These are my short stories. I had them published in a 101-word contest that happens annually. Writing a complete short story within the confines on 101 words is challenging, especially to someone like me who likes to write and write and write, expaining things over and over and over, forever and ever and ever (got it?). Every time I have remembered to enter, I have been fortunate to have at least one story published. In 1999 I won the contest. In 2009 and 2011 I had all three that were entered (three is the limit) published. Here they are. Read. Enjoy. Share.
Listed by year
Then the link to the published site.
Then the title and each story
1999:
Link to 1999 Story
Memories
She remembered the way he tasted. Salty. Warm. Of coffee and brandy and toothpaste and cigarettes. She remembered his coal-black hair falling in his eyes. Short and slightly curled above the ears. She knew his eyes. The color of new jeans just washed and damp. Damp, the way his hands were as they touched her face and shoulders and neck and breasts and stomach and back, and between her legs. She remembered every moment. Every detail. Every movement. She remembered. She knew him. Even as she identified him as number three in the rape suspect line-up.
__________
2005:
Link to the 2005 Story
Poetic Justice
A friend of 20-plus years borrowed $500 two years ago Halloween. Having never known her to be a welsher, it was an easy check to write. Until today, I thought she was dead. Turns out she is living in Pismo Beach, and hosting her own Web site and beach blog on self-help and financial independence. She always wanted to be a writer. I guess she writes fiction. She has a link on her site to paralegal services. I wonder if I should use them to sue her. I wonder if she remembers how she spent the money.
__________
2009:
Link to the 2009 Stories
Freeze Frame
The last painting hung, as always, on the south wall, corridor 6, gallery 17. The curators removing exhibits took down other paintings, placed them in sleeves, then crates. What remained, proving the painting had not been alone, were faint square and rectangular scuffs that ringed the room. It was as it always had been; paintings coming, going, enhancing the last painting’s beauty by their meager presence. The last painting’s perspective never changed. It only saw the north wall, the velvet stanchions, the admirers. It longed to be stolen, taken to a home in some no-extradition country, just to change the view.
Young Innocence, Old Guilt
“Mom, can I tell you a joke?” “Sure, honey.” “Why did the barbeque cross the road?” “I don’t know, why?” “To get to the CHICKEN!” I laughed again, thinking it was just as funny this time. My sweet 4 year old crawled up on my lap. “Mom, when is dad getting here?” It was Wednesday night, 30 minutes past the scheduled pick up time. “I don’t know, babe.” I did know. It was why I’d left. He called at 7:30, after bedtime. I’m sure he would explain. “Hello.” I could smell the brandy before the first word was said.
Family Style
My ex-husband’s mother, and her charming, but unrealistic spouse invited me, and her grandchildren, to spend Christmas Eve at their house. Having spent every holiday there, being offered punch and English toffee, for the past 10 years, you might think I would have been delighted at the prospect. But here, in the sanctity of the house my children and I rented alone in May, away from alcohol-induced tirades, and words seething with cruelty and humiliation, we have a new tradition. It’s called happiness. I have been told they are inviting everyone, including the new fiancé. I’ve heard she likes punch.
__________
2011:
Link to the 2011 Stories
The Closet
For my eighth birthday, my mom bought me a new pair of purple Converse All-Stars. My old shoes were worn, and too small. I put the old shoes in the trash. I found them today, in boxes in her closet, with one-hundred-fifty other pairs. I’d moved out when I was eighteen, escaping, leaving behind everything I was now sorting, plus twenty-five years more. The 42-year-old in me wondered how my mother’s hoarding had gotten so bad. The eight-year-old in me touched every pair on the shelf, searching for the purple birthday shoes.
The Loss
The week before had been joyous, until the ultrasound showed that the baby’s heart had stopped beating. She’d been unable to call him from the doctor’s office, she had said, shaking, and the nurse had called instead. He remained calm. Two days and a stillbirth later, she had taken her few packed possessions and left the hospital. “I’m going. I can’t come home until the bedroom is an office again.” It had come down to a choice between flying elephants and pastel crayon scribbles. Sitting on stacked paint cans in what would have eventually been the nursery, his emotions overwhelmed him.
The List
Her current partner, a sweet man with sparkly green eyes, knew a thing or two about sex, but lacked a little in the erotica department. A future “erotic memoir” entrant, but only just. She wanted the tingly feeling on the surface of her skin, just because the object of her longings was in the room. Tingling not from touch, but from knowing. Desire. Warmth deep at the core, that a person knew you, even if you never met. She wrote his name down as the last on the list, sighed, and then added the next number and left the line blank.
__________
2012:
Link to the 2012 Stories
About Face
I knew you didn’t expect me to go. Not after all this time. As you sat there. Staring. I knew I wouldn’t save you. Couldn’t save you. You didn’t want to be saved. Not really. And I had long since thought saving you was beyond my ability. It was true. I could only save one life. The life would be mine. If I could get it right. I knew the bottle in my hand would be mourned. Not by me. So I spilled the amber liquid. Purposefully. On the sidewalk. And I, for the first time in years, walked away. Sober.
By a Hair
She’d cut her hair “flapper” short, dyed it fuchsia, when the vomiting first started, grateful no one had to hold back her hair over the toilet. She’d shaved it completely when the tufts left after chemo reminded her of a neglected Chia-pet, and kept it that way, alternately choosing to wear a Santa hat or bunny ears as the season dictated. Her reward, on the last day of her life, was a little girl of 7, also baldly fighting cancer, using her head as a canvas with colorful body-paint crayons as the pair laughed, sitting by the koi pond.
__________
2013:
Link to the 2013 Story
Ground Up
It wasn’t enough, that casual piece of affection, given daily in the form of a perfect foam heart on top of his latte. Maybe “enough” would have been an extra stamp on his frequent drink card, or a free mini-scone. But having given all that at one time or another, it still wasn’t enough for him to read her badge correctly. So when he spoke while taking his change, “Jordy” came out as “Judy” and her whole world fell apart. In the reality of completely unreturned love, Jordy quit her job, went home, and smashed all of her coffee mugs.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Thursday, January 2, 2014
A single tight screw.
Every year since the New Year’s Day I was 17, I have touched my feet to the sand of a beach. I landed at various beaches on the California coast, no matter the weather, no matter the company. It is a required ritual.
There are rules for this beach excursion.
1) I MUST touch the water. It can be with my hand. It should be with my toes. One year, as I fell while running toward the surf, it was with my face. This was not pretty, and I don’t recommend it, but it counted, and as I sulked back to my car for a towel that year, I knew I would not have to go near the surf again right away, rule one accomplished.
2) I MUST make a wish. This is not a New Year’s Day rule; this is a beach rule, but since I am at the beach, I have to do it today, too. I will write my wish in the sand with my finger, or an old piece of driftwood, or a baseball bat I happen to be carrying (story for another time), close enough to the surf that within a few waves, the written message will be washed out with the tide. I will watch until this happens, so I practice patience. I never waste my wish on something I can’t have, like immediate world peace, or a million dollars from the sky. Those will be flat-out ignored by the universe, and since I only get one wish per beach visit with no take-backs, I should put them to good use.
I do wish for something outside of myself that I need a little help with. The Universe listens to those. A little help with my monthly expenses (in whatever form that it comes in), a man who is nice to me (also, in whatever form it comes in), satisfaction at work (whatever form, can you see the theme?) are all good things to ask for. Peace in my life, happiness for my kids, a bikini that makes my tits and ass look good, are all good choices. As an aside, since I get one of these wishes EVERY time I go to the beach, I try to make a habit of it. Go on my way home from work every Thursday, or on the full moon, or on the slack tide. Just do it. And I don’t get to think that driving to the beach and sitting in my car counts. I mean, watching the sunset is nice and all, but I need to make a wish in the sand. And I don’t go all Scrooge and not walk the extra 25 feet because I am lazy.
3) On New Year’s Day I MUST bring something along with me that I need to part with, or something that symbolizes something I need to part with. I will be throwing it into the water, and not getting it back, so I need to be realistic. This can be something easy to get rid of, like a love letter from a guy who broke my heart in April but I haven’t been able to burn, ripped into tiny pieces. Or, it can be something difficult to get rid of, like a wedding cake topper (also a story for another time). If symbolically I just need to transfer my thoughts to a piece of paper (or a rock) so I can throw it in and have it actually go away with the surf (while not having people look at me like I am crazy to throw “X” in) (like a wedding cake top), without some other unfortunate soul finding it, that works, too. I would NOT throw in my ex’s grandmother’s engagement ring. I would sell that shit. But a picture of the ring, taken as I box it up to send to the buyer, is perfect.
I think creatively here. I have thrown in a penny from a particular year to represent getting rid of financial dependence. I have thrown in a piece of tissue paper that represented frailty (Yeah, dumping that frail shit is fine!). One year, I threw in a bisque ceramic lovebirds-sitting-on-a-heart figurine that looked remarkable like something you would see at a wedding. (Cliff over China Cove. It arced perfectly. It sorta bounced on the rocks twice before shattering and hitting the crashing surf. The sound it made was musical, boing, boing, ching-crash, sploosh. It was awesome!) I don’t think I need to tell you what that represented.
This year I threw in a sheet metal screw that had been sticking out of my dining room ceiling since I purchased the house three years ago. I am thinking it represented procrastination and moving towards having my house (and my life) in a not-so-fixer-up state.
4) I MUST go. No excuses. Raining? Bring an umbrella or a trash bag. (I keep this in my car, just in case) Windy? I have seen Wizard of Oz. And it will NEVER get that bad in California. And I am not afraid of houses or red shoes. Boyfriend wants to watch football? Perfect, I am probably throwing in one of his torn t-shirts or crap DVDs anyway. Living a little ways from the beach? I have 24 hours here, start driving. I went to the beach one year when they actually had a high-surf advisory and the beach was “closed”, having driven three hours from Sacramento. So, um, yeah, whatever. Go. If I can take my 13-day old newborn to the beach in a Moby, I figure any other time should be cake.
I have taken my kids with me since they were born. They have touched the sand and, since now old enough to understand their eclectic mom’s ritual, have also thrown in items and made wishes. My son, remembering being sick on candy right before Christmas, threw in peppermint TicTacs, hoping for no illness this year. My daughter, ever the indecisive, could not pick something and finally settled for a rock, and made a wish to be better at making decisions.
I like that they get this ritual, and have decided to join me, because this year I actually gave them the opt-out option. I also like that I have a ritual at all that I have never skipped as an adult, because sometimes, in my head, it made all the difference in setting my tone for the year.
Remember the screw and the procrastination wish? That I posted this in one day might mean it is working already.
There are rules for this beach excursion.
1) I MUST touch the water. It can be with my hand. It should be with my toes. One year, as I fell while running toward the surf, it was with my face. This was not pretty, and I don’t recommend it, but it counted, and as I sulked back to my car for a towel that year, I knew I would not have to go near the surf again right away, rule one accomplished.
2) I MUST make a wish. This is not a New Year’s Day rule; this is a beach rule, but since I am at the beach, I have to do it today, too. I will write my wish in the sand with my finger, or an old piece of driftwood, or a baseball bat I happen to be carrying (story for another time), close enough to the surf that within a few waves, the written message will be washed out with the tide. I will watch until this happens, so I practice patience. I never waste my wish on something I can’t have, like immediate world peace, or a million dollars from the sky. Those will be flat-out ignored by the universe, and since I only get one wish per beach visit with no take-backs, I should put them to good use.
I do wish for something outside of myself that I need a little help with. The Universe listens to those. A little help with my monthly expenses (in whatever form that it comes in), a man who is nice to me (also, in whatever form it comes in), satisfaction at work (whatever form, can you see the theme?) are all good things to ask for. Peace in my life, happiness for my kids, a bikini that makes my tits and ass look good, are all good choices. As an aside, since I get one of these wishes EVERY time I go to the beach, I try to make a habit of it. Go on my way home from work every Thursday, or on the full moon, or on the slack tide. Just do it. And I don’t get to think that driving to the beach and sitting in my car counts. I mean, watching the sunset is nice and all, but I need to make a wish in the sand. And I don’t go all Scrooge and not walk the extra 25 feet because I am lazy.
3) On New Year’s Day I MUST bring something along with me that I need to part with, or something that symbolizes something I need to part with. I will be throwing it into the water, and not getting it back, so I need to be realistic. This can be something easy to get rid of, like a love letter from a guy who broke my heart in April but I haven’t been able to burn, ripped into tiny pieces. Or, it can be something difficult to get rid of, like a wedding cake topper (also a story for another time). If symbolically I just need to transfer my thoughts to a piece of paper (or a rock) so I can throw it in and have it actually go away with the surf (while not having people look at me like I am crazy to throw “X” in) (like a wedding cake top), without some other unfortunate soul finding it, that works, too. I would NOT throw in my ex’s grandmother’s engagement ring. I would sell that shit. But a picture of the ring, taken as I box it up to send to the buyer, is perfect.
I think creatively here. I have thrown in a penny from a particular year to represent getting rid of financial dependence. I have thrown in a piece of tissue paper that represented frailty (Yeah, dumping that frail shit is fine!). One year, I threw in a bisque ceramic lovebirds-sitting-on-a-heart figurine that looked remarkable like something you would see at a wedding. (Cliff over China Cove. It arced perfectly. It sorta bounced on the rocks twice before shattering and hitting the crashing surf. The sound it made was musical, boing, boing, ching-crash, sploosh. It was awesome!) I don’t think I need to tell you what that represented.
This year I threw in a sheet metal screw that had been sticking out of my dining room ceiling since I purchased the house three years ago. I am thinking it represented procrastination and moving towards having my house (and my life) in a not-so-fixer-up state.
4) I MUST go. No excuses. Raining? Bring an umbrella or a trash bag. (I keep this in my car, just in case) Windy? I have seen Wizard of Oz. And it will NEVER get that bad in California. And I am not afraid of houses or red shoes. Boyfriend wants to watch football? Perfect, I am probably throwing in one of his torn t-shirts or crap DVDs anyway. Living a little ways from the beach? I have 24 hours here, start driving. I went to the beach one year when they actually had a high-surf advisory and the beach was “closed”, having driven three hours from Sacramento. So, um, yeah, whatever. Go. If I can take my 13-day old newborn to the beach in a Moby, I figure any other time should be cake.
I have taken my kids with me since they were born. They have touched the sand and, since now old enough to understand their eclectic mom’s ritual, have also thrown in items and made wishes. My son, remembering being sick on candy right before Christmas, threw in peppermint TicTacs, hoping for no illness this year. My daughter, ever the indecisive, could not pick something and finally settled for a rock, and made a wish to be better at making decisions.
I like that they get this ritual, and have decided to join me, because this year I actually gave them the opt-out option. I also like that I have a ritual at all that I have never skipped as an adult, because sometimes, in my head, it made all the difference in setting my tone for the year.
Remember the screw and the procrastination wish? That I posted this in one day might mean it is working already.
Monday, November 25, 2013
Loaded
**This is the disclaimer. Below, though true, contains some graphic language and adult content. If you don’t want to read it, stop now, leave this blog, and find your happy place.**
Tonight is Sunday. So that means I picked up my children from their visitation weekend with their father. My ex has remarried, and if you go back and read other posts to this blog, it describes for you my feelings about the relationship, the breakup, and where I am now, so that won’t be covered here. What I am telling you about is my ex-husband’s wife, and the feelings I have about her, as they relate to my former relationship, and what, if there was a wish I had for her, I would tell her.
She came up to me tonight with one word. Sorry. I have heard this word out of her mouth before, and like before I started to ignore it. Two years ago she had called me a fucking cunt in front of my children in a public tirade directed at me while her whole family watched, and followed it up with a cruel email to me sent from my ex’s email account telling me that I deserved to have my first son die. Not her shining moment, and actually sealed my view of her as vile pretty solidly for all eternity. Having heard her call me a bitch several times since, call my daughter a bitch (just like her mom), and be nasty mean to my son, I am not really convinced of her repentance, and the apologies that have come since then are moot and unbelieved. Tonight, I told her exactly why she would always be vile to me, actually even using the word “vile” to describe her to her face, for having pushed the only two buttons I had, so completely, that there really was no hope of her recovery from that, apology and forgiveness or not.
But I also starting thinking about how trapped and desperate she might be to still be apologizing to me. It has to be coming from my ex, who has previously blamed his and my inability to communicate on my unwillingness to interact with his wife. He blamed her for causing the problem to begin with. Whatever, he is delusional. No, not enough to feel sorry for her, but just enough for me to understand where she probably is in her relationship with my ex at this point, if history and timing follow similar patterns.
She is just over 4 years into her relationship with him. At the four-year mark, I had a baby. A not quite one-year-old amazing daughter who laughed and could make you smile any time. I was breast-feeding still, and she didn’t sleep much, but my ex and I had started to return our sex life back to normal.
Normal for us though had been a minimum of daily, and usually twice or more most days. Our sex was often one sided, with him achieving orgasm much more often than I did, and was consistently rough and demanding, wherever in the house we happened to be. I am not a prude, or even afraid to admit that I enjoy frequent and sometimes rough sex. I also like a balance, and that was most often achieved in the middle of the night with quiet, gentler sex where I could get off more slowly, or felt okay to use one of the toys we owned on myself once he fell back to sleep. So the rougher daily sex was a mental compromise.
This was also the point in our relationship where large amounts of pornography entered our world. I always knew my ex liked porn. He showed it to me periodically, still photography pictures of women and men, fucking, using toys, whatever. I knew he viewed more that he didn’t show me, and never really questioned it, thinking to myself that if it turned him on and I was getting off, no big deal, right? I was delusional and very codependent, with his alcoholism, his physical needs of both sex and housewife duties, his complete dislike for being a father when it interfered with my ability to take care of him, and with the verbal and emotional abuse from him that went with my own sick need to want to please him. Ignoring some photos in the face of all that was actually pretty easy.
Back to the pornography. He had been drinking one night, not unusual, and wanted sex. My daughter had miraculously fallen asleep before nine, and he and I were messing around on the computer, sending each other horny instant messages from keyboards that were literally two feet away from each other, while also surfing the internet and reading emails. He sent me a “come sit on my lap” type message, probably with the words fuck and slut in the text, and I went over and did what he asked. He was in his office chair, and I had removed the bottom half of my clothing enroute (the two whole feet away) and sat down, letting him penetrate me as I faced away from him. I was enjoying the position, and was feeling the momentum, when he reached around me to the computer and showed me a close up of a woman’s vagina with what looked like a shiny metal dildo sticking out from where her pretty manicured nails had her spread apart. As our sex got more intense, he zoomed out of the picture, slowly, one small step at a time, until finally, at his own climax, he was zoomed all the way out. The shiny metal object wasn’t a dildo after all. It was the barrel of a gun.
He held me there until I climaxed and I knew, without a doubt, that the pornography had crossed over. This was no longer about sex and excitement, this was about total and complete control. That was what excited him, and I was expected to comply. And in my sick little world, I did. I wanted him so badly, wanted my family to work so badly, wanted to feel loved so badly, that the verbal, and now emotional abuse, seemed normal.
The pornography got much worse after that, with periods where even he knew it was sick and over the top, and would stop. These were usually during his brief periods of sobriety, but even then I never again was placed in a position of shock like that first time. I was easily able to divert it to other sex or other positions so that I did not have to participate in the viewing. I could simply ignore it. And I did ignore it, letting myself believe that if I wasn’t watching it, it wasn’t really happening. I didn’t pay any attention that it was really twisted behavior about power.
So what does that have to do with my ex’s current wife? Maybe nothing. Maybe just my remembrance of where I was, and my gratitude to not be there now, and knowledge that I will never be there again with him or anyone else for that matter. But maybe it was her under-her-breath comment after I had just told her that she was vile when she said, in a voice not meant for me to hear, “You have no idea.”
The woman-I-used-to-be heard her and projected that maybe she was lost inside the relationship just like I was. Just like his first ex-wife was. There is a small part of me that wishes I cared about her at all, in that woman-to-woman way, so I could warn her, maybe. Or maybe not. I can’t judge their relationship, and don’t want to try. I am just planning on going back to ignoring her, and healing myself. I hope I am wrong, and that the fucked up stuff isn’t happening to her and she really is just a mean fucking bitch. And I hope that if it is, she gets out. I can’t help her, and I won’t, because I can only save myself. And I honestly don’t like her enough do anything about it. But I hope she realizes that apologizing any more won’t change anything about my past, or her future, and that I do have some idea, I heard her, even if I don’t ever show it. Power and control under the roof of sick men is like that, and figures out, if she need to, that she doesn’t need to have a gun sticking out of her vagina before knowing things are seriously wrong. No apology required.
Tonight is Sunday. So that means I picked up my children from their visitation weekend with their father. My ex has remarried, and if you go back and read other posts to this blog, it describes for you my feelings about the relationship, the breakup, and where I am now, so that won’t be covered here. What I am telling you about is my ex-husband’s wife, and the feelings I have about her, as they relate to my former relationship, and what, if there was a wish I had for her, I would tell her.
She came up to me tonight with one word. Sorry. I have heard this word out of her mouth before, and like before I started to ignore it. Two years ago she had called me a fucking cunt in front of my children in a public tirade directed at me while her whole family watched, and followed it up with a cruel email to me sent from my ex’s email account telling me that I deserved to have my first son die. Not her shining moment, and actually sealed my view of her as vile pretty solidly for all eternity. Having heard her call me a bitch several times since, call my daughter a bitch (just like her mom), and be nasty mean to my son, I am not really convinced of her repentance, and the apologies that have come since then are moot and unbelieved. Tonight, I told her exactly why she would always be vile to me, actually even using the word “vile” to describe her to her face, for having pushed the only two buttons I had, so completely, that there really was no hope of her recovery from that, apology and forgiveness or not.
But I also starting thinking about how trapped and desperate she might be to still be apologizing to me. It has to be coming from my ex, who has previously blamed his and my inability to communicate on my unwillingness to interact with his wife. He blamed her for causing the problem to begin with. Whatever, he is delusional. No, not enough to feel sorry for her, but just enough for me to understand where she probably is in her relationship with my ex at this point, if history and timing follow similar patterns.
She is just over 4 years into her relationship with him. At the four-year mark, I had a baby. A not quite one-year-old amazing daughter who laughed and could make you smile any time. I was breast-feeding still, and she didn’t sleep much, but my ex and I had started to return our sex life back to normal.
Normal for us though had been a minimum of daily, and usually twice or more most days. Our sex was often one sided, with him achieving orgasm much more often than I did, and was consistently rough and demanding, wherever in the house we happened to be. I am not a prude, or even afraid to admit that I enjoy frequent and sometimes rough sex. I also like a balance, and that was most often achieved in the middle of the night with quiet, gentler sex where I could get off more slowly, or felt okay to use one of the toys we owned on myself once he fell back to sleep. So the rougher daily sex was a mental compromise.
This was also the point in our relationship where large amounts of pornography entered our world. I always knew my ex liked porn. He showed it to me periodically, still photography pictures of women and men, fucking, using toys, whatever. I knew he viewed more that he didn’t show me, and never really questioned it, thinking to myself that if it turned him on and I was getting off, no big deal, right? I was delusional and very codependent, with his alcoholism, his physical needs of both sex and housewife duties, his complete dislike for being a father when it interfered with my ability to take care of him, and with the verbal and emotional abuse from him that went with my own sick need to want to please him. Ignoring some photos in the face of all that was actually pretty easy.
Back to the pornography. He had been drinking one night, not unusual, and wanted sex. My daughter had miraculously fallen asleep before nine, and he and I were messing around on the computer, sending each other horny instant messages from keyboards that were literally two feet away from each other, while also surfing the internet and reading emails. He sent me a “come sit on my lap” type message, probably with the words fuck and slut in the text, and I went over and did what he asked. He was in his office chair, and I had removed the bottom half of my clothing enroute (the two whole feet away) and sat down, letting him penetrate me as I faced away from him. I was enjoying the position, and was feeling the momentum, when he reached around me to the computer and showed me a close up of a woman’s vagina with what looked like a shiny metal dildo sticking out from where her pretty manicured nails had her spread apart. As our sex got more intense, he zoomed out of the picture, slowly, one small step at a time, until finally, at his own climax, he was zoomed all the way out. The shiny metal object wasn’t a dildo after all. It was the barrel of a gun.
He held me there until I climaxed and I knew, without a doubt, that the pornography had crossed over. This was no longer about sex and excitement, this was about total and complete control. That was what excited him, and I was expected to comply. And in my sick little world, I did. I wanted him so badly, wanted my family to work so badly, wanted to feel loved so badly, that the verbal, and now emotional abuse, seemed normal.
The pornography got much worse after that, with periods where even he knew it was sick and over the top, and would stop. These were usually during his brief periods of sobriety, but even then I never again was placed in a position of shock like that first time. I was easily able to divert it to other sex or other positions so that I did not have to participate in the viewing. I could simply ignore it. And I did ignore it, letting myself believe that if I wasn’t watching it, it wasn’t really happening. I didn’t pay any attention that it was really twisted behavior about power.
So what does that have to do with my ex’s current wife? Maybe nothing. Maybe just my remembrance of where I was, and my gratitude to not be there now, and knowledge that I will never be there again with him or anyone else for that matter. But maybe it was her under-her-breath comment after I had just told her that she was vile when she said, in a voice not meant for me to hear, “You have no idea.”
The woman-I-used-to-be heard her and projected that maybe she was lost inside the relationship just like I was. Just like his first ex-wife was. There is a small part of me that wishes I cared about her at all, in that woman-to-woman way, so I could warn her, maybe. Or maybe not. I can’t judge their relationship, and don’t want to try. I am just planning on going back to ignoring her, and healing myself. I hope I am wrong, and that the fucked up stuff isn’t happening to her and she really is just a mean fucking bitch. And I hope that if it is, she gets out. I can’t help her, and I won’t, because I can only save myself. And I honestly don’t like her enough do anything about it. But I hope she realizes that apologizing any more won’t change anything about my past, or her future, and that I do have some idea, I heard her, even if I don’t ever show it. Power and control under the roof of sick men is like that, and figures out, if she need to, that she doesn’t need to have a gun sticking out of her vagina before knowing things are seriously wrong. No apology required.
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Along for the ride.
I love amusement parks. Well, I love everything except the lines. And the price. And the stupid people who push scared kids on rides, and then get mad at them when the puke. And terrible food. And not enough bathrooms. Okay, I hate amusement parks. I love scary rides.
I had a conversation yesterday with a friend about their love of a particular southern California amusement park, and why I didn’t like it. I mean, I love the rides, just not everything else. Even the joy that kids feel in that kind of magical place doesn’t outweigh my total dislike for spending that much money to be commercially ignored.
But that is not what I am writing about though. What I have spinning in my head is why I like scary rides, and which amusement things I don’t like at all.
Roller coasters: love. The anticipation on the way up, the initial heart-in-your-throat drop, the coasting through twists and turns, ups and downs, all are perfect in my world. It is like falling in love. And even though you have to get off, maybe head over to the slow moving train, or get sucked into thinking the bumper cars might not be so bad, the smile that I feel after being on the roller coaster sticks with me. It might even blind me to the crap I am about to get into, but the initial ride is always amazing.
High Drop Rides: love. The closed space, the strapped in, the freefall, the speed, the take your breath away moment of total terror, it is heaven. It is a journey into the unknown, the drop off the edge risky part of life. So many people won’t go on these rides because the fall scares the fuck out of them. They have no idea what they are missing, because these rides, even though they are petrifying, are usually the best views, from the highest points, and unless you are there, you never see them. Okay, so even the thought of the fall can be a little overwhelming, but what an experience.
Whirl and hurls: love. These rides start slow, build momentum, and become crazy and fun, and mellow out as you adapt to them. Some even let you control the spin, with ways to tilt and lean, and you get to make the ride totally your own. If you get in a car with someone you like, you can get them to lean with you. Okay, so sometimes they take control and move against you, or complain that the way you are doing it makes them feel sick and would you please stop, or sometimes they vomit on your shoes, but mostly, you get to have a ride that leaves you laughing and a little buzzed, and happy.
Mirror mazes and “fun houses”: fucking hate them. This is the only “scary” amusement I stay the hell away from. Walls in your way, running into cleverly disguised posts that should have been doors, seeing yourself in broken pieces of warped mirrors that have handprints and snot on them, not being able to get the fuck off when you are done, yeah, that sucks ass. I have zero interest in this kind of scary. It is too much like real life, and unlike the other rides I mentioned, there is no fucking time limit on how long the nightmare is going to last. You can wander around fruitlessly for hours, days, weeks. It is terrifying, and there is no way out. Others are getting out, why the hell can’t you? That laughing they are doing just sounds demented, and very very far away. I am sure it is really sadistic clowns just waiting to jump out at me and eat my face. I see only half images, and dark spaces, and wobbly floors, and flickery yellow lights, with no fucking end in sight. It bites.
I guess that makes me sound schizophrenic, but not really. I want all the thrill, and a way to know that the thrill will have a safe conclusion, and not stuck to figure it out alone. After a scary ride that I love, the happy little boat ride sounds fine because it is just a way to reflect on the awesomeness that just happened, and plan the next ride. The fucking maze, if I ever get out of, just makes me tired, and want to sit on the bench and cry. Fuck the exciting rides too, I just wanna go home. So if you are reading this, please help me talk my way out of the maze if you see me in there. Come in and hold my hand, and then come ride the double-out-and-back with me. I promise not to puke on your shoes.
I had a conversation yesterday with a friend about their love of a particular southern California amusement park, and why I didn’t like it. I mean, I love the rides, just not everything else. Even the joy that kids feel in that kind of magical place doesn’t outweigh my total dislike for spending that much money to be commercially ignored.
But that is not what I am writing about though. What I have spinning in my head is why I like scary rides, and which amusement things I don’t like at all.
Roller coasters: love. The anticipation on the way up, the initial heart-in-your-throat drop, the coasting through twists and turns, ups and downs, all are perfect in my world. It is like falling in love. And even though you have to get off, maybe head over to the slow moving train, or get sucked into thinking the bumper cars might not be so bad, the smile that I feel after being on the roller coaster sticks with me. It might even blind me to the crap I am about to get into, but the initial ride is always amazing.
High Drop Rides: love. The closed space, the strapped in, the freefall, the speed, the take your breath away moment of total terror, it is heaven. It is a journey into the unknown, the drop off the edge risky part of life. So many people won’t go on these rides because the fall scares the fuck out of them. They have no idea what they are missing, because these rides, even though they are petrifying, are usually the best views, from the highest points, and unless you are there, you never see them. Okay, so even the thought of the fall can be a little overwhelming, but what an experience.
Whirl and hurls: love. These rides start slow, build momentum, and become crazy and fun, and mellow out as you adapt to them. Some even let you control the spin, with ways to tilt and lean, and you get to make the ride totally your own. If you get in a car with someone you like, you can get them to lean with you. Okay, so sometimes they take control and move against you, or complain that the way you are doing it makes them feel sick and would you please stop, or sometimes they vomit on your shoes, but mostly, you get to have a ride that leaves you laughing and a little buzzed, and happy.
Mirror mazes and “fun houses”: fucking hate them. This is the only “scary” amusement I stay the hell away from. Walls in your way, running into cleverly disguised posts that should have been doors, seeing yourself in broken pieces of warped mirrors that have handprints and snot on them, not being able to get the fuck off when you are done, yeah, that sucks ass. I have zero interest in this kind of scary. It is too much like real life, and unlike the other rides I mentioned, there is no fucking time limit on how long the nightmare is going to last. You can wander around fruitlessly for hours, days, weeks. It is terrifying, and there is no way out. Others are getting out, why the hell can’t you? That laughing they are doing just sounds demented, and very very far away. I am sure it is really sadistic clowns just waiting to jump out at me and eat my face. I see only half images, and dark spaces, and wobbly floors, and flickery yellow lights, with no fucking end in sight. It bites.
I guess that makes me sound schizophrenic, but not really. I want all the thrill, and a way to know that the thrill will have a safe conclusion, and not stuck to figure it out alone. After a scary ride that I love, the happy little boat ride sounds fine because it is just a way to reflect on the awesomeness that just happened, and plan the next ride. The fucking maze, if I ever get out of, just makes me tired, and want to sit on the bench and cry. Fuck the exciting rides too, I just wanna go home. So if you are reading this, please help me talk my way out of the maze if you see me in there. Come in and hold my hand, and then come ride the double-out-and-back with me. I promise not to puke on your shoes.
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
And kissing. Definitely kissing.
I know I haven’t met you yet. At least I don’t think so. But this letter should help you with some of the things I am growing to expect. Expect from you, and expect from myself.
I am a real woman. I am an adult, which means I have a history. And since I don’t expect you to be fresh from the womb, I am going to grant that you have a history, too. This does not mean baggage. It means you have done some things and I have done some things. We have grown up. I am happy to hear about them, and will tell you my stories, probably over a drink or two (or a blog or two, whichever) but I don’t let them define me in the present. At least I try not to. It is a work in progress. I don’t regret them, because they got me here. Unless your history makes me nauseous, I have already decided to not worry about where you have been. Not like I could change it even if I wanted to, so let’s move on.
Although, I have done some things that might shock you. But if I hadn’t, I would think I was boring.
And I am not boring. You might not be able to tell, because I tend to diappear behind dark clothes, and no make up. There have been times when I didn’t shave those parts that some men have come to expect to be shaved, but I am over that. Not the no shaving part, I still rarely do it, I just don’t care if you expect it. I always shower. I always brush my teeth, but still have morning breath sometimes, and will not really want to kiss until there has been some minty thing involved. This is not boring. This is hygiene. I expect both of us to have the basics down by now. I think someone along the way taught you to do your laundry. Wear clean clothes, even if they are not the most exciting. I hope to spend time with you not worrying about boring clothing.
Speaking of kissing, it is the one sure-fire way to turn me on. Yes, my clitoris is important, so please don’t allow your tongue to neglect it, but if you skip the kissing, I might not care what my other body parts are doing. Come to think of it, I might forget about them at all as it relates to you and just take care if it alone . Kissing is the one thing I can’t do to myself. But if watching me take care of myself turns you on, I am all for it. After we have made out on the couch, that is.
As a matter of fact, I am open to just about anything that we could enjoy. I have a list. I have probably already done most of them at least once. I still own some of the equipment. I won’t even discuss some of the really, um, “non-mainstream” (read that as disgusting) acts, so if that is your thing, we should split up now. No judgment, I assure you, but if they don’t turn me on, you and I will both be happier now if you just went ahead and found someone else to enjoy them with. Some other things have been eliminated as “never trying again”, sorry, because they involve pain. I don’t mean the fun kind of pain from play that involves rough sex, or spanking, or even denial of an orgasm as a form of control, but the actual pain that would involve blood, or stitches, or bruising. Play-pain, good. Emergency-room-at-3am-pain, bad.
This isn’t just a rule when it comes to sex, either. Any form of physical pain that is inflicted on purpose is not the best choice. I have been hit before (remember that history thing) and I didn’t like it. I have one scar from it. I was hit just the once, in the face, with the receiver of an old house phone, grabbed out of my hand because the guy thought I was ignoring him when I answered it. The flowers he sent the day after as an apology broke the paper shredder I used to destroy them, and probably ruined his car’s intake manifold from where I dumped them, but I wouldn’t know since I never spoke to him again. I guess the note I left on his windshield telling him I would call the police and show them the cut went well with the shredded roses. Don’t be that guy. I won’t be that girl. I won’t hit in anger or to inflict pain, because that is just worthless behavior. And I really like roses, and prefer to keep them. I like tea roses the color of apricots. They look very pretty in a vase next to purple irises.
But, you don’t have to bring me flowers. I mean, they are nice. I won’t turn them down, and might even thank you with a blowjob, but if you are going to spend money, can you pay my property tax instead? My water bill or electricity bill would be good, too, since I suspect that you and I might be showering together and watching movies together at my house. Contributions are welcome.
Money, however, is not important, unless you don’t have any. I work for mine. I have a full-time job. I spend my money wisely, and splurge when I want to on things that make me happy. I hope you do the same. If one of those things is you, and one of your things is me, then we can call it a draw. If you ask me, even once, to buy your drugs, pay your back due child support, or fund your girlfriend’s abortion, you can be fairly sure the answer is no. Having a job or a way to support yourself makes you sexier. Sexy is good.
It is not the only thing that makes you sexy, though. Supporting my choices is higher on the list. I don’t regret my choices along the way that were mine to make. I have had sex with whom I wanted when it was a choice I could make. I have participated in parties and multiple partner adventures, and public displays. I have always been disgustingly safe (condoms are your friend) and know I have never done anything that put my health in danger, sexual or otherwise. Without giving you a number, that is saying a whole bunch about my world and expectations. I have been tested, usually for peace of mind and to be respectful to new partners. If you want to go together, I am all in. But so you know, I have only had purposeful unprotected sex with two men in my life, and both were men I was trying to have children with and were long-term partners. I have been pregnant four times, resulting in a miscarriage, a stillbirth, and two amazing kids that I am raising on my own after splitting from their father.
Support of that choice is a must. Again, history. I don’t however expect you to be my children’s father. They have one, and would probably not like you if they thought you were getting in the way of that relationship. And besides, I am really looking for someone to fit with me long before you will ever get introduced to them, but being there for me as I travel the parent road is desired. Maybe you are on the same road, and need me to stay the hell out of the way as you figure out your own parenting shit. I am good with that. Especially since I won’t be having any more biological children. Yep, that one is not negotiable.
I have also always been faithful inside of my relationships, and it never occurred to me to cheat on my partners. What I have done outside of a mutual relationship is no ones business but mine. I will tell you if you ask, but mostly just know that I consider sex as trust-based, no matter how quickly that trust is offered. Hours, days, weeks, whatever. I hope that is part of who you are, too, because it would really suck if I couldn’t trust you. It is not a forgiveness type thing either, just a place I would rather not go. If you have cheated on a previous commitment, that is a character flaw, and I have had partners cheat on me before. All of them had a history of doing it before they ever got to trashing me. So it is a lesson I learned, and you just have had to have been loyal. I will always be that. So hopefully, even if one of your past relationships ended badly (history, remember), as long as it ended before you took up with the next ex, we will have something to work with. Oh, and we will need to talk about all this shit, just in case you were wondering. Yeah, that way you won’t have to become a subject in a blog post.
Here is one more thing you will have to support me on to make this work. You will have to understand that even though I love you, you will not become my entire world (been there, done that). I have children. I have friends. I have work. I have a blog to write and a novel to finish. I pose nude and nearly nude with the help of other women who share their clothes and do my makeup. Say one nasty thing about any of it, and you can go away. Actually, say anything nasty and hateful to me that demeans me or tries to belittle, control, or use me, and while I like to think I would me a snarky bitch back, I will more than likely just walk away, shaking my head, wondering what I saw in you and why you couldn’t really man-up.
I hope I recognize you when I meet you. And give you even a glance if you are really a good guy (for me), because admittedly, recognizing that has not been my strong suit. I have picked based on old criteria and societal expectations. I am changing that, and it has been a while, but partnership is like that, right? Partnership and kissing. Definitely kissing.
I am a real woman. I am an adult, which means I have a history. And since I don’t expect you to be fresh from the womb, I am going to grant that you have a history, too. This does not mean baggage. It means you have done some things and I have done some things. We have grown up. I am happy to hear about them, and will tell you my stories, probably over a drink or two (or a blog or two, whichever) but I don’t let them define me in the present. At least I try not to. It is a work in progress. I don’t regret them, because they got me here. Unless your history makes me nauseous, I have already decided to not worry about where you have been. Not like I could change it even if I wanted to, so let’s move on.
Although, I have done some things that might shock you. But if I hadn’t, I would think I was boring.
And I am not boring. You might not be able to tell, because I tend to diappear behind dark clothes, and no make up. There have been times when I didn’t shave those parts that some men have come to expect to be shaved, but I am over that. Not the no shaving part, I still rarely do it, I just don’t care if you expect it. I always shower. I always brush my teeth, but still have morning breath sometimes, and will not really want to kiss until there has been some minty thing involved. This is not boring. This is hygiene. I expect both of us to have the basics down by now. I think someone along the way taught you to do your laundry. Wear clean clothes, even if they are not the most exciting. I hope to spend time with you not worrying about boring clothing.
Speaking of kissing, it is the one sure-fire way to turn me on. Yes, my clitoris is important, so please don’t allow your tongue to neglect it, but if you skip the kissing, I might not care what my other body parts are doing. Come to think of it, I might forget about them at all as it relates to you and just take care if it alone . Kissing is the one thing I can’t do to myself. But if watching me take care of myself turns you on, I am all for it. After we have made out on the couch, that is.
As a matter of fact, I am open to just about anything that we could enjoy. I have a list. I have probably already done most of them at least once. I still own some of the equipment. I won’t even discuss some of the really, um, “non-mainstream” (read that as disgusting) acts, so if that is your thing, we should split up now. No judgment, I assure you, but if they don’t turn me on, you and I will both be happier now if you just went ahead and found someone else to enjoy them with. Some other things have been eliminated as “never trying again”, sorry, because they involve pain. I don’t mean the fun kind of pain from play that involves rough sex, or spanking, or even denial of an orgasm as a form of control, but the actual pain that would involve blood, or stitches, or bruising. Play-pain, good. Emergency-room-at-3am-pain, bad.
This isn’t just a rule when it comes to sex, either. Any form of physical pain that is inflicted on purpose is not the best choice. I have been hit before (remember that history thing) and I didn’t like it. I have one scar from it. I was hit just the once, in the face, with the receiver of an old house phone, grabbed out of my hand because the guy thought I was ignoring him when I answered it. The flowers he sent the day after as an apology broke the paper shredder I used to destroy them, and probably ruined his car’s intake manifold from where I dumped them, but I wouldn’t know since I never spoke to him again. I guess the note I left on his windshield telling him I would call the police and show them the cut went well with the shredded roses. Don’t be that guy. I won’t be that girl. I won’t hit in anger or to inflict pain, because that is just worthless behavior. And I really like roses, and prefer to keep them. I like tea roses the color of apricots. They look very pretty in a vase next to purple irises.
But, you don’t have to bring me flowers. I mean, they are nice. I won’t turn them down, and might even thank you with a blowjob, but if you are going to spend money, can you pay my property tax instead? My water bill or electricity bill would be good, too, since I suspect that you and I might be showering together and watching movies together at my house. Contributions are welcome.
Money, however, is not important, unless you don’t have any. I work for mine. I have a full-time job. I spend my money wisely, and splurge when I want to on things that make me happy. I hope you do the same. If one of those things is you, and one of your things is me, then we can call it a draw. If you ask me, even once, to buy your drugs, pay your back due child support, or fund your girlfriend’s abortion, you can be fairly sure the answer is no. Having a job or a way to support yourself makes you sexier. Sexy is good.
It is not the only thing that makes you sexy, though. Supporting my choices is higher on the list. I don’t regret my choices along the way that were mine to make. I have had sex with whom I wanted when it was a choice I could make. I have participated in parties and multiple partner adventures, and public displays. I have always been disgustingly safe (condoms are your friend) and know I have never done anything that put my health in danger, sexual or otherwise. Without giving you a number, that is saying a whole bunch about my world and expectations. I have been tested, usually for peace of mind and to be respectful to new partners. If you want to go together, I am all in. But so you know, I have only had purposeful unprotected sex with two men in my life, and both were men I was trying to have children with and were long-term partners. I have been pregnant four times, resulting in a miscarriage, a stillbirth, and two amazing kids that I am raising on my own after splitting from their father.
Support of that choice is a must. Again, history. I don’t however expect you to be my children’s father. They have one, and would probably not like you if they thought you were getting in the way of that relationship. And besides, I am really looking for someone to fit with me long before you will ever get introduced to them, but being there for me as I travel the parent road is desired. Maybe you are on the same road, and need me to stay the hell out of the way as you figure out your own parenting shit. I am good with that. Especially since I won’t be having any more biological children. Yep, that one is not negotiable.
I have also always been faithful inside of my relationships, and it never occurred to me to cheat on my partners. What I have done outside of a mutual relationship is no ones business but mine. I will tell you if you ask, but mostly just know that I consider sex as trust-based, no matter how quickly that trust is offered. Hours, days, weeks, whatever. I hope that is part of who you are, too, because it would really suck if I couldn’t trust you. It is not a forgiveness type thing either, just a place I would rather not go. If you have cheated on a previous commitment, that is a character flaw, and I have had partners cheat on me before. All of them had a history of doing it before they ever got to trashing me. So it is a lesson I learned, and you just have had to have been loyal. I will always be that. So hopefully, even if one of your past relationships ended badly (history, remember), as long as it ended before you took up with the next ex, we will have something to work with. Oh, and we will need to talk about all this shit, just in case you were wondering. Yeah, that way you won’t have to become a subject in a blog post.
Here is one more thing you will have to support me on to make this work. You will have to understand that even though I love you, you will not become my entire world (been there, done that). I have children. I have friends. I have work. I have a blog to write and a novel to finish. I pose nude and nearly nude with the help of other women who share their clothes and do my makeup. Say one nasty thing about any of it, and you can go away. Actually, say anything nasty and hateful to me that demeans me or tries to belittle, control, or use me, and while I like to think I would me a snarky bitch back, I will more than likely just walk away, shaking my head, wondering what I saw in you and why you couldn’t really man-up.
I hope I recognize you when I meet you. And give you even a glance if you are really a good guy (for me), because admittedly, recognizing that has not been my strong suit. I have picked based on old criteria and societal expectations. I am changing that, and it has been a while, but partnership is like that, right? Partnership and kissing. Definitely kissing.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Pickle jars
This morning, while happily being lazy, cuddled up with my children in a big fluffy bed, we did a little game of “What was your favorite gift, ever?” With the holidays coming, the expectation of gifts about to be given, it seemed like a timely question. I realized I was trying to gauge importance based on my own way of evaluating gifts, and not on cash value.
With plenty of giggles, we reminded each other of gifts we recieved as recently as last year. The Squinkies in the Christmas socks was the most popular, and also the most played with of the gifts. The books were pretty high on the list, too. I also found out about some weird gifts my children have given to others that I knew nothing about. The Jesus-head snow globe (with real fabric body base) almost made me fall off the bed. These are definitely memory makers.
So I started thinking about gifts I have received, and why I remember them, and why, when I touch them or see them, they still have a memory and emotion attached.
I was given a small vile of perfume oil in a small metal box. The perfume oil was mixed especially for me, in a very small perfume shop, to match my body chemistry. The created perfume was given the name “rainy day” by the shop owner mixing it from listening to the man who purchased it for me. It warmed on my skin like the way sun warms your face in the summer, but then cooled to feel like a breeze after a rain. I learned later, from the shop owner, the meaning of the name was her impression of the man’s words describing what he wanted for me, and that he described me as refreshing, but in a way that snuck up on you, and melancholy and lingering. It was only half an ounce of concentrated oil, given a long ago, and I still have half of it left. I wear it only when I feel blessed and happy. The rest of the time it lives on shelf in a bowl with sea glass and pretty beads, and a bell I found at a lake. Every time I see it, I smile.
The winter I was pregnant with my first son, I was looking for things to make me feel safe and happy. I was loving that I could feel the baby kick, and had all the plans for what this unexpected child would be, but his father and I had been struggling. I wanted to feel like I could nest peacefully, be someplace restful, and just lull myself into a warm space of wife and mother. His father and I had taken a walk in early December through a small town, and come to a local furniture store and chatted amicable with the shop owner. We had been the only ones on the shop, and the owner, happy for the company, had shown us everything. Amish designed dressers. Shaker chests. An amazing sleigh bed in mahogany. We opened every drawer, pulled open ever cabinet, sat on every bench, laughed. It was delicious. The day before Christmas Eve, I walked into the room we were converting to the nursery and there was a beautiful Stickley-inspired mission-style oak rocking chair. It was the one I had fallen in love with on our walk. The note said “For you and the baby”. The chair is in my living room now. I read or write in it almost every day.
I am a writer, so once in a while beside this blog, I write things for other publication. I enter a contest almost every year that asks you to write an entire story using 101 words or less. It is complicated in its simplicity, and something that, when I have been published, I am damn proud of. You are allowed to enter up to three stories for consideration. One year, I had all three published. Since I don’t actually *expect* anyone to read what I write (a total self-esteem issue, all writers (except maybe Steven King) think this way) knowing that if anyone does is kind of a gift itself. I got asked to lunch (maybe it was drinks) a little time after the publication date. During the meal (or drinks) I was handed a laminated sheet of the cover of the magazine that published my stories. Under the lamination, on top of the cover, were the three stories themselves, cut-out and artfully placed so that it made it look like the stories were the only thing in the magazine, and you did not need to read any further. This had been hand done. Custom. There is only one in the world. I put a frame around it, and it hangs on my wall next to kindergarten art and an old baseball pennant. I think of the man’s hands, imagining scissors and glue, and a laminating machine, knowing he thought about me for that small space of time, every time the shiny lamination catches my attention. It is divine.
I was gifted a leather journal. The edges are faded and soft. I use it while sitting in my rocker.
I have a pair of sapphire earrings that I never wear, made from the stones that used to be in my engagement ring. I really should sell them.
I sometimes wear a little black dress that was purchased for me at a flea market. It comes just above the knee, has a kicky little A-line, sleeveless with the perfect darts to enhance my bust line, and laces up the back. In all my different sizes (and that is a lot), this dress has always fit. I have danced for hours and hours in this dress. I have traveled in this dress. I have both undone the laces for someone and had them undone for me. I always feel sexy in this dress. The man who bought this for me sends me a Christmas card every year, usually with photos of his kids, and I send him a birthday card, usually with a drawing of a dress on it. The dress hangs in the back of my closet, so I see it when I am searching for something to wear when I haven’t done laundry. Without fail, I feel tingly when I touch it. It has been 28 years. It never gets old.
I have a jar that sits on my desk at home. I forget about it most of the time, under piles of papers and unfolded laundry. It is just an old pickle jar. It still smells slightly of dill, especially if it is summer and the morning light warms it up. The lid has a slit cut in the top, like a piggy bank, and it is decorated with china markers and layers of Holly Hobbie angel stickers. My children don’t remember that they made it for me. They were only 3 and 5 at the time the gift was offered. It is the “whatever money” jar. As explained to me at the time, when two little kids had no idea about cost of things, but only that money was important and we had none, this jar was so once in a while we could have some whatever-money to spend. It has been raided plenty of times over the last 7 years, giving us ice cream on hot summer days, or popcorn at the free movies, or pennies for wishes, or replacement checker pieces, or quarters for the dryer on the days we washed all the stuffed animals. It has never been empty. I have yet to put any money in, yet there it is, on my desk, somehow filled with coins. I only seem to remember it when we need it the most.
I think there must be more things like this filling my house, the way most gifts are for me. Sweet little memory touchstones that hold my heart, allowing me love when I am struggling to find it. I guess today was a gift, too. Maybe my favorite, ever.
With plenty of giggles, we reminded each other of gifts we recieved as recently as last year. The Squinkies in the Christmas socks was the most popular, and also the most played with of the gifts. The books were pretty high on the list, too. I also found out about some weird gifts my children have given to others that I knew nothing about. The Jesus-head snow globe (with real fabric body base) almost made me fall off the bed. These are definitely memory makers.
So I started thinking about gifts I have received, and why I remember them, and why, when I touch them or see them, they still have a memory and emotion attached.
I was given a small vile of perfume oil in a small metal box. The perfume oil was mixed especially for me, in a very small perfume shop, to match my body chemistry. The created perfume was given the name “rainy day” by the shop owner mixing it from listening to the man who purchased it for me. It warmed on my skin like the way sun warms your face in the summer, but then cooled to feel like a breeze after a rain. I learned later, from the shop owner, the meaning of the name was her impression of the man’s words describing what he wanted for me, and that he described me as refreshing, but in a way that snuck up on you, and melancholy and lingering. It was only half an ounce of concentrated oil, given a long ago, and I still have half of it left. I wear it only when I feel blessed and happy. The rest of the time it lives on shelf in a bowl with sea glass and pretty beads, and a bell I found at a lake. Every time I see it, I smile.
The winter I was pregnant with my first son, I was looking for things to make me feel safe and happy. I was loving that I could feel the baby kick, and had all the plans for what this unexpected child would be, but his father and I had been struggling. I wanted to feel like I could nest peacefully, be someplace restful, and just lull myself into a warm space of wife and mother. His father and I had taken a walk in early December through a small town, and come to a local furniture store and chatted amicable with the shop owner. We had been the only ones on the shop, and the owner, happy for the company, had shown us everything. Amish designed dressers. Shaker chests. An amazing sleigh bed in mahogany. We opened every drawer, pulled open ever cabinet, sat on every bench, laughed. It was delicious. The day before Christmas Eve, I walked into the room we were converting to the nursery and there was a beautiful Stickley-inspired mission-style oak rocking chair. It was the one I had fallen in love with on our walk. The note said “For you and the baby”. The chair is in my living room now. I read or write in it almost every day.
I am a writer, so once in a while beside this blog, I write things for other publication. I enter a contest almost every year that asks you to write an entire story using 101 words or less. It is complicated in its simplicity, and something that, when I have been published, I am damn proud of. You are allowed to enter up to three stories for consideration. One year, I had all three published. Since I don’t actually *expect* anyone to read what I write (a total self-esteem issue, all writers (except maybe Steven King) think this way) knowing that if anyone does is kind of a gift itself. I got asked to lunch (maybe it was drinks) a little time after the publication date. During the meal (or drinks) I was handed a laminated sheet of the cover of the magazine that published my stories. Under the lamination, on top of the cover, were the three stories themselves, cut-out and artfully placed so that it made it look like the stories were the only thing in the magazine, and you did not need to read any further. This had been hand done. Custom. There is only one in the world. I put a frame around it, and it hangs on my wall next to kindergarten art and an old baseball pennant. I think of the man’s hands, imagining scissors and glue, and a laminating machine, knowing he thought about me for that small space of time, every time the shiny lamination catches my attention. It is divine.
I was gifted a leather journal. The edges are faded and soft. I use it while sitting in my rocker.
I have a pair of sapphire earrings that I never wear, made from the stones that used to be in my engagement ring. I really should sell them.
I sometimes wear a little black dress that was purchased for me at a flea market. It comes just above the knee, has a kicky little A-line, sleeveless with the perfect darts to enhance my bust line, and laces up the back. In all my different sizes (and that is a lot), this dress has always fit. I have danced for hours and hours in this dress. I have traveled in this dress. I have both undone the laces for someone and had them undone for me. I always feel sexy in this dress. The man who bought this for me sends me a Christmas card every year, usually with photos of his kids, and I send him a birthday card, usually with a drawing of a dress on it. The dress hangs in the back of my closet, so I see it when I am searching for something to wear when I haven’t done laundry. Without fail, I feel tingly when I touch it. It has been 28 years. It never gets old.
I have a jar that sits on my desk at home. I forget about it most of the time, under piles of papers and unfolded laundry. It is just an old pickle jar. It still smells slightly of dill, especially if it is summer and the morning light warms it up. The lid has a slit cut in the top, like a piggy bank, and it is decorated with china markers and layers of Holly Hobbie angel stickers. My children don’t remember that they made it for me. They were only 3 and 5 at the time the gift was offered. It is the “whatever money” jar. As explained to me at the time, when two little kids had no idea about cost of things, but only that money was important and we had none, this jar was so once in a while we could have some whatever-money to spend. It has been raided plenty of times over the last 7 years, giving us ice cream on hot summer days, or popcorn at the free movies, or pennies for wishes, or replacement checker pieces, or quarters for the dryer on the days we washed all the stuffed animals. It has never been empty. I have yet to put any money in, yet there it is, on my desk, somehow filled with coins. I only seem to remember it when we need it the most.
I think there must be more things like this filling my house, the way most gifts are for me. Sweet little memory touchstones that hold my heart, allowing me love when I am struggling to find it. I guess today was a gift, too. Maybe my favorite, ever.
Friday, November 8, 2013
Lovers
No relationship is perfect. This one came close:
I have written about my “drama” boyfriend before. This is not about him, but about a time during our first “break” from each other (that I didn’t yet know was a just a “time-out” that would last for 9 months, but thought was a forever break up, complete with heartache. Whatever.) I was nursing my broken heart with keeping busy, writing, going to parties, hanging with friends who let me cry, and tried to hook me up. I was not ready for a “relationship” in my rebound mode. I wanted to be left alone mostly, and give my heart a chance to stop spinning in my head and throat. Loud music and lots of alcohol was the only plan.
And is the case with most times of self discovery, this did not happen. Instead, I was stressed about finishing school work, finding a summer job, paying my rent, sick friends, the guy who lived upstairs with the really loud Persian music played nightly at top volume, and my piece of crap car. It was early April, and I didn’t know if I was pregnant, (Thank god I wasn’t!) (Because remember DramaBoy?) (Yeah, it had been about 3 weeks, and I was late.) (Yes, we were using birth control.) (Stress will make you skip, can we be done now?) and decided that going home to see my parents for a couple days was a good idea. That was a mistake that lasted about 6 hours, and I headed back to my Sacramento apartment probably more stressed than I was before.
To try to shake it (read that as cry hysterically in my car) I stopped at the vista point half way home. I was just getting ready to leave, and a truck blocked my path. And did not move. Like 20 minutes of this.
When I finally got angry enough to risk being raped by some creepy, smelly, Neanderthal truck driver, I met HIM.
For months, through my birthday, his birthday, 4th of July, a screaming hot summer and sensuous autumn, he was my lover. Every Tuesday. Every Friday. 7pm to 5 am. No other part in each other’s lives. What-so-ever.
Sounds strange until I explain. It was Tuesday. We met at the vista point, said good bye. Ended up at the same restaurant 90 miles down road, said good bye again. Walked into the same perfume shop in old town, and laughed. We went for drinks, talked about nothing personal and went to his hotel room. I didn’t know his name, he didn’t know mine. I still didn’t the next morning, and he said he would tell me it if I would meet him on Friday at the perfume shop.
That first Friday was awkward. The conversation was about sex, and love, and desire. I told him I wasn’t ready to trust anyone with my heart. He said he wasn’t in a place to be that person anyway. We made some rules about what we could give, and when. Rules like “Tuesdays and Fridays”. Rules like “out of the hotel by 5 am”. Rules like not knowing each other’s name, or where the other lived, or the other person’s phone number. And nothing at all about what was going on in our real world. In our little ten-hour fantasy world, nothing else existed. We would meet at 7 on the appointed day at the perfume shop, and from that second until 5 the next morning, we belonged to each other. All in.
We agreed to sex as experimental, and fun. We agreed to accept whatever the other person wanted as just a part that was allowed in “our” world. We never argued about who would bring condoms because the answer was that we both would.
We would eat dinner together, get drinks, walk around. We went to the movies a couple times. We snuck in back stage at Music Circus. Mostly, we grabbed take out and headed to the hotel room.
Sometimes the sex was playful. Sometimes it was rough. Sometimes it was painfully needy. Sometimes it was boring or we didn’t have sex at all. Once, I showed up with a fever, he brought me wonton soup from the Chinese restaurant across the street and fed me slowly. Once, he showed up with scrapes all down his side and leg, so I brought him arnica salve and massage oil, and Tylenol and a bottle of Jack Daniels from the drug store around the corner. We cuddled a lot, kissed a lot, gave lots of foot rubs and watched TV or porn. We slept in the same bed. And then we went about our lives. We messed up a few times here and there, and let our real world slip in with anger or sadness, but we always got each other back on track, usually with a really good blow job or some insane new clitoral toy.
From him I learned about the many uses of men’s silk neck ties, and to enjoy certain types of sex neither one of us had tried, and to let go of any expectations. He was not my boyfriend. He was not even a friend in the traditional sense either. I never talked about him to anyone in my everyday life, maybe just out of being selfish to want that part to belong just to me, on my terms, without the pressure of it having to be something else. He was my sex partner, helping me (me helping him?) understand that the world was both bigger and smaller than either of us could control, and that love (yes, I said love) comes in a whole bunch of different packages.
We both knew it would eventually end. We didn’t talk about it beyond the rule “If we go four meetings in a row (basically, two weeks) without seeing each other, without prior scheduling, we are done.” No discussion, no tears (though there were some on my end, eventually, but I don’t regret them) and no holding it against anyone else. As a matter of fact, we both said (in one of the few times we slightly broke the rules) that having Tuesday and Friday, for 10 hours at a time, probably kept us sane in our real world, until we were strong enough to not need it.
In early that November, I got back together with DramaBoy. I stopped going to the perfume shop. I don’t regret.
So why am I writing about this now? Because this week I epically failed at creating this again. I mean, crash and burn. I am nursing a broken heart, and enjoying alcohol and loud music, and I thought that little piece of trustful sex would be awesome. All in, no connection to my real world of work and laundry and children. I wanted it on Wednesday and every other Friday. I just wanted the man to show up and be present for 2-hours and 10-hours respectively and then go back to his real world, to love me (yes, I said love) without reservation or expectation of anything outside of that tiny bit of space. No jealousy, no forever. Rules, but only as they would relate to us, that we would create. But, I couldn’t even get to that part of the conversation, mucking myself up in superficial conversation about movies and other fluff. I had already let my real world creep in instead of just asking for what I wanted. To be fair, he had no clue what I was there for. He already had his own expectations and walls and experiences, and we had a past together that, looking at it from a couple days away, had already doomed it.
I have already let go. Writing blogs is like that for me, thank god. No regrets, for sure, and maybe a little more knowledge of how to help myself. I plan to figure out what is next over a bottle of Jack Daniels this weekend, while my kids are away and I can watch porn. Maybe I will see if my girlfriends wanna come dance with me and talk shit about our exes. And if I meet someone who can be serendipitously amazing, I will know what it looks like. Who’s in?
I have written about my “drama” boyfriend before. This is not about him, but about a time during our first “break” from each other (that I didn’t yet know was a just a “time-out” that would last for 9 months, but thought was a forever break up, complete with heartache. Whatever.) I was nursing my broken heart with keeping busy, writing, going to parties, hanging with friends who let me cry, and tried to hook me up. I was not ready for a “relationship” in my rebound mode. I wanted to be left alone mostly, and give my heart a chance to stop spinning in my head and throat. Loud music and lots of alcohol was the only plan.
And is the case with most times of self discovery, this did not happen. Instead, I was stressed about finishing school work, finding a summer job, paying my rent, sick friends, the guy who lived upstairs with the really loud Persian music played nightly at top volume, and my piece of crap car. It was early April, and I didn’t know if I was pregnant, (Thank god I wasn’t!) (Because remember DramaBoy?) (Yeah, it had been about 3 weeks, and I was late.) (Yes, we were using birth control.) (Stress will make you skip, can we be done now?) and decided that going home to see my parents for a couple days was a good idea. That was a mistake that lasted about 6 hours, and I headed back to my Sacramento apartment probably more stressed than I was before.
To try to shake it (read that as cry hysterically in my car) I stopped at the vista point half way home. I was just getting ready to leave, and a truck blocked my path. And did not move. Like 20 minutes of this.
When I finally got angry enough to risk being raped by some creepy, smelly, Neanderthal truck driver, I met HIM.
For months, through my birthday, his birthday, 4th of July, a screaming hot summer and sensuous autumn, he was my lover. Every Tuesday. Every Friday. 7pm to 5 am. No other part in each other’s lives. What-so-ever.
Sounds strange until I explain. It was Tuesday. We met at the vista point, said good bye. Ended up at the same restaurant 90 miles down road, said good bye again. Walked into the same perfume shop in old town, and laughed. We went for drinks, talked about nothing personal and went to his hotel room. I didn’t know his name, he didn’t know mine. I still didn’t the next morning, and he said he would tell me it if I would meet him on Friday at the perfume shop.
That first Friday was awkward. The conversation was about sex, and love, and desire. I told him I wasn’t ready to trust anyone with my heart. He said he wasn’t in a place to be that person anyway. We made some rules about what we could give, and when. Rules like “Tuesdays and Fridays”. Rules like “out of the hotel by 5 am”. Rules like not knowing each other’s name, or where the other lived, or the other person’s phone number. And nothing at all about what was going on in our real world. In our little ten-hour fantasy world, nothing else existed. We would meet at 7 on the appointed day at the perfume shop, and from that second until 5 the next morning, we belonged to each other. All in.
We agreed to sex as experimental, and fun. We agreed to accept whatever the other person wanted as just a part that was allowed in “our” world. We never argued about who would bring condoms because the answer was that we both would.
We would eat dinner together, get drinks, walk around. We went to the movies a couple times. We snuck in back stage at Music Circus. Mostly, we grabbed take out and headed to the hotel room.
Sometimes the sex was playful. Sometimes it was rough. Sometimes it was painfully needy. Sometimes it was boring or we didn’t have sex at all. Once, I showed up with a fever, he brought me wonton soup from the Chinese restaurant across the street and fed me slowly. Once, he showed up with scrapes all down his side and leg, so I brought him arnica salve and massage oil, and Tylenol and a bottle of Jack Daniels from the drug store around the corner. We cuddled a lot, kissed a lot, gave lots of foot rubs and watched TV or porn. We slept in the same bed. And then we went about our lives. We messed up a few times here and there, and let our real world slip in with anger or sadness, but we always got each other back on track, usually with a really good blow job or some insane new clitoral toy.
From him I learned about the many uses of men’s silk neck ties, and to enjoy certain types of sex neither one of us had tried, and to let go of any expectations. He was not my boyfriend. He was not even a friend in the traditional sense either. I never talked about him to anyone in my everyday life, maybe just out of being selfish to want that part to belong just to me, on my terms, without the pressure of it having to be something else. He was my sex partner, helping me (me helping him?) understand that the world was both bigger and smaller than either of us could control, and that love (yes, I said love) comes in a whole bunch of different packages.
We both knew it would eventually end. We didn’t talk about it beyond the rule “If we go four meetings in a row (basically, two weeks) without seeing each other, without prior scheduling, we are done.” No discussion, no tears (though there were some on my end, eventually, but I don’t regret them) and no holding it against anyone else. As a matter of fact, we both said (in one of the few times we slightly broke the rules) that having Tuesday and Friday, for 10 hours at a time, probably kept us sane in our real world, until we were strong enough to not need it.
In early that November, I got back together with DramaBoy. I stopped going to the perfume shop. I don’t regret.
So why am I writing about this now? Because this week I epically failed at creating this again. I mean, crash and burn. I am nursing a broken heart, and enjoying alcohol and loud music, and I thought that little piece of trustful sex would be awesome. All in, no connection to my real world of work and laundry and children. I wanted it on Wednesday and every other Friday. I just wanted the man to show up and be present for 2-hours and 10-hours respectively and then go back to his real world, to love me (yes, I said love) without reservation or expectation of anything outside of that tiny bit of space. No jealousy, no forever. Rules, but only as they would relate to us, that we would create. But, I couldn’t even get to that part of the conversation, mucking myself up in superficial conversation about movies and other fluff. I had already let my real world creep in instead of just asking for what I wanted. To be fair, he had no clue what I was there for. He already had his own expectations and walls and experiences, and we had a past together that, looking at it from a couple days away, had already doomed it.
I have already let go. Writing blogs is like that for me, thank god. No regrets, for sure, and maybe a little more knowledge of how to help myself. I plan to figure out what is next over a bottle of Jack Daniels this weekend, while my kids are away and I can watch porn. Maybe I will see if my girlfriends wanna come dance with me and talk shit about our exes. And if I meet someone who can be serendipitously amazing, I will know what it looks like. Who’s in?
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