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.