Boy Crazy

I have two children.
Two daughters.
One teen, 14, one almost-ish preteen, 10.

Both boy crazy.  Both headstrong in their own convictions.  

One, I’m trying to teach not to be so apologetic in life.  The other I find myself telling her it wouldn’t kill her to apologize more often.

Both make me proud.  Both make me laugh.  Both are a blessing.

That being said...

Holy teenage crab-ass hormones, Batman.  I hang on for the ride and when her aloofness flares, I bow out.  She comes around, feeling bad and I feel like I won one battle in the war of The Wonder Years.

The Bi Polarism of teenage angst is not a concept lost on me.  I could’ve been it’s poster child, if I would’ve come out of my room long enough to get my picture taken for the poster that is.  My bedroom is where I lived, wrote poetry, did homework, ate, listened to music, stretched the curly cord of my purple phone across my water bed to talk to girls or boys or to girls about boys.  

So I get it.  I really do.  I get it!

Now that the tables are turned, and I’m the mother; yeah.....Not so getable anymore.

Recently was high school freshman orientation.  An assembly to meet and greet for 20 minutes and then get assigned lockers (and their ‘combos’ as we called them back in the day but now when I say it, the child looks at me and snarls.  Obviously, I am not cool).  Class schedules, and kids with their parents were off, for the next 2 hours to have a mini day, complete with bells ringing, meet the teachers, a mock lunch.

First of all, I could feel the short breaths of hyperventilation on the cusp of our night when I watched my soon to be high schooler open her locker.  Of course, she did it with ease and on the first try her locker just *popped* open.  There she stood looking as bored and empty as the locker itself.  Her mission was accomplished, and I wanted to already start the “when I was your age” speech and let her know how many days I dreaded locker opening.  Seriously.  I never had a working locker in all 4 years of high school.  The few days when it seemed to open with only slight kicks and jiggles, I never remembered my combination.  The secretaries in the office knew me well and it had nothing to do with tardiness.

I have to say, the 4 minutes between classes they give the kids to rush from class to class.....hahahaha!  I’m not even going to TRY to hide the fact that I am so damn glad I’m not in high school anymore.  Good luck! God Speed!  And if he doesn’t, you better, because you’re down to 1:45 and you gotta get way the hell over on the other side of the complex.  My biggest fear was being tardy for a class back then, and now, as an adult, I’d like to think I would’ve staged a coup for the unjust time expectations placed upon the youth of ‘Merica.  My daughter tho?  Her and her long legs went through the halls and left me trailing behind (IT’S 1990 ALL OVER AGAIN!) as she loped her way to each class, not breaking a sweat.

In high school, about her age, was when I met her father.  The thought bubble of her meeting, and possibly marrying, a sweetheart from these exact upcoming days, are not foreign to me.  That’s terrifying to think about!  Her father and I had, what I felt, was very good dating years.  We had good college years.  We had good starting years as a husband and wife.  Bought a house young.  Had kids.  It was all okay at first.  It was the nearly 20+ year mark that we tripped and faltered.  Through counseling and resolutions, it was the military aftermath of deployments that finally did us in.  I am blaming no one but ourselves, but it does make me think back to the smiley freshman I once was.  

How life changed for that girl.  It makes me wonder what is in store for my beautiful child.

Will she meet her husband here?  Will it be a boy I’ve known all my life living here in Small Town USA, or will it be some one who whizzes new into town someday?  Will he be her age or will she set her eyes on an older boy with a car? (Dear God, please don’t let him drive a rusted blue pick up truck he nicknames The Heavy Chevy.)

Maybe she won’t meet him here at all.  Maybe, instead, she’ll dawdle here and there in the dating scene and flourish in college, liking being a smaller fish in a bigger pond.  I’ve told her she can’t get married until she is 35 anyway, so we all know where the boundary lines are.

I think back to those days in high school, when I was so in love, a few times, with boys.  There was the older man who I ‘dated’ (I use that term loosely because our relationship boiled down to some slurping and him buying me beer once.)  God, I hope she doesn’t run with that kind of crowd.  I was pure lucky my 14 year old self wasn’t taking it further with that man, who was at least a decade older than me.  There’s a reason that shit’s illegal.  I pray for her safety in those situations, that she is smarter than I ever pretended to be.

There was a boyfriend I had for 3 months (in freshman terms; eternity) that I thought I was in love with, even though I knew he was gay.  I think he’s gay anyway.  I still do.  But, he’s happily married with kids now, and I long ago gave up knowing or caring what goes on behind his closed doors, so I’m left with nothing but memories of a young relationship that at the time I simply over romanticized.  I remember him fessing up to practicing before he kissed me, assaulting his own forearm.  That was my first real kiss; maybe that’s why I thought I was falling.  Young teenage wonder!  Open hearts and open minds!  I know that my daughter will be naive.  I pray that she navigates her naivety better than I.  I pray that if finds herself at an underage party stuck in the middle of a fight with two drunk boys, one hetro, one possibly homosexual, fighting for her attention, she’ll listen to her heart and leave them both there and come home.

I remember the Foreign Exchange student.  Ahhhhh, yes!  The memory really can’t be ignored, folks.  He was the taker of my young innocence.  Neither one of us knew what we were doing that night in the small spare bedroom of his host family.  He spoke fluent English, but he didn’t talk much.  I imagine he was just as nervous and scared as I was.  We went solely on how we thought grown ups acted.  In the dark.  Silent.  Careful not to wake anyone else.  Our friendship lasted well into the final days of summer that year, until he moved back home, far far away.  Eventually there was nothing more to say in the pretense of keeping a friendship open; it was nothing more than the first hookup I was to have.  Nothing more, nothing less. 
I know my child will probably be faced with these moments in the upcoming 4 years, whether or not it actually happens for her, and whether or not I ever find out about it, will be her decision alone.  Maybe as she ages, I find myself letting go a little.  I am secure in my role as parent that I have done, and continue to do, everything I can to inform her of safety and smarts.  I can now only pray she’s been listening, and that God protects her.

I think of the boy who I knew I was in love with.  I spent days driving through his neighborhood, hoping to see him.  He was the first one I imagined life with.  I wondered about it, wrote my first name with his last name in doodles across my journals.  He was my secret.  He was my heavy heart love.  He was the first face who truly caught my eye and made me do a double take.  He stopped my time.  I also knew he was bad news for me.  I knew we had little in common, coming from completely different walks of life. It didn’t matter; I knew I was lost in love.

And then he died.  

Killed in a stupid accident one busy holiday weekend.  Because no one really knew my feelings, I couldn’t, and didn’t, react to his passing.  I simply didn’t.
I pray my daughter never knows that kind of hurt.  But I know she will.  Eventually.

I met her father about this time in my young life.  We were truly friends for some time, group movie outings, bonfires on the weekends with friends, midnight swims at local lakes, we dated around our circle and eventually ending up with each other.  My parents were leery, but grew to respect him.  My mother herself passed before things turned sour for he and I, so I wonder what she would’ve thought about the last breaths into our marriage; the fights, the lawyers and courtroom battles.  It’s almost more sad to me to recall the late nights of two decades worth of family card games with so many laughs, summer bbq’s,  the joys of the births of our daughters, the everyday life we always seemed to celebrate with each other than it is to more recently recall the shittiness of it all going south.

It is bittersweet to think of these memories with the boy who became my husband, making me what I thought happy was.  Into my second marriage now, older and I hope smarter, I dare say I know better what it is to be happy.  I am never disrespected or chastised in public (or private) for my being myself in this relationship.  There are no longer accusations slung across the room out of despair in an attempt to hold onto something that never was his to hold down.  Of course, as that first wife, I belonged to him in some sense of the term but when he began to treat me as I was worth nothing more than his possession, something he was obligated to control, was when I left him.  He could live in denial all he wanted, but I’d be damned if I were to reside there with him.  That boy from my high school years was a man I ended up marrying, true, but in the end, he was nothing resembling a man at all when he refused to support the children he gave me.  

Bittersweet to be sure.  

And truly humbling.

I want my child protected.  I want my daughters, both of them, to be prepared and sheltered from pain, heartbreak, loss.  I know this is not feasible, so I pray our daughter goes into this next phase of growing up being disrespected just enough to fire her up and make her realize she was meant to be no one’s obligation.  Ever. 

I know from experience, out of all the memories and stories, out of all the lessons learned, that is the one that sticks the strongest to our shell as a woman.  

Next Stop! Everybody Off!

If I break down life into segments, I bet I could log weekly events that are blog worthy.  I’ve been saying for too long that I need my own reality TV show.  I’m telling you, there’d be followers and there’d be tweets.  Lots of ‘em.

People tell me my life is easily a 365 daily report waiting to happen.  That’s too much pressure for me.  If I did have a quiet day, and only landed 364 things, I’d feel like I was failing and the pressure would start to mount.  I’ll stick to the 52 per year weekly idea.  There’s wiggle room there.

If something is going to happen to someone, that someone is me.  If someone is going to trip, it’s me who will lose her tooth.  If there is a flying bee, I’m to be stung.  Twice.

If a beautiful river tubing expedition is planned, I will get the guide who forgets to tell me where the pick up spot is, rendering my unsure cruising miles and miles past the intended end spot, resulting in sun burns, exhaustion and delirum (this really did happen, I swear.)

In the words of Bicepual, he declared early in our courting days, “Why does it always have to be an adventure with you?”  I of course told him to quit whining and insisted he continue pulling our tube rafts up the Wisconsin River like a mule herd of Alaskan Huskies.  Mush, boy!

For years, this has been a running joke to those who know me IRL.  Things simply happen to me - not for me, but TO me, around me, by me.  Never fails. 
Surprisingly, Bicepual still got down on one knee and proposed to me a few years back.  Even after I said yes, he didn’t run, but rather actually married me.  Who knows what he was thinking honestly.  Some thrill seekers settle on sky diving or bungee jumping for that adreneline rush.  He married me.

So, here is my latest (weekly if you will) rendition of domestic crazy.  The husband likes to do things; he likes to go out to eat, he likes to go on vacation.  He likes to look the part of the normal family.  A lot.  He loves all these experiences.  I’m not saying I disagree or don’t like them.  I do too.  However our checkbook loathes it, and would frequently lash out in hissy fits of overdraft notices if we didn’t shut the bitch up once in awhile with stealing money from the kids.

I chalk his wanting to be ‘normal‘  to his being married before to someone who, from the lore I hear, hated it.  At least she hated it with him.  God knows she loved it with his friends.  Let’s leave this subject to wither and die here, shall we? 
They didn’t have a good marriage, and it was a short one, almost sentenced to death at the alter of conception.  So he comes from this background of not experiencing time-togetherness, and now, he lusts after just that.  

Time.  

With me.  

His wife.

There is not a week that goes by that Bicepual doesn’t remark that we need to ‘go out‘ because he can’t remember the last time we ‘went out.‘  I’m all for the time with him, don’t get me wrong.  He makes me smile.  He pinches my ass when no one looks, and then he pinches it a second time when he’s sure they are looking.  He opens doors for me.  God, he makes me laugh!  If I could realistically figure out a way to support his habit of wanna be baller 24/7, out and about, I would.  Family life tends to not mesh well with Meth Dealer, and since I already had children, I figured I better not cross career paths.  But in addition to being the wifey, I am also the budgeteer.  Those combined titles suck ass, I might add.  I always know in the back of my head how much (or how little) money we have, and to be a play-ah at the same time, we’re talking oil and water here folks.  Oil and water.

He is, by all accounts, a movie nutjob.  He likes all flicks.  Action.  Rom Com.  Horror.  Comedy.  Chick flicks.  Those ‘other‘ kind of chick flicks.  His favorite movies are James Bondsy type, which peak my interest level at squat BTW, but he’d go to the theatre for just about anything.  I’m in it for the popcorn that comes with the deal to be quite honest.

We planned a dinner out this week for a change up, and that is all he needs to know, that we’re ‘going out’.  He immediately apps up his movie finder on his phone and searches out his top 20 picks.  We settled on a comedy, and I laughed until my smokin’ hot makeup was smudged.  Felt good.  No regrets on that choice.

Dinner was at a sweet little Italian place a friend owns, but a place nevertheless we had not yet been to (Deeeee-lish, BTW Miss K.  We’ll be back.  The on sale whiskey old fashioned sweets didn’t hurt anything but maybe a sliver of my liver either.  My diet consumed the cherries as a fruit of this-is-as-healthy-as-it-gets.)  The north woodsy themed rustic restaurant set back in Tourist Country, nestled due north here of Gods Country, had us walking into a beaut of a mindset that we were, in fact, on a date.

Like any other married couple who gets away to date, the first thing we talked about was the kids.  We eventually moved on to upcoming business plans and the pets exercise regimen (they have none; we’re so proud) so by the time dinner was through, a few bar drinks afterwards, and we were set to go home.

Or so he thought. *menacing snicker*

As he headed south on the highway home, what he didn’t know is that I had cash in my wallet and when I told him to take a different route, he was more perturbed than intrigued that my way added a few extra minutes to his. 

“Pull in.”, I instructed, as I directed him to the parking lot of an adult gift store.  

First of all, let me state, “Porn Store” makes it sound all dingy and slimey, full of rank smells and dark corners where I just know disease and assaults lurk.  But, “Adult Gift Store”...you can just visualize the neon lights of promise, can’t you?  That being said, once parked and pretending to dig through my purse for something I didn’t need, I got out of the car, head held high, and made a beeline for the blacked out front door so no one wizzing by on the highway would make me.  I always expect a full S.W.A.T. team to come blaring in with lights and sirens, and I’ll be left standing there by the door, caught on Live Action Channel 55 News Bust Raid.  Remember, things happen TO me, so I figure it’s only a matter of time.  Kinda surprised it hasn’t happened yet actually.  That reminds me, I should blog about the time my car broke down at this exxxact porn store.  Try explaining that to your cop father.  I’ll save that for another time.

This time, as a jetted quickly to the door, Bicepual excitedly right behind me, I hear him say, “Whoops.  Forgot my wallet.  Be right back.”

And he’s gone.

Leaving me standing there outside the door.  Alone.  *Insert sigh here*  Now the predicament is, do I stand here, alone, in my little dress and fancy sandals, pedicure on, wallet in hand and wait for him, alone?  Or do I go in, alone?

I used to come here often for greeting cards that were the funniest.  I actually shopped here!  You can’t get them anywhere else.  Face it, Hallmark just doesn’t sell naked Easter Bunny cards or risque Cock in a Box birthday cards and actually have a 3D cock jump out at the birthday gal.  I’m so fun to invite.  I used to come here for party supplies when I wanted to jazz up an event with that special touch of just under the lip of inappropriateness.  You’d think I’d be familiar enough with the idea of a place like this, but the truth is, I am not.  Blame my Catholic upbringing if you’d like, but walking into a porn store is an adrenline rush of this-is-me-behaving-badly attitude.  I want to be excited about it all, and then I immediately feel shame for wanting to be excited.  (Just go in for cripes sake, I told myself).

I decided to wait for Bicepual.  The 2 minutes it took him to go back to the car seemed like forever, and I feverishly examined the wooden porch on the building like a professional house flipper looking for termite damage.  Dawdle.  Dawdle.  Dawdle.  

He finally made his way and we walked in.  Carded and given the schpeel as to not take pictures or video within the building, we were welcomed by Tina, the shoeless wonder (seriously she was walking around in socks.  At least the matched her sweats.) and set free.  Amid the other couples there, we were the only people looking at the couple stuff.  Everyone else came through the doors to go directly to the Pipe section.  By their smell and foggy eyes, you knew they weren’t there to roll their own Marlboros.  But, they sure were happily foggy, I’ll give them that.  As random people gathered around the bongs and pipes, we went on our misguided way to the back of the store.

“I have $100 cash.  You can pick out anything you want, but it’s gotta be your decision.”

This is what I said, and this is my idea of voluptious seducing of my dear husband.  Am I awesome or what?

As we looked together throughout the store, we eventually separated into our own mini worlds within and I perused many a simple, yet sometimes delieriously complicated and confusing products meant to help in the means of, well, getting off.  In the dire state of the world today, is this such a bad thing?  If you’re an adult, and responsible, why not just get off for God’s sake?  Feels good.  Makes you happy.  While life is the longest thing we do, it is too short folks.  Drop your panties at the door with your judgments and just go in already!  (I should write Hallmark cards.  Fo’ real.)

As I eventually made my way to the oils and lotions and gooey things section, I see a bouncy ponytail and socks hopping my way.  Tina.
I wonder how many Facebook friend requests she gets after a weekend on the clock.  How many inbox messages she receives that start with, “You sold me some gack, and now I have this itching sensation....”

Tina barges in on my bubble. 
“This is my favorite!” she offers and grabs in front of me to a musky lube oil and shoves the sample right under my nose.
“Oh! Oh! And I have this one in my own bedroom!” She giggles. 

I think in pictures, so now I have a socked version of a mini Polly Anna porn running my through my head, complete with the smells of Blueberry Bliss.  

Never gonna get that outta there.  

Never, ever.

Bicepual is lost to the back corner of pumps and dolls, wedges and movies (told ya, he’s a movie guy.  And the genres......good lord.  They cover everything don’t they? Midget black bi playing dress up with animals to Top 40 hits of the 60’s.  Sheesh.  Can we get a little more specific?) and while he didn’t officially pick out any of those (silent personal prayer answered on the pump subject, let me tell you), he did settle on a few unmentionables (Don’t ask.  I am not telling.  Come on, even I have to have a filter somewhere here).  I trudged my way to Tina’s raised check out stand.  Raised, as in above the level of the floor my peon self stood on.  Raised, as in she stepped up to ring up our merchandise.  She’s like a socked verison of Princess Kate, a little less polished, reigning over her Triple X kingdom from aloft.  I expected her to wave and throw gold coins.

For what we bought that night, it wasn’t so intimidating.  Had to pay cash of course. In small town America, one can’t risk all the neighbors who work at the local banking instituion see that transaction come through on the old debit card.  You never know who’s going to have one too many PBR’s at the next reunion picnic and mention it to LuLu Lips.

“Because you’re a girl....” (thanks for noticing, Princess) Tina said, as she threw in a handful of, no coins, but freebie flicks and lubes, promotional items (how’d ya like to be that salesman?)  And we were on our way.

Am I more common, run of the mill, than I’d think?  Do all self resepecting middle aged housewives end a dinner date at a porn store?  I wonder just how rare I am.

Awesome wife, or tainted citizen?  

Great date, or menace to society?

After our date, I began to actually ponder if things don’t just happen to me, rather maybe I make them happen, by posing such freakish moments like this weekend.  It was my idea after all.  Maybe I’m just.  that.  awesome. of a wife!  Maybe I’m asking for these times, which undoubtedly will be marked as odd or weird, asking for nothing but trouble at some turn down the road.  Maybe somewhere inside, I want the stories and the experiences.  Naysayers will tsk, tsk me and my unconventional ideas.  Some will think I’ve lost my mind.  Maybe they’re right.  I might need more faith, more discipline, maybe it will fall apart for Biceupal and I because of such outlandish ‘standards‘ in our relationship.

Then I think, eh, he married into it.

It All Happens For a Reason

Being responsible for a blog is draining.  Perhaps this is why out of the million times in the past when I tried starting a blog, something went off course and derailed my commitment.  Maybe I get bored.  Maybe I got boring.

I am waiting for inspiration to hit me around every corner now, and it's downright damn responsible.  I expect to be presented some topic I can spin for my benefit.  Can I write about the coworker the other day that I saw, and I say this as fairly descriptive as I can, "flip her shit", at a new task presented to her that she obviously felt was beneath her?  Can I write about how annoyed I am when, at a store, the person behind me, peers over me to check out what I'm checking out, and feels the need to comment on it all.  

"Oooh.  Nice shoes.  I can't wear sandals like that.  I'm allergic to bees." This was a legitimate quote that I swear happened to me.  Where do I go from there?  Ask her what kind of shoes she does like?  Was she at a family reunion when the stinging took place?  Which foot was it, anyway?  Maybe I can remind her to carry an Epi-pen.

I didn't have much inspiration today to be honest.  So I dug up an old diary I started on this laptop a few years ago.  I reread it from start to finish.  It was 8 months of daily entries, in the year after I was divorced.  Some days I was sad, some days I was remorseful.  Some days, I was just glad to be moving on.  Some days, man, I was really, really pissed off.  Rereading it all tonight, I cried.  It is impossible for me to scratch the surface of those feelings and have no core emotional connection to them, even after a few years.  My very last entry was what you see below.  A little too much information, I'm sure (which is what my lawyer would warn, if I could afford to keep one on retainer), so consider this your buffer.  You've been warned.

------------------------------------------------

Oct 18, 2011

Sometimes my life doesn't make sense to me.  When it doesn't click with others, I could give two craps less.  But when it doesn't click with me, when I have to stop to ponder why things work one way and not the other, or if I second guess myself with a "what in the hell is she doing?" (in 3rd person nonethelesss), I don't like it.  The fact that I'm thrown, throws me more.  I'm not a control freak, but I bet every mom out there has a twinge of this need to be in the know.  It's a mother thing in the very least.  

This morning, sound asleep, (Bicepual) wakes me up for a nice romp in the hay.  I'm talking kissing and slurping in all the right places.  Cupping and tugging things perfectly.

And it wasn't enough.

I just couldn't get there.  Oh, that pisses me off.  I lost concentration.  The more he tried talking me through it, "What ARE you thinking about then?" the less I wanted to explore my psyche and just felt the need to remove myself from the now defunct attempt at some sexy hot lovin.  I left the bed to shower and get ready for the day.  Tracking back through the bedroom in the dark to get my socks on in this shitty weather turning shittier, when he called me over, his affectionate arm rub and "it happens to everyone" token of encouragement and support almost made me laugh.  

Almost.  

Not a good way to start my day.

I hope the coffee gets me off.

---------------------------------

The very last sentence, of the very last entry I created, was there, in the making, and it obviously stuck in my head for something of what I would call future importance.  So now you know.  And now I remember. 

I'm struck by the first sentence as well - second guessing myself in particular.

In conversations with people, I can tell they get irritated when I say things like "Things happen for a reason."  Bicepual and I have taken this law of the universe and we've chewed it up, gagged on it's karma-esque bitterness, swallowed, and realized, actually, that it is a fine delicacy to the taste buds of our life.   

But people don't want to hear that.  

When I met Bicepual, I was just starting to divorce Hub # 1 (I cringe that I have to keep them in numerical order.  Loser Alert.).  I'm fairly certain that he didn't think to himself how lucky he was to have met a married mother of 2 who would spend the next 2 years crying.  I'm sure he didn't feel much better when he quietly found himself falling in love with me.  But, things happen for a reason.

In fact, I told him, this can be fun and all, but no love.  Noooooo love.  We say it, and it's done.  So, he played by the rules.  He refused to say it.  He never let on.  Nights of movies and dinners and crying (mine, not his), and he played the part well of gentleman friend.  

I was the first one to tell this new beau I was falling for him.  I accidentally let it slip.  Never, ever in my life had I been so careless.  I really did not do it on purpose.  I had no idea he felt that way about me, I was most certain that with letting the cat out of the bag, I'd chase him away.  But with my slip, the gates opened up to a wonderful relationship I currently have.  Everything happens for a reason.

Lost jobs and cut hours have opened us up to time that we didn't even know we needed.

Time away from each other has made us appreciate the other all the more.

Time with each other has made us appreciate private time all the more.

Recently, I had a man tell me of 3 people he knew who all lost an infant or young child within 6 months of each other.  He explained how it rocked their hometown.  How sad it all was.  I'm smart enough of a person to get it, but know that I will never, God willing, get it.  

I saw my parents lose a child.  It makes no difference if the child lost is 3 or 31.  When my friend said it wasn't fair, I heard his need for understanding, and agree to it as I may, I still found myself eventually saying, "It all happens for a reason."

The friend looked oddly my way, and challenged, "Why not take a serial killer then?  Why a kid?"

My reply did not help in his quest for a right and just answer, but I said, "Serial killers are someones child too." and our conversation dryly came to an end.

By saying things happen for a reason, I mean no fluffy spin on something sad or deterring.  I'm not blissfully ignorant when it comes to someone's pain.  Sometimes, I think humans look past the obvious.  That old saying, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck.....sometimes you gotta call it as it is; a duck.  Or sad.  Or just really shittingly unfair.  I don't think bad things are meant to happen; I think the good leading up to it, or the first smile after it, is what the plan was all along.  

I think of my own brother dying.  If I had a dollar for every time I heard someone say, "Wasn't right.  Parent isn't supposed to bury a child." I tell ya, I'd have a lot of dollars. There was definitely days we didn't feel strong so I don't always succumb to the 'what doesn't kill you makes you stronger' attitude.  I think more of the smaller things, like hearing someone at the time say, if you're ever under a street light, and the light suddenly goes on, or blinks off, while you pass underneath it, that's your brother saying hello.  You know something?  In the 22 years since he died, a million times over, I've been under a street light, and it's blinked at me, either on or off, and I've come to hear my own children beat me to it, and say aloud, "Hi Uncle Bill."  

They never even met him.  

So maybe that's what meant to be.  Maybe it's not for me; maybe it's not even for them, but maybe it's a lesson that will be carried on down to their children's children, who will someday be grieving over their own horrific loss and they will find comfort in a blinking light and it will give them enough courage for one more day of living on.  I believe that.  I have to believe in that.  

And that's what makes not having a perfect life perfect to me.  If I had the ability to alter outcomes in my universe, would I want to?  Sure.  Would I?  Not so sure.  I'd think about it, kick it around a lot.  But had I taken any single day in my life, from my earliest memory on, and changed it, while it may temporarily alter my feelings for the better, it would simultaneously alter who I was to become.

I'm happy where I am right now.  Just as unsure and insecure as the next woman, I am confidant in the person I am.  Had I stopped my brother dying?  Maybe I wouldn't have that type of assuredness.  I would have never learned to speak in public, approach city council meetings, or tackle touchy, heated debates.  He died, and I did those things at a very young age.
What if I stopped my marriage to #1?  It's obvious I wouldn't have the little girls I have, who make me laugh, every single day.  They lighten my burdened heart when nothing else can, and their hugs make my get up again and again.
The divorce?  Ahh, the divorce.  Should I have stopped that?  The pain, the tears, the utter sadness, the sense of betrayal that left it's scar so deep inside me, I still have issues because of it?  It would have been easier to not have all that happen, but who would it make me as the 38 year old woman I am today?  Will it have strengthened me for something that is to happen when I turn 50? 80?

I'd bet I wouldn't pre-empt much, given the opportunity.  Fate catches up.  Either with me or with my child, or so on down the line.  I'd much rather stay the blindfolded course I'm on, trusting along the way, and see where this all turns out.  My own little scavenger hunt if you will.  I'll always hope the coffee gets me off.  Always.  But for the days it doesn't, maybe I'll just slow down long enough to learn something new about myself.

It Smells Like Hubba Bubba and Excitement All Up In Here

There are certain questions everyone wants the answers to in life.  

Some may ponder their meaning, their purpose. Some question why bad things happen to good people.  The next may seek out the fountain of youth or how to obtain internal peace with oneself.

I want to know how people have sex in cramped quarters.  

This is seriously the kind of shit I think about.

I hear my friends say they want the excitement of, say, hot monkey love in a public bathroom.  I assume (and hope to all things holy) that the ‘monkey’ is simply implied for a much more animalistic version of the love they currently have.  (I don’t ask too many questions out of fear it isn’t.)

I’m going to pass by the obvious points I could make here of uncleanliness and ever present disease that I assume are just stuck to every surface, handle and knob (pun very much intended, folks.  Stay with me.) in a public restroom and go right to the logistics of how this is accomplished.  We’re all adults here, so I rest securely in the discussion that is about to take place.  Knowing the lot of some of you reading this, I probably shouldn’t be so secure.  I digress and forge on.

When I hear of people pining for a desire for infatuated love making as noted above, to a certain degree, I get it.  I get that, as a woman, you want to feel desirable.  Insatiable.  Immediate.  I want mah man, young Bicepual in my instance, to look at me and declare, “DA-YUM!” and come at me like the cougar I’ve been accused of being.  I hear my male friends long for the days when they were crazy and wild, how they want a sliver of the hot hormone driven days of their youth back, how they just want their woman to meet them at the door, not merely naked, but nekked naked, sexually dripping something down her cleave.  But as I near 40 (it’s always down the road somewhere, and I’m okay with it), I am turning more into a practical type person, like, I don’t want to tent camp unless the tent is in a jacuzzi room at the Hilton and by “tent” I mean king size bed, with extra pillows.  Chocolate and S’mores are still a must tho.

This is my issue; I think in pictures.  My mom used to have this curse, and it has definitely carried onto me.  When my friend so-and-so tells me, “Gosh, I wanted him to take me right there in the tavern parking lot, it was so hot!” I think, “Wait a minute.  Um.  Ew.” because my brain has already started downloading that specific parking lot.  I see pictures of spit loogies and gum stuck to the pavement, which now happens to be on her ass, then I run down the path of pondering if I know this friend well enough to know what kind of panties she wears, and I would bet silk that rides up her rear end uncomfortably, so she would most definitely want to ditch those suckers fast and then how do you explain the smell of Hubba Bubba and excitement to your recovering self the next morning in a hungover haze?

Visually and mentally, I am so distracted.  Not to mention emotionally harmed at this point.  All my senses are already finishing her sentence.  I see the kissing and the groping, I hear the slurping, but I also smell the Miller Lite and Watermelon gum.  My self gags, and quite honestly, I hope it’s the smell that’s doing it and not the thought of imaginary groping.  I’d like to think I’m above all that.  

So if I hear of Restroom Ridiculousness ensuing, I first think of every ladies’ room I’ve ever been in (I’m not even going to fathom sex in a men’s room...talk about the bad kind of gagging.  Ack!).  High-end restroom or highway oasis truck stop, every woman’s room has weird tile somewhere in it.  Browns or mustards or odd greens.  This is just not an acceptable means of me getting into my groove.  Sorry, boys.  

There is always a dripping faucet and I can only imagine it would make my wandering mind think of paying the water bill soon so it’s not late this month again.  Speaking of water, have you EVER NOT seen water spillage across the vanity top in a public bathroom?  It makes me believe bathroom users are just as uncouth as they come.  Can you not even get your hands in the sink when you wash them?  Do you hold your thumb over the spigot end like we did when we were 8, trying to make the garden hose spray further?  I know that brown, shitty paper towel bathrooms have suck dick in the field of absorption, but could you at least pretend to mop it up afterwards so I have somewhere to put my purse when I wash my own damn hands, please?

You see where this is going, and why I’d make a terrible hot tryst to someone.  I remember one time trying to recreate some version of unrealistic sex by giving it up on a staircase.  Rug burns and hurt pride don’t even begin to cover the muscle pain in my back on that night.  So, no thank you.  

“Fun” outside up here in God’s Country will land your pretty parts in poison ivy, deer poop or ticks.  So, no thank you to that too. 
I’m left to wrestle with what’s left over, and what it means for my inner seductress. 
Am I boring?  Does he want me out of desire, or out of familiarity?  Is he settling for me?

These are truly questions I’ve asked, many times over.  While I don’t think I’m a necessarily insecure person, reading it in text form now, I sound as if I’m wailing from my floor, “I just wannnnnt someone to lovvvvvve meeeeee...” from the bedroom of lost souls.  

So here’s where I’ve found the delicate balance of sex kitten VS. old marm for what it’s worth; I cook dinner for the family and sometimes I think back to the time a friend sent me a homemade porn shot of how he “attacked” a plate of berries on a nice summer day.  Domestic chore VS. Sex Kitten fodder, even if it’s a very distant memory.  Visual.
I light incense, every single night, to end the evening & close the day.  This is a ritual I’ve gotten myself into, and sometimes I’m sound asleep before the stick even burns down, but I drift off to the exotic smells of Myrrh or Jasmine and remind my psyche of every bad romance novel I’ve ever read.  It’s never as easy as they’d want me to believe, but.  Aroma.

I try to shave daily.  To this end, I am annoyed 6 times a week, for sure.  But as I slip into bed at night, I feel smooth legs, and feel good, no matter if my jeans were a little too tight today or not.  If Bicepual isn’t around to feel it, I can feel it myself.  Touch.
I kiss him.  Whether it’s morning or night or a dozen times in between, I suck the tiniest bit of his lip into mine at some point in the day.  That nip can linger on my lips or be gone before he’s out the door, but the point is, I take his flavor in.  Maybe a bit of a stretch, but, taste.

I remember wilder days of parties and flirting.  I know what it felt to have a carefree take on the future, anything was possible and fun.  God! It was so much fun.  Now tho, I look forward in the knowledge that if sex doesn’t end up getting crazier as I age, it will always continue to get better and that’s what keeps it hot for me.  I used to look forward to the hook up, the parking lots and, you know, the gum in life.   What I now realize is dentures may not be able to handle Watermelon Hubba Bubba. 
Sexy lace doesn’t really hide adult diapers well.  

Bunyons are a bitch in stripper heels.

Aging can be a relentless dominatrix of self loathing. I’m not quite there yet, but I will be.  We all will be.  While my wits are still about me, I’d like to try to figure it out.  Who knows where it will take me.  I may no longer be taking applications, but I’m always open to suggestions.

Hate is an Easy Way Out for the Weak

I did not, nor do not, want this blog to turn out to be an "I hate my ex" blog. 

Truth is, I don't want to hate him.  His haters, ie my supporters, will take issue with that statement.  They may in turn spew some hate my way.  Which will in turn lead me to say I'm hating them for a day, bitch about them to Bicepual, and then he'll feel the hate towards them as well.

I'm confused and lost in so much un-love.

With all the name calling and dirty tricks played out in the course of our break up, my anger toward the man I was with for nearly 20 years, manifested itself in one little thought bubble, "I hate him."  The wailing, the lawyers, the fighting; "I hate him!"  The custody arguments, the money discrepancies; "Ohh, God I hate him!"  It got fairly easy to say, actually.

Time has passed.  The tricks are getting less conniving and dis pleasurable.  They happen so infrequently now, or at least I react to them so infrequently.  It was a long time ago for me and I wouldn't dare speak for him, but I have to think the fun has got be sucked out of it for both of us.

For quite some time, I wished upon the Divorce Fairy to grant him a new girlfriend.  I wanted him to have a distraction (which is the nice way of saying, "God! I hate you! Get off my ass!") and thought he could concentrate on anything but my life.  That's all I really wanted.

The Divorce Fairy (I imagine her name is Sheniqua.  Something you'd remember.  Someone you know could bend your neck like a flex-straw if she had to), like any other god like, mythical, power enforcing individual, does not grant wishes on your demand.  It's all on her time.  And she came through for me a few weeks ago.

"Mom.  Dad got a girlfriend. Her name is A."

And there I sat.  Knowing they were watching my exact reaction, I know they feed off me and my emotions. Would I be angry?  Would they see me cry?  Would I pepper with them with a million questions? 

"A" is into things he's into.  She's into the stock car racing and the raising young kids (I hear she has an 8 year old son).  I don't know if she's a good mother.  I don't know if she can cook or if she has a good sense of humor.  I didn't ask a lot of questions, and I certainly will not give him the pleasure of having me ask.  Not yet anyway. 
My children tell me she's nice.  So that matters. And that, for now, is where I will leave it.

Yet, I find myself remembering the hate he and I threw at each other for so long, and a lot of it stemmed from me having met Bicepual.  When I began to create a life with this younger version of man, the ex told my kids he was probably a pedophile and might harm them.  That left me to deal with the sobs of misunderstanding on their end.  How do you explain, "sorry kids, you're dad is being a douche canoe." without saying, "sorry kids, you're dad is being a douche canoe."?  How do you let your kids know that their dad is just so mad at their mom, that he wants to hurt her?  How do you explain aching heartbreak?

You don't.  You hug them, you love them, you remind them just how safe they are.  And secretly, you tell your own soul, "I hate him."  For the hurt and the tears and the pain. 

So when the kids now drop the "new girlfriend" bomb, awaiting my reaction, I don't give them much.  I mutter, "that's nice." and steer the topic elsewhere eventually.  Over more time, details come out about "A", and in the shroud of secrecy he seems to have perfected with our kids, he won't tell them her last name (they're old enough to ask her themselves, duh) or her age.  They don't know how old she is.

But I do. 

She's about the same age as Bicepual.  Just as young. 

Just! 

As!

Young! 

Thank you Sheniqua!  If he was smart enough to understand what it means to eat proverbial crow, I'd remind him now.  Alas, I don't waste my time.  I find myself wanting to cringe, "Ihatehim" now, having put me through what he did for something that never had to be, only to have him commit the same crime a short few years later.  Oddly, I instead think, "Bout time.  I hope he's happy" and with that I realize I must not hate him.  Thought I did!  Swore I did!  Maybe, I don't.

Maybe I want what's better for him, and I realized some time ago, that was no longer me.  People think I fell under the spell of greener grass promises, but I truly have never been that naive.  Bicepual and I, together now, still have bills to pay, family we sometimes don't want to see, arguments over jobs, kids, life.  We're typical.  We're normal.  We fight, and we laugh.  We make up and we say we're sorry. 

That never happened in my first marriage.

So...

Dear Sheniqua,
I wish one more time; 
I hope he's happy.  I hope he moves on.  I hope he's smart with this one.  Or the next.  Or the one after that.  Whatever it takes.  I hope he's better to her.  I hope he's learned a few things, and I hope I've taught them to him.  I no longer wish his MiniMe rots and falls off, so you can cancel that request.
Kthanksbye.

Save The Boobies!

I am fairly certain my husband will never read one of the blog entries I create.  He'll say he doesn't have the time.  He'll say I should just tell him what I write.  Fact is, I know he doesn't like to read.  Period.  It's just not his thing.  So I'm pretty sure I can post things about him here and he'll never know about it until I walk in the front door and say, "You better check my blog..."

Still in a hotel, miles away from home, I talked last night to hubby (aka HA aka AK aka Thick Arms aka Bicepual).  He sent me a hello text before going into the drudgery of the night shift at his local employment. After a few niceties, he sent the words that always make my heart skip a passionate beat.

"I love you.  I wish you were here."

Little texts like this freeze a moment in time for me.  I love this man.  He always tells me he loves me.  He always opens doors for me.  Ahh!  Chivalry!!

I decided to play coy.  Coy is cute, right?  Flirtatious.  Keep the home fires burnin', right?  Make him work for it sistah!

I replied, "You do now?  Why is that?"

*Dingaling* New text from Bicepual!

"Because I miss yer tits."

Ahhhhh....Chivalry, The jury is in.  You have been sentenced to the death.  Off with your head!

*sigh* It wasn't quite the answer my loins were yearning for, let's put it that way.  But, that was last night, and as I spent my Sunday morning sleeping in, what do you think I did when I finally woke up?  I went bra shopping.

If my other personalities are ever to emerge, I am certain there will be a 12 year old boy who makes himself known.  I'm slightly obsessed with boobs.  I grasp just how different we all are.  It intrigues me.  Women's body differences intrigue me.  I'm that wife who points out hot chicks to Bicepual before he notices them (or at least before he wants me to catch him sneaking a glance).

I can get jealous.  It's human nature.  But there are some damn good looking women out there.  And noticing them is human nature too I believe.  What I find interesting is that no matter what shape or size we are, our complaints seem to be comparative.  At one point or another, I've heard every single one of my friends complain about the "girls."  I feel not so alone.  While I can't really gather with the small chested people to compare notes, for the sake of this post, I'm going to assume you have your own list of complaints, and somewhere it all becomes relative on a global scope.

I remember hearing my own mother tell a sister, "She might as well just get used to 'em.  You have 'em.  I have 'em.  Your grandma had 'em." referring to our well endowed-ness.  It's a generational bouncy cross to bare, people.  Even now, as an adult, I can say my closest friends are big breastsesed.  Did we search each other out?  Did we feel a universal connection?  We complain together of boob sweat on hot summer days.  We complain of no bra rightfully fitting.  When I was an audience member on The Price is Right years ago, I asked my mom for pricing guidelines of Jamaica trips, Tide laundry detergent, and what the California standard emissions code meant for new cars.  My mother, a die hard apostle of the show, had only one piece of advice.  "Please wear a decent bra.  I don't want to see you COMIN' ON DOWN if you actually get picked."  Thanks mom.

I don't jog out of fear the gals will hold an uprising.  The last time I was a B cup, I think I was in the 4th grade.  There is a family story that everyone but me finds funny about the time I was videotaped horseback riding.  My own teenager blames me, as if somehow because I knew about it, I should have intervened on her behalf ("I got these from YOU!" She recently scolded me.)  Bicepual typically asks me on a monthly basis, "don't you get tired of carrying them suckers around?" as if I could simply detach them when I felt in need of a 'yoga pants' kind of a day.

At any given time, I hate my body.  I reason I look okay from a side angle, but from front on, I call myself a linebacker.  I have so many cute frilly nighties that I don't wear because my arms look like stuffed sausages without the forgiving benefit of the casing to keep it smoothly contained.  At least once a day, usually while getting dressed in my closet, I utter obscenities.  My husband, being a man and all, could spend the day just watching me get dressed.  He does this all the time in fact and it fucking stresses me out!  The more stressed I get, I swear the fatter I feel, and all of a sudden, nothing fits right and clothes are flung all over the floor like there's been one helluvan orgy.  Only with a lot less sex.  Bicepual will watch me dress, hear me cuss, see me fling a shirt, watch me dress again, and the whole time he's just standing there.  Watching me.  Blinking.  When we first got together, I assumed he was watching the circus freak, wondering what the hell he got himself into, while in fact, I've learned, this ritual turns him on.

Of course he wants to watch.  He's a guy.  Show him a boobie, caged or not, and he can't remember his first name.  Zing!  Pow!  Gone.

It's not all bad tho.  True, I curse these blessed things.  I hated getting the attention when I was  a new teenager because I didn't know how to harness it.  I didn't know what the attention meant.  I was too young to want to use it to my advantage.  I was finding myself intrigued back then, but sound rationale still had me believing boys had cooties.

I don't mean to come off ungrateful.  I may feel like I'm wrestling a pack of pythons into a mesh bag, (I really hate these suckers some days), but I've learned how to use 'em bay-by!  When I want.  I can't take the shoulder pads out of my linebacker girth because it's the way God made me.  I can however, spend a day, like today, bra shopping because all I need to hear is it's my husband's take on what intrigues him.  

I can work it when it's called for.  Case in point?:
He's not asking for directions?  We're fighting in the car?  I strategically tighten the seatbelt just so //, betwixt the ladies.
I want to feel like I still got it?  We have a dinner out coming up?  I spend all day, declaring myself ready, "whenever" and then run into the closet 5 minutes before we leave and slip on whatever it is it took me 17 trials 3 days ago to nail.  Then I just watch his reaction when I come out.  "Wha?  This ole' thang?" (I don't know how I develop a southern belle accent in times like this, but it seems to make my point more accurate.)
I'm having one of those "fat days" we all feel, no matter the number on the scale?  I know the clothes won't matter, but me wearing the diamond necklace he gave me (marking the anniversary of the day he met me....awwww...Praise Jesus!  It's a miracle!  Chivalry has been resuscitated!!), it will dangle exactly where he notices it.

So, off I went, into the dark corners of the frilly section of some stores.  As any normal, well adjusted 12 year old boy, I start to feel like I don't belong here.  I snort when the clerk asks me if she can fit me. As if!  
I'm not responsible enough to be trusted in here.  I once wore a thong incorrectly for an entire day and didn't realize it.  I can't shop at the likes of Vicky's Hush Hush stores.  In fact, when I do go in there, I walk out incredibly pissed off and vow to start a new diet.   I don't ever spend less than $45 dollars on a bra.  And that alone pisses me off.  The material alone probably costs at least the much I figure.  Lo, the trials and tribulations of the big breasted.

I found a few coverings that caught my eye so I took them, and a few other essentials into the dressing room.  I am NOT joking when I say this; the first bra I tried on, I got caught in.

I got caught.

Like a trapped rat!

IN THE BRA!

I should have my own personal assistant just to help me get through the day, I swear to God.

I really liked this bra, so I got naked in front of the 3 way illuminated mirror (really? like I need the strips of bulbs to light up like an airstrip?) and grabbed bra # 1.  The straps were twisted and I realized they were detachable.  That may come in handy some day if I dared to go strapless, or woke up stupid one day.  Ok, cool.  My palms were already sweating, so I didn't take the time to fix the straps, but rather tried it on twisted, knowing I could fix it later.

Then I noticed it was reversible.  Bonus, or more confusion?  It's a horse apiece.  I was already thinking this bra was not worth the trouble.  High maintenance 100 % cotton P.O.S., she was.  She needed to be put in her place, so I placed her alright.  On me.  After I detangled myself, gave a silent prayer that cameras are illegal in changing rooms, I realized it was a front clasp sucka.
Okay, the last time I owned a front clasp over the shoulder boulder holder (my daughters laugh hysterically when I call them this), I think I was 13.  It was at this point in time in the changing room that I knew this was a lost cause.

But, to my surprise, the bra fit.  It was a plunging zebra print (I'm too old for this) on one side, and purple (my favorite color!) on the other side.  The plunge itself scared me.  Nothin' on this bod should be held in by a plunging anything, okay?  Let's just state it and leave it at that.
But, it fit.  I checked the back.  I checked the sides.  I ignored the straps.  I hopped.  I bent down at a 90 degree angle and hopped again.  (Yes men, women really do this kinda crap in the dressing room).  And it still fit.   *harumpf*  Go figure.  So I slipped a dress on that I brought in with me.  I loved this dress!  Deep sea blue, to the floor, with a knitted sleeveless collar continuing to the back.  HOT!  Fit me, but the length was all wrong.  Before I took it off (fighting the urge to chuck it out into the hallway at the closest unsuspecting stupid whore ass skinny mannequin), I was stopped in my tracks by the plunge under cloth.

Ho Lee Sheet.  The girls said, "THANK YOU"!  No, really, I actually heard it.  One said Thank, the other shrieked You!  I bought the bra, along with another more practical one, and some other dresses (no thongs, thankyaverymuch!) and walked out.

I plan on going home in a few days and before I immediately shove these unmentionables in the back of my drawer, where they belong, I will be wearing the Mistress Plunge and her companion Ms. Sundress to see if Bicepual really did miss us all as much as he claims he did.  And when my cups filleth over, as they always do, I'm just gonna whip the bra on the floor along with the shirts, declare it a  bra free zone for the day, and be thankful I have the guy to notice.

"Women are always complaining about men's fascination with breasts.  But what if men were absolutely indifferent to breasts?  What would women do then with these things that serve one function once or twice in a lifetime, and the rest of the time are just in the way?"
~ J. Carroll

Self, We Have to Have a Heart to Heart....

Last night, I did something.  Something big.  Something huge.  Something sweaty and down right naughty.  Socially taboo! 

I UN-blocked all the people I had blocked on Facebook.

God save the Queen, right?!  Tell me about it.

Set Scene:
A hotel room off a busy Indiana freeway.  Me; alone, on bed, boredeom sets in, forcing me to aimlessly surf through old photos and quotes and I began deleting or rearranging them as I saw fit.  I’ve been on Facebook (Or “Da Book” as I now shall call it), long enough to have many pictures and thoughts I posted years ago no longer define my standing or the resemblence of who I am any longer.  This idle looks-y into the past eventually brought me to the security division of Da Book, and I found myself bringing up my blocked list.

For those of you in the know, you KNOW, you know?  Now for those of you somehow reading a blog, but you don’t have Da Book, I shall fill you in. When you get blocked by someone on Da Book, you have a range of emotions.  Ohhh!! The emotions! 

Did she get off Da Book? (“Genuine Concern”)

I see he’s still in a relationship with her. (“Stumped Confusion”)

Did she unfriend me?! (“Shockingly questioning”)

DID SHE BLOCK ME?! (“Denial”)

THAT BITCH! (“Outrage!”)

WTF!? (“Demanding an Answer from the gods of Da Book” see also “Whyyyyy!?”)

I never liked her that much anyway. (“Reason”)

Pfffft.  I hope they’re happy with each other. (“Settlement”)

He’s too good for her. (“Can’t ever have too much Reasoning.”)

You get the idea here.  It’s a bad feeling.  Someone was your friend on a social networking sight, given glimpses into your daily life, your fun times with family, read your notes and your surveys and your takes on life, followed along with your educational and career triumpfs, and voted on whether or not you should get high lights or low lights at your next cut.  They approved of your duck lips when no one else would.  There was poking involved.  They “liked” you, for God’s sake!  Now, they don’t even want to be your friend. 
It is the new school version of “na na na na boo boo - you’re not my friend anymore!”

It’s a little bit devastating to be honest.

But!!  The tables can turn.  When YOU block someone!!?? OOOhhhhh, the glory of a block on Da Book!!  Am I right or am I right?  The surge of power as your mouse arrow hovers over the “Are you sure?” question, somehow making it all the more final in your head.  Yes.  YES!  I am sure.  I think I’m sure.  What if I’m not sure?  What if they notice and then get angry and then stop me at the grocery store to throw frozen peas at me like little steeled gun pellets?!  I must tho.  Yes I am sure.  I shall block this peon because of their weird posts/stalking/lookstheygiveme/trust issues etc.  Thou talked too much shit about thy and now, BE GONE! 

It’s as easy as that, and it is an empowering feeling. 

When I got divorced, I blocked everyone that stopped me on the street to point a finger at me.  These were people I had known all my life.  I blocked his family.  I blocked some of our friends.  And I had good reasons to; they all had opinions I didn’t want to hear.  *sticks tongue out*

The opinions expressed on the streets of God’s Country USA are sometimes hard to swallow.  Some say they are traditional values; some say they are close-minded.  The ones said to your face are tough; the ones you hear spoken behind your back, devastating.  No one’s made of stone.  I am no exception.  So, yeah, it hurt when his sister called me a bad mother.  It bent my vision of love when he called me a cunt (Footnote; when he told me I ruined his life, I took it as my personal invititation to stop ruining such a perfect obvious specimen of man.  I filed.)  It blew to hear friends say I was making a mistake by leaving him because I couldn’t do any better.  It was scary when the 2 drunk friends showed up in the middle of the night because they wanted to “talk”.  It really was kinda shitty for his cousin to come over and try to force himself on me since I was now “single”.  I didn’t appreciate the breaking in, forcing me to change locks, or the letters in the mail about my children, or having to go to the police department and start the investigation procedures, so I blocked the persons who did it. Some of our friends were all of a sudden not OUR friends; they were his and his alone, and they were going to make darn sure I understood where the lines were drawn in the sand and what my expectations if life were to be.

So I blocked them.  They all had different reasons.  And let me tell you, I went on a mothereffing blocking spree!  It felt so good.  Like get tipsy for the first time kinda good, the room spinning just enough to make you tell funnier jokes but not the pukey spins yet.  Freeing, and for a moment, I was a better dancer but that had more to do with the sexy allure of a new young boyfriend who took me out (IE another blog someday).  For a while, my blocking fueled their despise for me.  In a small town, talk is cheap, but rumors and gossip are sought after with 24 karat gold value.  As I began to openly date a younger man who I ended up marrying later,  there were times we were followed (blocked ‘em).  There were local establishments when people felt the need to separate us, presumeably to do more talking (blocked ‘em).  Tires were slashed (blocked ‘em).  No matter what happened, it all traced back to about a core of 20 people.  So I blocked ‘em.  Blocked ‘em all.

.........

There was many a time where I pondered to my inner most self, “Self.  Where the fuck am I?”  Lots in life didn’t make sense and while I knew it all would pan out one day, waiting for “that” day was sometimes excruciating.  Almost 4 years have passed now.  I’ve moved on.  I’m remarried.  Finally feeling refocused, in career and love and life.  I realize I am not the latest fodder for local whore-lore, and while delightedly happy about that, I know it did give me an interesting insight to what it’s like to be on that end of the social branding iron.  I highly recommend it.

So I guess as if I’ve moved on, so have they.  One can only hope.  So last night, I unblocked them.  One at a time.  Slowly at first with smart trepidation.  Then, regaining some kind of strength within me, I watched out of body as I was unblocking them all.  Do you know why?  It just doesn’t matter anymore.  It doesn’t matter!  They don’t matter, and my need to react to them most certainly doesn’t pertain to life at all anymore.  Just like those old pictures of me, the people who hate me or wishes me bad luck, who think I did him wrong, they don’t represent my concern any more.  Just like an old post I’ve made, it’s content is not necessarily my belief any longer.  I’ve grown, older and up, and whether they have or not, doesn’t reflect on me.  I know now that if someone showed up at my door, I’d more than likely shoot them in a foot before I let them come in and pin me down.  If they still want to talk after that, maybe I’d listen, but we’d do it on my terms and I’d decide when and if they get bandages to slow the bleeding, damnit. 
Their concern is no longer of mine.

A best friend once told me, “you’ll be the talk of the town, until one day, you’re not.” and he was right.  But in the meantime, I did what I had to do.  I blocked on Da Book and felt no shame in it.  Tonight, I unblocked the bad experiances and bad attitudes from another era in my life to prove to myself they. don’t. matter to my existance any longer.

I don’t have to talk to them in real life.  I don’t have to like them.  I don’t have to forget the things that were done against me, or said to me.  Chances are, I never will.  But that’s okay.  At the time, through tears and gutteral sobs, it all seemed so unfair.  Saying it aloud now, I realize that it hasn’t been for quite some time, so I’m unblocking with an open heart.  A hidden loaded gun is in there somewhere too, but definitely an open heart.  Because I again, know where the fuck I am.

“Wisdom is nothing more than healed pain.”

~R.G. Lee

It Always Comes Down to Sex, Doesn't It?

It's after noon, and I'm still sitting in my hotel bed, sipping semi limp coffee, in a nightie, with no undies on.  Depending on who you ask, I may be superbly hot right now, or possibly pathetic.  I'm going with the latter.  And this is why.

I haven't brushed my teeth yet.  

I've had Skittles for breakfast.

I've filled Pinterest with shit I'll never do.  Yet again.

There is a continuous loop of DIY "house flipping" on the telly and I can't force myself to shut it off.

....

This is not who I am.  

My husband, were he to be asked, would tell you that If I sleep in, I'm then bitching at no one in particular (altho he would assume he's the one in trouble), that I'm running out of time to complete all the daily tasks I have lain out in front of me.  This happens if it's anytime after 7 am.

I'm up early.  I'm in bed early.  I get the shit done that needs to get done.  

Today is an atypical day for me.  I'm hundreds of miles away from home right now, away from family and familiar securities.  I have a weekend off of some job training I'm completing and the time alone was first unrecognizable, then welcome, then disappointing to me.

I'm outside my bubble, geographically and otherwise.  I am usually the person in charge of schedules and dates and appointments and ideas and phone calls and feedings and, where was I going with this?  Anyway, I am usually in control of all that.  Now, states away, surrounded by corn fields and Amish, on this Saturday morn, all thats left to do is shrug and sit panty-less in a king size bed.

(I finally switched the TV channel and let out a audible "woo!" now that I find the original Willy Wonka on ABC Family.  Violet's about to be rolled off to be squeezed.)

Out my window, there is a busy freeway.  A lot of truckers are barreling by and I don't even have the courage to flash a one of 'em.  I've become a slave to the titles of "Wife", "Mother", "Cook",  "Sensible".  So, does that make my boring or alluring, trustworthy or bland?  I ask myself what makes a woman irresistible?  What makes her sexual, attractive?  This is something that's always been in the back of my head.  If people knew at any given time what was running through my mind, they surely would go dig up Kinsey himself and bring me to him.  *Side-note, that just made me Google the Kinsey Scale and take the test.  I'm a 2.  Look it up if you care.  I'm not sure how I feel about not being totally surprised by this result.*

Why do things always go sexual for humans?  I know an asexual says they exist, but I tend to give them a sideway glance like my father looks at people who say Nixon was misunderstood.  I don't trust them necessarily.  I can't wrap my head around them.  In practicality, they make sense to me; done with the bullshit, they just turn everything off.  Okay, easy peasy.  But really, c'mon, who are they foolin'?  I just don't buy it.  Deep down inside, they see no one that they think, "Hubba Hubba!" about?  No one trips a trigger?  No one creates enough wondering about, that their libido sings karaoke to the one hit the Divinyls did have?

My point is, doesn't it always come down to sex for people?  I'm not even referring to hidden text messages or irresponsible naughty pics sent.  How about the jokes in a crowd, the lip biting flirting, nights of beers with the guys, raised eyebrows at the girl who wears that skirt at the office.  Don't they all find their basis within sexual innuendoes?

Someone once confided in me, after a decade of friendship, that their significant other didn't appreciate our platonic relationship.  I get that.  It's understandable.  I wouldn't want some girl rooting around Mr. Thick Arms (my now new nickname for my muscled bicepual hubby.  And I love that I just came up with"Bicepual" haha).  

But of course, part of me, namely my inner whore, yelped, "GAME ON!" and immediately a different range of thoughts plagued me in regard to my friend.  Hmmm, I wondered. If, how, when, why, how long is it, what would it be like?  Even if just for a minute.  In fairness to my good girl image, let me state, I am faithful to my husband and possibly even more so to my conscious.  I never had nor have a desire to scale 'platonic' up to 'hook up' with this friend.  But from his wanting to keep me in the loop, "in fairness to all" he said, it left me wondering for the better part of a day.

I joke that I'm oblivious to flirtation, it is more so my way of ignoring it, for the benefit of all involved, and I'm damn good at it.  I shall be the responsible one, I oath, my hand firmly planted Caesar style on my chest.  

It may all be centered off sex, but somewhere midway though, I see the alone-in-a-hotel-room, panty-less attraction for what I am; a Skittle eating wonderer, who just wants to go home.

"We are the music makers.  And we are the dreamers of the dream."

~W. Wonka, circa purple velvet suit

It's my Virgin Sail!

"You should write a blog."

I've heard this for quite some time.  Friends of all different walks of life, different types of personalities; they all tell me this.  Frankly, I'm not convinced.

So I did some homework, and by 'some', I mean the equivalent of I Googled "what makes a successful blog?" before I got bored with the tips and help links immediately after 5 minutes and mentally shrugged, "Eh.  Screw it." closed Google, came here and created a blog.

I have no idea what I'm doing.  And this is my blog.

I consider why I've put this off.  I'm complimented on my writing skills (and I think it has a direct correlation to the fact that I don't say I have "writing skilz".)  Everyone seems to have a blog these days.  I follow a few (I like the demented ones).  But even those are forgettable to me, eventually.  Freud might delve into my psyche and could assume I'm afraid to become forgettable, but that seems too easy of a conclusion, and Freud was, like, really smart and stuff.

I can't blog.

I can't blog!

I write.  Oh, can I write!  I even think in writing.  Seriously, I think in story telling mode.  When I have a thought bubble, I'm thinking it out how I would write it out.  Even when I'm talking to a person, in my head, I'm rewriting the paragraphs as quick as the words are coming out of my mouth.

Yet, I can't frickin' blog.

I've tried blogging before.  I've had various blogging friends email me links to their blogs.  It's always presented with a prelude like, "It's so easy!", or "You'll love it!" or my personal favorite, full of stressful incentive, "You'll be great at it!". 

I became a published poet when I was 13 (which sounds much more impressive to a 13 year old, now that I'm 38.)  Family lore has me believe I drove my poor mother absolutely batty with my leeeeeengthy, drrrrrrawn out stories.  

I swear I don't remember life like that.  

I could take you to the house I grew up in, now empty, due to mom's passing and dad's remarriage, and point out to you the ex.act. way I was sitting on my bed with the Pound Puppies comforter, underneath a wall mounted book shelf, when I wrote what was to become my first published poem.  I could explain to you the songs playing on the radio that night from the corner of my room.  I could tell you how I just "knew" what I just wrote was a good one.  

I don't ever recall my mother being bored by my stories.  I never saw her roll her eyes, or hear her sigh when I told her I had a story for her.  Obviously, this says a tremendous amount more of her resilience, not mine.  And that's kinda cool to know that as an adult myself, mother to my own 'version' of me (trust me, I roll my eyes and sigh.  A lot).  I do remember my mother telling me not to read to her however.  She'd have me write whatever I wanted to, but her rule was she got to read it herself (which is, ironically, something I try NOT to do with my kids.  It might sound like droning after awhile, but since my own mother died, I realize someday, one of us isn't going to be around to read to anymore.  I enjoy them reading to me.)

Verbage and I seem to just get along.  I mean, I can't remember funny jokes often, but when I do, I can knock 'em outta the park.  I don't often repeat puns, but I'm thinking them in my head all the time.  I write to clear my mind, rid myself of anger, put rejoice into words when I know I'd be too weak and blubbery to speak it but still feel the need to share it.

They say public speaking is majority's number one fear.  If ever I'm asked to speak in front of people, my palms sweat, and I constantly look down to make sure I don't have hidden TP under a shoe.  I will incessantly be checking my teeth to make sure I don't have lipstick on them.  And did I just smear lipstick on them now the last time I checked to see if I had lipstick smeared on them?  

I anticipate the failure.  I haven't always gotten through public speaking engagements.  Sometimes, I cry if the subject is close to my heart.  Sometimes tho, when it's very close to my heart, it fuels me. 

I've spoke at funerals, and hospitals.  I've spoke at city council meetings and classroom debates.  I've covered assemblies from 5 people to 500.  As I'm talking, I'm writing the words in my head.

But I can't blog it out.  Still.   

Who would read it?  Who would care?  I'm open.  But I spent a few years trying to go off the grid after my divorce, as a means of re-centering my world.  As a means of quiet.  As a means of survival.  Does this mean I reopen myself to no protection if I blog?  Does it have to be so public? (Rhetorical, my dear blogger friends.  Don't feel you need to actually answer me.)  Oh, and the haters....they stress me out.

Yes, I definitely anticipate the failure in these type of things.  But in my head, I've got it all figured out.  I mean, man, I rock this shit.  Take my word for it.  The thought bubbles are exploding!