one particularly odd change as I got older. It wasn't when my breasts went teardrop, taking a turn both downward and up (like a seal pup nose) or the occasional full strand of gray instead of a few random pube-like sprouts. Instead my stubbornly stick straight hair went curly, the kind of wave I sported through much of high school and college courtesy of an Aveda natural botanical and seaweed perm; you couldn’t wash your hair for days after and it smelled of the sea and plankton. But a girlfriend who scored a swanky stylist job at the swanky downtown Boulder salon did them for $20 after hours or on Sundays and they were kinder to the scalp. I rocked the Tawny Kitaen for years before following follicle folly and embracing my naturally smooth locks, in long layers and with heavy bangs. My trademark.

So imagine my surprise when I began to notice natural wave. Just a little at first, the sad and homely kind like morning-after hair or curls past their prime. Even mousse or gel wouldn’t coax out more. But on a slow ship to Bermuda five years ago the humidity exploded my shafts (dirty) to twice their size and for the rest of the cruise I tucked away the blow dryer and flat iron and, after a wash and condition, would simply dry my head leaning over the balcony, a sea spray and saltwater finish.

And this is me now. Sometimes and rarely, because I still prefer Manson girl straight. Old friends recognize it instantly. The face has changed some.

So have the puppies.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Nocturnal admissions

Been an odd couple of weeks in the REM cycle. Dreams are funny things. The romantic ones warm your heart, the sex ones leave you invigorated but reluctant to slide slippery from bed. And those about real people in your awake life doing what feels like real things can actually make you angry towards them. Or feel sad. Confused even.

In the last several days I’ve have three dreams about the manfriend. In the first his ex and a gaggle of hens gathered to cackle, sharing loud and unkind chatter about me. And he said nothing. Funny, he doesn’t say a lot anyway. I start conversations, I continue conversations. It’s frustrating at times, he knows that. I’ve told him that using my words.

In the dream I exclaimed, pleaded perhaps, “Stop this…please make them stop. Say something.” Silence. I began to break. “If you don’t say something,” I warned, “I’m leaving and not coming back." Funny, I had a similar conversation just about two years ago, some of the last words spoken to my Mom. She’s not dead.

He said nothing so I left, behind the wheel of a car full of people, dropping them off one by one. All along the way each reminded me of all the awful things I used to believe about myself. That I wasn’t worth the time. That I got what I deserved. That love is only for some. I should have turned the car radio on and up loud to drown out the noise. I didn’t. But I dropped them all off.

I remember waking up in his bed and physically rolling myself as far to the mattress edge as I could, away from him. He noticed and awoke slightly and asked, “What’s wrong?” “I had a bad, bad dream. Your ex and her friends and your friends were awful and you chose them. And you didn’t say anything, you just let me go."

“You know that would never happen, right? It was a dream.” Then he pulled me in tight and snored.

A few days later, also in his bed, I dreamt again of him and me but the details are fuzzy. Then last night he chastised my writing, calling it either addictive or written like someone with an addiction or for an addict. Addiction to what? Truth maybe. Funny, because I’ve been stifling, censoring myself a bit. He has a one way ticket into my thoughts and actions and desires and insecurities. He follows my Facebook and Twitter.

But he never asks about any of it.

Funny thing dreams.

Monday, October 25, 2010

I sometimes envy the lesbians

Ladies throw your feet up in the air because 2010 marks the 50th anniversary of the birth control pill.

My love-hate relationship with the pill is well documented. In the “pro” category, complete freedom for spontaneous activity, absolute regularity and a lighter ride of just 4 days. Plus you can skip the placebos and entire ebb and flow that month should you have a special event or need to wear white. The “cons” however put me off and have kept me off, primarily the weight gain. Not only the water retention but actual gaining of real body weight, the "whose ass is this?!" variety. Since the pill tricks the body into thinking it's pregnant, it screams to store fat. That shit ain't funny because within 2 weeks of popping the first of the pack, 10 pounds come on and stay on, even long after quitting them.

Now after half a century, the pill has three new side effects you should know about, or so reports a local radio chat show (btw, when did morning radio get so dumb and vapid? Or is it just the Denver market? Thank God for Brett Saunders.) British scientists claim the pill makes you brainier and can actually swell grey matter essential for social skills and memory. Second it changes your taste in men, preferring softer, more feminine features over a macho and chiseled type. Balls. I call balls. The men I’m attracted are 1) funny 2) taller than me and 3) the ones who ask me out. On the pill or off.

And third, it creates extreme jealousy. You men are screwed (or more to the point, not).

Pity us ladies, often stereotyped the more emotional of the sexes and hormones only exacerbate it. The weeping tendencies, the mood swings, the desire to eat a can of chocolate frosting are real, but the majority of our contraceptive choices are hormone-based. Even the IUD can contain a small amount. The diaphragm is natural but a bit messy and awkward; I spent the better part of 10 minutes trying to fish one out this weekend.

Patches and rings and shots…all chemical. And condoms, not so pleasant for us either. They can delay or prolong a (okay, your) big finish and the slippery friction we enjoy becomes akin to rubbing sticks together to make fire.

Fire bad.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Babes in Toyland

Some of you should stop reading right now.

I’ll give you a moment.

Sex toys tickle me, and not like that.

Told you to stop.

Adult diversions are silly and funny, especially the female variety. The names (dildo is a damn funny word), the colors, sometimes simply the sheer girth and volume of them. Japanese sex toys are prohibited from looking like penises, so manufacturers there make toys with faces or that look like animals (bunnies, ducks, anything with long ears or a bill). I have a large purple member with a smiley face stamped under where the head would be.

Some ladies giggle like school girls when mentioning theirs or give them cute names, just as some do for body parts. For the record, my tits are tits, not Turner and Hooch, Thelma and Louise, Fred or Barney.

I’m not a super huge fan of the toys. Yes they do they trick when the treats aren't there, but nothing in the world compares to a partner. The job just isn’t the same. And The Rabbit? Yet another reason to dislike the vapid (and sort of woman hating) series, Sex and The City which first introduced millions of woman to the whirly dervish that is The Rabbit. Myself a dutiful and adventurous girl I tried it and it’s a seriously scary thing, what with the beads swirling and the twirling and the noise and the rrr...rrr...rrr. Plus it’s big, meaning long, and you can only travel so far downtown. I mean, you can’t park a stretch limo in a standard size garage.

I favor and recommend the classic Pocket Rocket, swift, palm sized, hella efficient and useful alone or in pairs. Just a bing on the button does in minutes what few men can. And he likes it too, an “end result” so strong he may think he won’t get it back. But then I can pull off condoms with mine, like a party trick.

Kegel's ladies. Do your Kegel's. And did you know men can do them too?

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Baby did a bad, bad thing

I can’t recall a weekend in recent history like the one just passed. I did things I haven’t done in years, nay decades. Thought I’d emerge come Monday feeling shame, regret. The need for a priest and a confessional.

None of that the case.

The manfriend played a gig Saturday night, a tribute to much admired local musician. His band played first to a house more packed than expected. A wonderful thing happens when you enter into a regular relationship; you integrate into the others group. Hugs and welcomes all around, chatting up new friends, no more sitting alone at the bar like the girl with the band. And despite (or perhaps somewhat due to) a motorcycle mashup earlier that afternoon, he was in high spirits. They did a tight set and I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. He looked good, played lively. And was all the way alive.

Found it tough to shake the worry-is-wasteful image of deep, powdery white scratches on fiberglass, leather jacket skid marks and (in my imagination) head cracking like an egg on the pavement. He looked good and mostly well.

We both enjoyed some medicine before the first set, a surprisingly good dirty martini. I’d have two more by nights end, one past my usual (and six green olives the only food of the day after a handful of raw almonds and a coconut water). And so it came to be that night that manfriend met Drunk Jodie. He liked Drunk Jodie. I like her too because she’s extra affectionate (she went diving under the covers later that night and pitched a happy tent) and hungry. She proclaimed, “Pizza!!” so we stopped for a pepperoni and black olive pie and ate three pieces each, washed down with dark beer.

I don’t eat pizza as a rule and and never have I indulged in three big slices. All in row. Thought I’d wake the next day with an unhappy belly and worse-for-the-wear head.

But I felt amazing. Up and atta 'em and big and bright. Dare I say, reborn. We lingered and lolled in bed then went for Lamar’s Donuts. Hadn't been near a donut in decade plus, closer to two I reckon. I had most of an air variety (glazed) and bite of both his buttermilk bar and the blueberry glazed cake he got for us to share. We watched cartoons, drank lattes and passed the Sunday paper. Later I brought him tea and honey as he recouped from second day aches, curled around a heating pad and his big dog.

It was a good, good thing.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

I'm a bad boy for breakin' her heart

I kind of feel for John Mayer. His testicles are the new celebrity gossip punching bags.

Any woman seen or photographed or working in close or far proximity to Mayer becomes tabloid fodder, an always eventually abandoned conquest left only with a wet spot and a crumbled heart. The bad-boy-Lothario poster boy. Even teen pop sweetie Taylor Swift has (allegedly) penned a song for her new album that (perhaps) is an ode to how he (maybe) done her then done her wrong. For those not in the know (a.k.a those with a life outside idle idol worship and TMZ.com) last year she provided some collaboration plus a small vocal (and maybe more) for Mayer’s last album.

Now in “Dear John” she pines, "Don't you think I was too young to be messed with?" Mayer is 33 and Swift now 20 (way to go Mom). And from the sound of her bubble-gum-pink scented lyrics, things ended badly:

Dear John,
It was wrong
Don't you think nineteen's too young
To be played
By your dark, twisted games
When I loved you so.


My mother accused me of losing my mind
But I swore I was fine
You'll add my name to your long list of traitors
Who don't understand
And I'll look back in regret
I ignored what they said 'Run as fast as you can.'


It's no “You’re So Vain” but then the girl is an embryo.

Who ever claimed rock stars beacons of morality and good boyfriend material? They aren’t meant to practice tantric yoga and eat soy sausages. I want mine to sleep around, fight crabs, turn it to 11, drink and drug and collapse in a pool of their own sick. And eat from an endless buffet of women, smart girls, stupid girls, girls who climb on rocks, fat girls, skinny girls, even girls with chicken pox...

That’s why boys want to be rock stars. Girls too. Just ask a Go-Go.

And if guitar players have taught me nothing, "dark, twisted games" can be fun if you read the instructions printed on the bottom of the box first.

Monday, October 18, 2010

Writing cheat

  1. I sprinkle garlic salt on eggs when fried, but dill when scrambled.
  2. And for years I didn't eat eggs because they're chicken babies. Fetuses really.
  3. I very well may be composed of 10% coffee.
  4. The rest is red wine, Grey Goose and green olives.
  5. But I'm actually pretty healthy, mostly because good health sprouts from your head.
  6. I can beat all comers at Beatles trivia.
  7. I always had more men friends than woman until recently. Because at a certain age the women with your men friends don’t warm much to a single woman being friendly with their man.
  8. I like men more because some women (more than you'd think) are veiled misogynists. And that's the most unattractive thing on a chick besides a lip pimple.
  9. I’ve never understood milk.
  10. I have a bad back but a strong backbone.
  11. Those Victoria Secret sweatpants with “PINK” stitched on the ass are unimaginative at best and silly pussy advertisement at worst. 
  12. I have a tiny tattoo.
  13. And a lone freckle in a most interesting spot that few have (or will) ever see. Yep. There.
  14. I like to fart. 
  15. I may have had some shit kicked out of me as kid and blocked as an adult because a) x-rays don't lie and b) survivor is a better word than victim. And c) we used to get "the belt" and that's some serious old school parenting. It was white leather with a big silver buckle and I have pictures of my Mom wearing it. With hot pants.
  16. I don't lie much. Don't have to. Sometimes pure truth hurts me though; not mine as much as others reactions to it because that can be a slippy slope. 
  17. I was a bona fide, clinical virgin well into my thirties.
  18. What sometimes comes off as juvenile is actually a rabid zest for life.
  19. A wicked sense of humor turns me and will get me in bed.
  20. Pop-culture-heavy-cartoons like Animanics, Pinky and the Brain, Freakazoid and Tiny Toons I could watch all day.
  21. Worry is a fucking waste of time.
  22. Any or all of these randoms may become a blog. Well, #14 is a stretch.
  23. I write for a living (and snug paycheck). This makes me feel accomplished because what's your day job? And sad because I'm tired tonight and gave in to a writing cheat like a random and self-indulgent list.
  24. I'll forgive myself.

Friday, October 15, 2010

Piss or get off the pot

Stole this from Stephanie Klein’s blog (her memoir, Straight Up And Dirty, is a little too SATC-inspired, right down to the martini drinking, curly headed heroine, but I folded page corners down over several quips I wished I’d have written):

“I have been living this...book, but I haven’t started the proposal. What is that about? I worry that there’s not enough of a story, a depth, a deeper discovery, a reveal. I don’t want to write a book that’s just funny for funny sake. There has to be depth to it, self-discovery.”

Well smack my ass and call me Judy. No don't. Sometimes people mistake my name for Judy and I despise that, worst ever from the fireman I sleep with who, when I called (yep I called, first bad sign) the next day addressed me as "Judy."

But I digress.

And in fairness it was back when I was pretty bad in bed.

However...

Really at the end and the beginning of the day I want that too, to write a book of this story I'm living. And have it mean something. A readable, relatable tale about more than embracing single in a world of double, later in life sexual abandonment and cheeky asides. There’s grit in truth, sympathy in shame and vicarious lust in reinvention. Essayists share memories and pithy observations of life around them, stories others feel and relate to and fold page corners down over. I want that too because I can. I have an absolutely winning idea for a novel floating in my head, but fiction writing comes harder. My dialogue feels unnatural, stifled and kind of Flinstone. But it would sell a million copies (paperback) based on the back cover summary alone. Every woman over 40 who grew up loving Duran Duran would buy a copy.

Wednesday I paid off my car; last week I handed over cash for a new battery and tires for winter (and the next 32K miles). My lone credit card has one last payment due. Refied the mortgage to an obscenely livable monthly amount (and could walk with $30K-ish sticking out of my back pocket should I sell). I’ve been setting myself up so things like money don’t motivate (or even be part of the equation of) the next move I make. Whether that move is into the manfriends house or a single loft in the grittier heart of Denver (rented, less root and more wiggle) or a bungalow on the hip side of the highway, near coffee shops with names you’ve never heard of. Or moving on from a decade of corporate gigging.

Stole this from Navin R. Johnson (as played by Steve Marin in The Jerk):

"Things are going to start happening to me now."

Thursday, October 14, 2010

I'm not a gym rat. More a gym gerbil.

One of the hardest things about a regularly scheduled work out regime is deciding when to shower.

My work site has a fully loaded gym, locker room and showers included. But for the many years I worked in a for real office I never took advantage of it. Although I have little to no problem with nudity (even my own lumpy variety), I couldn’t risk a full on glance or even imagining my bosses and peers closer to naked. My eyes have the tendency to wander to the area of a mans’ package (much like boys do with cleavage) and catching a swinging bat and ball sack in light weight gym shorts steals the innocence of the more wrapped up version brought to staff meetings. TMGI – Too Much Genital Information. Same with the diameter and color of areoles and choice of pubic pattern for lady co-workers.

Now that I work from home my days are less structured, and with the gym minutes down the road I pick and choose times, classes and manner in which to get my sweat on. But since I perspire often and from the top down, an hour of cardio leaves me squeaky damp stem to stern, pits to crotch. And therein lies the shower conundrum.

A shower in the morning is best – welcoming a new day fresh, hair smelling of almond cookies, blown out with serums and smoothed flat with an iron. Body slathered in lovely flowery lotions and just a touch of natural makeup. Out of my pajamas, tucked and nipped into clothes I can actually wear to fetch the mail or run to the grocery store (I’ve had many days and many outfits that embarrass the UPS man). Starting the day with ritual pumps me full of energy and anticipation of work ahead. The other option is to roll out of bed, perhaps wash face and teeth (or not) and lumber to the laptop in the t-shirt I slept in, sometimes stopping to put on pants (I have written for hours in my underwear - see UPS horror above). I prefer to start the day with the shower scenario, but add a lunchtime or after work workout and another shower must come at days end. Otherwise I stink up the sheets.

Physical fitness is really all about timing. A few other gems of gym wisdom:

Keep your work out clothes separate and in view. Dedication comes easier when gearing up is as mindless as pulling out tops or tanks and pants in a complimentary color palette to mix-and-match, like Garanimals.

Maintain a proper gym bag because anytime you have to hunt or dig to find clean socks and the iPod the apathy clock begins ticking down to a King Of Queens rerun and cold adult beverage (with a side of, “I’ll go tomorrow.”)

Find a class, instructor or method that works for you and don’t be manhandled (née shamed) by the personal training staff. When I first joined the gym I’ve now gone to for years, my new membership offered two free sessions. I wasn’t a fitness “novice” per see, having done cardio aerobics for years. The trainer kicked my every loving ass, many sets of step-ups to 24” high bench, full on sit-ups with legs extended while catching a heavy weight ball. When I woke the next morning I thought I’d caught the polio; my core remained stingy sore for a week after. Protect your physical tools and modify when needed. I rarely to never complete power squats (in fear of another hip fracture) or moves that require extreme weight and pressure on my hands or wrists. Those are my tools, they make my bank, and I call it good with a few sets of push ups or lingering down dogs.

Take advantage of the steam and sauna rooms. Massage and sweating out the lactic acid from your muscles afterwards helps alleviate the sore. Plus you get to be naked and sweaty. And hands can wander in heavy steam.

Last, even on your fattest days, go. Find yourself yelling more often at the kid or the cat? Go. Don't want to go? Go.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Fall back, my ass

Damn Daylight Savings Time. I'm going to have to get a desk lamp. And all my electrical plugs are full.

It's just around the corner (again), the first Sunday in November. Except in Arizona, those rouge rebels. Always found the concept of DST odd at best. Men so in fear of their own mortality or small penes they, indeed, found a way to control time. Scary, soylent green, “the man” stuff. What if "they" decide we need more days a week, Beatles style, and add an eighth? What is one refused to participate, like those folks who simply don’t pay their taxes?

Is it for the farmers and the trick-or treaters? I rebel against the finger of time telling me when to awake, to rise, to shine. I’ll shine when I’m damn good and ready mister.

The morning sky had already changed from a searing, so deep Tiffany blue it seemed you could scoop some out with a spoon to a soupy gray shade when I roll out of the sheets at 7ish. When I worked in an office proper I had to wake earlier (my commute now simply a walk down the stairs, no bra required) and sometimes in absolute pitch black. The before-the-early-news-news-shows on telly the only bright breaking through. Like driving to the airport in the dark, showering and dressing under cover of darkness makes you feel like you're up to no good.

But watching the sunrise over the course of my formerly long drive into Boulder was often times majestic, especially in the dead of winter when white reflects back in blue in silver. It even sparkles.

There was that.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey

This would’ve been a great morning for it. Rain coming down in loud, ploppy drops, cool but not really cold. The sky still oddly dark for 8:02 a.m. This morning would have been perfect to open the windows wide and do it.

Because when the rain comes, so do I.

We’re morning people. Used to be evening people, often evening and the next morning people, but it’s changed of late. Because with the evening comes the tired from a day that begins (for him) at 6 a.m. And in the morning we’re not fuzzy from several rounds of strong pub beer or after dinner cocktails. And with the kid on board full time, the energy level is high; it's like having a pigeon in the house (in a good way). Add to it his new habit of coming downstairs on lazy weekends to wake us. Explanations of "wrestling" only get you so far.

How do you breeders get doing it done?

We could have snuck away for a quiet quickie Saturday night. The boy had an evening, drop-off birthday party (many blessings to that brave, possibly hearing impaired Mother). But instead of naked time we spent our spare 2 ½ hours on a dinner out, just us grown ups. No crayons on the table, we even sat at the big polished wood bar and made friends with the barkeep. And at was good. The ambers and the mussels and the frites and the casseolet (made with sausage and bunny) and the dirties and the bourbon. Too good because later that night (after snoozing 20 minutes into the Jane Lynch hosted Saturday Night Live) my belly was too full and head too sloshy for sex. We simply both fell asleep. Fast. Early the next morning, tangled up together, he suggested a shower. A grand idea squashed when a toe head, Chicklet grin appeared asking for breakfast.

Morning sex allows time to sneak away on the premise of brushing ones teeth (proper morning bang bang etiquette) and (two birds, one stone) for diaphragm insertion. Found some men have – let’s call it – a concern about boarding the downtown bus with a passenger stuck way in the back (I don't think they're ready for this jelly), so timing is crucial.

This would have been a great morning for it.

Maybe it'll still be raining at lunch.

Monday, October 11, 2010

Are You There God? It's Me, Jodie.

It’s coming. I feel it.

Been about 22 days, so a little early this month, but all the signs have arrived already. I’m dropping things left and right – actually more like violent flinging, projectile-like. Right before it comes I get clumsy, everything I touch or attempt to pick up slips from my hands; if I were a professional football player I’d be benched four days a month. I run into walls, trip up stairs. Fall off my shoes. Something to look forward to, however, is “Happy Pre-Menses Day.” In the 24 hours (or so) before, I’m happy as a clam, giddy as a school girl. I sing and skip and could write an opera given how freely the creative, boisterous juices flow.

And I get super horny.

Maybe it’s coming Wednesday because nips are inexplicably sore (no rough touch or tools in use this weekend) and I can feel the fluorescent “Vacancy” sign flickering on in my uterus, tickles and twitches meaning no one has checked in. Not this month.

Wouldn’t mind an early start because it means a quicker finish and the manfriend is playing a gig this weekend, a gig I’ve already picked out the dress for. A short Calvin Klein, super-light gauge and soft black sweater dress, three quarter sleeves with a metal zip up the front. Saucy and sassy with opaque tights and the new knee-high boots. And although cut a bit blouson, on heavy days a tarp can’t cover the bloat. Every cell seems to double, triple in size. Even upper arms feel like they’re retaining water, so Pillsbury Dough Boy plump one imagines a finger poke leaving a divet like the jam hole when making thumbprint cookies. Jowls come out, the neck expands (or so it feels) and (in an ironical twist) the belly extends to resemble a first trimester treat.

Certain if men had menstrual cycles we’d have more sick days allotted per year.

Saturday, October 9, 2010

Listen To What The Man Said

Anyone in a man-woman relationship for more than a minute-and-a-half understands the fairer and masculine sexes communicate in vastly different ways. Both speak and hear through some kind of gender filter. For instance at the beginning of a now mostly regular and monogamous relationship, I broached the topic of extracurricular activity. I believed then (and now) in full disclosure about casual boom boom, even as we pursued something clothed and occurring outside the bedroom during daylight hours. He didn’t hear exploration or lifestyle or Seriously, I’m the girl who tells tales of a less than puritanical view of sexuality, and you know that seeing you read all of it before our first date. Instead he heard he wasn’t enough. He heard he didn't satisfy me. He may have even heard small dick.

None of which is the case. Trust.

And just weeks ago during a rather intimate and weepy conversation, I unexpectedly blurted out, “I don’t like my body right now, I don't feel as sexy," followed by the insecure mea culpa, "I’m not the same girl you met." In fairness his reply registered medium-to-high on the sensitive guy scale:

“You know that's not true, or wouldn't matter."

The better answer, “What fat?”
(And it wouldn't matter because that's not what he see when he see me. Which is why tonight when he treats me to a dinner date at the cheeky Belgium pub he’ll insist on several rounds and splitting an order of the fried pickles. With aioli.)

The manner and method of mano e mano and girl-on-girl chat differs too. Us ladies talk, a lot, usually over wine and whining, repeating and making points heard over and over. We attach “I hate to say…” and “I just don’t know…” to the beginning of sentences and say them anyway and can go for hours, until the phone hums hot in the ear or we’ve shredded several paper napkins to bits. Then we hug it out. To contrast and compare, the manfriend has a recently single friend, one whose marriage ended (what seemed on the outside) suddenly and whose kid was quickly transplanted out of state. At a gig, another good friend – aware of his situation - caught up:

“Hey, you doing okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Need any money?”

“No.”

And then they had beers. And probably got him laid.

Friday, October 8, 2010

And I got a big package

Remember the scene in Pretty Woman when Richard Gere’s Edward compliments Julia Roberts' Vivian with, "I think you are a very bright, very special woman,” and she replies, “The bad stuff is easier to believe”?

I smell what you’re stepping in, whore, because (self-flagellation aside) I’m a pretty spectacular woman myself, with a certain “It” quality. I‘m good enough, I’m smart enough and, doggone it, people like me. But damn if I don’t always feel it, until reminded by myself or others.

Walking to the mail kiosk brings waves from several neighborhood directions; I’m trusted with keys and plant life when neighbors are out of town. The staff at the auto dealership I've known and trusted through three new cars throw in freebies and extras and always introduce me all around. That’s a sure-thing-positive sign, being “owned” by your peeps, the folks in your short or long circles who want others to know it. And know you. Lay claim and welcome you into the larger pack.

Like right out of college when having a hot girlfriend helped get me hired at Contempo Casuals in the mall, the hip chick boutique where the uniform most days was black bike shorts or mini tube skirt, a baby doll tunic or oversized long jacket and cowboy boots (god damn, I miss the 90’s). Only the hot girls got hired there and getting in on a hot recommendation made me hot by association (even if I wasn’t recruited out like the truly hot girls to work at the new concept restaurant coming to town called Hooters.)

That same girlfriend invited me along for birthday brunch around the same time. She (like me) lived hand-to-mouth but she (unlike me) had the empirical beauty card and also ran in a circle of other empirically pretty young hipsters with trust funds and convertibles. One dated Robert Plant, one Chris Robinson of The Black Crowes (or was it the same girl?). I silently dreaded the weekend meal, certain I’d wilt in their combined golden glow but went for my good friend and laughed and talked and ate eggs. A day or two after brunch she called. “Everyone is talking about you,” she said. “I got calls from every single girl there about how cool and fun and funny ‘Jodie’ is.” And even two decades later - on the days my pants explode over my waistband or I find another hard white pimple lurking on the edge of my bottom lip - I’m reminded it’s the package, not the packaging.

I like that I'm mostly socially comfortable and breezy in situations that require an opening line or engaging conversation. A friend with an Architectural Digest-worthy loft downtown used to invite me to parties because I could work a room, make friends and jump start an event. The manfriend is bemused (often) at my friendly making ability. He teases about the phone store guy who replaced my cell battery for free, or the wait staff who know me by name or drink and who bring a second dessert, on the house, because they had an extra in the kitchen. Or the time the butcher block young fellow gave me a turkey meatloaf.

Some girls get showered with flowers and diamonds but I get meat. And it makes the bad stuff not so easy to believe.

Monday, October 4, 2010

“Fabulous and full of cake”

Official birthday doesn't launch for two-and-a-half hours and I've already been gifted 4 bottles of wine. What does that say about me?
That I've got killer friends ;) Trust.

September 27 at 9:38pm Comment ·Like

Trust when you have little to do, little gets accomplished.

And it’s absolutely fantastic.

In the last week the most orchestrated tasks I've completed include having another rotation around the sun, drinking many more bloodies and vodka drinks than most should, partaking in loads of sex and shopping and wine – so much wine – and sleeping late. So very late. Not a minute spent in the gym or the steam room or writing. Nary a word, in fact. Haven’t sent a freelance inquest or drafted a book proposal. But lingered over lunches and brunches and soaked my pedis and got chatted up in the beer line on a Friday afternoon in a college town and met up again with a friend who shares a similar lust for life and sat happily in it.

It's no wonder I haven't written a word this last week.

An oft overlooked treasure of birthdays or becoming sick or scared or hitting a wall of tough times or accomplishing something big is those who know you enough to know it share words in cards and letters and notes and calls and emails. Tiny reminders of the things we believe about ourselves at the core, but that shine brighter and hotter when coming from the people who see use from the other side of the mirror.

His card wished happy to the fairest of them all and was signed “Love" and seeing those words swirled out in fine point black ink felt good, so good I keep looking at them. He spoiled me with gifts few others would think of or recall in passing conversations. He made sure I had cake to eat. The girl I met at 16 or 17 and I shared strong, ballsy chat and drinks and ink that read, "...such a mix of qualities – wise, kind, funny, sarcastic, dirty, vulnerable – a well rounded woman.” It's mutual. Thoughts jotted in funny cards and stunning cards, one thick stock paper cut into a work of yellow sunshine art and postmarked NYC. Another handmade (like she always does) and stamped, “Someone like you should be celebrated every day.” The bottle of red and bottle of white grape that came with will help me do just that.

Yet another bottle of red came the next night. Another gift, another good thought. I'm drunk in all of them.

Search me