Let's Talk About Sex

I watch a lot of teen dramas and the way the "first time" is approached always interests me.

I saw Little Darlings a few days ago and the way Kristy McNichol looks after her character has had sex for the first time just makes me want to hug her. She just looks so awful. As a girl, you're force fed this line that sex is beautiful and amazing.

The first time though it just isn't. It's awkward. It's uncomfortable. It feels like a violation. Someone has literally been inside of you.

Don't get me wrong: I like sex now. I even think sex isn't really a big deal once you've done it. But why does it have to be so weird in the beginning.

The other thing I don't get about tv is that young couples always go from making out to sex. There is never any in-between. There is no third base - just sliding into home plate. I had a lovely boyfriend when I was 18. He was younger, but let's say he'd had a lot of girlfriends. He never pressured me to have sex with him, but we fooled around.

He was the best boyfriend a virgin teenage girl could ask for. He was sweet, kind and gentle. He taught me the importance of intimacy. I never slept with him, but I wish that I had. I wish my first time would have been with someone who made me feel safe in his arms. Someone who would have held me afterwards and made sure I was okay. But, I ran from him. Probably because my feelings for him were so big they scared me.

Instead I slept with the wrong choice in a nasty boy's dorm. I desrved better.

If I had to speak to a class full of high school girls I would tell them: in the end, sex isn't really a big deal. Make sure you're safe and that you know what you want. But that first time, don't just do it to get it over with. Do your best to make sure you feel secure and respected that first time.

Happy Easter! Bock, Bock

I don't live FAR from home, but I live far enough away that visiting is considered a trip. This is the first year in a number of years that my parents haven't visited me for Easter. I am lucky that my parents are still able to make the 4.5 hour drive, and while I love them with all my heart sometimes it's nice to celebrate a holiday on your own.

On the downside, I don't have an Easter basket this year. I know! I'm 35 and I can get my own damn basket, but it's sweet getting one from mom.

I celebrated Easter in the garden this year. I keep thinking the butterfly garden is DONE and then another plant catches my eye. Today it was Joystick Lilac. Ages ago I told my therapist that I didn't think suicidal people gardened. Maybe I was saying it to reassure myself that while I was depressed, I was okay.

I still think this though. Sure, it overly simplifies a complicated issue but think about it. Planting a garden means that you are looking forward to watching something thrive. Not only are you looking forward to it, you're planning to stick around and help it.

I finally got around to weeding and planting the vegetable garden, too. I have the worst farmer's tan I've ever had in my life, and I'm really tired. Even though I want a nap something awful, I had a great time today.

I love this time of year. The dogwood is in full bloom and the azalea bushes are loaded with buds. A lot of the things that I planted last year are coming back to life.

I didn't spend Easter Sunday in church, but believe me when I tell you I was surrounded by the power of resurrection.

Gardening

I didn't grow up working in the garden. My mom had a small bed where she'd plant impatience and we had a lot of potted plants in our house.

It hasn't been until the last few years that I've really enjoyed getting in the yard and planning what I'm going to nurture and grow.

I have huge plans for the front bed. The pink azaleas will be blooming soon. The purple and gold pansies are teasing my Alabama neighbors. I split the double-bearded irises so I don't think they will bloom this year, but I'll wait. It will be worth it. The lilies are also doing something a little different this year, too.

I've also put in some lantana, petunias, electric lime coleus and caladiums. I can't wait to see what happens!

Recently I found out a girl I was friends with in elementary school committed suicide.

We weren't best friends, but she did spend the night at my house at least once, and since we lived down the street from each other we hung out some.

I hadn't seen her since the eighth grade, so this isn't aobut how I wish I could have saved her.

I found her obituary and went to the website for the funeral home. There is a place there where you can leave condolences for the family. A lot of them referred to her "being released from her pain" and that she was "lost." Friends that I have talked to have said that she was bipolar. There are medications for bipolar disorder, but those who have this disease have an awful time staying on it. As excruciating as the downs are, the ups are so fantastic they seem worth the downs. It's really an incidious disease.

It breaks my heart that this beautiful young woman, with her dark bouncy curls and sparkling green eyes, was in so much pain that suicide seemed like the only viable answer. After you've been depressed long enough you know how to play at being "normal." My own therapist didn't even know how badly I was doing until I let it slip that I'd been getting home every evening and crawling into bed. I knew it was bad and I didn't want him to know everything. Was she play-acting up until her final days?

I'm better now. I don't just walk through the door and go straight for the bed. When I get home I go in the backyard and play with the dogs. I take the time to enjoy the feeling of the warm sun on my skin. I walk around the garden to see what's coming up. But, when things were bad I did find myself in a spiral of negative thinking, "Is this all there is? I just wake up, go to work, come home, go to bed and start it all over again. Day after day, after day . . . " But that's NOT all I do, it's just all that I could see then.

I just wish she had been able to stop the spiraling. I wish she'd been able to get off the ride without unclipping the safety harness.

Jinkies!

35

A friend of mine from high school turned 35. My friend Michelle turns 35 on the 11th and I turn 35 on the 18th.

When I turned 30 it didn't bother me. In fact, I celebrated it. Maybe though it's because I was free of my ex.

But whatever, you know.

I don't even want children, and yet I envy my friends that have had them. At least they can look at their children as something they created. An indelible mark that they existed. Proof that they were here.

What have I done? What will I leave behind?

'Cause You Gotta Have . . . Friends

The last three days have been AWESOME!

My friend B has been in Montgomery, and it's been almost a decade since I last saw him. We chat on Facebook, but it's not the same as getting to hang out with someone.

Steve, B and I hung out at the house tonight, ate homemade jambalaya and watched a movie. 10 minutes after sitting on the sofa and tucking into a bowl of jambalaya, B relaxed into the sofa, kicked off his shoes and propped his feet up on the steamer trunk. Just like old times, but better.

My heart grew three sizes.

Aww Baby . . .

Come here sugar . . . mama's got her arms wide open!

Just a Man

At some point you realize your parents are just people. Real people with flaws who don't have any special powers. It's a normal part of growing up.

But, I don't even like my father as a person.

What now?

" .... go marching in."

As Hartley's kick headed straight at the center of those uprights I remained silent. I just waited because even though it looked good you just never know. It could be short. I've seen that.

And then it happened: THE SAINTS ARE GOING TO THE SUPER BOWL!

Those boys made me cry again, only these are tears of joy.

I want to believe. I want to say, "They have really changed. This time it really IS different."

I want it to be.
Please let it be.

Who DAT!!!!!

Oh When the Saints . . .

I've been a Saints fan since elementary school.

I wanted so much to be the apple of my father's eye that I'd watch the games with him. I didn't get what was going on, but I'd listen intently as he absent-mindedly explained the game to me. It took me years before I really understood what was going on.

My patience paid off because as I got older my dad would take me to the Superdome to watch the games. Being the world's biggest cheapskate we only went when someone in his office decided not to use his tickets. The Saints were not a winning team at the time so we went to a number of games.

I can still hear the crack of the helmets when they smack against each other. The sound of a perfectly kicked field goal. Morten Andersen was our only hope: The Great Dane.

You learn a lot of lessons as a Saints fan.

You learn about persistence, loyalty, hope. If you've been a fan for any length of time you realize you can't be a fair-weather fan. Loving the Saints also means learning to accept disapointment, loss and heartache.

Even knowing that, I let myself dream. The 2006/2007 season felt like the payoff after all those years of being a fan. We were so close and then on January 21, 2007 when the Saints lost 39–14 to the Chicago Bears in the NFC Championship game something happened.

I was running errands near the end of the game, and I was listening to it on the radio. Parked in the lot of Petsmart I laid my head on the steering wheel, and I cried like a baby.

I am not even kidding when I tell you that up until that point I fantasized about the announcer yelling, "And the SAINTS have won the Super Bowl."

I felt like a fool for crying over a game, but even worse I felt like a fool for allowing myself to even think WINNING the Super Bowl was a possibility. Since then I've taken the whole "Fool me once . . . " attitude towards the Saints. Then this season happened.

I told my mom that I broke up with the Saints because it's too much like staying with an abusive boyfriend. Year after year you tell yourself, "This time it will be different," and then they go and break your heart again. Even with the score at Saints 45-14 with a two-minute warning I was certain the Saints would blow it last week. But they didn't.

Now here we are.

Fashion Faux Pas

I grew up in the 80s and started to care about fashion in the 90s. Please understand that when I say "care" I really just mean I became aware that clothes were for more than just covering up.

I loved Madonna's Like a Virgin look, but I knew I couldn't pull it off. Sadly, I tried. Then I saw Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles, Breakfast Club and Pretty in Pink. In Sixteen Candles she had that great hat and the navy blue shirt and long skirt. I tried to pick clothes that had similar silhouettes, but they just made me like I was on a day trip from "the home."

Then I really wanted to look like her in Breakfast Club. Of course, she was covered in head-to-toe Ralph Lauren. But . . . oh . . . those boots she wore in that movie: I still covet them.

Or course, who can forget the wardrobe she had in Pretty in Pink. Andy was living Project Runway. The prom dress though? Yeah, not so much. Still though, I wanted to wear those cute little thrift store outfits, but I just looked homeless.

I'm still trying to figure out my

Why I Want a Wife

First off, I totally ganked this off the internet. My SIL and I were talking about how I would like a wife to cook me dinner and she'd like a wife so that she can have a designated driver.

By Judy Syfers (1971)

(Editors Note: This classic piece of feminist humor appeared in the premier issue of Ms. Magazine and was widely circulated in the women's movement.)

I belong to that classification of people known as wives. I am A Wife.

And, not altogether incidentally, I am a mother. Not too long ago a male friend of mine appeared on the scene fresh from a recent divorce. He had one child, who is, of course, with his ex-wife. He is looking for another wife. As I thought about him while I was ironing one evening, it suddenly occurred to me that I too, would like to have a wife. Why do I want a wife?

I would like to go back to school so that I can become economically independent, support myself, and if need be, support those dependent upon me. I want a wife who will work and send me to school. And while I am going to school I want a wife to take care of my children. I want a wife a wife to keep track of the children's doctor and dentist appointments. And to keep track of mine, too. I want a wife to make sure my children eat properly and are kept clean. I want a wife who will wash the children's clothes and keep them mended. I want a wife who is a good nurturing attendant to my children, who arranges for their schooling, makes sure that they have an adequate social life with their peers, takes them to the park, the zoo, etc. I want a wife who takes care of the children when they are sick, a wife who arranges to be around when the children need special care, because, of course, I cannot miss classes at school. My wife must arrange to lose time at work and not lose the job. It may mean a small cut in my wife's income from time to time, but I guess I can tolerate that. Needless to say, my wife will arrange and pay for the care of the children while my wife is working.

I want a wife who will take care of my physical needs. I want a wife who will keep my house clean. A wife who will pick up after my children, a wife who will pick up after me. I want a wife who will keep my clothes clean, ironed, mended, replaced when need be, and who will see to it that my personal things are kept in their proper place so that I can find what I need the minute I need it. I want a wife who cooks the meals, a wife who is a good cook. I want a wife who will plan the menus, do the necessary grocery shopping, prepare the meals,serve them pleasantly, and then do the cleaning up while I do my studying. I want a wife who will care for me when I am sick and sympathize with my pain and loss of time from school. I want a wife to go along when our family takes a vacation so that someone can continue care for me and my when I need a rest and change of scene. I want a wife who will not bother me with rambling complaints about a wife's duties. But I want a wife who will listen to me when I feel the need to explain a rather difficult point I have come across in my course of studies. And I want a wife who will type my papers for me when I have written them.

I want a wife who will take care of the details of my social life. When my wife and I are invited out by my friends, I want a wife who take care of the baby-sitting arrangements. When I meet people at school that I like and want to entertain, I want a wife who will have the house clean, will prepare a special meal, serve it to me and my friends, and not interrupt when I talk about things that interest me and my friends. I want a wife who will have arranged that the children are fed and ready for bed before my guests arrive so that the children do not bother us. I want a wife who takes care of the needs of my quests so that they feel comfortable, who makes sure that they have an ashtray, that they are passed the hors d'oeuvres, that they are offered a second helping of the food, that their wine glasses are replenished when necessary, that their coffee is served to them as they like it. And I want a wife who knows that sometimes I need a night out by myself.

I want a wife who is sensitive to my sexual needs, a wife who makes love passionately and eagerly when I feel like it, a wife who makes sure that I am satisfied. And, of course, I want a wife who will not demand sexual attention when I am not in the mood for it. I want a wife who assumes the complete responsibility for birth control, because I do not want more children. I want a wife who will remain sexually faithful to me so that I do not have to clutter up my intellectual life with jealousies. And I want a wife who understands that my sexual needs may entail more than strict adherence to monogamy. I must, after all, be able to relate to people as fully as possible.

If, by chance, I find another person more suitable as a wife than the wife I already have, I want the liberty to replace my present wife with another one. Naturally, I will expect a fresh, new life; my wife will take the children and be solely responsible for them so that I am left free.

When I am through with school and have a job, I want my wife to quit working and remain at home so that my wife can more fully and completely take care of a wife's duties.

My God, who wouldn't want a wife?

'Cuz You've Got to Have Friends

I love Facebook. I'm not the best person on the phone because the silences make me squirm. But texting I love and Facebook is perfect for that means of communication.

I love my Facebook girlfriends because they all elicit from me big, brassy, raucous laughs.

I just had a septoplasty done to correct a deviated septum. I've always known I have a deviated septum. The first ENT I ever saw was when I was in HS and when he looked up my nose he said to my dad, "Wow! You've got to see this!" My septum started out straight and then took a 90 degree turn. He said one day I'd probably have problems with it, but why do the surgery when it isn't necessary now. That was in 1992.

A normal septum and turbinates look like this:



This is not my cat scan, but this is what my cat scan looked like:



That white bright piece down the center does what mine did. It was a deviate septum with a bone spur. Now look at the color picture. See where the Middle Turbinate bone is? It's yellow-orange and looks like sponge cake. It's bone covered by tissue. My nasal spur was pressing against the middle turbinate bone.

Over the last two years this has caused me debilitating pain. Pain that was so severe I was missing work. Since becoming aware of this I'v really started to question my history of migraines and whether or not they were really migraines. During my last two headaches I noticed the migraine meds weren't doing the trick at all. So I went to my ENT because I thought maybe I had a sinus infection.

He reviewed my CAT scan. No sign of an infection. He did see that my septum and turbinate bones were awfully clost to one another. After blowing some sort of numbing spray up my nostril I had instant relief from the headache. This led him to believe my headaches were being caused by the bones rubbing together.

Stop for a minute and think about that.

I had bone rubbing against bone IN MY FACE.

I had the surgery on Friday and went back to work on Wednesday. The worst of my pain was on Sunday. My post-surgery pain was so severe I said to my husband, "I don't know how women do it? I don't know how they have babies!"

I told my friend Nicole, a mother, this same story and she said, "Now remember, a vagina is bigger than your nose."

Doing Better

Some days are good and some days are bad. Lately though I'd found myself having more bad ones than good ones. However, like most downward swings do . . . hopefully, eventually they move upwards again.

I found a new job!!!!

There's a part of me that thinks I was damn lucky because sometimes finding a job takes luck, but the honest truth is that finding a new job takes a lot of hard work. So I really want to shout Oprah-style, "IIIIII DIIIIIID ITTTTTT!"

I hustled.

I sent out a ridiculous amount of resumes to job openings, recruiters, former bosses . . . former bosses that I would rather have rather used my tongue to walk on hot coals than to ever speak to. I made a pathetic, ineffective plea to a former trainer I used to work with whom I hadn't spoken to in months. I did a little worst case scenario thinking, but I didn't get mired in it.

From the time the FDIC took over Colonial to the time I got my job offer it took five weeks. A few days after the shock wore off I updated my resume and created two different versions of it. A functional resume and a regular chronological resume. I wrote cover letter after cover letter, cold-contact prospecting letters, I made finding a new job my full-time job.

Did I get lucky?

I got lucky that in this economy I found a job doing what I want to be doing at a slightly higher pay. But, I was ready for it when I found it.

I DID THIS.

Budgeting

The bank I work was seized and sold, and while right now I have a job there is the possibility I will be let go. I'm not entirely sure what my department's odds are, but just in case I'm sending out resumes and talking to everyone I know about finding a new job.

In light of this, we have temporarily stopped working on the kitchen renovation. Steve and I have agreed that right now it's more important for us to save money rather than spend money it on home improvement.

Then I went out and got a pedicure.

Because I suck.

Push, Push, Push

Ever since my friend B started reading this blog he's always pushed me towards writing a novel.

I always just roll my eyes and blow off the idea. I know I keep this blog and I know a lot of bloggers want to be "discovered," but I don't have those aspirations.

Now, as an English major in college I'm pretty sure I harbored dreams about being a published author. But, I've never wanted to be Milton, Chaucer, Welty or even Danielle Steele. I wanted to be Judy Blume, Lois Duncan or Paula Danziger.

The trouble is . . . I don't feel like I have much to say.

I don't even blog very regularly anymore.

I was diagnosed with clinical depression 18 months ago and while most days are okay days a lot of days are a struggle. It's a fight to get out of bed to go to work. forget about me getting on the blog to say something entertaining. I haven't had it in me to do that for a while. Funny things happen in my life, but the white noise of depression drowns those things out quickly.

And God, I've never been able to get a handle on how to respond to my well-meaning mother when she says, "Oh, I've been depressed, Melissa. You just have to pick yourself up and decide to be happy."

This makes my blood boil and I want to get in her face and scream, "You don't fucking get it!"

It's not her fault.

Maybe she's had the blues in her life, but she doesn't know the way depression is like quicksand and the more you try to fight the more it feels like it's pulling you down.

Then this year while watching the Tony Awards I saw the cast of Next to Normal perform the following:

Next to Normal

DIANA (spoken)
You know, really?
What exactly do you know?

DAN (spoken)
I know you're hurting. I am, too.

DIANA
Do you wake up in the morning and need help to lift your head?
Do you read obituaries and feel jealous of the dead?
It's like living on a cliffside not knowing when you'll dive.
Do you know, do you know what it's like to die alive?

When the world that once had color fades to white and gray and black.
When tomorrow terrifies you, but you'll die if you look back.
You don't know.
I know you don't know.
You say that you're hurting, it sure doesn't show.
You don't know.
You tell me let go.
And you may say so, but I say you don't know.

The sensation that you're screaming, but you never make a sound.
Or the feeling that you're falling, but you never hit the ground.
It just keeps on rushing at you day by day by day by day.
You don't know, you don't know what it's like to live that way.
Like a refugee, a fugitive, forever on the run.
If it gets me it will kill me, but I don't know what I've done.

End Scene

I was devastated when I saw this scene because I felt like I'd been broken open and all of my secrets had tumbled out.

I wanted to stand up and say, "There . . . that is what I feel like every fucking day so don't tell me I can just pick myself up and shake this thing off."

Maybe I have things to say, but it feels futile when others have already said it so much better than I ever will.

Whatevs

I've been thinking about why I don't post, and I don't really have a reason.

I just don't.

So, here's a little story my dad tells proudly. When I was six I had a crying fit in the middle of a store. You know, I was THAT KID. The one that starts to scream because she doesn't get what she wants.

My dad snapped off his belt, spun me around and gave me a few stinging licks on the back of my bare thighs.

I never again had another crying fit in the middle of a store.

That last part there is when you can see the pride gleam in his eyes when he tells this story.

I don't actually remember this happening, but it sounds like my dad. I think what really must have stung was the humiliation.

That's just how my dad worked.

When my mom wanted to learn how to drive a car he told her, "You'll never learn how to drive. You're incapable."

My mom has told me that after a few weeks of replaying his words in her head she called up a driving school, and set out to prove him wrong.

She did, too.

After years of taking the bus with my mother she finally got her driver's license.

After years of being a mediocre student (As, Bs and Cs) my dad said to me, "You know you'd get better grades if you weren't so lazy."

My response wasn't as motivated as my mom's. I just thought to myself, "I'm lazy."

I know I've written about my dad spanking me before, and every day I forgive my father a little bit more.

But every year around Father's Day I think about these things, and I struggle with the task of picking out a card. Typically, I go for the "thanks for doing the best you could do" card.

A Good Example

This past weekend Steve and I were driving home down a six-lane highway. He was driving, and I was in the passenger seat.

I looked out my window and noticed a car waiting to merge into traffic.

I said to Steve, "Oh my God, look at that guy's car!"

The car itself wasn't spectacular, but there was a foot-tall stack of papers on the car's roof.

I said, "That's gotta suck."

The next thing I know Steve is swerving our car onto the median. I looked forward and thought Steve was trying to avoid an accident.

No.

Steve pulled up onto the median and ran back towards where the car was still waiting to merge. He started waving his arms to get the driver's attention. Surprisingly, the guy took a split second to stop looking for a place to merge and saw Steve.

The guy looked at Steve like he was thinking, "What the hell does this crazy want?"

Then Steve started pointing at the guy's roof, and it was like a lightbulb went off over the driver's head.

I saw the guy get out of the car, retrieve his papers and thank Steve for making him aware of the situation.

When Steve got back into the car I was still sitting there with my mouth hanging open.

I looked at him and said, "Thank you."

He asked, "For what?"

I said, "For showing me how to be a better person."

Dated

Sometimes I look at this blog and wonder why I even bother.

It seems like lately most of my online time is spent of Facebook. Tonight I IM'd with my second cousin for almost an hour. I haven't seen her in over a decade, but there we were "talking" about our crazy families.

I get instant satisfaction from Facebook.

I know: fast food generation. We want it and we want it NOW!

I also wonder whether or not keeping a blog is just dated. I'm just another loser who thinks people want to know what she's thinking.

These days I'm thinking, "Will I still be employed next week?"

Working for a bank is not for the faint of heart.

So, if you know of anyone looking for an instructional designer . . . call me!