2 hot chiks

Flood Report, Part 2

2008-06-30T12:22:00.013-05:00

I've been pre-occupied lately. Last week a group of us did some fund-raising and came up with over $4,200 for the four people we work with who lost their homes in the flood. My company is doing nothing. In fact, during the flooding, we got an email that literally said, "Buck up and try to focus on your work."

People here are very grateful that there was no loss of life during the floods. It was the victims of Katrina paid our tuition for the lessons required to survive so well. We learned from their experience. We learned from their unimaginable losses.

Our communities organized and banded together. Major businesses (other than my souless company) shut down and sent their people home or out to help where help was needed. We had mandatory evacuations. We set up huge animal shelters so no one refused to leave home because they couldn't abandon their pets.

When I look around my town, I see massive damage in so many treasured places, however, I'm very aware that it could have been so much worse.

On the other hand, there have been huge losses that the rest of the world doesn't really know about ... or at least doesn't appreciate. Whole towns are gone forever. Most of them will never be rebuilt. These are little towns where some families have lived for generations.

In these towns, when a person walks into the local diner, everyone knows their name. Seventy-five per cent of the town shows up for the high school football games. They have a Casey's and a Hardees somewhere along Main Street, and that's where most of the high school kids hang out. Seriously, there are still towns like that. But, because of the devastating flooding, some of these multi-generational communities have been completely destroyed. They are gone forever. A few folks might rebuild near one another, but most will scatter to larger nearby towns and cities.

The country mourned Katrina's destruction of the historical landmarks and culture of New Orleans and other parts of the coasts of Louisiana and Mississippi. And, of course, we mourned, and still mourn the terrible human losses. However, I hope some folks take the time to empathize with these little midwestern towns. They might not be important to thousands and thousands of people around the world, but their passing deserves recognition. I'm not from a small town, but my heart goes out to the people who loved and lost all that was ever home.

There is so much work to do to recover from these floods. FEMA has been here to help. The president stopped by for a few hours last week. (I suppose it was a good thing to do, but he annoyed me when his motorcade got in my way and made me late for lunch).

Hey, I wonder if any celebrities are going to show up to help.

A Shoe for Every Occassion

2008-06-20T10:11:00.004-05:00

These are what all the best-dressed gals are wearing in Iowa this week.

500 Year Flood

2008-06-15T17:41:00.023-05:00

This is the trail that I normally take for my morning walk. It's 2 blocks from my house.

This street is 4 blocks away. The animal shelter is at the end.

A street five blocks away ...

They say a flood like this only happens once every 500 years.

Things will never be the same. 18 buildings at the University of Iowa have been flooded, including the main library, student union and the art building; homes and businesses are ruined; and thousands of people are indefinitely displaced.

One of my best friends/co-workers had to evacuate his 2nd floor apartment last Thursday. The water reached his level yesterday. He's safely staying with family 2 hours away. However, he can't get to work and our company won't pay him for the time he's away. It will be a week or two before he can return. When I talked to him today, he said that he'll come back for his salvaged belongings, but he's not returning to Iowa City.

The main highway between Iowa City and Cedar Rapids has been closed for 3 days and may be closed for another 4 days. The two cities are closely connected in many ways. Many of my friends and co-workers live there. Currently, the recommended detour to Cedar Rapids is through Des Moines. That's a 281 mile trip one way. Normally, it's a quick 25 mile drive.

Iowa City has been fortunate compared to Cedar Rapids. The damage hasn’t been as severe and we didn’t lose water or power. Also, because our river is controlled by a reservoir system, we had more time to prepare.

Like thousands of other volunteers, I spent many hours sand-bagging the last couple days. Our efforts made a difference as many properties were spared damage. Today, we're feeling relieved as we learned that the river has crested.

Now, the hard work begins for so many people. Clean-up, repair, and recovery. I'll pitch in and do everything I can, but for me, it's a choice not a requirement because I haven't been directly affected.

Once again, I've been spared personal loss. Two years ago, a tornado struck one block from my house taking several homes and businesses. This year, the flood water came within two blocks of me.

I'm a very lucky girl.

There's No Place Like Home

2008-06-10T11:31:00.023-05:00

Iowa is a mess. First, tornadoes, then flooding.

One of my coworkers has a relative in an effected area. They lost their barn and silo in a tornado. Then, the father was in a terrible work related accident. Last night their house was flooded and the flooding caused an electrical fire. After surviving a tornado and a near fatal accident, this man and woman, and their three small children, stood in a field up to their knees in mud and watched their home go up in flames. This family, and so many others, are in my prayers.

Parts of my city are flooding but so far we've been spared the damage many of our neighboring towns are suffering. An EF5 tornado, 1 mile wide, leveled the town of Parkersburg. Yesterday, Mason City lost 3 of their 4 bridges. More rain is expected in the coming days.

I live 3 blocks from the Iowa River; however, my home sits on a bit of a hill. There was a bad flood here about 15 years ago but according to my neighbors, the water didn't come anywhere near our houses. Right now, I feel fairly safe. If I don't later on, I have many friends with comfy, vacant couches.

We have one non-flooded park left in the city. After work last night, the Man invited me to join him for a picnic in a gazebo at the park (because that's what people who are "just friends" do ... a bit confusing, but that's another story). It was raining lightly, but nothing like the terrible storms we've had the last several weeks. As we were leaving the park, the setting sun broke through the clouds and created one of the biggest, brightest rainbows I've ever seen. It reminded me that even the worst of times don’t last forever.

Today is a sunny, breezy 75 degrees

... and I'm counting my blessings.

Fabulous

2008-05-21T08:15:00.005-05:00

She is so proud of herself!

My favorite part of spring is when the bright red California Poppies bloom. This year is going to be the best ever. My garden has over 4 dozen buds ready to burst. The first opened a couple days ago. She's fabulous, and she knows it!

Every so often, I feel that fabulous. I wish I could bottle that feeling and open it up whenever I need it.

44 Years

2008-05-20T17:29:00.004-05:00

Despite a pouty beginning, I ended up having a wonderful day yesterday. I should know better than to feel sorry for myself. I have too much love in my life to justify such silliness. My friends ended up making the day wonderful. They got me tipsy and took me out. Lots of other people sent me wishes for happiness. The man also called twice to make me laugh like crazy.

My favorite gifts are the glazed flower pots above … a gift from the man. It’s remarkably thoughtful and generous for a guy who dumped me 2 weeks ago.

Birthday

2008-05-19T12:11:00.000-05:00

Today is my birthday.
I’m feeling sorry for myself. It’s kinda pitiful.

I have everything in the world to be happy about. I’m healthy. I have a home and a decent job. I have many fantastic friends. And, I generally think I’m a pretty cool person.

I’m still sad that I lost something important to me. I really valued my relationship with the man. It’s changed and the friendship we’re trying to create feels uncertain. I don’t blame myself, but the loss hurts. It’s as simple as that.

Other men are trying to get my attention. I don’t want anyone else. I’ve felt this way before about a couple other men. I know it will pass with time; I know nearly everyone else in the world has been in this same place, but my heart is slow to heal. It sucks.

I know I’ll be ok. I just wish I knew when.

My Heart For a Song

2008-05-15T08:16:00.003-05:00

My favorite birthday present was a song. He called, then called back to my voicemail. The tiny bit of nervousness in his voice at the beginning made it all the sweeter. He pushed through and sang the words strong and true …
Let’s Get it On
I smiled over and over again as I listened to him sing to me a dozen times that day.

He still has a place in my heart. He resides there, or more accurately, the things I’ve collected of him are carefully stored there. I keep cherished bits of him that he’s shared, both on purpose and accidentally; memories of laughter and tenderness, healing words that still soothe, and waves of tears for lost dreams.

Sometimes I still ache, but mostly I feel blessed for loving such a man.

Life is Strange

2008-05-14T21:03:00.003-05:00

This is the weirdest break-up of my life. We talk every day or two just like we did before. He still calls me by the same silly pet name, I still giggle, and we still spend an hour laughing like idiots about stupid crap. Once in a while we talk about the break-up. He doesn’t budge but still tries to make it all better.

We’re spending Saturday afternoon together at his house. I guess we’re supposed to hang out as “just friends”. He knows I don’t think of him that way. The whole thing is so ridiculous that it amuses me.

If I was smart, I’d walk away. However, I’ve never been particularly smart about love … daring, but not smart. I don’t have an agenda. I don’t have a plan to change him or make him give me what I want. I can accept him exactly as he is. Isn’t that part of loving someone? Besides, I’m also curious as hell.

In the mean time, another guy is sniffing around. It’s like a garage sale. There are always one or two people who show up at 7am even when the sale doesn’t start until eight. He’s one of those people. He wants to be the first one to check out my stuff. I told him that I’m not open for business. He’s a nice enough guy, but my heart isn’t ready.

Bargaining

2008-05-10T20:10:00.027-05:00

By the time we get to this age, we all carry a bit of baggage, some more than others. We can help one another along, but mostly it's stuff we have to sort out on our own. It's hard work that some people never seem able to do. And, sometimes the people that seem the most well-put-together have the biggest parcels to handle. Other times those who have the most to offer have months or years of sorting to do before they have anything worth giving.

I’ve worked long and hard to sort through my crap, much of that work right here on this blog. Right or wrong, I hid myself away until I had my baggage whittled down into a manageable carry-on. It took a couple years and a few detours to really get my shit together. Unfortunately, it seems as if my guy-guy is one of those people with a lot to offer but nothing to give right now. It’s not my fault. It’s not really his fault either. It’s just the way life works.

I wish he’d say he has a plan to work it all out. He could ask me to hang in there for a while. I wouldn’t throw myself on my sword, but I’d help push the luggage cart if he said we were worth working for. Instead, he just gives me explanations of his powerlessness. Then, he distracts me by making me laugh. It makes him feel better because, even though he doesn’t say so, he can’t stand knowing he hurt me.

He calls because he likes my company. I answer because I hope he’ll say what I want him to say. If I don't hear something positive soon, it's going to get old fast. In fact, I think I might not feel like talking tonight.

Good Things

2008-05-07T07:43:00.010-05:00

I got to work yesterday to find flowers sitting in front of my monitor. They were from a co-worker. He didn’t know about the break-up. He just said I seemed blue Monday and he wanted to cheer me up.

And remember the annoying jerk that I wanted to beat with his own arm a couple weeks ago? He and I have been getting along extremely well. In fact, he gave me a $50 gift card and the afternoon off for a late margarita lunch with my girlfriend.

Possible good news ... things might not be over with the man. Time will tell.
I don’t completely understand men, but I have hope for them
… ONE man in particular.

It Sucks

2008-05-06T00:12:00.002-05:00

He wants to redefine our relationship => just be friends.

It sucks to be me today.

Guy-Guys

2008-04-24T21:36:00.006-05:00

We all think our guy is different and better than other guys. Of course mine is too. He’s a sexy loveable goofball dork. His odd, sometimes dry sense of humor is becoming predictable, but I still laugh like crazy. His quirks are less confusing as I get to know him. One of the things I like about him is his guy-ness … even the guy stuff that I don’t understand.

I like guy-guys. They are the men who think like guys, act like guys and like guy things. They can’t watch TV unless the remote control is in their hand. They play loud poker with their buddies, drink crappy beer, and count the weeks until football season starts. Guy-guys think Animal House, Caddy Shack and National Lampoon's Vacation are cinematic masterpieces. When they work on the car and cut themselves, they show it off like it’s some kind of war wound … but if you fuss about it, they insist it’s no big deal. Oh! And, guy-guys are mesmerized by boobies … not just the perfect 19-year old perky ones; they get a glaze-eyed stare from looking at ANY BOOBIES. A little cleavage is like kryptonite. They become completely compliant when near those creamy round curves.

I like guy-guys … the GOOD guy-guys. They are the men that help scrape your windshield when you’re tromping through 8 inches of snow in 4-inch heels. They help their friends move, build a new deck, or get them drunk after being dumped by a girl. The good guys don’t pick a fight, but they won’t back down if something needs to be done. These are the guys who open doors because it’s polite; they don’t think about whether it's PC. Sometimes they joke around about being assholes or jerks, but when you need someone you can count on, they do the right thing. Others might describe them as “... rough around the edges, but has a heart of gold.”

My guy seems to be a good guy-guy. He’s a little ragged on the edges, but not too much. He knows the difference between Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker and a metal tool used to break walnut shells. He also scared me a bit when I noticed Titanic in his DVD collection … even more when he made me watch the crappy 3 hours of trite nonsense. However, he starts my car when it’s cold outside, knows the name of the town where they make his favorite fishing lure, makes sure his friends get home safely when they’ve been drinking, and lends his muscle when someone needs a hand.

I like guy-guys, especially the good ones … … especially the sexy lovable goofball dorky ones.

Nature vs. Nurture

2008-04-23T12:32:00.009-05:00

This is a photo of my gorgeous angel niece. She cleverly decided to wear a pirate patch over one eye because the night light in her room was keeping her awake. She might have given up the light, but she wanted it in case she needed to get up during the night. This seems like a perfect solution.

One might think that my girl is simply creative, however, despite her landlocked condition, I suspect she may have a little bit of pirate in her. After all, if you remember, at one time, I, her favorite aunt, sailed the seven seas as a ruthless pirate. Alongside my sexy pantalooned lover, I greedily plundered, pillaged and ransacked the world over. Perhaps my sassy niece has a bit of the pirate in her as well.

Could it be the way she's been raised? Her respectable, upstanding parents seem to be bring her up right ... so did mine. Hmmm ... Maybe they let her watch MTV.

Nature versus nurture?

Close Enough to Perfect

2008-04-20T22:31:00.012-05:00

It’s been 4 months, 1 week and 4 days since we met. After our 3rd date I told him I didn’t think it would work out. I had my reasons and I didn’t lie. He was cool about it. I had other reasons that I kept to myself. When I think back, I was an idiot.

After a month and a few dates with some other guys, I was still thinking about him. He’d left the door open so I called. He was happy to hear from me and said he missed me. I was surprised how much the sound of his voice made me miss him too. We see each other a couple times a week now.

About a month ago he started calling every day. If it were anyone else, I’d probably find such a thing too clingy. There are few people I want to talk to on the phone every day, and no one I want to talk to for more than a few minutes. It’s weird how an hour or two can disappear when we’re laughing about stupid crap.

He has a romantic heart but he isn’t very romantic with me. I’m learning to notice the little things instead. Yesterday, my favorite salad dressing showed up in his refrigerator. A few weeks ago, an anonymous person paid the vet bill when my cat got sick and died. He changed my name in his cell phone to the silly pet name that he calls me when we’re alone together. Romance … I can live without pretty words and promises when his kisses are genuine.

He says he has "issues" and makes jokes about it. I have issues too. Things aren’t perfect. Is anything? Even my perfect red shoes hurt my feet after I’ve worn them a few hours. His number one goal is to not mess things up with me. With all the other good stuff between us, that’s close enough to perfect.

3 Days

2008-04-15T20:32:00.014-05:00

The path stretched forever, or so it seemed. Our rented bicycles rolled along, him leading, then me, at ease in each another’s company.

He calls me Princess or Beautiful. I like the way the words sound in his voice.

We seemed more friends than lovers. He was too young, too far away, too different. But I fell when his arms held me close enough to know his heartbeat, until breathless words affirmed a darker longing.

Time meant little until goodbye … a bittersweet kiss, the sweetest I’ve known.

We only belonged to each other for a while,
A precious instant.

Love Hurts

2008-04-13T14:36:00.006-05:00

I went to church this morning. Even though I have an odd sort of faith that I can’t quite put into words, I absolutely LOVE going to church. Being around other sinners makes me feel comfortable; sitting amongst a group of kind-hearted people makes me feel calm and peaceful; the patterns and rituals settle my soul.

One of the messages I’m often reminded of at church is to keep a generous and open heart even when I’m hurt or afraid. The world has enough pain and fear. I don’t need to add to it. This morning, while I was concentrating on how to be more loving, I thought about a man I work with. He aggravates the hell out of me. His rude, insulting interactions with me always test my limits. About 5 o’clock Friday afternoon, I seriously wanted to rip off his arm and beat him with it. That probably wouldn’t be a very Christian response.
*sigh*
Tomorrow, I won’t rip his arm off. I promise.

I prefer to love people who love me back. All of us do, don't we? However, sometimes there are sweet, unexpected rewards when I’m kind, understanding and generous with a difficult person. At the very least, I feel powerful. I don’t let them control me. I remain true to myself ... the master of my emotions. Even better, sometimes they stop acting like a jackass. That hardly ever happens when I'm defensive and hateful.
*sigh*
Tomorrow, I’m going to love the little prick til it hurts.

Hope

2008-04-09T21:07:00.005-05:00

Being in a REAL relationship feels awkward. It’s like trying to find my way along a forgotten path. Some of the landmarks look familiar, but I’m unsure of my footing and afraid I’ll lose my way. He seems to share the same feeling, maybe even more than I. We walk at HIS pace. Very slow. We don’t take many chances.

I’m learning to trust a little bit. He’s earning that trust. I’ve almost stopped wondering if he will disappear without warning. His presence is becoming familiar and reliable, and his voice eases my wandering fears. I’m pretty sure he has the same fears, but he won’t say so. I won’t ask either. Instead, I make sure he knows that I’m still going to be here tomorrow.

Sometimes when I look at him I’m surprised by how beautiful he is. He doesn’t seem to know he’s beautiful. That’s an even bigger surprise. Other times I notice the pain he’s trying so hard to overcome. It’s almost hard to imagine that this powerful, towering man could ever be broken.

I have more courage than he does so I let him take the lead. He needs to be in charge and I don’t. There’s a certain vulnerability to this arrangement, but the imbalance is subtle so it’s okay for now. I dearly want to keep walking along this path with him. But, it’s not for me to decide or control. I just have to HOPE.

Dating Lessons

2008-04-02T08:19:00.005-05:00

These are a few things I’ve learned (or re-learned) through my dating experiences this year.

It’s okay to cut my losses and move on.

If something sounds too good to be true, it is.

Taking things slow is good. You don't often hear people say, "The relationship probably would have lasted if only we had jumped in the sack right away."

I don’t have to feel like a loser when someone doesn’t like me.

I don’t have to feel guilty for not liking someone back.

When a guy “takes it like a man”, he’s more attractive.

Sex appeal is only 5% physical.

A little cologne is nice. A lot will ruin an otherwise pleasant evening. I prefer nothing at all.

The guy who borrowed his Mom’s minivan to take me out probably isn’t the right guy for me.

The guy who lit up a joint in the middle of the date probably isn’t the right guy for me either.

Even at my age, some guys get pissy if a girl doesn’t sleep with them on the first date.

Believe it or not, most guys aren’t in a big hurry to jump in bed (Damnit! … teehee)

I have good instincts about people. I shouldn’t ignore that.

As adorable as they are, 20-somethings are too young for me.

A lot of people who use dating sites also ride Harleys and like Nascar.

There are a lot of lonely people in the world, but it’s not my job to save them … not even ONE.

They say that opposites attract, but I’m more of a birds-of-a-feather kind of person.

If a guy gets to be 40 or so and he’s never had a significant relationship, there’s probably a reason.

I’m capable of acting like a cold-hearted bitch.

We are all just trying to be happy. Some people will settle for feeling a little less unhappy.

Return to the Land of Blog

2008-03-28T21:55:00.006-05:00

It’s been over a year since I’ve been an active participant in the Blogosphere. Every so often, when I miss my friends here, I wander through and read a few posts so I feel a bit connected. It’s like watching a party by peeping through the windows. I miss the companionship and fun.

I didn’t leave because something bad happened. I just sort of ran out of stuff to say. In the past, I often used this place to sort things out and I ran out of messes to sort ... at the time, anyway.

This year has included lots and lots of adventures in love and romance. I suppose that’s my thing … my path in life. Instead of reflecting and writing about such things, I dove headlong into the world and experienced more of life than I have for quite a while.
Data collection.
Investigative research.
Participant observation.
Going out and getting what I want instead of just talking/writing about it.

During the last 9 months, I’ve dated 24 different men. I tried to date before but I must not have been ready because it didn’t work. This time, it was really easy. I just decided to date and bunches of people asked me out. For the most part, it’s been fun. I’ve met some very interesting people and I’ve learned a lot.

The men have ranged between 24 and 57. They’ve been businessmen, construction workers, office workers, teachers, artists, students, medical techs, and one was a professional football player. Some were rich and some were struggling like me. Their reasons for wanting to spend time with me varied. They were lonely, or horny, or bored, or wanted an adult partner/friend. The latter group were the ones I found attractive. It was also rewarding because I learned about people, had new experiences, and made some new friends. In fact one of the guys that didn't work out became a very good friend ... not just a buddy-friend; he's the kind of friend I love and will have in my heart forever.

Although I had a couple bad dates, I liked most of the people I went out with. I saw a number of them several times. However, as I wrote in my Red Shoe post, one can’t compromise about relationships (or shoes). The guy for me has to meet my standards, (and I have to meet HIS too). He has to fit ME exactly right. He doesn’t have to be perfect; he just has to be perfectly suited for me.

Number 19 seems to be a keeper. We’ve been seeing each other since December, first very casually, but the last couple months exclusively. He has a good heart, a smart brain and a quick funny bone. Best of all, so far the only surprises are the nice ones.

Wise Words

2007-10-26T23:16:00.000-05:00

The only man worth crying over would never make you cry.

Don't Lower Your Standards

2007-09-08T13:27:00.000-05:00

Two years ago, I decided I really wanted red shoes. They are harder to find than you think. Most of them are patent leather or childish looking. I wanted something sexy and sophisticated.

I’d like to say that I found a great pair in the first store I looked in, but no such luck. Instead, I looked for red shoes in lots and lots of stores. I also looked at several online sites, but nothing quite suited me. Of course, a few came very close, however, I just couldn’t lower my standards. Knowing how much I wanted them, if I compromised my criteria, I’d be unhappy once I brought them home.

You’ll be happy to know that my diligent efforts and long wait have been rewarded. I found exactly the perfect pair of red shoes. When I saw them in the store, I let out a little sound of joy. I couldn’t wait to try them on, and when I did, I was elated. They fit me exactly right. Just to make sure, I strolled around the store for about 15 minutes before buying them. They are perfect for me.

I brought my gorgeous new red shoes home and put them in their own special shoe cubby in my closet. Sometimes, I just put them on and walk around the house for fun. As I walk the runway between my bedroom and the kitchen, I make my dogs tell me what they think. Of course, having great style themselves, they agree that my red shoes are absolutely spectacular and I wear them well.

Buying the perfect shoes is pretty much the same as finding the right guy. Sometimes you find the perfect man the first time out, and sometimes you have to shop for a very long time and try dozens and dozens on for size. However, it’s important not to lower your standards, because once you get him home, it’s a hard to take a ill-fitting dude back. In fact, it’s much easier to return a pair of shoes that pinch your toes than a guy that get’s on your last nerve.

True Love Stories

2007-05-21T02:08:00.000-05:00

I.
It had been two years since I'd been forced.
Two years since I’d let anyone close to me.
He seemed to understand.
He seemed to care.
Especially when we fucked
and he told me that he loved me.

But when I found out that he'd lied,
That he'd lied about everything,
That he'd been married all along,
I felt betrayed
Again.

I found his wife and called her
To say I was sorry.
She said she was sorry too.
Later, she left him.
I was glad she left before he got sick,
Before his lies made her sick too.

II.
Lies can be a tricky thing. You have to plan ahead, prepare for contingencies, and commit. He should have picked a different lie.

The ex-girlfriend, a baby, and a sense of responsibility story was ill-conceived. It probably seemed to be the perfect way out. He could keep his status as a good guy and dump me without an ugly rejection scene. Too bad he couldn't pull it off. He was a crappy liar. He also changed his mind and wanted to come back. That's not the kind of lie you can undo.

I deserved something believable. He could have said he had a gambling problem or he was tired of the long-distance thing. Maybe it would have hurt less if he had told me the truth. Yes, the truth.

The Truth: he didn’t want me anymore. Hell, I figured it out anyway.

III.
There was nothing extraordinary about him
Except the way he loved me.
He did it well,
Very well.
Not how I wanted, but how I needed.
And I adored him for it.

He said he loved everything,
Touching my soft belly
as much as my soft curls,
Smiling at my awkward shyness
as much as my graceful wit,
Listening to my self-involved passions
as much as my hours of silence.
He loved being with me,
Just me.

But it wasn't long before something changed.
Bad timing?
Too many flaws?
A twisted game?
I didn't understand, at least not then.
He said he loved me too much.
Then, he pushed me away.

I Hate Myself In Your Eyes

2007-05-09T07:43:00.000-05:00

(This is a re-posting from January 2006. I’ve been trying to write something funny and cute, but I think I’m using all my funny-cuteness trying to survive in the non-blog world.)

Even though I knew it was bound to end badly, a little part of me was flattered and curious. I should have listened to my conscience, but when I heard her story and felt her longing, it broke my heart to think of disappointing her. Against my better judgment, I heard myself cheerfully say, "Yes, I’d love to". The thin lilt in my voice might have seemed transparent to anyone who wasn’t in pain.

She was a victim of a long-term relationship that ended in betrayal. Tossed to the curb, scratching and clawing with a willingness to do anything to be welcomed back home. When she found me, she pretended to be whole. I pretended to believe her as I watched her crawl across the floor in a desperate effort to collect the scattered bits of herself. I should have helped her, but I lacked the courage. I told myself I had something in my eye.

After four dates, she told me that she loved me. I didn’t know what to say, but as I studied her face I saw things that repulsed me. The most honest response I could muster was a smile of genuine pity. I drew her close to me so I didn’t have to see her eyes any more. I hated that her abject loneliness made her say such things when I never gave her anything worth loving.

She accepted scraps from me, all the while desperately dancing around my feet begging for more. I listened to her anguish and accepted her gifts and affection, more from my own guilt than any real interest. The longer it went on, the worse I felt. I became cold and hard toward her vulnerability, a stranger to myself. My emotional withdrawal only increased her efforts to please me.

I was relieved when she said she just wanted to be friends. A stone was lifted and I felt free for the first time in what seemed like forever. In that moment of farewell, she became lovely and beautiful for the first time. She no longer reflected the frail and destitute parts of myself that I despise

Temptation

2007-04-28T12:15:00.000-05:00

There’s a delicious looking cake in the window of the bakery. It's been teasing me for months with its remarkably enticing richness. In fact, I often find my eyes lingering a little too long each time I pass by. And when I do, I almost always notice something new about it, something that makes my mouth water, something that fills me with desire.

However, even if this tantalizing decadence tastes as good as it looks, such seductive sweetness can’t possibly be good for me. Such things are for the young and the foolish. I’ve been both, having indulged my appetite with a few such guilty pleasures before. Likewise, those experiences taught me that no matter how slowly I savor it, my satisfaction will be brief. Ultimately, I’ll be left with an empty carton and regret.

Yet, the more I resist, the more it seeks me out. When it returns my gaze, it seems to want to delight me more than anyone else. When it stands close enough to touch, when it wraps it’s arms around me, when it whispers temptations in my ear … my thoughts blur, my skin warms, and I can barely hold myself steady.

Oh, how I long to surrender.

Song of the Day

2007-04-25T07:42:00.000-05:00

You Can Never Hold Back Spring
You can never hold back spring
You can be sure that I will never
Stop believing
The blushing rose will climb
Spring ahead or fall behind
Winter dreams the same dream
Every time

You can never hold back spring
Even though you've lost your way
The world keeps dreaming of spring

So close your eyes
Open your heart
To one who's dreaming of you
You can never hold back spring
Baby

Remember everything that spring
Can bring
You can never hold back spring

Tom Waits

Women Like Her

2007-04-13T21:33:00.000-05:00

It seemed like everyone was waiting for her to arrive, and when she did, I was eager to remind her that we’d met before.

Her hand was cold. I held it longer than necessary but she didn’t seem to mind. I was happy to get a step up on Bill who awkwardly introduced himself. She said his name and how nice it was to see him again. She obviously remembered him. She remembered me too. I suppose it was too much to hope that I was a little more special that that dipshit.

Unlike her chilled fingers, the warmth of her spirit brought a fire to the room. She laughed effortlessly and I noticed how she touched others with ease the way women like her are welcome to do. I wanted her to touch me, and each time she did, I wanted more. After a while, I took her hand in mine again, just for a moment. She warmed her fingers for a few seconds before I noticed the sadness in her eyes. It was a flash of remembering someone or something that didn’t belong there. She tried to recover with a joke and a spin, but she knew that she’d been caught.

Was her sadness a warning or a challenge?
Perhaps it should have been a warning, but for a guy like me it was both. During the next half-hour she stood next to me but avoided my gaze and barely said a word. I thought I should leave but when I said so, I saw her ask me not to. Just to be sure, I stepped close and rested my hand against her back. When she leaned into me and smiled, I decided a second beer wouldn’t be so bad.

Deja Vous

2007-03-31T22:39:00.000-05:00

"… there isn't a day that passes that I don't think about you. I'm sure you find that hard to believe, but it’s true. We did have something, and given that you never really left my thoughts, one might argue it hasn't gone away.

Basically, what happened is that I got scared. Our last morning together, I had this overwhelming anxiety attack. It was a terrible thing to do to you, but I was afraid. I have no explanation other than that. Afraid of all the implications … afraid of the future … afraid of the past … afraid of what everything we had become meant. I was, and probably still am, an emotional wreck, and I ran away in fear. It's really hard to explain, and I know it sounds weird.

What is really bizarre is that I can still remember the exact moment it happened. We had just gotten up. I still think about the night we spent together leading up to it. We had made love what 4, 5, 6 times that night? We had spent the entire night naked and embraced together. I was dead tired, but it was incredible. You had walked to the bathroom. You were naked. The bathroom light was the only light on in the room. We were talking and you hesitated outside the bathroom door, and I was looking at you admiring your nakedness in the light illuminating your body. You looked almost god-like. It was an incredibly beautiful instant that is still burned in my memory. And suddenly, in the next moment it hit me … an intense feeling of anguish. And it was that moment that I instantly decided to run. Why? I don't know. I just ran because it felt like the thing to do."

~ ~ ~

Maybe some of us are simply meant to be alone.

Dear John

2007-01-28T02:53:00.000-06:00

"Hello, this is Hannah."

After all these years, the sexy purr of her voice still overwhelmed him. He thought about hanging up. What could he possibly give her except more pain?

"Hi, it’s John." He offered gingerly.

"John? Wow ... John ... " Her voice trailed off, then she caught herself and cheerfully added, "It’s good to hear from you."

He smiled. That was just like her to save him from himself. She had every right to make him squirm for all the crap he'd put her through, but she wouldn't; she'd never let him feel bad if she could help it.

Now and again he'd thought about her. Who wouldn't? She was remarkable. However, lately it was more than just an occasional thought. It seemed like he couldn't think of anything else. Every time he found himself sleeping on the couch or escaping to the neighborhood bar, his mind would wander back to perfect moments wrapped up in her arms, private jokes they’d shared, and the way her face lit up when he walked in the room. As he remembered their time together, he wondered if he’d ever been happier. Why had he let her slip away? No ... why had he pushed her away?

"I’ve been thinking about you."

"How are Dawn and the kids?" she asked deliberately.

"They’re fine ... but listen," he took a deep breath and dared to be brave, brave the way he should have been a dozen years ago. "Hannah, I know it may be hard for you to believe, but I still think about you every day. I’ve never stopped loving you." He wanted to say more but she interrupted.

"So you and Dawn are having problems."

"Well, yes but ..."

She tenderly, but matter of factly began, "You feel miserable. You wonder if your marriage is hopeless and you're tired of the same old bullshit. So, you torture yourself by thinking about what might have been. I bet you're on your cell talking to me from a shopping mall parking lot right now. You’d rather sit in the dark imagining a different life than face the reality of your problems at home."

The conversation wasn’t going the way he'd hoped. He whispered, "That’s about right. How did you know?"

"Just a hunch, I guess."

"I’m sorry, Babe. I just thought ..."

She didn’t let him finish, "Go home and kiss your wife, John. You love her. Maybe you and I will talk again sometime, but no more now."

Three weeks later, a small note card arrived in the mail. The address was handwritten and the paper was scented with sandalwood. His hands shook as he opened it.

Dear John,
Our time with those we love is far too brief.
Don’t waste a second with regret. Strive to be happy instead.
You were the greatest Love of my life, Sweetheart.
Forever,
Hannah

The same afternoon, three other men, one in Boston, one in LA, and another in Rochester, Minnesota, received identical notes.

Hannah was buried the following day.
Ovarian cancer.

John realized that she must have been very sick the day he called. He lost control as he whispered aloud, "She'd never let me feel bad if she could help it."

I'm a Fool for You

2007-01-23T08:59:00.000-06:00

I looked good Saturday night. It was probably the shoes: classic black pumps, sleek and slim, with a 4-inch heel. I’d spent a bit more for them, but it’s worth it to feel sexy walking across a room. The rest of my ensemble was just as nice, all black, topped with a double-strand pearl choker and rich-red lipstick.

I’d been at a work party, but it was hot, crowded and miserable, so I ditched out and picked my ex up from work. I felt lonely and I knew if I went home I’d spend the night crying, so I bribed him with beer and he agreed to go downtown with me for a while. The bar was a lot better than my other options, and even though I was over-dressed, I felt relieved to be there.

The guy at the bar looked to be all of about 21 going on fifteen. He and his friend were playing at the dartboard next to ours. I swear, every time I looked over, he was staring at me with his big defenseless brown eyes. He seemed surprised when I smiled and said hello; then he just mumbled and looked really embarrassed. I felt bad for him. I also felt flattered and forgot about my loneliness for a while.

I wanted to tell him that I understood his awkwardness. I wanted to tell him that no one in the universe has ever made a bigger fool of themselves than me. I wanted to tell him that he could have a do-over. But I knew all those things would have made it worse. Instead, I accidentally dropped my darts a few times and let him pick them up for me.

The Day I Found Out I Was Black and Then I Wasn't

2007-01-13T14:11:00.000-06:00

When I was growing up, one of the games my family used to play was an imaginary game where we made up stories about our ancestry. Because my Dad was an orphan, we could change our heritage every day if we wanted to. One day we might be related to the Kennedy’s, and the next we might be Al Capone’s long lost grandchildren. Of course, all of our imaginary relatives were very wealthy and famous, and we were certain that as soon as they discovered our whereabouts they would buy us lots of candy and toys. My Dad was particularly fond of telling us he was from Mars. We didn’t like that so much because Martians don’t have candy and toys.

I remember one specific day in 1974. Dr. King had been gone for six years and the racial upheaval in the city next to ours was also several summers in the past. I was ten, so I didn’t think much about Dr. King or racial tension anyway. From my perspective, it seemed like the rest of the world never really touched our mostly white little college town. Everything upsetting and ugly happened in other places. If we wanted to avoid those things, all we had to do was stay home. We could read about things and people who were different without having to take any risks. On this particular day I was finishing a really cool book that I’d checked out from the Public Library. It was called Kingsblood Royal by Sinclair Lewis.

The novel is about a wounded World War II veteran, Neil Kingsblood. After returning to his hometown, Neil’s entire life changed when he started poking around into his ancestry. His curiosity was peaked when his father told him that the Kingsbloods were descended from English royalty. After Neil’s genealogical research convinced him that the Kingsbloods had no royal ancestors, he decided to explore his mother’s side of the family. While tracing her family history, he came across Xavier Pic, who described himself in a letter as a full-blooded Negro. From this research, Neil realized that he was 1/32 Negro.

When he first learned about his mixed racial ancestry, Neil faced many fears about how this truth would impact his life. He even considered suicide. But when he announced his race, first to some new black friends, then to his family, and finally to everyone in town, Neil began to understand true racial hatred. Friends disappeared, his in-laws disowned him, he and his wife received hate-mail, and he got fired from his job. The developer who sold him his house offered to buy it back, suggesting that if he didn’t take the offer, he might be sued for violating a housing covenant that restricted the residence of undesirables in their development. At the end of the story, a white mob surrounded the house. When the police responded to the riot, they arrested Neil, rather than his attackers.

I was completely mesmerized by this book. I was right there, living inside Neil Kingsblood in 1947. When he first learned of Xavier Pic, I was just as surprised as he was. As he battled with the decision to keep his secret forever, or be proud and true to himself, I was brave with him. I felt the betrayal and the horror of racisim, cried for all of the sacrifices, and struggled against the injustice. However, the most significant information that stuck to my ten-year old brain was that Neil looked white, he had red curly hair, and he had freckles. OH MY GOD!!! He was my Dad’s long-lost identical twin brother!!! What a fantastic discovery I had made.

As soon as I finished the book, I ran downstairs with joy to announce to my family that I had solved the mystery of our ancestry. My parents were having coffee in the kitchen with a neighbor, and my brother and sister were in the next room fighting over which Saturday morning cartoon they were going to watch. I was panting when I entered the kitchen, more from enthusiasm than the flight downstairs. I gave the precious book a squeeze and held it to my chest as I made my announcement.

"Hey, guess what? We’re Black!" I proclaimed with satisfaction.

My mother looked over at me, obviously seeing her blond, blue-eyed child standing in the doorway. She said, "What in God’s name are you talking about?"

I looked to my Dad for help, but by then he was looking down and chuckling a bit. He often did that when I made one of my astonishing announcements.

"Really Mom," I said earnestly "it’s right here in this book. There’s a guy just like Dad except he’s black. So that means we could be black too."

"We are not black." She said emphatically.

"But, why can’t we be black?" I argued. "You don’t know we’re not black. The book says you only need to have 1/32 black blood and then you get to be black."

"I don’t care what that book says. We are not black." She said again, only louder.

I could tell that she was getting angry, but I didn’t know why. This announcement wasn’t going at all the way I’d planned. Why weren’t they excited? Why didn’t they want to know more about it?

As I saw both my parents give the neighbor guy an exasperated look and whisper something to him, I realized that perhaps they didn’t want to be black. I decided that my discovery was a failure. Even if I was right, it wasn’t what they wanted to hear. I let out a heavy sigh and wandered back upstairs.

After that day, the imaginary ancestry game wasn’t fun for me. Every time someone brought it up, my only thought was that Neil Kingsblood was my Dad’s identical twin brother.

Sixteen years later my Dad finally found his birth mother. It turns out we’re 100% Norwegian on his side. There’s even a town in northern Norway with the same name as our last name. I guess the high cheekbones, fair complexion, and red/blond hair are a bit more consistent with Scandinavian than African ancestry. But in my heart, for a few short hours in 1974, I was black.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

At the age of thirty-five, Martin Luther King, Jr., was the youngest man to have received the Nobel Peace Prize. When notified of his selection, he announced that he would turn over the prize money of $54,123 to the furtherance of the civil rights movement.
Martin Luther King, Jr.,
(January 15, 1929-April 4, 1968)

Story originally posted 1/16/2005 (tmk)

Second Sight

2007-01-07T14:22:00.000-06:00

Invisible people tend to take up a lot of space. John was no different. It wasn’t that he demanded a lot of space, it was more because other people gave him a larger girth. Perhaps the effort to not see him required a few extra feet of buffer room.

John seemed accustomed to being invisible. He settled into the couch, drank his beer and watched. I noticed him watching me and wondered if he could tell what I was thinking. Those beautiful eyes seemed to know more than I wanted them to. Surely he could see my discomfort, my questions, my compassion … or was it pity? Even when I told funny stories and he laughed along with the others, I felt uneasy.

I poured another drink for courage and whispered, "The Emperor has no clothes on." Then, I sat on the floor next to a pair of twisted crippled legs. The rest of the night John talked to me with his invisible voice, laughed with me with his invisible laugh, and shared invisible wisdom that I’ll never forget.

Almost as Good as Cunnilingus

2007-01-01T13:20:00.000-06:00

While some of you may be making resolutions to improve yourselves through weight loss or reducing uncomely habits, such as, cursing or daily visits to porn sites, I prefer to use the turning of the calendar to force my will on society as a whole. Some of my past efforts have been more successful than others. For instance, in 2005, my campaign to celebrate cunnilingus was fabulously popular. From what I hear, the influence of my resolve was felt intimately by people across the globe (grateful participants may pay their respects with an anonymous donation to my personal bank account). I don’t have to tell you how thrilled I was every time I learned of the effectiveness of my efforts.

On the other hand, resolutions such as my attempt to revive the popularity of the After-Five Pill-Box hat, the reduction of unnatural shearing of nether-regions (trimming is encouraged), and the immediate outlawing of cell phone use in checkout lines at the grocery store … or any store for that matter, have not been nearly as successful. Nevertheless, my desire to better society with my own personal vision of Utopia is as powerful as ever.

In 2007, my influence will be felt in a rather subtle way. It’s my heartfelt desire to spread a calming wave of nostalgic gentility for the greater good. I shall disseminate the reassuring language of my blessed motherland, IOWA.

Little do you know, in the privacy of our own homes, and even in public when outsiders are scarce, we Iowans continue to speak in a sort of quaint retro-language long lost to the rest of society. This, I believe is the secret to our well-earned reputation as exceptionally friendly folk. Honestly, when people of other sub-cultures remark about how nice I am, I wince a little. By Iowa standards, I’m generally considered to be rude, thoughtless and socially inept. However, as my plan to infiltrate the greater American lexicon with the verbage of yore comes to fruition, we shall ALL become a nicer people … more Iowaegean, if you will. How can that be a bad thing?

I know what you’re thinking …
What the hell is this crazy chik talking about?
Well, first of all, did you forget that I’m your Love Goddess? Surely that gives me some influence, yes? My Love for you is abundant and heartfelt. Now, show me some respect and get on the bus!
Secondly, a more neighborly way to ask your question would be to say,
"Golly gee! What sort of shenanigans is this wacky Theresa up to?"
Well, just settle yourselves down, kids. I’m getting to it.

Let’s take a look at your average American couple from say, ohhh ... New Jersey. And for the sake of elucidation, lets call them, ohhh ... Laura and Dan (fictional, of course).

Dan: Go pull the car around. I want some ice cream.
Laura: Get it your damn self. I’m busy. Hey, who do you think will win Dancing With the Stars this season?
Dan: Who the hell cares? I was just trying to be nice and take you out.
Laura: Okay, I’ll go, but you have to drive.
Dan: Shit yes! I hate the way you drive.
Laura: What are you talking about?
Dan: You tailgate. You know how much I HATE that.
Laura: I do not. You’re a worse driver. You go crazy and think you own the damn road.
Dan: If everyone else learned to drive and got out of my way, I wouldn’t have a problem would I?
Laura: You over-react to everything when you’re behind the wheel.
Dan: Do not.
Laura: Do too.
Dan: Do not.
Laura: Just get the car, Dan.

Unfortunately, conversations like this one are happening all over the country every day. How do I know? Ahem! Haven’t we been over this already? I know this because I’m a Goddess and I have special powers. Jimminy Christmas! Stop your phooey old doubting!

In our new and improved world, rich with the civil language of folks like Jimmy Stewart and the Beav and his kinfolk, Laura and Dan’s conversation will go a little differently.

Dan: How would my favorite little filly like to go for some ice cream?
Laura: Gee whiz Dan, that sounds nifty!
Dan: Do you want to drive, or shall I?
Laura: I’d prefer if you do today, thank you.
Dan: That sounds swell. I sure hope the traffic isn’t too bad. Sometimes I get a little cross with other drivers.
Laura: I hope the traffic is good too. I got a little nervous the last time we were out when that other car was cattywampus across two lanes. You were in quite a tizzy.
Dan: Heaven’s to Betsy, Laura, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll try to be more patient.
Laura: Hot-diggety, you’re super-duper! Does that mean you’ll leave the 9mm Beretta M9 at home?
Dan: Sure, Laura. Anything for you!

See, isn’t that nice?

Lets all be neighborly, shall we?
Atta'boy!
Atta'girl!

Holiday Report

2006-12-26T01:30:00.000-06:00

Parties: Two Alka Seltzer, please. My, my, my, I feel like a fat, bloated idiot. After today, I need a break until Ground Hog’s Day.

Kisses: Did I get my wish for a month of kissing?
Not quite … it was more like a smattering of kisses hither and thither.
Who? When? Where?
Ha! Silly, silly people! You know me better than that. It’s none of your damn business! Hot Chiks don’t kiss and tell.

Biggest Accomplishment: I once again reign as the Balderdash champion! Proof, beyond a doubt that I’m a masterful liar. I sometimes wonder what might have become of me if I’d used my remarkable skills for more profitable, self-serving means rather than simply playing games and telling stories. Imagine how wealthy I would be if I were unscrupulous. Damn my parents for raising me right! Who needs virtue and decency when you have a great car and a bidet?

Practical Survival Tip: If you’re homeless and it’s colder than a witch's tit outside, and the shelter house can’t let you stay with them because you’re drunk off your ass, it’s a good idea to go downtown and raise hell until you get arrested. Spending a night or two in jail is better than dying of hypothermia. The jail is heated and they’ll feed you.

Food: Did I mention that I feel like a fat, bloated idiot? Why do all my friends have to be such good cooks? And why do I have to stick everything they give me in my mouth?
Honestly, I’m so sick of food. I’m actually looking forward to returning to my regular diet of cereal, fruit cocktail and Slimfast. Just hand me a fist-full of Rolaids and roll me into the gym.

Blogger Rendezvous: During the past 2 years, I’ve had the great fortune of meeting several fantastic people from blogland in-person. This month, I was lucky enough to meet TWO blog-world friends. I thought these two friends would be just as wonderful as the others, and indeed, they both exceeded my expectations in their own delightful ways. I wish we could do it again tomorrow.

Strangest Flirtation: Yesterday at church, DURING the service, some guy was checking me out. I was very confused. In fact, I actually did a nipple check to make sure I wasn’t showing through my sweater. Nope. It wasn’t me. Geez! Why couldn't he wait until afterwards and get me a cup of coffee and a donut hole like a semi-normal person? I swear, some of those church boys are real freaks.

Favorite Presents Given: Jesus Bandages. Tom Waits, Orphans.

Favorite Presents Received: My number one Hot Chik at work got me a subscription to Ready Made magazine (check it out if you like to make stuff). MonkeyMan gave me the book I wanted, What is the What. I know it’s emotionally heavy stuff, but I can’t wait to dig into it.

Fashion Question of the Month: How old is too old for knee socks?
Follow-up Question: If I have a skinned knee, is it tacky to wear a Jesus Bandage with a skirt?

New Year's Eve Plans: Stay home and ponder the many exciting possibilities that lie ahead.

A Thousand Beautiful Things

2006-12-13T19:07:00.000-06:00

Annie Lenox released BARE a couple years ago. As soon as I got my hands on it, I listened to it again and again for months on end. This is music I can relate to. Maybe it has something to do with being a woman. But not just that. It’s also about being a woman who has been around the block a few times.

BARE is a collection of extraordinary songs that reflect genuine experience. The lyrics sometimes paint the author as heartbroken, not so much in a romantic way, but in a needy, desperate, hungry way. Other songs expose her transparent bitterness to mask the fear and pain of love. The last track is literally a beseeching prayer asking for help with the mess she’s created in her life.

Oh god
Now where do I come in?
Gone and broken everything
So I hope you'll understand
if someone needed a helping hand
It must be now
It must be now

Not since I was an emotionally volatile teenager listening to the angst-soaked lyrics of typical pop music, have I felt such empathy with music. Lenox shares a wisdom that only comes with hard earned and often painful experience. I know there are a lot of other musicians creating wonderful stuff too. However, this particular album continues to speak to me. I listened again the other day and found myself moved to tears before the end of the first track. It’s my favorite because it speaks a frequent prayer of my own.

Every day I write the list
Of reasons why I still believe they do exist
~ a thousand beautiful things ~
And even though it's hard to see
The glass is full and not half empty
~ a thousand beautiful things ~
So... light me up like the sun
To cool down with your rain
I never want to close my eyes again
Never close my eyes
Never close my eyes

I thank you for the air to breathe
The heart to beat
The eyes to see again
~ a thousand beautiful things ~
And all the things that's been and done
The battle's won
The good and bad in everyone
~ this is mine to remember ~
So ...
Here I go again
Singin' by your window
Pickin' up the pieces of what's left to find

The world was meant for you and me
To figure out our destiny
~ a thousand beautiful things ~
To live
To die
To breathe
To sleep
To try to make your life complete
~ yes, yes ~
So ...
Light me up like the sun
To cool down with your rain
I never want to close my eyes again
Never close my eyes never close my eyes ...
That is everything I have to say
~ that's all I have to say ~

Blogging about Blogging

2006-12-11T22:18:00.000-06:00

One of the benefits of making friends in blog-space is how limitless it seems. This strange and wonderful little place allows us to meet people from all over the world. Likewise, from those thousands and thousands of global blog-inhabitants, we can choose very carefully the kind of people we care to spend our time with. It's different than making friends within our finite neighborhoods or small group of co-workers. Here, we're able to choose the most fitting friends rather than fit ourselves to those around us.

Additionally, in the blogosphere we can be who we want to be. In fact, we can even dare to be our true and genuine selves. And as we do so, we’re also free to respond to others. Or maybe we just watch and listen; we can even stare without seeming rude.

This way of meeting can also remove some of the superficial judgments we make about one another. It's true that some of us post photos, but anyone knows that a snapshot or two can't really show how someone appears in everyday life. In the end, those who read our thoughts are forced to judge us primarily by what we say rather than the style of our hair, the sound of our voice, the street we live on, or the balance in our bank account.

Email/Blog friendships also remind me of the way people used to communicate decades ago before telephones and affordable speedy transportation. Folks would write letters to one another. In fact, when I was little, my Grandmother made me practice penmanship while she lectured about the importance of good letter writing skills. She assured me that it would have an impact on my future social and business relationships. Back in the day, people would even court one another through written correspondence. Sometimes a couple wouldn't even meet until the wedding had been planned. So why does it surprise us when we develop remarkable fulfilling friendships, and even, every so often, fall in love in blogland?

I've made some phenomenal friends during my 2+ years in this space. You've added to the richness and beauty of my life. Thank you.

"The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart."
Helen Keller

Where are All the Good Men?

2006-12-10T14:42:00.000-06:00

Fuck Her Gently

This is a song
for the ladies
but fellas... listen closely

You don't have to fuck her hard
in fact sometimes that's not right to do..
Sometimes u got to make some love
and fuckin give her some smooches too..
Sometimes you got to squeeze..
Sometimes you got to say "Please"..
Sometimes you gotta say "Hey,"
"I'm gonna fuck you.. softly"
"I'm gonna screw you gently"
"I'm gonna hump you sweetly"
"I'm gonna ball you discreetly"
and then you say "Hey, I brought you flowers"
and then you say "Wait a minute Sally,"
"I think I got sometin' in my teeth could you get it out for me?"
That's fuckin' teamwork!
What's your favorite posish?
That's cool with me, It's not my favorite but I'll do it for you.
What's your favorite dish?
I'm not gonna cook it but I'll order it from ZANZIBAR!
And then I'm gonna love you completely
Then I'll fucking fuck you discreetly
and then I'll fuckin bone you completely
but then I'm gonna fuck... you hard.....
Hard........

Tenacious D

6weird6

2006-12-07T11:31:00.000-06:00

Our adorable Queen of Geeks, hott little brainiac friend, Spin-Doc, tagged me with the recent meme virus: 6 weird things about me.

Thinking of weird things is difficult. My own personal assessment is that I’m fairly ordinary. Thankfully, other people tend to be open about their feedback with me. I’ve decided to list a few things that have garnered reactions like, "Oh my god! Are you kidding?"

I didn’t shave my legs from 1996 to 2004. Why? Because during those years, I was going to grad school, working full time, and during much of that period, had anywhere between two and four lovers. I was BUSY!!! I didn’t have time to bother with stubble. I decided that nice soft leg hair was a kinder option.
During the last few years I've simplified my life. I wake up in the morning around 6am but I don’t have to be to my office until 10am. I live 0.8 miles from work. I’m rarely early and I’m late at least once a week. What do I do with all that time? You know … ummm ... stuff, I guess.
I own my home. My car is paid off. I have a house full of things. Yet, in all these years, with all my abundant resources, I STILL haven’t managed to get myself a couch. Wanna come over to watch movies this weekend? … as long you don’t mind sitting on the floor … okay, okay, stop whining. Since you’re the guest, you can sit in the chair.
Over-the-counter sleep meds make me hyper. Coffee helps me focus. Damn freaks with ADHD!
When I was in elementary school, I was the dumb kid. I wasn’t very cute either. I learned to make people laugh in order to avoid becoming a social pariah. One of the things I did was an interpretation of a Lithuanian Troll. I can still do it. It’s weird, but you’d laugh, maybe more so now.
I’m a fantastic cook, but I NEVER cook for myself … NEVER. When it’s just me, dinner is generally a can of fruit cocktail or a bowl of soup. However, if I’m cooking for anyone else, I go crazy in the kitchen.

I’m not tagging anyone because I’m late. It’s my day off but I’m supposed to be leaving town to visit a friend who is really depressed and needs someone to make her laugh. I still need to pack, pick up groceries to make dinner tonight, and shave my legs. If I get there in time, we’re going to Crate and Barrel to shop for a couch.

Need more coffee!!!

All I Want For Christmas

2006-12-02T23:14:00.000-06:00

It’s Christmastime and my lips are feeling festively impetuous. I want to spend the next month kissing someone nonstop. I’m not sure if it’s my earnest love of kissing or my persistent desire for a particular person that’s causing my smoochy holiday restlessness. Regardless, it would be nice to get some face-mashing action sometime soon. If it doesn't happen, I may start wearing a hat made of mistletoe.

I’m fairly certain that kissing is my very favorite thing in the world to do. After all, what can compare to excited mouths joined in a rhythmic reciprocity creating the most delicious sensations? And with so many kinds of kisses, one could kiss for a very long time without it becoming the least bit tiresome or dull.

How about a kiss sweet with trepidation, with warm shallow breaths escaping between a delicate trembling brush of buttery softness?

Or maybe furiously eager appetites creating devouring kisses rich with fervent passion. Don't hold back! Sometimes you really SHOULD get carried away.

Perhaps you bathe a lover’s body in hundreds of tender kisses, your lips caressing, exploring, and memorizing every inch of succulent skin. I'm always torn. Is it better to give or to receive?

And then there are those extraordinary heart-stopping kisses. I'm thinking of the intense, soulful kisses that transcend familiar language. We could speak the words I love …, I adore … , I desire … I need YOU, but the perfect kiss says it so much better. These are the kisses we keep in our heart. We sigh longingly when we recall them days, weeks, or even years later.

Yes, after mulling it over a bit, I think I’d like to kiss my way through the holidays this year. I actually own the hat in the picture at the top of this post. The only problem is that I think it might be a bit subtle for my ardent purposes.
What do you think?

Thank You

2006-11-12T13:08:00.000-06:00

I’m not sure if anyone has noticed, but I tend to be rather ungrateful sometimes. Instead of thinking about all the things that I have, I think about all the things that I want. I fret and worry about not having what I'll need in the future instead of cherishing the things that are present in my life right now.

The reality is that I’m blessed beyond measure. In fact, when I think about it too much, it feels overwhelming. Not only do I have everything I need, I have excess. I have more wealth than most people in the world. I'm physically able to do more than I'll ever attempt. I have more opportunities than I'll ever choose in a million lifetimes. And, the Universe sends me love even when I feel completely unworthy.

… and yet it seems that I’m always demanding more.

Today I’ll pause to feel gratitude for all that I have. I’ll be thankful for my fortune, health, freedom, and friends. The abundance of these gifts seems endless.

Beauty Queen

2006-10-21T00:44:00.000-05:00

Just look at that One
How she swings those sexy hips
Flips her luscious hair
Flashes that beauty queen smile
She barely notices your scorn
It’s nothing to her
Nothing compared to the beatings
When she failed to win every time
Wasn't the prettiest of all
She was just a little girl

Just listen to that One
How she tells her tall tales
Sucks up to the boss
Flirts with all the boys
She barely notices your sneers
It’s nothing to her
Nothing compared to the loneliness
A desperation to be seen
Childhood falling on deaf ears
Just an object used 'til broken

Just being around that One
Makes you wish she’d grow up
Stop pretending to be perfect
Sit down and shut up
She barely notices your malice
It’s nothing to her
Nothing compared to the fear
A drunk boyfriend in the bars
Those other women in his wallet
Missing her period these last three months

We Are Powerful

2006-10-15T14:13:00.000-05:00

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, "Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?" Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't ever serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We were born to manifest the glory of God that is within us... And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

~ Nelson Mandela

While You Were Out

2006-10-10T21:38:00.000-05:00

We must have only missed each other by a few hours.
While you were landing in Sioux City, I was climbing into a limo at JFK.
While you were searching for your luggage at carousel #3, I was stepping onto the sidewalk in front of your house.
While you were squealing with old college pals, I was holding him in the doorway.
While you were calling home to tell him you’d arrived safely, I was tasting his eager kisses.

Were those your stray hairs on his sweater? They were same color as mine, but longer and straighter. They must have been yours.

I hope you realize that this wasn’t personal.

The house was exactly as I imagined it would be. He said you did most of the decorating and remodeling yourselves. I could tell you put a lot of hard work and love into the effort. It’s a home you should be proud of. It’s a home I had no right to set foot in.

Two dogs and a cat? I thought he hated cats. Isn’t he allergic or something? I suppose things like that can change after 15 years. People can make some pretty big compromises when they’re in love, when the stakes are high enough. God knows I did.

The scent of your perfume still lingered on the pillows. I recognized it, but couldn’t remember the name. It was the same perfume I gave my sister last Christmas. You’d think he’d have at least changed the linens before I arrived. I told him to do it before you returned. I didn't trust him, so I just did it myself.

I sat alone in the bathroom for a while afterwards. There’s something wrong with the lights in there. My reflection seemed warped and strange. I looked different. I felt different. Perhaps you left a bit of yourself behind the glass. Perhaps that’s what happens after an investment of twelve years. This wasn’t anything like I expected it would be. I don’t understand how he can seem so happy about what we did.

Oh, don’t ask me why. Ask him. This wasn’t about you and I. Hell, I don’t know you. I don’t feel anything for you; at least I never did before now.

I wonder if he thought about any of this before he invited me,
The first time
The second time
The tenth time
The final time, when I finally said yes and the plane tickets showed up in the Fed-Ex envelope the next day.
I wonder if it was worth it to him.

We must have only missed each other by a few hours.
While you returned to a dozen roses, I returned to the searing emptiness of my one-bedroom apartment.
While he lied about how much he missed you, I stared into a mirror that reflected the truth of who I’d become.
While you noticed the coffee cups had been stacked open-side-up instead of open-side-down, I scrubbed the stench of sin from my body.
While you opened the letter I’d tucked inside your pillowcase, I packed the last of my things in my car.

I have no idea where I’m going. All I know is that I can’t stay here.

(Note: this is fiction. I didn't really run away from home)

Vacation Report

2006-10-09T20:57:00.000-05:00

1076 miles in the car … time flies with good tunes and a good friend.

There was something about the water in Illinois and Ohio that made my hair look and feel better than usual. Other people seemed to notice too. Over the course of 5 days, I think about 127 people told me that I have great hair. There was also one person who couldn’t seem to think of anything else to say to me, so he just told me that I had great hair 127 times in a row … … actually, that was kinda creepy. In fact, my friend told me that if it happened again she wouldn’t go anywhere with me unless I shave my head.

I had my first professional pedicure, and as predicted, I’m hooked. I’m going to have to get a part-time job to pay for this new guilty pleasure. It’s too wonderful to live without. And, my feet look and feel so yummy!

I ate more in 5 days than I’ve eaten in a month. Ugh! It was all great, but I’m not even stepping on the scale for at least a week.

Naps are good.

So are hot tubs.

So are Lemon Drop Martinis.

I need to accept the fact that I just shouldn’t go to bars. When is the last time you met an intelligent or amusing person in a bar? I’ve met ONE truly phenomenal person in a bar, and maybe half a dozen mildly interesting people along the way. The rest have almost always been people that I’ve wanted to escape from about 5 minutes into the conversation. No amount of alcohol can improve this situation.

My girl told me that in general I need to get better at getting rid of people that annoy me in social situations. She says that I worry too much about hurting other people’s feelings. I need to stop doing that and learn how to make a get-a-way when clingy people attach themselves to me. I listened to her tell me about this for about half an hour while driving back from Ohio. I found it a bit ironic the next day when she found herself in a lengthy conversation with a gentleman that seemed quite attached to her. Part of the conversation went something like this:
Gfriend – So, what are you doing in Illinois?
Man – I moved here from Arkansas to help my sister?
Gfriend – Oh.
Man – Yeah, she had a bad forklift accident at work and she needs a lot of help.
Gfriend – That sounds terrible. What happened?
Man – Yeah. She’s in awful shape. It crushed her leg. She’ll never walk again.
Gfriend – (thinking about rehab and prosthetics) Is the situation hopeless? What about her other leg? Is that okay?
Man – Yeah, her other leg is fine, but HOPPIN’ AIN’T WALKIN’!
Gfriend - . . . ummm.
Man – (looking over P's shoulder) Hey! Hey! Hey! What’s your name again? Theresa? You got REALLY, REALLY pretty hair, Theresa! Really pretty hair!

Be Back Soon

2006-10-01T17:48:00.000-05:00

I’m going away this week. A friend offered me a chance to tag along with her on a business trip. I get to hang out at a swanky hotel and explore the local surroundings while she’s at meetings during the day. In the evenings, I can meet up with her at the parties. My girl’s company is paying for everything except my food, booze and pedicures so the price is right.

Maybe this is the break I need to get my Hot Bloggy Chik groove back. I’ll try to catch up with everyone when I return.

Much Love!!!

Lost

2006-09-23T15:53:00.000-05:00

I lost my pocketbook. It had my driver’s license, a couple credit cards, some photos and five dollars in it. It was mostly an inconvenience to replace everything. A couple months later it showed up in my mailbox. Everything was still there, including the five dollars.

I lost my way. I was new to town, alone, driving a borrowed car in the city at night. Somehow I ended up near 63rd and Halstead. I was afraid. Eventually, I found Ogden and followed it all the way out to the western suburbs and back to campus.

I lost a bet. Ordinarily I’m patient. I wait for the right cards and I know to cut my losses when I’m beat. However, it only takes one hand to ruin everything. I became over-confident with two pair on the flop and a king-high flush on the turn. I should have known the other guy had a boat on the river. It wasn’t bad luck. I was stupid.

I lost my temper. The words I said were harsh and hurtful. They spilled from my mouth like putrid liquid. I regretted them immediately. You can’t take things like that back. All you can do is say you’re sorry. The shame still torments me. He forgave me, but things still aren’t right because I can’t forgive myself.

I lost my nerve. I hesitated when I should have been righteous and bold. I should have stepped in. Someone needed to fight for justice. I told myself someone else would do it. I told myself I couldn’t make a difference. I told myself I’d done enough. I was too busy. I was too tired. Tell that to the people I might have helped.

I lost my innocence. It didn’t happen all at once. The hard truths of the world are revealed through a thousand experiences, some easy and natural, others sharp, destructive and painful. Still, there’s a place in my soul that remains constant and pure. Somehow, it has always survived. It’s the place I go to nurture myself when I’m wounded and afraid. It’s the place that makes me strong again.

I lost a love, and with it, a dream.
It hurt like hell,
Yes, like fucking hell.
But at least I tried.

Just Wondering

2006-09-11T21:08:00.000-05:00

Have you ever been afraid to want something too much?
To allow yourself to hope for what you've always wanted?
To dare to let go of your doubts for a while and think you deserved it?
To be brave enough to open your heart with no guarantee of return?

Scary stuff, huh?

Sorry I haven't been around much. I have a computer-related shoulder injury. No kidding. It hurts a lot (yes, I'm a big baby). I've decided to blame the person who invented ergonomics.

How to Get Laid

2006-09-04T10:02:00.000-05:00

A few of my friends are deeply concerned about the fact that I haven’t been laid in quite a while. I might be concerned too, if all I wanted was sex. Getting laid is easy. I can give you step-by-step, fool-proof instructions on targeting and snaring a one-night-stand from a bar/party/public library, etc. full of men. You simply assess other people’s strengths and weaknesses, use your own strengths to get the desired interest, and negotiate an agreeable arrangement … while batting your eyelashes and pouting seductively (a pair of snug jeans, high heels, and a low cut sweater don’t hurt either). It also helps that I’m a woman, I live in a college town, and according to Good Morning America, MILFs are all the rage these days. It’s sweet of my friends to care about my well-being, but they’re concerned about all the wrong things.

What is it they say? Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results. Or is that stupidity? It doesn’t matter. If what I really want is a caring, intimate relationship, I’m not going to get it from someone that thinks my best quality is the shape of my ass. And, it’s going to take a little more work on my part than getting dolled up and hitting the town. I’m going to need to invest myself, genuinely give a shit about another person, and take some emotional risks.

I probably won’t get laid tonight, or even next week. Believe it or not, that makes me happy. It’s a comfort to know that I’m not just going through the motions. I’m not holding my breath to prove I have will-power. It’s what I want to do because it feels honest.

So if you miss the Hot Chik from a year ago that blogged about the joys of sex, and posted public service announcements from her vagina, there are plenty of other great bloggers doing a fine job covering those topics. I think I’m on a journey of Love. I guess I always have been.

Queen of the Parade

2006-08-30T21:22:00.000-05:00

First Tatter
She hated his rough kisses. He pressed so hard that her lips pinched against her teeth. The inside of her mouth would bleed and bruise. He never relented, even when she winced and pulled away. Eventually he'd move to another part of her body where his harsh, awkward methods didn’t bother her so much.

Second Tatter
Like a mannequin or a Barbie-doll, he moved her arms, legs, head and torso exactly where he wanted them to be. If she made personal adjustments, he moved her back again. Neither of them spoke of this. There was nothing to say. It was how he proved that her body belonged to him. She accepted this because he never hurt her and it felt good when he went down on her.

Third Tatter
She wore extra perfume because the smell of him repulsed her. He said it was because of an allergy or something. Lord knows he took enough showers. Still, the stench was there. When they fucked, she fantasized that she was a prostitute. The idea of getting paid to fuck someone who smelled like that made more sense to her than doing it voluntarily. She couldn't figure out why she kept going back. It had something to do with thinking he was a nice guy.

Fourth Tatter
He said she was special. He said she was beautiful. He said he loved her. She would have done almost anything he asked. And she did. They did all the filthy, dirty, kinky things that his wife wouldn’t do with him. But when the novelty wore off, she wasn’t special, beautiful and loveable anymore.

Fifth Tatter
He ignored her when she cried out. He didn’t seem to hear her when she asked him to stop. As soon as the bedroom door slammed shut, he did what he wanted. His blank eyes stared through hers as his heavy body held her down. She told herself they were making love. When he was done, maybe he’d act like he cared about her again.

The Queen of Second Best
Self-coronated with thorny deprivation
Tattered confetti, sacrificed out-of-hand
Discarded underfoot at the end of the festivities
Nothing more than dirty stains on pavement
The Queen of this Parade is nothing more

All Better

2006-08-08T07:38:00.000-05:00

A nice chat with a kind & loyal friend can change your whole outlook.

Hey, want to go for a walk?

Pouting

2006-08-06T22:06:00.000-05:00

I can’t believe I'm doing this.
*sigh*
… and so very preventable.
I hope I don’t have to escalate to sulking, brooding and moping.

The Greatest Gift is YOU!

2006-07-23T18:35:00.000-05:00

A couple years ago, a woman named Felicia lived across the driveway from me. She was an older, sixty-something gal. Not a lot of people in the neighborhood liked Felicia because she tended to be crotchety. She didn’t like any of the neighbors either. Actually, as far as I could tell, she didn’t like anyone. Wait. That’s not true. Felicia liked children, and she liked me. I liked her too. We’d hang out together between the driveways and talk about our gardens, politics and her volunteer activities. One day Felicia waved me over to ask me a question. She said, "What do you think of Tomato-Red?"

I nodded quizzically, "Sure?"

"For my house. I’m thinking about painting my house Tomato-Red. My son thinks it’s too bright, but I think it would be cheerful and add some flair to the neighborhood." As she said the word flair she dramatically flipped her hair and waved a hand in the air.

With a wide grin of approval, I agreed. "You have fantastic taste, Felicia. What could your son possibly know about flair?"

"I knew you’d understand, but I thought I should ask you anyway since you live right next door. I don’t care if anyone else around here likes it or not, but I wanted your approval beforehand." Felicia was thoughtful that way.

Later that week I realized that Felicia probably didn’t have the money to buy paint and hire painters. She was on a limited income, and any extra money was usually donated to charity. She was also disabled and wouldn’t be able to do any of the painting herself. However, I just couldn’t shake the image of her delighted face as she talked about her Tomato-Red house. I decided to organize a painting party the following spring.

Spring came and I found myself horribly busy getting ready for a friend’s wedding. I didn’t have a minute to myself, but I vowed that as soon as it was over, I’d get Felicia’s house painted. It would be a fabulous surprise. I’d already talked with half a dozen friends. Even my Dad was willing to come down for a weekend to help. If everyone pitched in ten or twenty bucks and we spent 2 days working on it, Felicia would have a gorgeous Tomato-Red house. It was a good plan. I just needed a little more time. Just more time.

The day after the wedding, I got the sad news. I was having breakfast with my parents in the Raleigh-Marriott restaurant when my roommate called to tell me that Felicia had died. I knew she’d been sick, but I didn’t realize it was so serious. No one did.

Felicia’s house was sold a month later. The new owners put tan siding on it, almost exactly the color of my house. It’s horribly ugly. I frequently have to fight the urge to sneak over in the middle of the night and paint it Tomato-Red.

>>>>>>>>>>>

Have you ever wished you hadn’t waited to show your love? Have you ever wanted another chance? Have you ever let complications, distractions or doubt, keep you from doing what’s in your heart?

>>>>>>>>>>>

My blog-mate, fellow Hot Chik, and dearest friend, Lu is having a really tough time these days. As some of you know, she suffers from severe Bi-Polar Disorder. Her symptoms are debilitating and extremely painful. Pharmaceutical treatments that typically help other people don’t work well for her. Currently, she’s undergoing a change in medications, and while that’s happening, her symptoms are worse than usual. As someone who loves her, it’s hard to see her suffering.

Earlier today, Lu asked me to spend some time with her. Thankfully, she asked for help. Sometimes I ask her for help too. It’s nice that we can do that for each other.

While we were talking, Lu told me that it’s really hard for her to live in her house while she’s experiencing such severe Depression. Her house is currently very disorganized, cluttered and in need of a thorough cleaning. It’s definitely not something a woman with severe Depression can tackle.

It took a while, but I finally managed to convince Lu that it’s okay to ask her friends to help her. People who love her will be glad to help. If they know that a few hours of washing dishes, vacuuming, and sorting & organizing will make her life easier for a while, wild horses won’t be able to stop them. This is how it is when people love each other.

A clean house isn’t going to cure Lu’s Bi-Polar Disorder. However, if it eases her suffering enough that she doesn’t have to go to the hospital, we will essentially be giving her the gift of freedom. That’s a pretty amazing thing. In fact, it’s almost as if Lu is giving us a gift. Finally, after all this time of watching her struggle with this horrible illness, there’s something we can do to help. Not only that, but if I have anything to do with it, it’s going to be a hell of a fun party! Anyone who doesn’t show up is going to be sorry they missed it.

>>>>>>>>>>>

Have you ever been in a situation where someone you love was sick or hurt and you didn’t know what to do to help? Have you ever watched helplessly while someone you care for suffered? Have you ever felt powerless because you couldn’t think of a way to make it better?

>>>>>>>>>>>

The Keep Lu Out of the Loonie Bin Party is Saturday July 29th. All our friends are welcome to attend. If you’re our friend and want to attend, call or write to me as soon as possible.
(Space may be limited.)

Success

2006-07-22T01:23:00.000-05:00

To laugh often and much;
To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children;
To earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends;
To appreciate beauty, to find the best in others;
To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition;
To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived.
This is to have succeeded.

--- Ralph Waldo Emerson

I'm Melting

2006-07-17T20:45:00.000-05:00

It's too hot to do anything. Sweating takes all my energy. See you in a couple weeks.

Desire

2006-07-13T20:38:00.000-05:00

He: I can make you do what I want.
She: No you can’t.
He: Even better, I can make you WANT to do what I want.
She: No you can’t.
He: Lick your lips.
She: What?
He: Lick your lips.
She: No.
He: You want to lick your lips, don’t you?
She: NO!
He: Baby, I really think you’ll feel better once you lick your lips.
She: No, I’m sure my lips are fine.
He: Actually, your lips look a little dry and ashy.
She: I don’t care.
He: Watch me. Doesn’t this look nice when I lick MY lips? Mmmm, very moist.
She: You’re mad.
He: Go ahead. Lick your lips. You want to.
She: No, I don’t.
He: I won’t think any less of you. Lick your lips.
She: Stop it.
He: You want to.
She: No, I don’t.
He: If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me.
She: No.
He: Lick your lips.
She: No, no, NO!!!
He: You are soooo close. Come on. It'll be very satisfying. Do it.
She: Give it up. I’m not going to.
He: You might not do it, but admit it, you want to lick them.
She: Don’t you have something better to do?
He: No. This is the most important thing in the world.
She: You’re twisted.
He: I can’t stop watching your lips. Lick them.
She: Go away.
He: By now, you must want it more than I do.
She: No, I’m not insane.
He: Lick your lips.
She: No.
He: Lick your lips.
She: Damn it. Do you know where my lip-balm is?
He: Yes
She: Where?
He: In my front pocket.
..........., lick 'em.

Five-Five MeMe

2006-07-12T11:40:00.000-05:00

Tagged by the clever and alluring Spin-Doc

In my purse/wallet:
Tape measure
Personal alarm
Cork screw
Paddle-lock
Condom (lord knows why)

In my refrigerator:
Soy Juice
Fat-free Reddi-Wip
Eggs
Yogurt
Red peppers

In my closet:
Clothes
Purses
Shoes
A sleeping cat (sometimes)
Cedar blocks

In my car:
Jumper cables
Umbrella
Three sets of headphones
Gym shoes
Lots of dog hair

Tagging:
Laurie
Dick
Steve
Andy
Ron

The Scheherazade Project: Theme for 7/3-7/16

2006-07-10T22:21:00.000-05:00

The Scheherazade Project: Theme for 7/3-7/16
My submission for this week's theme, "Don't fear the big blue monkey", is Heartbreak on the High Seas.
If you're interested in participating in this stimulating group writing activity, follow the link above.

Heartbreak on the High Seas

2006-07-10T08:48:00.000-05:00

Back in the day, long before I discovered my calling as The Love Goddess, I found myself working as a lowly tavern wench in a spirited establishment down near the docks. The Hairy Lemon was a colorful place where I met all sorts of folk, but none stood out quite as brightly as my dear, Leslie. Of course, being a dread pirate, Leslie preferred to be called, Spike. It was only later, in our private moments that I was allowed to drop public formalities and call him by his given name.

The first night we met, Leslie offered me the world. He told me of his love of the sea; he introduced me to his ship and his parrot, Milo; and he showed me his extra special private collection of gold doubloons. However, more than anything else, I think it was Leslie’s unique style that caught my eye. The man could wear a pair of pantaloons like nobody’s business.

The very next day, I impulsively followed my heart and set sail with Leslie, Milo and the rest of the crew. My old life as a wench was over, and I was off with my new Love to find our fortunes as dread pirates.

I was surprised by how easily I took to the sea. Perhaps, I was blinded by passion. The thievery, burning, pillaging and senseless destruction by Leslie and the rest of the crew didn’t bother me a bit. After a while, I even got wrapped up in it myself. When I saw all the booty, I found myself getting just as excited as everyone else. It was almost as if I belonged there; as if I was destined to be with Leslie on the high seas.

Life as a dread pirate seemed perfect except for one thing. My dear, Leslie had a dark affliction. He was obsessed with finding and owning a most peculiar object; something so rare and mysterious that many pirates suspected it was a myth. Even though the thing was said to be hideous, Leslie was hell-bent on finding it. He wanted the infamous, Blue Monkey statue.

It wasn’t as if Leslie needed the money. His greed and daring had earned him all the gold and riches he would ever need. The real reason he wanted the blue ape was because no one else had been able to find it. He wanted to do something that no other pirate could do. He wanted to make a name for himself. He wanted to be, like the blue monkey itself, bigger than life.

Leslie’s obsession took over the entire life of the ship. There were times that nothing else seemed to matter to him. Neither Milo nor I could distract him or ease his angst. No amount of gold, gems, cash, or DVD players could quell his lust for the monkey. Even capturing and torturing innocent victims didn’t amuse him for long. Once Leslie was in a monkey-mood, we all suffered from his blue streak.

After a while, I began to forget why I fell in love with Leslie. It seemed that all the passion he had for the sea, his ship, pirating and me, had been swallowed up by his crazed fascination with the mythical azure idol. The sad realization that our romance was over came to me the day Leslie walked past me wearing a particularly sassy pair of pantaloons and I didn’t feel my familiar little tingle. That was the moment I knew it was time to find land again.

The last I saw of Leslie was when he left me in a fit of rage on the island of Moroni. He said the only reason he wasn’t making me walk the plank was because I polished his doubloons better than any other wench he’d ever known. I suppose I should have been grateful, but I still resent him for the 6 months I lived on breadfruit and berries. Between you and me, I hope the scurvy bastard never finds his stupid monkey.

... and I Want it Now!

2006-07-08T18:31:00.000-05:00

I want a fabulous wardrobe
I want world peace
I want more patience
I want tight abs
I want a good night’s sleep
I want a clean house
I want more love
I want less hate
I want a new couch
I want everyone to smell nice
I want to curse less
I want a foot massage
I want to speak Spanish fluently
I want a lightning quick wit
I want more play-time
I want a great glass of wine
I want to forgive myself
I want perfect pitch
I want to feel remarkable
I want a great haircut
I want to believe everything is going to be okay
I want …

The All-American Delicacy

2006-07-01T18:25:00.000-05:00

Ah! Strawberry season is upon us. Is there any tastier coupling than a simple ripe juicy strawberry dipped in dark creamy chocolate?

Every strawberry lover knows where to go to get the best berries of the season. She will don her summer hat, tote a bucket to the field, and pick them herself. She’ll be very selective. Despite the sweat collecting on her brow and between her breasts, she’ll take her time to choose carefully. If she does well, her patience will yield a bucket of ripe, red, firm, well-shaped beauties.

The most challenging part might be the trip home. We have to resist the temptation to taste prematurely. It may be difficult, but when our delicious dipped fruit is laid before us, we’ll be very pleased with our self-discipline.

The cleansing step is the first part of the preparation. Use cool running water and be very gentle when washing the berries. I like to keep the stems and leaves on so I have something to hold onto, however, a little chocolate on the fingers probably won't hurt too much. Once the berries are washed, lay them on a towel to dry. If you roll or pat them, be extra careful. You don't want to bruise their tender flesh.

Next, is the chocolate step. Always use GOOD chocolate! I prefer dark chocolate on strawberries, and I don’t mind investing a little bit more, even if it means I skip lunch one day next week. It’s totally worth it.

When warming the chocolate, use a double boiler on low heat. This sweet confection likes to melt very very slowly. If it gets too hot too fast, it will be ruined. If you ruin GOOD chocolate, you will be sent to your room without supper!!! (and you may even get a sound spanking, but not the GOOD kind)

*Sigh*

Now, the very best part … (I like to do this step by candlelight with a glass of champagne)
Once the berries are dry and the chocolate is smooth and melty, line a tray with wax paper and prepare to be delighted.

At this point, I look at all the strawberries and choose my very favorite. It may not be the ripest, firmest, biggest, or best shaped berry. It just needs to appeal to me in some way. Once I make my selection, I remove the chocolate from the stove and position it for best accessibility. Then, I stand directly over the chocolate and slowly dip my berry in.

I absolutely love to watch as the tip of the strawberry first penetrates the warm creamy chocolate. Once it’s almost completely immersed, I pull it out again. Then, I dip it another time or two so more chocolate gets on my fruit. Once I’m satisfied, I cup my other hand under my perfectly drenched strawberry, and bring it to my lips. The combination of the warm chocolate and the cool strawberry are heavenly. It’s tempting to suck the chocolate off the strawberry and have another dip, but when I bite into it and the berry juice mixes with the chocolate, I can barely contain my delight. Inevitably, my ooo’s and ahhh’s cause some to dribble out the side of my mouth and down my neck. It’s a good thing I always do my strawberry dipping naked, or all my summer clothes would be stained.

** (I almost didn't post this. People might think there will be left-overs to share.) **

Happy Independence Day

The Scheherazade Project: Theme for 6/19-7/3/2006

2006-06-29T20:57:00.000-05:00

The Scheherazade Project: Theme for 6/19-7/3/2006
If interested in participating in this stimulating little writing exercise, follow this link. My submission is the post titled "Emptiness" below.

Emptiness

2006-06-29T20:53:00.000-05:00

3:07 a.m.
Ripped out of bed by the caustic blare of a pager. The dull voice from the answering service told me the cops would be there too. Ten minutes to mentally prepare. Ten minutes to drive to the ER. Damn. Just open a vein.

It was simple to spot her when I glanced in the waiting room. She was noticeable because she didn’t want to be. Amongst the screaming babies and broken noses, she picked at her nails absently, trying to pretend nothing was wrong. I’d never seen her face before, but I knew her well. She’d been drained. Eviscerated. I felt the vacuum tug at my middle. Wouldn't it be easier to open a vein?

I nodded toward the officer as I sat down next to her. He knew to leave us alone and let me do my job. Right now, she needed someone who didn’t care about anything else but her. I told her who I was and what I would do for her. I told her what she was feeling and why.
I told her it wasn’t her fault.
It wasn’t her fault.
Not. Her. Fault.
Fucking sick empty feeling. Christ, just open a fucking vein.

Her used and exhausted body followed me to the exam room. While we waited for the doctor, I explained what would happen. Her eyes were far away but she seemed to understand. Now, her body was a crime scene and she was a witness. More shame and humiliation lay ahead. More would be taken from her.

There it was, pulling my insides again; wanting to take it all back, make it not so, undo the damage, save her, save just one.
Fuck.
Could I ever bleed enough?

No blood or guts or miracles.
When they put her feet in the stirrups, she reached for my hand instead.

We Got Our Dick Back!

2006-06-29T00:34:00.000-05:00

Hooray!
Here at 2 Hot Chiks, we make it no secret that we love Dick. Go see his new blog here.

The Fine Art of Avoiding Success

2006-06-27T11:31:00.000-05:00

** (time-out for a report from the real world) **

Yesterday, my company Division Director was patrolling my podville neighborhood (Hot Chiks, South). As usual, he couldn’t pass by without flipping me some shit. At the time, I was sitting extra close to my monitor because I forgot to wear my reading glasses (which were conveniently located on top of the monitor). My proximity to the screen gave him an excuse to jokingly accuse me of sleeping.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I should have to put up with that kind of crap. Mr. Smarty-Pants Big-Shot received the following memo from me earlier today.

Dear Mr. F,

Although I wasn't napping yesterday, later in the afternoon, after a sizable lunch, I thought about it and decided it was a pretty good idea. One of your best, actually.

Since management typically provides the necessary resources for all work-place activities, please stop by sometime early this afternoon with a pillow for me. As you so wisely pointed out, we don't want to risk an injury if I bang my head against the monitor.

Thanks ever so much.

Insincerely, Theresa

P.S. Be sure to get a hypo-allergenic pillow. You know how sensitive I am.

This is why I’ll never get promoted. At the same time, I’ll probably never get fired either. It's an art, I tell you! I bet I can work the rest of my life in corporate America and never be given any additional responsibility whatsoever.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Addendum: The Diversity Committee also rejected my idea of celebrating the wide and varying range of Sexual Fetishes with a visual display on the cafeteria bulletin board.
Damn Tight-Asses!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Update: Later today, Mr. F made a special visit to Hot Chiks South. He informed me that he was unable to locate a "non-allergeric" (his word, not mine) pillow.
Even though I wasn't surprised that he'd shown up empty-handed, I replied "and, I suppose you still expect me to show up for work tomorrow?"
He mumbled something about being happy with my other benefits ... 401K, stock options, blah, blah, blah ... but by then, I'd already interrupted him to ask if he had time to wash my car.

She Wanted it Bad

2006-06-25T22:21:00.000-05:00

Helen spent hours thinking about what her life would be like when she finally had it. She believed in the power of the mind. If a person visualized their desires, they could make them a reality. She focused on every detail. She knew exactly what she would do, how she would feel, what she would say, the way other people would treat her, and most importantly, how her life would change forever. Everything was all planned out. She just had to focus and be patient. Once it happened, nothing else would matter.

It was something she worked on every day. She was committed and diligent. She knew if she missed a day, if she gave up hope, the opportunity she’d been waiting for might slip through her fingers. So, just like the morning before, and the morning before that, Helen pulled into the gas station. She shifted into park and chanted a sacred prayer, "You can’t win if you don’t play".

She was prompt and predictable. The attendant had her rung up before she walked in the door. And just like every other day, she mumbled good morning, tossed a five on the counter, and seized the tickets with a lusty thirst.

Before she reached the car, Helen had already ripped through four of the tickets. She couldn't help herself. She had to know right away. She pressed them into the palm of her hand and methodically scratched the silver game blocks with her lucky nickel. When she got to the last one, she paused, held it in front of her lips, and whispered, "please, please, please". Leaning against the hood of the car, she scratched slowly and deliberately. When she finished, she stared in disbelief. Defeated once again.

Settling into the worn seat of her Taurus, Helen sighed and tossed her purse onto a blanket of last weeks losses. She lit a cigarette. "Not today", she exhaled. "Maybe tomorrow." And just as she'd done countless mornings before, she resolved to use her will to make it happen. She turned the ignition and turned a page in her mind, imagining the elation of holding her winning ticket tomorrow.

Elemental Longing

2006-06-24T20:36:00.000-05:00

Today
I felt the Wind
Filling my lungs with new breath
Reminding me of deserted time
Stirring a familiar Eros song

Today
I felt the Sun
Kissing my lips with courtly fire
Burning me to flushed ruddiness
Branding the mark of his presence

Today
I felt the Earth
Enfolding me in her abundance
Touching my ache with compassion
Infusing perfumes of mortality

Today
I felt the Rain
Chilling my skin with iced lingering
Waking me to gentle honesty
Bathing scars of pain and remorse

Today
I felt a longing
Overwhelming the stir of the Wind
Enhancing the burn of the Sun
Owning the touch of the Earth
Belittling the chill of the Rain
A longing beyond longing

Please, Baby

2006-06-22T21:31:00.000-05:00

It’s been driving me crazy all day
It's right there,
In the middle.
If I twist my arm just right
I can kind of reach it with my fingertips.
But, not enough
Not enough to ease my torment.
If you gave me a hand
Sunk your nails into my flesh
I’d tell you exactly where to scratch.
It would feel perfect
Divinely satisfying.
Please, Baby
Please.

Whatever Gets You Through the Day

2006-06-22T00:22:00.000-05:00

We went to work in the fields just after breakfast. By most people’s standards, we’d already done half a day’s work. Before the sun rose, the three milking machines were cleaned and attached to forty-five cows. If it weren’t for the oppressive summer heat, the low, churning, pumping sound might have lulled me back to sleep. It only took a couple hours, but at 5:30 am everything seems to take much longer.

Breakfast was always the same. Lots of food and noise. Afterwards, the men would drink coffee and talk about politics or the weather. They masterfully pretended the women tidying up around them were invisible. At 15 years old, I didn’t mind being unnoticed in that house.

I must have been daydreaming again. Someone hollered for me from the porch. It was already 8:30. We were getting a late start. I adjusted a pair of bibbed overalls and ran out the door. They wouldn’t hesitate to leave me behind to walk out to the field. That would give them something to laugh and joke about for the next few days.

It was haying time. The work was hard. The tractor moved slowly along the pre-cut rows, pulling a bailing machine behind it. The bailer cut and tied the rectangular bails and fed them to two of us on the wagon. We stacked them neatly until they were well over our heads. Once loaded, one of us would use the old John Deere to haul the wagon back to the barn. A machine with giant hooks lifted eight bails at a time and deposited them in the barn loft above. Later, before dinner and milking, we’d climb into the loft to stack the bails properly.

By the end of the day, my entire body was covered in layers of alfalfa, sweat and dirt. Bits of prickly hay were in my hair, eyes, ears, the crevices of my neck, my clothes, under my nails, absolutely everywhere. There was no escaping it. It itched and caused little scratches all over my body. The only thing that got me through the day, the only thing that made it possible to tolerate that torture, was my secret scheme.

Whenever I thought I was too tired to go on, the heat was getting me down, or the itching would make me go mad, I reminded myself that it would all be better soon. No matter what, I was going to a place where I could forget about the heat, dirt, stench, and noisy, annoying people. And when I reached my destination, when I made my dream a reality, every part of my mind and body would feel right again.

Once we got back to the barn and finished the evening milking, I could grab a quick dinner and make my escape. The light would last til 8:30 or 9, and no one would notice my absence. Even if they did, I could always say I’d gone for a walk. They’d never suspect me of anything questionable. I was a good girl. So, at my first opportunity, I stole away. It was easy once I made it under the electric fence and behind the barn.

I knew the paths into the woods as well as anyone. One went through Jake and Anna’s farm and down to Marshmiller Pond, and the other went back to the Chippewa burial site and around to the stream. If I followed the stream far enough, I’d get to a deep pool where I could finally enjoy the relief I craved.

As I walked along the path toward the stream, my legs seemed to go faster and faster. I forgot that I was dead tired. I almost forgot to stop and pay my respects to the dead Indians. Once or twice I looked behind me, delighted that my plan was working. I laughed out loud with the knowledge that I wasn’t being deterred. Perhaps I’d really get the luxury I’d been dreaming of all day. In minutes, I’d be soaking up to my shoulders in deep, cool spring water. It would be just me, alone amongst the trees, bathing every inch of my weary body in my private sanctuary. It almost seemed too good to be true.

For What it's Worth

2006-06-20T21:42:00.000-05:00

I waited for him to return from work
Read books
Wrote my papers
Made myself the best I could be
And when he came home, we made love
Until I found out he was married
I was more angry than hurt.

I waited for him to figure it out
Cried a lot
Focused on work
Challenged my limits to be better and better
And when he realized what he had
I’d already moved on
I was sad that he’d been afraid.

I waited for him to notice my sadness
Endured empty spaces
Found substitutes
Became a master of deceit
And when I choked on the lies I told myself
The future looked vague and uncertain
I grieved the loss of our dreams.

I waited for him to make up his mind
Paced the floor
Looked into my soul
Discovered chilling frailties
And when he chose someone else
I had to stand on my own
I was stronger than I had imagined.

I waited
And the whole time I waited
I lived
Breathed
Learned
Loved
Hoped
Hoped
Hoped
Hoped
I’m good at waiting
And hoping
There must be something worth it.

I Believe...

2006-06-14T21:47:00.000-05:00

I haven’t been blogging as much lately. Instead, I’ve been working on some other projects, thinking about stuff, and tossing some garbage out of my head. For lack of anything better to post, I've decided to share a few thoughts.

I believe most people are good. Most of us want to do the right thing. And, even when no one else notices, we feel good about ourselves when we do so. I also believe evil exists. There are some amongst us who are simply no good, self-serving bastards.

I believe that even though I don’t feel ambitious right now, I still have rewarding work to do. I don’t know what that work is, so it will be a nice surprise when it reveals itself.

I believe I have a responsibility to discover truth and strength within myself, even when it’s a difficult, frightening process.

I believe the word accountability has been abused in our society during the last 15 years (maybe longer). It’s been used to blame victims and deflect co-responsibility during opportunities when we might otherwise have created solutions. The practice of blame-slinging doesn’t solve problems. It simply creates a sense of self-righteousness.

I believe I spend too much time blaming myself. Ahhhh, but I don't feel self righteous about it. It's a whole bullshit-control thing I do with myself.

I believe if there’s a god, it’s the energy that connects all of us to one another. A bit of it exists within each of us. That’s why the experience of gathering together is powerful; whether it’s a crowd at a football game, a political rally, a family event, or a Sunday church service.

I believe there are soloists and ensemble players. Despite the fact that I’m somewhat charismatic and occasionally draw attention to myself, I definitely prefer to share the stage. I like to be alone, but I don’t like to live alone. I need my independence, but I also need to be inter-dependent with others. I know what my strengths are, but I gladly let others take the lead when they are stronger, better and more knowledgeable.

I believe I know what I want, and the things I want are attainable.

I believe in true love. It’s the kind of love that lasts forever. It’s the kind of love that fills your heart, makes you crazy, and sometimes hurts like hell. I believe it doesn’t come around often. You have to want it and take care of it, even when it’s hard. I believe I’m very fortunate to have loved, to know how to love, and to do it well.

Overcoming My Affliction

2006-06-13T01:07:00.000-05:00

I’m one of thousands of American woman who suffers with a long term, life-altering, painful affliction. It’s a baffling and illogical thing, but it’s very real. Some women suffer more than others; even losing their lives due to extreme manifestations of the problem. There’s been much public discussion and research about the subject with no real solutions on the horizon. I’m referring, of course, to body hatred.

I’ve been at odds with my body for almost as long as I can remember. Despite the fact that I like myself, and my likeable self exists within this flesh, I haven’t been able to consistently make peace with my perceived physical flaws and imperfections. I’ve spent a good amount of time and energy trying to convince myself that it’s okay to be just as I am, but the logic doesn’t always stick. Likewise, reassurances from others are often fleeting relief. In the past, I’ve spent a good deal of time exploring all the reasons why this sort of thing happens to us, but right now all I’m interested in is how to get rid of it.

REALITY: Like it or not, I’m stuck with this body. It’s mine, and perhaps I’d enjoy it more if I made friends with it instead of being harsh and critical. There’s only so much I can do to change it, and as I age, it’s going to become less and less appealing based on the rigid standards I’ve set for myself. As such, I’ve spent a lot of time lately making a comprehensive assessment of all my bits and pieces. I’ve concluded that I should stop my belly-aching and be thankful for what I’ve got.

I’m damn lucky. Other than a mild eyesight impairment, all my parts work. As a matter of fact, they work quite well. I’m strong, healthy and completely able-bodied.

I have some large visible scars on my left ankle from a series of surgeries after a very bad fracture and dislocation several years ago. Instead of thinking those scars are ugly, maybe they should remind me that I endured a really difficult time, worked hard and beat the odds. After the accident, the prognosis wasn’t good. I wasn’t supposed to walk without a limp, and the doctors said I’d have limited mobility and lifelong pain. I stubbornly refused to accept it and worked my ass off in rehab. My stubbornness paid off. I wear 4" heels without a problem and within 6 months of my last surgery, I didn’t have any pain at all.

My hands are huge. My sisters and my Mom have sweet little delicate hands. Unlike mine, they’re so pretty and feminine. I have big, giant, strong, functional hands. I once surreptitiously started a rumor at work that I was really a man. Actually, my friend Ruth did it, but it was my idea because I like to screw with people when I’m bored. I told Ruth to say, "I heard that Theresa is really a man. I think it might be true. Look at her hands. They’re huge, like man hands." Other than stupid jokes, there are a lot of advantages to having big hands. For instance, I never have to ask a guy to open a jar for me, and when I grab a handful of popcorn, I get more than most people.

It’s not just my hands. All my bones are big. I’m just BIG. Good ol’ Iowa farm stock … except I avoid rural areas. I’m very afraid some industrious Amish farmer will hook me up to a plow if I get too close. However, despite my fear of the buggy-folk, being big isn’t a bad thing. It could be a definite advantage if I ever really decide to go into the Super-Hero business. I think the general public has more confidence in a big strong Super-Hero than a tiny frail Super-Hero.

I’m overweight. Now, this is one of those qualities that I have the power to change. However, do I really want to wait to like my body until after I lose weight? Maybe I should like my body now. Liking it won’t prevent me from losing weight. In fact, it might even help.

I’m getting those funny spider veins on my calves. I’ve come to understand that these are age-related, genetic sorts of things. I should have expected it. I dodged the cellulite bullet, so sooner or later I have to pay. Lucky me! I got these little roadmap beauties instead. Hey look! I think it's a map of my town. I can see my house!
Seriously, these things are tough to love. However, as I was reorganizing my closet this weekend, I pulled out a fantastic little skirt with dark purple embroidery. I completely forgot I had it. I also discovered that I have a pair of really sexy shoes to match. As I was looking at the two together, I wondered if I’ll have the nerve to wear them with my veiny legs. However, it dawned on me as I looked at the ensemble next to my skin, Wow! the purple in the skirt and shoes is an exact match to the veins in my calves! It couldn’t be more perfect.

Make friends with your body. Do it now. It’s yours and it’s the only one you’re going to get this time around. Why spend another minute feeling miserable in it?

Silly MEME

2006-06-09T08:52:00.000-05:00

Here's a meme I picked up from Andy T. The instructions are simple. You type "(your name) needs" into Google and write down the first ten results. Some of mine were funny so I included a dozen.

Theresa needs to be punished.
Theresa needs to take care of her ill mother.
Theresa needs to get used to the fact that she will remain the Ketchup Queen.
Theresa needs to seriously start thinking about what she is doing before she acts.
Theresa needs images of the month.
Theresa needs to call me so I can get her …
Theresa needs to come back for a visit.
Theresa needs to renew her body whole and to heal.
Theresa needs a lawyer.
Theresa needs to know the surface area of a box.
Theresa needs mental help.
Theresa needs a pair of cheetah print frames!

Making Love to the Moon

2006-06-03T09:22:00.000-05:00

While looking for you
In the waxing moon,

I happened upon a smile
You gave me yesterday,

Wondered if I’ll ever know you
When you were a child,

Heard your far away voice
Dancing in my ear,

O’ night sky,
Bathing my pale skin
In damp whispers.
Stealing my breath
With drifting phantom fingers.

I lie naked beneath you
Earnestly impatient,
Inhaling your abundance,
Exhaling a wish, a dream, my love.

50% Success Rate

2006-05-29T21:31:00.000-05:00

When people are shocked by the 50% divorce rate, I sometimes wonder if it isn’t more remarkable that 50% of marriages stay intact. What keeps them together? Is it love, friendship, commitment, devotion, obligation, guilt, greed, laziness, fear, or a combination of factors?

When people first come together, there’s a natural euphoric attraction that lasts anywhere from 6 months to 2 years. It’s exciting, intense, thrilling and sexy. During that time, they might also fall in love. After the euphoric stage ends, many people stay together and remain in Love. They replace the biological euphoria with a more stable, long-lasting sense of love and attachment. It makes them want to create a life together with all of its associated responsibilities and obligations.

What keeps 50% of those people from hitting the road to chase that euphoric high once again? (Granted, a bunch of those folks are cheating and not splitting up, but that’s another post).

Boys are Stinkier than Llamas

2006-05-21T21:26:00.000-05:00

Hot Chik Road Trip 2006: Lu and I hit the road for a couple days to celebrate our annual journey around the sun. It was completely unplanned other than getting an oil change and having the car checked out the day before. The best parts of any good road-trip are the unexpected sites, meetings and adventures, the music, and the free-flowing conversation in the car. These are the conversation highlights …

Choose direction … EAST!
Reminiscences of Lu and Steve’s trip to Montana last summer
Leah’s 4.0+ GPA this semester (the woman ROCKS!)
Agreed that cows are really dumb
… is the muffler getting louder?
Eve Ensler's recent article on the phenomena of body hatred amongst women ... MUST END!!!
Groth and Birnbaum research on the psychology of rapists
Secret Topic
The stupidity of politicians who don’t know how to lie properly
Decided that with proper training and a positive attitude, men can be just as good lovers as women (some, maybe even better)
Changed direction … NORTH
Female Genital Mutilation: Cultural Relativism vs. Absolutism
Religion and gender oppression
Secret Topic
Scenic overlook (Illinois side of Mississippi River)
Lu lamented that she’d never visited a vineyard
Memorable shoe store experiences
Lu impersonated the mating call of the Howler Monkey
Secret Topic
Decided that boys are stinkier than Llamas
Muffler definitely getting louder … I need a new mechanic
Stopped for a picnic in Black Earth, WI, which was delightfully interrupted by a phone call from the Secret Topic
Went shoe shopping
Loud exhaust sound joined by jangly sound
Stopped at muffler shop to hoist car and admire the gaping hole in the exhaust pipe
Explained to Lu why, although duct tape fixes nearly EVERYTHING, it won’t work to fix the gaping hole ... at least not for long
Best Western vs. Thunderbird Motel???
Opened 1st bottle of wine … and toasted my birthday.
Secret Topic
Nap (me). Barbie pool swim (Lu)
Out for dinner: good food and soundtrack by Nora Jones!
I mocked Lu’s admiration of history … because it was funny and made her squeal (and satisfied my need to be evil at least once a day)
Kwik Trip: bought more alcohol and received abundant assistance at the map carousel from very friendly attractive co-patron
Opened 2nd bottle back at motel
Secret Topic
Lu claimed sole authority over penile extension (TV remote control)
Decided that Mike Myers and Vincent D’Onofrio are exceptionally hot … happily fell asleep

Day #2: I took a very giddy Lu to a vineyard. We spent all our money on wine and returned home early. All conversation on the return trip had to be shouted above the sound of the rumbling exhaust pipe. Blasted the tunes instead. Highlight: Annie Lenox.

On Holiday

2006-05-17T09:44:00.000-05:00

I’m going away for a few days to enjoy a little much needed fun and relaxation. I hope to get back to the blogging routine upon my return. Perhaps I’ll have some adventures to share. Be good while I’m gone.

Piss Me Off and Spank Me

2006-05-11T22:18:00.000-05:00

When I go to the gym, I’m not one of those pretty, well-put-together women. It’s 7am, the fitness center staff won’t be serving cocktails and hors’douvres, and I’ll be sweating profusely. On a good day, I stumble out of bed, dig out one of each from my gym clothes drawer, don sneaks, brush my teeth and head out the door. I don’t even comb my hair. People with hair like mine never comb their hair. If I did, I’d look like Bride of Frankenclown, which shouldn’t be confused with Bride of Assclown. That’s several more levels of shame, humiliation and defilement below Frankenclown.

Needless to say, when I get to the gym, I’m fairly single-minded. I rarely talk to other people and they rarely talk to me. It’s not that I’m mean or grumpy. I just look like a poorly kept, chubby, middle-aged muffin-head … probably not very appealing. I’m okay with that. I didn’t join the gym to make friends. In fact, I get a bit disjointed when I run into friends because I have to act like I’m glad to see them. It just doesn’t seem right. At the same time, people need to be aware that they share the gym with other folks. Is a smidge of social courtesy and respect too much to ask?

So, the other day I finished the first part of my routine and was ready to move on to the elliptical machine. Despite the fact that my gym is huge and has every machine ever made, there are three elliptical machines that I fancy. On this particular day, two of them were open when I wanted one.

SCORE!!!

Since the TV monitor at the first empty machine wasn’t working, I plugged into the second, climbed aboard and proceeded to swing my happy little legs to and fro. Unfortunately, I was rudely interrupted 4 minutes and 38 seconds later.

A man-boy approached my machine and loudly said, "Hey, I was using that machine. I had to stop and take a break. I was planning to come back. I had to go take my insulin."

It wasn’t what he said. It was the how-dare-you-use-my-machine way he said it. Also, if he had included an "excuse me" or "I’m sorry to interrupt" or "Please, if you don’t mind", it would have made a world of difference.

I’m as compassionate as can be toward folks with Diabetes, however, I was shocked by his effrontery and sense of entitlement. The first and last thing I said was, "So, you want me to get off." Statement, not question.

He simply said "yes" without offering a "thank you".

At that point, I was tempted to move to a different part of the gym and use one of the other less desirable ellipticals so I’d have a TV. I also had a fleeting thought that a hot fudge sundae would be great for breakfast. However, instead of being pushed away by his rude behavior or lured by the comfort of warm chocolatey love, I got on the empty machine next to his and re-started my workout.

I was really pissed off. In fact, the more I thought about it, the angrier I got. After a minute I looked over at his machine and noticed his resistance level. I upped mine by five more. Then I watched his pace and went faster. I wasn’t going to let that little prick beat me! By the time I was done, I was dripping from head to toe. I haven’t had that kind of a work out in ages. My ass still hurts a little bit. And I owe it all to that nasty socially retarded pretty-boy gym brat. Now, I just have to figure out how to get him to infuriate me every day.

Anger isn’t a bad emotional response to things. In fact, it can be a really powerful force for positive change. Instead of being destructive or aggressive, we can choose to be productive … show the bastards they can’t control us! I sometimes think about a guy who did that in this country a number of years ago. He used a lot of people’s rage to influence change … generations of rage as a matter of fact. Honestly, have any of us been the same since Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. shared his dream? If an angry man like Dr. King can re-shape a country, I should be able to harness a little bit of personal vigor to tighten up my rump.

Coffee Time

2006-05-06T08:20:00.000-05:00

This morning I was once again reminded that I share my house with a man … a very twisted man, but a man nonetheless.

Me: WOW! This coffee is really strong.
Monkey-Man: Really? I didn’t do anything different to it.
Me: How many scoops?
Monkey-Man: Three, same as you.
Me: (sipping) Man! This stuff will put hair on your chest.
Monkey-Man: It must have been brewed by someone with superior strength and virility.
Me: (humoring) I suppose that could explain it.
Monkey-Man: (with enthusiasm) … someone with powerful TESTICULARITY!
Me: (looking at cup suspiciously before taking another sip) Ahhh … now that you mention it, I can definitely taste the unique flavor of testicularity.
Monkey-Man: By the way, did you get a phone call late last night?
Me: (blushing) Yeah ...
(quietly as I walked away) ...and I bet he makes one hell of a cup of coffee.

Anyhow, if you’re ever in the neighborhood, please drop by for a cup of coffee. I’m sure you’ll appreciate the subtle taste enhancement of testicularity in every cup.

Much Too Much

2006-05-04T22:48:00.000-05:00

You’re too impulsive
Too distracted
Too imaginative
Too capricious
Much too much

You’re too reactive
Too sympathetic
Too emotional
Too demonstrative
Much too much

You’re too zealous
Too exuberant
Too animated
Too energetic
Much too much

You’re too careless
Too trusting
Too passionate
Too foolish
Much too much

Too fast
Too slow
Too high
Too low
Too hot
Too cold
Too shy
Too bold
Too much
Too much
Too much
Too much
Much
Too much

Baggage

2006-04-30T18:02:00.000-05:00

I remember the afterwards
After each of them left
The bitter pain stung,
It paralyzed
And then it settled in my belly
Bending me to a sobbing heap

I remember the grief
But … no, no, NO!!!
The rage
The confusion
The sadness
Move on
Self-pity gets old fast

I remember the blame
Make it make sense
It must be mine
These shoulders know
The weight of control
If only I were perfect …

I carry my endings
Into my beginnings
Shadow fears
Leftover tears
Some call it experience
Most call it baggage

Adventures in Babysitting

2006-04-29T06:45:00.000-05:00

Today, I’m spending the day with my favorite 4-year old, William. William’s Mom is going to the Cub’s game with the guys and his Dad is working all day. This is a pretty big deal. I’m pretty sure that I’m the first non-family member to be allowed babysitting privileges … EVER.

Things seem to have changed a lot since I was a teenage babysitter. It seemed like parents were a lot more relaxed about such things. As a sought-after teen sitter, I’d get calls from friends of friends for babysitting. They’d leave me in charge of their precious children without really knowing me, based only on the recommendation of someone else. It was a pretty easy gig too. I’d play a couple games, read some books, have a snack, throw the little buggers in bed, and hope The Love Boat and Fantasy Island weren’t re-runs. At the end of the night, I’d collect my $2 an hour and go home.

For lots of reasons, parents have had to become more selective about babysitters. William’s parents are fairly easy-going folks, but when it comes to his welfare, they are exceptionally careful. There must have been several discussions about who to ask to baby-sit today. Maybe I was chosen as an acceptable caretaker because I have 15 years experience as a Social Worker. Maybe they chose me because I worked in a Day Care Center for 3 years. Maybe they think at 41-years of age, I’m old enough to handle the responsibility. Or, perhaps they picked me because I love their kid and he digs me too (admittedly because I have dogs and he LOVES dogs, but I take what I can get these days).

So, my Saturday is going to be filled with time at the park and the library, play-doh, coloring, and painting, reading, running after dogs, cartoons, and making cookies . . . oh, and we’re making a surprise present for William’s Mom and Dad too (shhhh, it’s a cactus garden . . . don’t tell).

* The picture above isn't William and Starbuck, but it looks a lot like them. The photo reminds me of the relaxed way Starbuck acts with little kids.

Is She Foolish or Brave?

2006-04-23T15:07:00.000-05:00

Courage is going from failure to failure without losing enthusiasm.
Winston Churchill

Sometimes shitty things happen. Sometimes really, really shitty things happen. Most of us have lived through rotten jobs, break-ups, health problems, financial stress, the tragic loss of loved ones and other sad experiences. These things can be overwhelming and leave us feeling drained. We want to hole up somewhere, protect ourselves and heal before we venture out into the dangerous world again. Even then, we feel more cautious and alert. We’re supposed to learn from our experiences, toughen up and avoid previous pitfalls. Shame on us if we repeat our mistakes or don’t prepare ourselves.

But I wonder what sort of life that is …
Always on alert.
Ever aware of potential danger or pain.
Cautious about any new thing that crosses our path.

How on earth could we ever fall in love?

After a lifetime of roller coaster experiences with love, I’ve accumulated a beautiful store of exquisite tender memories. Despite the bitter gut-wrenching pain of each break-up, those memories are mine. No one can take them away from me. The risk, the investment, and the pain were always worth it. I might have needed some time to crawl into a hole and lick my wounds, but I always reemerged to try again.

This last time, I stayed in my hole a good long time. It was worth it I think. Now, as I emerge, I feel stronger than ever. It seems easier to cast my doubts and insecurities aside. It’s easier to not only act brave, but to feel brave. Some people say I’ve become more foolish, but I don’t think so. I know what I want and don't want. I know what the risks are. I know how much it hurts when things don’t work out. I also know what it means when love becomes real. There’s nothing better in all the world.

About a year ago, a very dear friend predicted that I had yet to experience the greatest love of my life. His prediction surprised me because he tends to be a fairly practical sort of man. I like to think that he was on to something with his foretelling.

Whoever said anybody has a right to give up?
Marian Wright Edelman

Two Days Later

2006-04-16T11:47:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was a picture perfect spring day in Iowa City. I spent most of the day cleaning up the outside of my house and yard. The more I worked, the harder I worked. I couldn’t seem to let myself stop. The fallen tree branches, sticks and bits of other people’s houses seemed endless.

As I tended to my gardens, I was in awe that not a single petal seemed to have been damaged by the storm. Just next door, the neighbor’s flowerbeds had been stripped bare. Four majestic trees still circle my house. I noticed their perfection as a chainsaw revved up to tear apart an uprooted 200-year old tree half a block away. Two blocks away, you can buy a 2006 Jeep at rock bottom prices … as long as you don’t mind the shattered windows and hail damage. All along Riverside Drive, blue tarps flap in the wind where the roofs of buildings have been ripped away. On the ground below the tarps, dump trucks busily take load after load of debris to the landfill.

Halfway through the day, I dared a quick trip across town to pick up a few necessities. The tornado’s path was evidenced by the destruction left behind.

Tornadoes don’t strike cities.
Tornadoes don’t cross water.
This one didn’t follow the rules.

As I drove through town, I took note of the things I saw. It’s not as if I hadn’t witnessed such things before. But this is MY town. These are MY people. That twister took away parts of US and OUR history.

The tears didn’t come until I saw College Green Park. It’s a cute little one-square block park near down town. It has playground equipment, a gazebo, park benches, picnic tables, shady areas, and open sunny spaces. Two decades ago, my girlfriends and I would pretend to study on blankets in the sunshine as we watched handsome college boys play frisbee. I’d attended or organized a dozen or more music and political events for sexual assault awareness, gay-les-bi-trans rights, pro-choice and other such things that had taken place there. I’d chased my nephews through the playground and pushed them on the swings. Its been home to countless picnics and long talks with good friends. Yesterday, I saw our beautiful park in ruins. Most of the trees are missing or snapped in two. Bulldozers and trucks cover the grass. There are no more shady places. It’s destroyed. Despite the fact that I was personally spared by this storm, I couldn’t stop the tears. Something about this felt very personal.

I went back home and worked on my yard. I worked until my hands were bloody from cuts and scratches and I could barely lift my arms. It was the only thing to do. In the end I know we're very fortunate. This is only a tiny fraction of what the folks in the Gulf have had to bear. And no matter what, we can rebuild and re-grow. We were very lucky to be spared the loss of life … all but one family anyway. My friend Dick lost his niece to this storm. I grieve for him most of all.

*(The picture above is about 6 blocks from Lu's house)

Oh ... Happy Easter to you all.

From the Land of Oz

2006-04-14T06:49:00.000-05:00

I only have a minute …
For those of you who are aware, we had some pretty bad storms in this part of the country last night. Tornadoes hit our sweet little midwestern town. One touched down two blocks from our house, taking out a tractor trailer and the Dairy Queen. I’d make a joke about the caloric tragedy of losing the Dairy Queen, except someone was trapped inside and, by all accounts, possibly hurt. Another tornado hit a mile south of us, taking out part of one of the home improvement centers, and a third hit the University of Iowa campus and downtown, taking parts of buildings. All in all, there was a lot of damage, and a number of people were hurt.

Unfortunately, while all of this was going on, we were completely ignorant. We lost our power after the first strike. After that, we were completely dependent on our out-of-town friends to call our cell phones with updates about what was happening.

Losing our power is very unusual because we’re on the same grid as the hospital. In the past when it happened, our power was restored within minutes. One friend called to say that the entire 911 system had gone down. Another, whose Dad works for the power company, said they had to call the Disaster Team in to the hospital. (I have no idea what that means, but any time you attach the word "disaster" to something, it makes it sound very serious, doesn’t it?).

I’ve lived in the midwest most of my life. Tornadoes are as much a part our lives as earthquakes are to those crazy Californians. You learn what to do, you take it seriously and you hope for the best. I’ve been through close calls a million times. Still ….. there was a good 10 minutes last night when I was pretty damn scared.

MID-MORNING UPDATE: There was one fatality as a result of last night's storms.

I Don't Have a Crappy Job When I Sleep

2006-04-12T07:18:00.000-05:00

"Theresa, no one eats french fries for breakfast, not even you."
"I didn’t make them for us. They’re for the circus people living in the back yard."
"Oh. Well, I suppose circus people eat whatever they want whenever they want."
"Do you want to go out back and watch? I think the clowns are going to practice. It won’t be as much fun without their make-up, but we can pretend."

We shared the hammock in the backyard, bemoaning the fact that the circus people had packed up and left already. You tried to feed me cold french fries while you sang sappy Barry Manilow songs badly … or sang bad Barry Manilow songs sappily. I begged you to stop because my stomach hurt from laughing so hard.

*****************

I hate the damn alarm clock.

Tummy News

2006-04-06T07:34:00.000-05:00

The source of my tummy ache has been narrowed down. The doctors tell me that it’s a benign fibroid tumor (hooray! not cancer). Frankly, I don’t really think it’s a tumor either. It’s probably just a dust bunny.

I’ve named my uninvited dust bunny, Sylvia. Thankfully, no real harm has been done and evicting Sylvia is a fairly simple procedure. Thank you all for your sweet thoughts. You must be very very powerful, because it worked.

Perspective

2006-04-04T09:13:00.000-05:00

For those of you who were disturbed by the dark dreariness of the post below, I’m okay … or becoming okay. Sunshine, contact with other humans and a little good news make a world of difference. I’m also a total wimp when it comes to pain. I really did have a terrible tummy ache. It’s getting better.

IN MY BELLY, A Love Poem

2006-04-02T12:23:00.000-05:00

There’s a pain in my belly,
A place stuffed with bags of hurt,
Bloated with distorted losses,
Far too much grief to share.
Set my jaw and bear it another day.
Lost loves
Lost hopes
Lost dreams

There’s a pain in my belly,
A place hollow with deafening terror.
The panic scream of loneliness that I soley hear.
Hide the emptiness.
Deny my hunger.
What would happen if you knew?
My need
My longing
My frailty

There’s a pain in my belly,
A place scarred by a lifetime of war.
If you don’t hurt me, I’ll hurt myself.
There’s no safety from the violating rage.
It’s all around and within.
In you
In me
In them

There’s a pain in my belly,
A place tender with purple-yellow uncertainty.
Unfolded, opened, exposed,
Radiating white-hot veracity.
Turn around if you’re too afraid
Erratic courage
Fragile hope
Absolute Love

When I Dream

2006-03-27T22:59:00.000-06:00

I dream of
Spring gardens dancing with poppies and daisies.
Of days in a row missing tears and empty echoes.

I dream of
Lazy summer days, ice cubes, sliced lemons and honey.
Of laughing between kisses and tag with a garden hose.

I dream of
Autumn trails fire-painted from the earth to the sky.
Of the sureness of your hand in mine, mine in yours.

I dream of
Winter crisp smoke rising from chimneys on rooftops.
Of the delicious indulgence of knowing your smile.

It's Friday

2006-03-24T06:13:00.000-06:00

... and I'm so damn glad.

(Hooray for the weekend! Hooray for pay day! Hooray for my new bed!)

I Hate My Job

2006-03-22T06:21:00.000-06:00

Sometimes this world of ours seems bent upon taking us down. Little by little, insults and injuries tear away at our defenses. Such things drain us of our energy and feed our self-doubts. Brutality, sorrow, greed, oppression, ignorance and cruelty seem to be everywhere. And even when the attacks aren’t personal, simply bearing witness to such negativity can wear on one’s soul. It’s a good thing we have each other. If we didn’t, we’d surely be lost.

No matter how bad it gets, it’s not nearly as bad when you know you’re not alone.
Brutality loses its ability to bruise when a tender word lingers in your ear.
Sorrow doesn't feel as heavy when held in the loving embrace of a friend.
Greed isn’t as devastating because of the gifts we share.
Oppression shatters to pieces at the sound of our genuine laughter.
Ignorance is overshadowed by wisdom when we see beauty through the eyes of another.
And the barbarism of Cruelty isn’t so frightening when my fingers are laced between yours.

In the end, it’s all about LOVE. If I weren’t loved so well ... if I didn’t love so well ... I’d never find the strength to walk out the door every day.

*Kisses* to you who I love … all of you.

Sign of Things to Come

2006-03-20T21:57:00.000-06:00

Throughout our lives, we mark our growth and accomplishments with symbols. When we were little, our parents scratched marks on the wall to show how much we’d grown. As we grew older, we gathered trophies, diplomas and titles to mark our way. Some symbols come to us naturally, like gray hair, wrinkles, or kicking the kids out ... ooops, I mean launching the kids into adulthood. Others we invent, like wedding rings, body art and a second mortgage. As for myself, I’m currently embarking on a major change in my life. It involves claiming space and independence. My symbol for this change is a beautiful antique bed. This bed will be mine and mine alone.

Last weekend I bought a new mattress for my bed. This coming weekend I’m going to my sister’s house to pick up the bed itself. I feel excited, the way I felt when I got my first car or my first pair of pink high heels. The bed is an important symbol of how far I’ve come and where I’m going. It reminds me of the importance of comfort, freedom, and privacy.

It seems like there should be some sort of ritual or celebration to mark this momentous acquisition. If I’d gotten a ship, we’d smash a bottle of champagne over her bow. If I’d bought a new car, we’d take her for a spin and see how fast she could go. With a bed, the idea of breaking her in seems obvious, but I’m unattached at the moment and unwilling to engage in a casual fling.

* Sigh *

Perhaps I’ll get a good book and a nice bottle of Chablis.

Rain

2006-03-17T22:47:00.000-06:00

Soft rain
Misting
Nourishing a parched soul
I open my arms to heaven
Welcoming
Welcoming such a tender rain

Hard rain
Falling
Never quite quenching
I bare my shivering skin
Needing
Needing more to ease the pain

Torrents
Pouring
A mighty fearsome force
Flooding all my senses
Drowning
Drowning in my desperation

Death in the Mojave, or Why I'm in Awe of People Who Don't Kill Their Kids

2006-03-15T20:39:00.000-06:00

(Re-posted from November, 2004)

As the eldest child, one of the ways I amused myself while growing up was to devise new ways to make my brother and sister scream. While I was always pleased with this game, my parents didn’t find it quite so amusing. One such time nearly killed us.

It was the Great Family Vacation of 1974. I was 9, my sister was 7 and my brother was 5. The parents decided we would live the American Dream. We packed up the two-door Chevelle (with no air conditioning) and began the trip from Cedar Falls, Iowa to Los Angeles, California. Destination: Disneyland!

Each day we would drive for a hundred hours (kid time), stop and see some historical/educational shit, drive some more, and then spend the night at a motel. Mom was wise about insisting the motel have a pool. She could relax with a cocktail at poolside while her car-crazed offspring burned off enough energy to pass-out before she did.

Several days into the trip, somewhere between Yellowstone and Los Angeles, I found myself bored and seeking amusement in the backseat of the wretchedly hot car. Although tensions were as high as the temperature, my egocentric little 9-year old ADHD mind could have cared less. I completely ignored the random warnings from my father about making us walk to Disneyland if we didn’t settle down. Instead, I searched my little micro-world for anything more interesting than looking out the window at the fucking desert.

Our Barbies and Ken doll were spread chaotically across the back window. As a testament to the heat, Barbie had turned a golden peach color in the sun. I looked from peachy-Barbie to little brother’s Ken doll and finally settled on my plan. It occurred to me that Ken would look fantastic in Barbie’s chiffon ball gown and matching tiara. While brother was distracted, I stealthily turned macho Ken into a stunning cross-dressing Princess. Proud of my success and creativity, I presented the new and improved Ken to the rest of my sweaty clan. However, little brother was not as impressed as one would have thought. So, while little sister and I immediately began the ever-popular, keep a-way game, brother launched into blood-curdling screams.

That was the proverbial last straw. The car pulled over to the shoulder of the highway and my father got out. Everyone instantly became silent; except for mother, who turned about to give us a hastily whispered "I told you not to push your father too far" mini lecture. We knew she was really saying that conditions had gone beyond her ability to protect us. As we pondered if one or all of us would get a spanking right there on the side of the road, Dad slowly re-opened the door.

"Get out." he said calmly.We were frozen, hoping if we didn’t move he would forget we existed."All of you. Get out of the car." he repeated.

I was the first one out. I quickly moved past him, in case one of his huge hands meant to crack me on the ass as part of the punishment. My brother and sister joined me, hovering close, as if I was now their great protector.

Dad got back in the car. He turned to Mom and she nodded as he turned over the ignition and put the Chevy into gear. The three of us stared blankly at the tires which were actually moving. He leaned out the window, and with a surprizingly pleasant look on his face said, "I warned you that you’d have to walk if you didn’t settle down."

As we watched the car slowly pull ahead of us, brother began to whimper and sister began to wail. We shared the same fear. Soon, we would all be dead from multiple rattlesnake bites. The only thing to do was chase the car and hope we made it to Disneyland before dark. So with the car moving slowly ahead of us, and narrowly avoiding many imaginary rattlesnake attacks, we walked . . . and our parents finally had a chance to enjoy the scenery.

INSANITY

2006-03-12T16:51:00.000-06:00

"All humans are out of their fucking minds … They're not only disturbed. They get disturbed about their disturbances." Albert Ellis, PhD

Monkey-Man and I moved in together about 14 years ago. We’d been dating for about a year and had enjoyed a very sweet and gentle courtship. There’s no doubt in my mind that we were a good match for each other at that time in our lives.

One of the things I found most endearing about Monkey-Man, was his thoughtfulness and consideration, especially when it came to me. There was never a time that I doubted his feelings. There was never a time that I was concerned about his intentions. He always had my best interests at heart. I tried very hard to be the same for him.

About two months after we moved in together, Monkey-Man was working on a very important theater project. He and the other actors decided to do an over-night jam session in order to hammer out some of the tough stuff (If I remember correctly, it was Mamet’s American Buffalo … definitely tough). He’d be gone all day and return some time the following day … late afternoon or evening. That was fine with me. I’d miss him, but I accepted and understood his passion for theater.

Around noon the following day I started wondering about him. It was very unlike him to be gone for so long without calling. Eh …I let it go and busied myself with household chores and such.

Around 3:00, I had the same thought, but I added to it the fact that all the other actors were irresponsible dumbasses who drank a lot and did who knows what else. I tried to let it go, but I wondered if Monkey-Man had gotten caught up in the party atmosphere and forgot to call or come home. I decided it was really too early in the day to start worrying about such things. He’d probably walk through the door any minute.

Around 6:00, I started doubting myself. I wondered if I’d misunderstood. Was he going to be gone one night or two nights? I was sure it was just the one night. So where was he? Why hadn’t he called? Should I wait on dinner, or eat without him? This was so unlike him not to call and check in. Was he someplace without a phone?

By 8:00, little crazy thoughts had started to work their way into my mind. Where was he? What was keeping him from calling or coming home? Why hadn’t he called? He always called. He’d never let me worry about him this way. Something bad must have happened.

By 9:00, I was in full-blown crazy mode. My Monkey-Man was in a drunken-drug-induced coma. Or more likely, he’d gotten into a car with one of those drunken fools and they were killed in a terrible accident. His mutilated broken body was mixed in with a mass of twisted car bits along Interstate 270. That was the only reasonable explanation. He'd never ever ever be thoughtless and inconsiderate … NO, NOT EVER. He never had been before, so how could he be now? What else could I conclude? My Monkey-Man was dead.

By 9:30 I was sitting in the middle of the living room floor sobbing my eyes out. It was so tragic. He was so young and beautiful. We were just beginning our life together. How on earth was I going to tell his parents that their beloved son was dead?

… and I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.

At 10:00 Monkey-Man finally came home. He saw me crying on the floor and immediately came to me and asked what was wrong. When I told him, he felt terrible. He didn’t call me crazy (but I saw the look on his face), and he explained that he’d simply lost track of time and didn’t know that I expected a call. When he said the words out loud, they seemed so reasonable and SANE.

Since that time, I’ve vowed to avoid catastrophizing like that again. I’m usually successful in stopping myself before I get to the "mutilated broken body … along Interstate 270" part, but I can still be a crazy idiot sometimes. In fact, I did it again this weekend. There was no death, dismemberment or destruction, but I tip-toed on the edge of loopy-land for a little while.

The Absence of Loneliness

2006-03-10T08:18:00.000-06:00

I don’t remember why I was ever with him. He didn’t treat me well, the sex was bad, and I cried a lot. Maybe I only stayed for the absence of loneliness. I thought I needed somewhere to go, a number to call, someone who seemed to give a shit.

He’d get high almost every night, and when he did, he’d start telling me how to live my life. His own life was in shambles, but he always knew exactly what I should do. In his self-righteous tone he’d say, "You know Theresa, you should really think about getting a different job. That place you’re working now is sucking the life out of you."

I’d nod, knowing that defending my job would only lead to more unsolicited advice. I’d turn away and smile small, knowing that he was jealous of my work friends, especially one young man who enjoyed my company. He’d go on and on about how I should get different friends because the ones I had weren’t smart enough to waste my time with. He’d tell me where I went wrong in all my past relationships. When he really got going, he’d complain about spending time with my family, apologizing as soon as he saw me flinch.

Eventually, he’d put on a record and allow his stoned mind to sink into Dylan or Stravinsky. I’d watch him carefully and free myself from the weight of his arm when the time was right. Once unburdened, I’d use the opportunity to find the comfort and warmth I desired. I’d sneak into the bathroom, lock the door and immerse myself in the beautiful over-sized clawfoot bathtub. When filled with herb-scented bubbles, it welcomed me, supported me, and surrounded me with softness.

I’d soak in the tub, resting my neck on its smooth rounded edge. Leaning back, my thoughts dissolved into the friendly shapes of the peeling yellow water-stained ceiling. There was a dancer, an antelope, a shaggy dog and a long crooked ladder. I’d sigh with relief when I heard the sound of his deep heavy sleep-breathing on the other side of the door. Then, I was assured of as much time as I wanted. If he didn’t wake up to piss, I could stay in my water cradle all night.

When I was really brave and sure of his sleep, I’d use the shower attachment to masturbate. Those were the only orgasms he ever gave me. His breathing on the other side of the locked door allowed this brief pleasure of hot pulsing water and release.

I left him seven times in a year. The six times I returned, he welcomed me with kisses and heartfelt gladness. At those times it was okay to say, "Baby, I’ve had a long, hard day. Do you mind if I take a bath for a while?" Sometimes I even left the door unlocked.

Roadkill

2006-03-09T08:09:00.000-06:00

I looked at my watch as the library copy machine ate the last of my nickels. Such was the life of a student before the days of the internet. Look up all the reference articles, wander the stacks to collect the bound journals, haul armloads downstairs (but not on the elevator because it smelled like piss), copy them page by page, and leave the pile of volumes for some poor work study student to put away later.

It was Saturday night and nearly everyone else was downtown at the bars. I contented myself with the fact that all my diligence and sacrifice would be worth it in the end. I’d make something of myself. I’d make my mark on the world in some significant way. I wasn’t sure how, but for tonight, I just hoped to dig through my stack of photocopies and make sense of my biology assignment. I looked at my watch. I had 10 minutes to walk over to the Med Labs building to meet my roommate.

Breathing heavily, I leaned against the 3rd floor wall with my backpack slung over my shoulder. David was late, but I didn’t dare go looking for him. He was in the Cadaver Lab slicing on some poor dead person, trying to learn something about the living. Someday he’d be a doctor, save lives, and make the world a better place. He loved the Cadaver Lab. It gave me the creeps whenever he brought it up, but I knew better than to say anything. He’d find too much pleasure in taunting me if he knew it bothered me. It was bad enough that we had a human skeleton in our living room. We’d named him Gandi and let him eat breakfast with us because he looked so thin.

Five minutes went by before I started pacing. The hallway was empty. Everyone else was downtown at the bars having a good time. After a while a cleaning woman came by with a broom and a garbage can on wheels. She was short, fiftyish and frumpy-looking. I didn’t give her a welcoming look, but she started talking to me anyway. I suppose the Saturday night shift in the academic buildings could get pretty boring.

"I clean this whole building by myself every weekend, you know."
"Is that right?" I indulged.
"Yep. Other people have teams of two, but I guess they think I can do this all on my own." She said with a note of complaining, but mostly pride.
"You must be very good at your job."
"I suppose. I’ve been here for almost 22 years. I guess I know my way around."
"Wow. That’s a long time to be at one place." I said sincerely.
"My son just got himself a really good job."
"Oh yeah, what’s he doing?"
"He’s working for the DOT. They have him driving a truck around and picking up roadkill off the highways."
I blinked a couple times as the idea sunk in. "Huh, I guess I never thought about who did that job."
She said with more pride, "It’s a really important job, and he gets good benefits and everything."

About that time, David came walking out of the Cadaver Lab. He shouted down the hall, "I have a powerful craving for some kidney pie! How about you?" I shook my head and excused myself.

Later, as we shared a cheese pizza, I asked, "Do you ever wonder who goes around and cleans up all the roadkill off the highways? When you think about it, that’s a really important job."

You're a Big Fat Liar

2006-03-07T00:00:00.000-06:00

A while back, I was chatting with a friend. We were discussing the nature of relationships and debating the idea of long-term monogamy. He was completely against it, choosing serial monogamy or multiple open relationships instead. He said, "All relationships are doomed. Sooner or later one of the people will lie. After that he/she resents the other person for making them lie. The lie starts the process, but it’s the resentment about the lie that ultimately causes the death of the relationship."

Anyone who claims to be completely honest all the time is a big fat liar. Everyone has done it but often we’re afraid to admit it, especially to the people we feel closest to. If we admit to lying, we’re guilty of betrayal. If we keep it to ourselves, our secret dishonesty creates internal conflict, guilt and emotional distance.

We lie for a whole lot of reasons.
We don’t want to hurt the other person’s feelings, so we lie to protect them.
We lie to make ourselves look better.
We lie to avoid the consequences of the truth.
We lie because sometimes it seems easier than being honest.
We lie to get what we want.
We lie simply to amuse ourselves.
And sometimes we lie because we wish our lie were the truth.

The most destructive lies are the ones we tell ourselves. We tell ourselves these lies for the same reasons we’re dishonest with others. Unfortunately, we’re stuck with our lying selves forever. We’re stuck with the dissonance between who we are and who we want to be. The only way out is to find the strength and courage to face our own truth. Without that truth, we’re doomed to a worse fate ...... ignorance and loneliness.

Time-Out

2006-02-28T01:53:00.000-06:00

I'm taking a break. Sorry, can't explain.

Just Thinking About it...

2006-02-25T11:31:00.000-06:00

Recently, I was pondering the idea of thinking about dating … not actually "dating" mind you, just thinking about thinking about it. Taking the bold step and actually DOING it seems mightily rash don’tcha think? In my trampoline-like emotional state, I might injure some poor fellow. However, should I ever manage to get myself settled into a place where dating is a possibility, I feel a bit concerned about my options.

Work people = NO. If you met the options at my workplace, this would be a no-brainer. But, even if there were an attractive candidate, those sorts of things can get messy, especially in the rumor-mill of my workplace.
Friends of friends = NO. I’ve tried this before. People always think it’s a good idea, but in reality it’s a horrible idea. Your friends all get their hopes up, and if for some reason you don’t like the guy or he doesn’t like you, you have to spend the next 6 months talking about WHY. It’s a social nightmare. Also, when your friends pick someone for you who they think you’ll absolutely love, and who’s perfect for you but he turns out to have the IQ of a tangerine peel, a girl has to stop and wonder. Is this a reflection of what my friends think of me? Hmmmmm.
Internet = NO? I actually think this is an okay idea, but everyone I know totally FREAKS OUT about it. They’re certain that anyone I meet online is going to be the next Ted Bundy and they’ll find my mutilated corpse in a ditch somewhere. Thus, in order to use this method of meeting people, I have to ease the minds of my loved ones by having a tracking device embedded under my skin (like the one I have for my dog in case she runs away or gets kidnapped). I don’t even have a tattoo or multiple piercings. I’m not sure I’m ready for the Big Brother chip.
Bars & Clubs = NO. Only if I just want sex or a drunk … or sex with a drunk.
The gym = NO. I’m too sweaty and icky when I’m working out. I know there are guys who think sweaty, active women are attractive, but they aren’t talking about ME. Oh no! It’s not pretty. I don’t think I’d want to date anyone who thought so.
Grocery Store = NO. I’ve been grocery shopping for 20+ years, and in all that time I’ve been asked out by one guy in a grocery store (and that was someone I knew, and was semi-stalking). If I have to wait another 20 years and expend that much energy, it’s not worth it.
Other activities = ? That would require thought and ambition. I’ll have to work up to that sort of thing. Remember, I’m still in the pondering stage.

The other thing that keeps me from running for the high dive into the dating pool, are recollections of dating experiences of the past. People are goofy. Men are goofy. Sometimes goofiness is wonderfully endearing. Other times, it’s more than a little disturbing.

Dating Disaster Examples:

Told me about the porn his boss sent him that day (1st date).
Pointed out a girl in the restaurant who he used to date AND proceeded to tell me how crazy she acted when he dumped her (another 1st date).
Asked me point blank how many times we would have to go out before sex (2nd date).
Repeatedly said, "You don’t like me very much do you?" By the end of the night, he was right.
Took me to a strip club (1st date. I was 18 years old. Our Mom’s were church friends).
Got completely shit-faced. I told him he could sleep on the couch. When I came out of the bathroom, he was naked and passed out spread eagle in the middle of my living room floor.
Told me the same jokes that I had told him the week before on the phone.
Stand-up comedian ... he wasn’t funny ... not even a little bit (blind date).
Wouldn’t shut up about what a bitch his ex-wife was.
Thought he smelled something funny. Decided it might be on his hands. Tried to force me smell his finger. Honest to god, he was persistent. "No … seriously Theresa, smell my finger." over and over and over again.
Forgot his wallet … (he’ll pay me pack later) mmm hmmm … still waiting.
Told me how great his ex-wife’s tits were.
Surprise introduced me to his mother on our 2nd date … and told her that I was the girl he was going to marry.

This weekend, I'm going bowling with my friends. I'm coming home early, eating leftover Chinese food in front of the TV and cuddling with my big fuzzy dogs. At least if something smells funny, I'll know it's just a dog fart.