Nights of Blues

Someone said to me, close your eyes and think of your favorite childhood Christmas memory. Mine is blue lights.

On our street, almost everyone put up Christmas lights. The older folks displayed electric candles with orange bulbs and sometimes twinkle lights in a window or two. But the homes with kids were outlined in those thick outdoor bulbs. Excitement grew as each night, a new house was illuminated. As the big day grew closer, the nights became brighter and more colorful.

My father had strands and strands of multicolored, socketed bulbs that he kept in cardboard boxes in the storage space above the garage. Every year, he'd take it all down and inspect the cords and plugs and bulbs. He'd test the lines to see which bulbs needed replacement. Then he'd position the ladder and begin. It was quite an undertaking which took hours.

It was this one December that stands out to me above all others. The whole family was driving around one night, admiring the house lights on other streets. I thought about how ours could be different this year.

"Hey dad, can we do all blue?"

All blue. Everyone liked the idea. Yea, that would be cool! All blue! was the general response.

"All blue," replied my father, his voice flat and unemotional. But I was hopeful. At least it wasn't a flat-out no. Or worse, "We'll see." Which is a parent's cruel, implied no.

A few nights later, our house glowed a groovy, eye-catching, mellow, mysterious blue. The deepest ocean within a sea of bright life.

 I can still see it now, eyes closed. I'll never forget it.

Merry Christmas. May what you love deep down within be your light.

Things I Just Don't Get

Minivans
Or as I like to call them, mommyvans. Mommies who can't judge the size of their vehicle vans. Next mommyvan you see, I'll bet you'll notice a long scrap along the side of it, one of the rear view mirrors will be damaged, or the bumper will have some sort of dent. And inside, complete disaster. The plastic innards of a McDonald's Playland tube slide is like a sanitized surgical scalpel compared to the shit storm happening inside the cavity of a mommyvan. Style-less, over-sized chaos.


North Face Jackets.
They are everywhere. In line at ShopNBag the other day, four out of the six people within ten feet of me were sporting that dingy, looks-like-it's-been-over-washed, black, fleecy, no collar, zippered, expensive, ugly jacket. Including the cashier.  It was like being amidst mindless, trendy fashion cult members. Puzzling, and creepy.

The Oversaturation of Adele.
Hey, I sort of like that title. Sounds like a Barnes and Noble "staff pick". Anyway, yes, she is an extremely talented singer and songwriter but gee whiz, why can't the airwaves give it a rest? Please? For at least a few hours? No Adele? Please? I'm tired of switching stations already.

The Karfuckingdashians.
Who gives a flying fuck? Apparently, almost everyone except me. I don't know much about them other than there is a bunch of females who all sort of look the same, the father is the used-to-be famous Olympic runner Bruce Jenner, something involving a porno, and somehow they are all over the place. Something about sisters? Who the fuck knows. All I know is, it pisses me off that every time I turn around, there is a Karfuckingdashian in my face. (Can you tell, when I am overly irritated, I say fuck a lot?) And if you ask me, that guy that one of them married for 15 minutes looks like Shrek.

The Latest Catchphrases

It must be me. I tried it. I tried sounding current by throwing a few My Bads and Just Sayins around. To my ears, I sound retarded. When I hear My Bad, Epic Fail, Uber anything and Just Sayin, it's like nails on a chalkboard. Now there's an expression I like.

Holiday Letters

It's that time of year again. Time to open wide to take what I call my December dose of Syrup of Ipecac, otherwise known as the Holiday Letter. You know, those delightful year-end recaps cleverly crafted to boast shamelessly while still sounding sincerely grateful and humbled by life's good fortune. The ones I get, however, are not so subtle. They simply scream "our shit doesn't stink."  I read them and I wonder, do you hear yourself? Here's an excerpt ...

"Our Jennifer continues to work at (insert name of well-known wealth management company here) and is now Assistant Vice President and Marketing Coordinator for the United Emirates market. She has ambitious goals of competing in the blah blah blah triathlon with Team SaveALife. She continues to volunteer with various not-for-profit organizations such as blah blah blah and she is now President of the blah blah blah Alumni Association of (insert Ivy League University name here). Her fiance, David, also a graduate of (insert name of Ivy League University again), has entered his second year of law school at (yet another Ivy League university) and spends a majority of his free time as a volunteer firefighter, where he has recently been promoted to Lieutenant."

This particular author/mom writes in the third person, which also baffles me. The section on her goes like this ...

"Mary is still an extraordinary minister at church and recently joined (name of club which infers she combines regular exercise WITH volunteer work) and plans to donate one of her kidneys to a random homeless person within the next year."

And it goes on and on and on. Okay, I made up the part about the organ gifting, but that wouldn't surprise me. 

... That's it for now, friends. What don't you get? I'd love to compare notes.

Truth Be Told ...

There is a lot for which to be thankful.

Like recently, I learned that the average person's total skin covering would weigh about 6 pounds if collected in one mass. This bit of trivia made me thankful for how easy it is to share information, to learn something new every day. It also reminds me of how much I love my own skin. I've got great skin. It's incredibly soft. Like a six pound stick of butter.

I'm thankful that Cutie Pie the hamster kicked the proverbial bucket, 'cause I was getting REAL tired of taking care of that thing.

I'd like to personally thank whoever invented the nail clipper. Hangnails drive me insane. The faster I can eliminate them, the better. I keep a clipper in my purse, one in my car, one in every coat pocket, and several in drawers around my house. Cause you never know with hangnails. They are sneaky SOBs. Nail-Clipper-Inventor, you rock!

I'm thoroughly grateful for The Academy. I'm not sure who they are or what they do, but it seems like they always get thanked. And that must mean something.

I'm thankful for sex toys. Enough said there. I know you all have images in your head right now. Those will suffice. If not, youjizz is a click away.

In that vein, thank you to my yoga instructor for his slammin' body. Damn, he looks good. And gives good yoga. When I am sitting in my forward bend and he lays that hard chest on my back and gently leans into me to deepen the stretch, while whispering in my ear "breathe" ... wow.
I have a feeling he's gay, though.

Burnt toast. I'm thankful for one of the very few mistakes that you can legitimately blame on someone else. Why on earth would a toaster have a setting that is way too high for the product which it is supposed to warm to a golden brown? Whoever engineered that feature fucked up. And we pay for it. Go figure.

Heat. Anything heated or hot. Heated car seats, heated floors, saunas, hot tubs, the oven, the sun, jalapenos, hot toddies, hot water bottles, skin on skin under flannel sheets and a down comforter, fire. Anything that makes me sweat. Bring it on. Thermostat on 73 in the winter and minimal A/C in the summer. I am forever grateful for whatever warms my bones. Cold? It's ho-hum at best. Unless it's a cold beer on a hot day.

My allergy to cats and dogs. It's a great excuse for when my kids plead with me to get one. And to use as an out when I'm invited to house parties that I know will be a drag. Oh, I'd love to come! But wait, do you have any pets? (Odds are on my side.)

I'm most thankful for my husband, who loves me despite all of the above.

Happy Turkey Day!

PMS or SMP (something more personal)

My nerves are frazzled. I want complete silence. No sound of running faucets, no clicking of forks against porcelain plates, no muffled voices two decibels too loud. No lights left on, no unattended blue stove top flames, no one walking in on me while I shower behind clear glass doors. No trails of bread crumbs or dried spaghetti strands stuck to stainless steel. Shut the door behind you. It was shut before you opened it. And stop shushing me. Trust me, no one will hear.

Who knows?

There is something that I can never seem to figure out, no matter how many different ways I think about it. And that is, why what certain people think about me is so important to me. It's not everyone. It's far from everyone. But when it is one of those chosen few, and I feel like I've fallen short ... it cuts like a knife.

The Cheese

I don't know about other nationalities, but I know for a fact that Italians love smuggling cheese. Maybe it is ingrained in their string of DNA. Maybe it stems from being descendants of a country occupied hundreds of times over, an unrecognized hidden fear of being displaced and needing rations. The thrill of fooling customs, maybe? All I know is, every one of them pack large amounts of cheese in suitcases and carry-ons as they travel from the homeland. Then The Cheese takes on a personality all its own, and becomes their gift to you, the lucky American, who can BUY IMPORTED ITALIAN AND EVERY OTHER KIND OF CHEESE WE COULD POSSIBLY IMAGINE from our local Whole Foods or Specialty Cheese Shop which happens to be not too far from our homes. Cause, remember, this is America. But I digress.


So The Cheese arrives, along with my father-in-law. Ominous in presence, with what appears to be a slimy coating. (The Cheese, not my father-in-law.) I'm curious as to why the sealed plastic has been broken and there is a chunk missing. Some questions, you just don't bother asking. That I've also learned.

Just to get some perspective on this, in comparison, my Smartphone placed along side of The Cheese would appear to be very small.


Fast forward to yesterday afternoon. We are getting ready to drive to my parent's house for a visit. I invite my father-in-law to accompany us. He happily agrees, and true to form, seconds before we are ready to walk out the door he announces he must bring a gift. He must bring The Cheese. He asks me to chop the chunk in half, and wrap it up for him to bring to my parents. UGH!!!!!!!!

My mom, being very sweet, fawned over the presentation of The Cheese. She thought she should put it out on the table during dinner, as a sign of respect for The Cheese. (Funny, my mom has not a drop of Italian blood in her. But Poland was an occupied country many times over, too ... hmmmm) She asked me to cut The Cheese for the table, which I did, warning her not to eat The Cheese. It was for display purposes only. Why, she asked? I informed her this was The Cheese that sat inside luggage for 10 hours during the transatlantic flight, sat on my kitchen table overnight after being released from the luggage, then was eventually refrigerated by my father-in-law. I think she had the common sense to trash The Cheese, the entire chunk of it, after we left.

The Cheese stands alone? Not in my house.

Day Eight into the most recent chapter of my life ... titled "Crazy Italian father-in-law living in my home for an undisclosed period of time."

It's 6:17 am. Morning preparation of myself and kid's lunches complete, I take a much needed moment to pour a second cup of java. In he shuffles, paper in hand. Always with a piece of mail for me to decipher.  Today, it's his missing rebate check. Of course, it is not missing at all. It is in the pile of mail that has accumulated over the last 6 months he has been away living in Calabria with his girlfriend. But try to explain that to him. He is shoving a tax receipt from the township under my nose and asking "You call-a she? Da town-SHEEP? I no have-a rebot. No rebot check-a."

"No, Pop. You are looking for your REBATE check from the State Department of Revenue. You have that. I saw it."

And this conversation goes on and on. "Wha? I no understand." I try explaining in Italian. Finally he gets it. Fifteen minutes have passed. I need my coffee laced with Maker's Mark now. We're all out.

Later ... rounding up the troops to pile into the car. To school and work we go and as usual we are running late. He needs a ride to his brother's house, which he has let me know 10 seconds before I am about to exit my abode. Ok, let's go then. All in the car, start it, here we go.

"WAIT."

Him: "I need-a my glasses."
Me: "For what?"
Him: "I no see-a good. One min-ette."

Ten minutes later, the front door opens once again and he emerges. He seems to have trouble closing the door behind him. I electronically open the passenger side window and hear loud mumblings of Italian expletives. He is bending down doing something with his shoe.

Me: "Pop, what's the matter?"
Him: "My-a string. My-a string. Oh goddamn. (more Italian expletives)"

Now he begins to remove his shoe. "What the FUCK?" my head is screaming internally.
His shoe is off and he is bent over tugging at something. I am now forced to exit the vehicle to investigate. The light morning drizzle has become a steady downpour.

Turns out, his freaking SHOELACE was trapped underneath the door. I don't have the key to unlock the door. I must go around to the side of the house, punch the code to the garage door, enter the house through the garage, open the front door, and unleash his shoelace.

My father-in-law has hands the size of Kentucky. His fingers are as thick as overcooked hotdogs. And arthritic. So naturally, my next five minutes were spent rethreading the lace back onto the shoe.

Bling. The sound of the low fuel indicator as it lit up on the dashboard.

Oh goddamn is right.

There's a reason for the MANtis to pray.

"Mommy, how are babies made?

Those exact words. Just like on a tv sitcom. Are kids hard-wired to phrase that question as she did? Out of nowhere, at the dinner table in between bites of filet and green beans. Shit, how do I not screw this up? I responded rather stoically. Saying this was a good question, but not something we should discuss at the dinner table, being it a mature subject and all, glancing at her little brother. He immediately insisted he was ma-door and anyway, he already KNEW where they came from ... your belly. Eye-roll from big sis. She asked if we could talk about it later and I assured her we would.

Later has not happened yet. I need some time to think. But not a lot. Years ago, I would have rushed to the bookstore or internet to research the probably hundreds of opinions as to how to best handle "the talk". Just as I did when she was a baby, always questioning, wondering, doubting, comparing. It's easier now being older. Mid life brings with it a deepened sense of realism. Not trusting others as much anymore. Relying on your own experiences with yourself and others for direction. The confidence is envigorating.

I know how I'm going to handle this. And I know it will be right. But, I am tempted to go in a completely opposite direction. Being that I am always "out in left field" anyway, why not? Here's what I mean ...

I have an equally wacky very special friend who, ironically, sent me this today. It's a pic of her pet praying mantises photographed just prior to shagging. She was excited to share the news that she will soon be a grandmantis. I'm so happy for her! I thought I may use this pic to help demonstrate and explain how all living things engage in the wonderful gift of getting it on. Not in those words, of course.

My friend also passed along some interesting facts about this species, and they're unusual mating ritual:

"Males usually attempt to flee right after mating to escape becoming dinner. Sometimes the female will try to eat her mate even before the mating process is complete. In fact, the female eating the head can cause the male to ejaculate faster. The male can continue copulating and inseminate the female, even headless."

Headless sex. Nah, I better wait until she's at least in high school.

Captive Aspiration

The less said, the better
When is that true
A restless voice 
like white noise
and no one to tell the story to


What use is there
for words begging to be heard
then silenced 
placed in a sealed crypt
and buried in rocky earth
Words that are felt
through the images left
by the lingering recollection
of an unforgettable dream
The silence of an embrace
that speaks forever


How do you hide
what's screaming inside
Daunting the days
spent as time wore on
wearing you down
Shout, shaking but
don't turn around
Smile then say goodbye


Sweet girl, 
bitter truth
how can we know
the life inside someone's head
Who's strong enough to conquer
what's better not said


(It's bad poetry, I know, but posted not with the intention of making you cringe. It's my feeble way of expressing to a dear friend, who may or may not know how much I love her and how I hurt when she hurts. We get blocked by so many things. I wish it wasn't so difficult to communicate what really matters. As time goes on, with a little luck and a lot of inspiration, we learn how to chisel away at the boulders in the road before it's too late. She did. We all can.)

Nut Lover

Pistachios are addicting. Why? Aside from the flavor, could it be the way the roasted shells have practically opened themselves for you, exposing the delicious and mysteriously green-hued nut meat inside? So eager to be eaten! I always hunt for the ones with the most nut meat showing first. Effortlessly, I apply a minuscule amount of pressure to the gaping crack and WHAM, within a nanosecond that palate tease is inside my mouth.

Is there such a thing as pistachio porn? There should be.

I'm not a huge television viewer, but I must watch something while eating pistachios. The two are synonymous, like those who only smoke cigarettes while drinking beer. I get into a zone. I don't even think about how many I'm popping or the rate at which the pile of discarded shells is becoming a mountain of casings. It's a whole hand-to-mouth fixation thing that puts me in a near trance-like state. Split, pop, crunch. Split, pop, crunch. Split, pop, crunch. Very rhythmic. Very satisfying.

Until I realize I've breezed through the easy (horny) nuts and are left with the clamped shut challengers. I've nearly chipped a few teeth fiercely chomping down on those bad boys. But, as stubborn as they can be, I usually find a way to gnash the hell out of them, even if my reward is a measly few bits of pistachio crumbs.

Trust me, this never works. 

Ultimately, I arrive at the very last pistachio, powdered with an excessive amount of what appears to be dust and salt from being the last of the 3,217 pistachios packed in that burlap sack 'o nuts that I got as a gift from Aunt Helen last Thanksgiving. Poor guy. The remnants of his already devoured cousin nuts are now a pulverized mass of pistachio paste lodged between my gums and inner lips. Unable to speak, I then spend what seems like an eternity giving my tongue a work-out as it dislodges this yummy reserve.

More pistachio porn. Now it's all starting to make sense.

The pistachio-crazed euphoria gently comes to a close. I am no longer lulled by the sound of cracking shells and mashing molars. It's only then that I begin to wonder how on earth my digestive system will be able to process such an alarming amount of foodstuff practically inhaled in a matter of minutes. And later, when the tummy ache subsides and I finally fall asleep, the monkey returns in the form of what can only be described as a seed-eating-frenzy-induced nut-mare. Noooooo!

Pistachio revenge !!

See what happens when you mess around with nuts?

Get Out Of My Facebook ... The Peculiar Parallels Between Social Media and Motherhood

Not a day goes by that I am not in some way reminded of two things ... my children and as weird as it sounds, facebook. My kids are a constant and facebook is everywhere. I enjoy facebook for the most part, and lately have been thinking how much the experience is very similar to being a mom.

I've established a love/hate relationship with both. There are days when both worlds make me laugh and entertain.  Some fb friends have the gift of making their personality shine through updates, comments and links. Even being an obnoxious and total asswipe of a facebooker is hilarious when it's kept in the right perspective. My kids force me to LOL daily with schtick that flows naturally from the pure minds of those so fresh and unencumbered.

And then, there are the many social media moments when the level of annoyance is equal to if not greater than my 6 year old's incessant whining for Wii Lego Star Wars Clone Wars II. Biggest culprit, the "Repost this if ..." status. The facebook version of a chain letter with the implied message that if you don't repost, you aren't one of "us" and something bad should happen to you if it hasn't already. The repost topic is usually some sappy ideology that is aimed to lift your spirits or elevate awareness of some elected higher cause.

Here's an annoying example:

If You Support Our Troops, Hate Animal Cruelty, Love Your Daughter, Pray For World Peace and A Cure For Cancer, Recycle Paperclips and Believe In The Importance Of Regular Bowel Movements, Then Please Post This on Your Status and Leave It There for One Hour and If You Don't You Suck

I never repost. I'm clearly an apathetic communist who hates children.

Other irritating pet peeves are

animated posts,

http://img365.imageshack.us/img365/5563/dancingcow.gif

posts that use symbols to draw a freaky looking picture,

.............(0 0)
.---oOO-- (_)-----.
╔═════════════════╗
║ INVITE ALL YOUR FRIENDS ║ (No, thank you)
╚═════════════════╝
'---------------oOO
........|__|__|
.......... || ||
....... ooO Ooo

Farmville shit,

and anything that's regurgitating hearts.

Put ♥ this ♥ on ♥ anyone's ♥ wall ♥ who ♥ made ♥ you ♥ smile ♥ somewhere ♥ sometime ♥ in ♥ your ♥ life. ♥ It ♥ may ♥ surprise ♥ you, ♥ but ♥ check ♥ out ♥ how ♥ many♥ comes ♥ back.♥ Thanks ♥ a ♥ lot ♥ for ♥ making ♥ me ♥ smile ! ♥ Put ♥ this ♥ back ♥ on ♥ my ♥ wall ♥ if ♥ I ♥ ever ♥ made ♥ you ♥ smile

The worst is the application where people send each other hearts and ask for one in return. They mostly resemble this:

It's called Puzzled Hearts, and it puzzles the fuck out of me why someone would want to  "send and receive beautiful hearts, unlock love quotes, and solve virtual jigsaw puzzles." I'd love to shock these misfits who partake in such nonsense with sending them a heart-shaped testicle of an AIDS-infected sewer rat. Boxed and via the USPS.

"HDBW just sent you the heart-shaped testicle of an AIDS-infected sewer rat. Won't you send her one back for her collection? If that's too much trouble, one made of dryer lint would be equally delightful!"

Another similarity is the the egomania and self-centeredness running rampant through the veins of many facebookers and all children entering kindergarten. With social media, this is most evident in how many pics one has of themselves throughout their various "albums". I'll be generous. More than, say, 15 pics of yourself and I consider you a high ranking member of Club Narcissus. I'd rather see one or two awful, or mediocre, or plain old honest pics of someone who doesn't give a rat's ass rather than 37 of an insatiable photogenic poser. Ok, you look good. We get it.

In my mom role, I'm blasted with perceived attention deficit syndrome constantly. What about me, look at me, what's in it for me, don't forget me, me first. And it is definitely audible, not so much visual.  Concentration frazzled by what seems like endless questions and calls for help. Mommy, mommy, mommy where is she? She's right here chasing after a train of thought.

It's funny. So often, the things that make you smile are the same things that make you crazy. Nothing is more truer for me than this. And that sentiment could be considered motherly wisdom, or tomorrow's status update. 

Boob Envy

Let me begin by saying this is not about low self-esteem, or not being appreciative of the beauty of the human body in all its forms. And I'm not whining. It's about a common condition called boob envy, relating mostly to the admiration of and pining for a beautifully full, womanly set of knockers. A full rack. Great tits. For these I desire, if not for anything else, to compliment my sparkling personality.

BE syndrome doesn't age discriminate. In fact, my case began as most with the onset of puberty. As my daughter nears this milestone, we talk more often about how girls bodies change. She says she doesn't want "big boobs" and I respond neutrally. Using the "play it down as to not cause undue anxiety" approach. "Yes, well remember that you are beautiful with whatever nature gives you. As long as you're healthy ... love yourself on the inside and the outside." Great words with significant meaning. But the reality is, once girls begin developing, the natural boob fixation begins.

Don't remember much about 8th grade, but what is etched in my mind is how preoccupied we all were with breasts. While most girls were proudly wearing tube tops that effortlessly stayed in place, I was still sporting training bras lined with tissues. I'll never forget Dave Summers* who use to run around the hallways grabbing the chests of the developed girls. He'd then spread his thumb and index finger to the width of what he felt and announce brazenly to all "she was THIS big!" God I hated him. Yet, wished it was me he was fondling. Where were my boobs? When will I bloom?

That too did pass. I bloomed in other ways. And I loved my body all along and still do. Yet, I can't reduce the frequent occurances of BE and wonder, why do I focus on this particular physical deliquency?

Let's face it. Beautiful breasts have and always will be one of the most attractive features of the female body. Being flat chested makes me feel like a girl, not a woman. A prepubescent child/woman who has resigned to a life of padding to achieve a more curvaceous look. Yes, my boobs are perky and firm. (Think Kate Moss posing topless during her modeling hey-day.) Fantastic. Still, sufferers of BE can't resist the craving for more chest flesh to flash. More glorious glands to grab.

MAYBE what is bothering me the most is that this is something men don't have to deal with.
Is there such a thing as dick envy? And I'm not talking about the jealous admiration of the many talents of Mr. Van Dyke. (Have you watched Mary Poppins lately?) But how would dick envy evolve unless the men in question are gathered in a locker room shower? Standing around the water cooler on a casual Friday afternoon, those khakis and jeans reveal nothing to compare.

Small penises are a well kept secret. And oftentimes, from what I hear, easily enlarge to an acceptable size. Pop culture never mentions teeny weanies. And even in the rare instances when it does, it's a non-issue. Remember the 70's glam group The Sweet? I myself rocked out to Little Willy who wouldn't go home. The life of the party, that guy was, with a persona so big it didn't matter what was going on inside those trousers of his. For those of you who were still in diapers or not even born yet ...


Relive a memory from my youth ... click here

Oh, the decades-long obsession with BE. It needs to end. I wish I could convince myself that I am not missing out on anything. Except cleavage!! Maybe what I miss most is cleavage. Or maybe this IS about low self-esteem after all. Maybe I am a whiner. If I may be so bold, maybe I should just shut the fuck up, count my blessings, and just let me be.

* name changed ... he now goes by the moniker Delta Bravo.




(Check out this link ... the power of the boob. Very funny, and very true.)

http://www.cracked.com/funny-212-boobs/

chAnGEs

With age comes wisdom ... maybe. What I'm sure of is that with age comes change. And lately, I've been noticing shifts in my personality, my perspective, my behavior and my appearance ...  tell tale signs on life's highway that scream "Mid Life Crisis, Bear Right".

Like I want to have sex all the time. Every night. No matter if I am dead tired, falling asleep on the couch, a sense of urgency arouses me to find the energy to get the game on. As if to take advantage of my capability, my physical attraction to my husband and his to me, my age-defying body, and my libido before it all goes away in a puff of Jean Nate' scented powder, my grandmom's favorite.

When I sneeze, a little bit of pee comes out. How's that for depressing?

Then there is that lovely slap in the face disguised as a compliment, "You look great, for your age." Yes, I've heard that one many times in the recent past. Its sting is sharp coming from men, even with my understanding of their inherent cluelessness. The little vixen in my head wants to reply "You look your age, and it ain't great."

Some of my most simple pleasures are under attack. Like catalog shopping. What's better than returning from your mailbox with an armful of slick, thick, vividly enticing mini-mags chock full of fashion must-haves? Wait, what's this? Lands End Swimwear Collection? The Walking Company? An invitation to a Shady Acres luncheon and tour of the facility? Hey Victoria, the fact that I still look damn good in your swimsuits and lingerie is no freakin' secret!

We normally do not exchange for any occasion, but this past Valentine's Day, my adoring husband decided to surprise me with a gift. I was tickled a lovers day pink when I saw the cute little Neiman Marcus bag, imaging what fantastic trinket lay waiting for me inside. Perfume? A blingy bauble? Gorgeous lacy barely-theres? Well, it seems with age also comes practicality, and what's more useful to a nearing mid-life crisis mom than a complete set of Kiehl's skin care products. And with such exotic names ... Midnight Recovery Cream, Ultra Intensive Deep Wrinkle Serum, and la creme de la creme, Powerful Strength Line Reducing Concentrate. (Big sigh) We still had sex that night.

The hormonal roller coaster, the sudden interest in Juvederm, the fantasies featuring the 22 year old lifeguard with the hairless pecs, the obsession with self-tanner and white strips, all get to be a bit overwhelming for me. I need more rest stops along this autobahn of life. But even with all the angst that comes with accepting age and the changes I face, some things never change. Love is a constant. As this woman marches forward to face the battles of time, I know she will forever be one lucky girl.

Wanted

More time. Or a personal assistant. Or a clone.

While we're at it ... a window in my home office. The complete elimination of the words "awesome" and "amazing" from the English language. Followed immediately by removing the repeated tendency to use the word "issue". Since when did a problem become an issue? Okay, Websters does list "emotional problem" as one of its definitions, but it is one of about six others. Just stop using "issues" so much. My head is going to explode. It's obvious I've got a problem with it.

Someone to scratch my back for more than 7 seconds. A professional back-scratcher/masseuse/hair washer/scalp kneader/hair stylist at my beck and call 24/7. The ability to afford one of those would also be nice.

A way to stop that crazy robin from flying into the great room window. The looney bird's repetitive attempts create a tap-tap-tapping sound that rivals the beat-beat-beating of Poe's clever little demonic organ. I have tried hanging dark towels in the glass, tried screaming at him through the open window below, even hitched a scarecrow-like voodoo doll on the stucco wall beside his target. Nothing works. He is determined to beat his little breast into that window until ... don't really know why. Maybe his fellow bird community have tweeted the equivalent of "amazing" and "awesome" one too many times, poor guy.

More laughing. Less scandal. Less attention to scandal. More made-up words. Like nipplitis, and quinsensines. Don't ask.

You to excuse me, this post has become tiresome.

The Man I Love

I love a man whose strength is limitless. Enduring, shouldering, reassuring, adoring, all for one unifying purpose. Selfish and selfless are his yin and yang. His dreams are lucid. They have paved my blissful path. Always together we walk.

The man I love gets me there each and every time. He makes me scream with passion but wishes I would shut the hell up! He shushes me to no avail. I find it very comical. And ironic in the sense that he doesn't want me to arouse the children, and yet habitually breaks the beautiful silence of 6 am with the noisiest preparation of coffee and breakfast cereal known to mankind.

My love knows no boundaries for the man behind the curtain. He plays the part of  the brooding boss, the diehard disciplinarian, the nutty professor, the soapbox politician, and the clever comedian all with equal ease. He is my soul. He is creatively resourceful, and can fix anything, but he’s never changed a diaper.

We discuss songwriters, dreams, holistic alternatives and karaoke. He is shy with me, gentle to a fault, and we giggle over corny jokes and bad puns. We turn ourselves on with new music swaps and book recommendations. He seeks me out when he is feeling down. I look to him for guidance.

My man is a confusing whirlwind of delicious drama. He is pulp fiction and I wait with bated breath for my latest edition. He is my Calgon, who takes me away to another world where I am frightened, enlightened, mystified, curious, wary and forever enthralled. He is a puppy, sticky sweet. He morphs into a maneater, insatiable. I want to run to him and never break our embrace and simultaneously lock him in a drawer and throw the key out to sea. If I believed in such rubbage, I'd consider his mind and mine eternal soulmates. Tete-a'-tete, we'd battle our demons, chipping away at the mess and inching closer to serenity. Instead, we are simply humans doing the best we can with what we have inside our ever-expanding noggins. When he's not making me crazy, he makes me very happy.

The man I love is hockey-player huge and hairy. He is obsessive-compulsive and speaks in tongues. He would die for those he loved, or at least take a bullet. My fantasy is to sit on his shoulders and have him walk me around. It would be hysterically funny to watch since we would both inevitably fall to the ground due to his physical awkwardness under pressure. He'd fall on me, crush me to death then have to be committed. I think I need a new fantasy. I do love him and all.

The man I adore has yet to be.

"That Will Be 5 Cents, Please."

My thoughts have been a coaster ride. The cresting is the worst. Muscles tighten preparing for the drop, for the stomach to lurch, then seconds of gripping fear, loss of control, and finally elation sweeps through and calms each nerve ending, and I laugh at the lingering sense of foolishness.

I try to determine what brings on these feelings of desperation, depression. It does not make sense.

I blame too much information. Too many internet news items that snag me like the glistening end of a shiny sharp hook. Just yesterday, there was news of the virus that links oral sex to throat cancer. The report on remote Afghan villages where snakes, mice, children, adults are addicted to opium. The interview with the journalist who warns that dependence on coal will eradicate our sustainable environment much sooner than anyone cares to know.

I blame my own stifling perception. Last night, as I watched an episode of the IFC's Freaks and Geeks, I fixated on the Lindsay character. She was me in high school. Exactly. It spooked me. It upset me to the point of crying. I am not sure what of Lindsay's persona struck my most sensitive nerve. The awkwardness of 16 year old virginity? Or not realizing until many years later that the one you thought was so the one was so not worth it. But what young woman has not been there, and so why do I carry that around like a scarlet letter?

Maybe the only thing to blame is hormones. Or the cold rain and snow. No matter, I want to disembark and not get back on line for a long while. I want to drive my car and crank up the volume of The Beastie Boys, not wallow in the repetition of my Jackson Browne cds.  I don't like going to the market and thinking that those frown-faced 50 somethings with the reading glasses and the coupons will be me pretty soon. I want to have sex at night against a car in a deserted parking lot, blindfolded, while listening to Zeppelin's Trampled Under Foot. I want to bury my tendency to offer a soft "sorry" to the honker behind me when I did not accelerate immediately as the light switched from red to green. I want to stop staring at other people's houses and wondering what the hell is going on inside. And although I wish not even my worst enemy cancer, when you give me a dirty look because in your opinion I held up the ATM line putting my bills away, I want to look you in the eyes and say Eat Me.

My Top Ten ... (yes, I'm stealing the bit from Dave)

Potential responses to my newly-made bar stool buddy's conversational comment ...


 "I give my husband a BJ every day."



Number 10 - "Sweet. Nothing says I Love You quite like a daily blow job."


Number 9 - "As they say, a blow job a day makes the husband not stray."


Number 8 - "Imagine all the jealous body builders out there who spend lots of money on protein supplements!"

Number 7 - "That's one way to avoid carpel tunnel syndrome."

Number 6 - "I hope he doesn't expect birthday presents."

Number 5 -"Wow, you really suck. And I mean that in a good way."

Number 4 - "This gives a whole new meaning to the word "bobble-head".

Number 3 - "So that's why your lips are so well-toned!"

Number 2 - "You mention this to my husband, and I'll kill you."


And the number one response ...


"OK, so now I'm definitely NOT letting you taste my melon martini."

On The Rocks or Straight Up ... You Always Want More

Looking across the table at my kids as we dine on sushi, I smile at my son fixating on the engineering behind chop sticks purposely rigged with a rubber band to make them five-year-old friendly. The aroma of black tea as the cup nears my lips reminds me of pot. My daughter orders the usual white rice and won ton.

Then I hear a request from a booth two doors down. It reminds me of how different this family dinner out is from the ones I remember as a kid.

"Orange soda."

I want to immediately scream NO ICE. I'll get to why in a minute.

You see, growing up in the recession-burdened seventies in a blue collar neighborhood with a thrifty Depression-era father meant dinners out had to be a very special occasion, or involve a too-good-to-pass-up coupon. The special occasion was always the "kids'" birthday dinner. Luck shined down on dad in this department since his three children all had birthdays during the month of September (well, mine was end of August, close enough) so one outing sufficed. As for the coupon, it was always McDonalds, and always for Filet-O-Fish. A two for one deal. Being that there were five of us, dad got to eat two. But to compensate for the, in his mind, coercion of having to pay full price for accompaniments, like fries and drinks, he ordered only TWO large orange sodas, NO ICE. Always said with great emphasis. And three extra small cups.

Why orange soda? We never questioned it. My mom offered no input. I think she was just happy to be out of the house and not heating up chicken pot pies and Ellio's pizza for a change. Maybe he thought it was a treat for us kids, offering a taste along of the lines of an orange ice pop ... oh wait, there's that word. Never mind.

Whatever the reason, to this day I am compelled to respond NO ICE to any mention of orange soda. And that is exactly what I did in my mind that evening in the Japanese restaurant. I chuckled to myself as I did so and thought of those days gone by, and all the other instances where my father's rationing and frugality make for today's good-natured dad-bashing conversations between my siblings and me.  We eventually came to realize that being raised by a spendthrift had no ill effect on us, taught us conservation rather than wastefulness, and motivated us to work harder to earn more if more is indeed what you want. And who doesn't always want more?

Inspiration

There’s still a little bit of your taste in my mouth
There’s still a little bit of you laced with my doubt
It’s still a little hard to say what's going on

There’s still a little bit of your ghost your weakness
There’s still a little bit of your face i haven't kissed
You step a little closer each day
That I can´t say what´s going on

Stones taught me to fly
Love, it taught me to lie
Life, it taught me to die
So it's not hard to fall
When you float like a cannonball

There’s still a little bit of your song in my ear
There’s still a little bit of your words i long to hear
You step a little closer to me
So close that I can´t see what´s going on

Stones taught me to fly
Love taught me to lie
Life taught me to die
So its not hard to fall
When you float like a cannonball

Stones taught me to fly
Love, it taught me to cry
So come on courage, teach me to be shy
'Cause its not hard to fall,
And I don't want to scare her
Its not hard to fall
And i don't want to lose
Its not hard to grow
When you know that you just don't know


Damien Rice - Cannonball


..........


I was blown away by the beauty of this song. I am reading, for the first time, To Kill A Mockingbird, and on every page I have to pause to reread a line or two due to the sheer intensity of it. It is to this level of creative impact that I aspire. 

"A hole is a hole is a hole." - He knows

One of my favorite quotes. Coming from a man who never waxes poetic, this is huge. It sprung from a discussion about fidelity. Well, not really a discussion, more along the lines of pillow talk. When you have been married for over 20 years and have two small children, pillow talk and morning coffee chat take the place of discussions for a stretch. But I digress. 


He explained there were two main reasons why he would never cheat on me. One is that he could never live with the guilt, and two was "a hole is a hole is a hole." 


Do these seem contradictory to you? Isn't it either one, or the other? How can it be both? In other words, the guilt is the byproduct of the cheating, so it is not the physical act that deters you, but the consequences of it. That I get, since in my world to be so attracted to another that I would have sex with him would involve attraction on many levels, not just physical. Caving to my desire would mean to me that I have a serious problem with strength of my marriage commitment and would leave me tormented with guilt. My husband (and I) both realize that it would end the marriage, end of story. 

On the other hand, he implies that one snatch is the same as the next pussy is the same as the neighbor's so why bother? I don't agree that you cannot make any distinction between ... pussies. Does pussy have a plural form? I don't feel like researching that, in fear of an onslaught of viagra spam that would undoubtedly follow. How can one hole be just like the other and the next? The hole is part of a whole. Maybe it is a guy thing. Do some men see random sex as strictly a physical connection of body parts moving in such a way to the anticipated finish? I guess that may explain the weathered joke of how alcohol makes women better looking as the night progresses. And not to exclude women in this, do some women just want a dick for the night? There are sex toys for that, and inflatable dolls for the men, not to mention livestock if you live in certain areas.


So back to the "hole is a hole" thing. Does he means that because random sex is just drilling another hole, why bother since it would produce intolerable guilt which would end an excellent marriage?


I am still a bit confused by all of this. But I think I may have just figured it out. And to verify, I will bring it up again during tonight's pillow talk. That is, once I am through being, as a whole, distinctive.

5 year old Wisdom

My husband and my 5 year old son are watching a music video on the Disney Channel. A sweet 16-er with long shiny hair and eyelashes flirts playfully with the camera as she sings about young love.

Dad: "She's pretty, isn't she?"
Son: "Do you think Mommy is pretty?"
Dad: "I think Mommy is beautiful."
Son: "I asked you that so you wouldn't forget."

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"Life is life. If you don't like your life, get a new one. Or just punch yourself in the face and die."

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My son falls asleep during Christmas Day mass. He wakes as I carry him out of the church.
Him: "Did I sleep through the whole thing?"
Me: "Yes."
Him: "Awesome! Now let's go to grandmom's."

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Trying to convince mom why vacationing in Disney is a dumb idea:

"Aw, c'mon! People walking around in costumes? That is so one-second-ago."

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My son overhears a radio spot about erectile dysfunction:
Him: "Mommy, what does "dysfunction" mean?
Me: "It means 'doesn't work'."
Him: (Pauses for a moment in thought) "Don't they know that you need to feed your reptile?
If you FEED your reptile, it will work just fine."
Me: "That's the most logical thing I've heard all day."

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Overheard conversation between my Daughter, Son and Father-In-Law ... my son is explaining something to his sister ... father-in-law interrupts:

FIL: He speak-a good.
D: Huh?
FIL: You brudda. He speak-a good English.
S: Everybody does. Except you.

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