Right now, I'm out of town. I'm not far away from home (maybe 1.5 hrs), but not sleeping in your own bed starts to really wear on you.
But, I'm trying to make the best of it.
I'm the Director of Education for a non-profit professional association. A large part of my job is acting as the administrator for the classes that we offer. Essentially, I travel to the classes, handout paper work and act as a proctor while the instructor bestows his/her vast knowledge on our members.
I have no complaints about our instructors or our members. The are always professional and are great at keeping classes interactive and exciting.
But, there's an awful lot of dead time for me.
So, sometimes I make sure that everything is running smoothly and I cut out.
Take yesterday for example: I'm in a different city this week until Thursday and I'm at a facility I've never been to before. It's conveniently located next to a ton of little shops, so for my lunch I popped over to a popular hot dog place. Okay, the dog was delicious. I had something called the "Junkyard Dog." It had everything on it and was filled with delicious badness.
Then, I walked over to a local bookseller and purchased some presents for a friend of mine and then I sat down with a delicious soy mocha to read the book I'd brought with me on my trip.
It was really nice to take two hours of my day for lunch, coffee and some reading. Definitely the kind of me time that I've been needing. I think maybe I even fell in love with my life a little.
Just when I think I can't do this anymore, I find a little place to carve out some "me" time.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
Yesterday was my mom's birthday. I feel kind of bad because I didn't write anything for her. I actually sat in front of my computer for hours trying to come up with something, but nothing was happening. I kept writing stuff and then deleting it.
What do you write about Esme?
My mom and I have had a relationship filled with ups and downs.
During my pre-teen years I sort of relished that I was daddy's favorite (yes, I realize how incredible fucked up that is) and sort of lorded it over her.
I remember one night after dinner we were having ice cream sundaes. I had opened up a brand new can of whipped cream and was aiming it at the top of my sundae. There must have been a clog or something because this shit shot all over the place and got my mom right in the face.
She was furious.
I was trying not to laugh and she could tell, so she yells, "Choong (my dad's nickname), she did that on purpose."
Dad was standing there in semi-shock, also trying not to convulse from holding in his laughter, and he says to her, "No, that couldn't have been on purpose. It went everywhere. She wasn't aiming it at you."
I just kept saying, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry . . . " but the tears in my eyes from the suppressed laughter were obvious.
Mom actually got up from her chair and lunged at me. I took off for my bedroom and slammed the door behind me. I was kind of in shock, but laughing my ass off because really - it was fucking funny!
Then later on in high school, mom accused me of being a slut.
Not exactly in those words, what she said was, "I always talked about your aunt's daughters, never did I think MY DAUGHTER would turn out to be like one of them."
Mom has a penchant for the dramatic.
I don't really rember when my mom and I chilled out with each other.
But, I think it had a lot to do with me going away to college.
I was away from home so we weren't in each other's space as much and that whole bizarre little Electra Complex that I had developed was finally, FINALLY whithering away.
Anway, I left for school, got married and started my own family.
Then I moved out of state.
Which, was fantastic as it really allowed me to create a life for myself that wasn't hindered by someone else's expectations of me.
Then, then I got the call that no child should ever get.
It was mom on the phone barely whispering out, "I have breast cancer."
I don't really remember what I was thinking about right before she said it. Maybe something about work or my day.
I do remember that J and I were driving home from somewhere because I was looking out the windshield watching the snow fall and everthing started moving at super slow-mo.
Mom's cancer was caught super, super early. So early that they did a lumpectomy (sort of, as the cancer was still in the early stages and there really wasn't much of a lump) and a few months of radiation. No chemo.
Her cancer was caught by a routine mammogram.
That mammogram saved her life.
And, I will be eternally grateful for the fact that mom has always been a believer in preventive medicine.
We didn't come close to losing her, but for the first time the reality of losing her was there and it scared me.
So, even though she drives me crazy still and sometimes when we talk on the phone I roll my eyes so much I practically sprain my eyeballs - I'm glad she's still around to drive me crazy.
I wouldn't trade her for anyone.
I love you, mom.
What do you write about Esme?
My mom and I have had a relationship filled with ups and downs.
During my pre-teen years I sort of relished that I was daddy's favorite (yes, I realize how incredible fucked up that is) and sort of lorded it over her.
I remember one night after dinner we were having ice cream sundaes. I had opened up a brand new can of whipped cream and was aiming it at the top of my sundae. There must have been a clog or something because this shit shot all over the place and got my mom right in the face.
She was furious.
I was trying not to laugh and she could tell, so she yells, "Choong (my dad's nickname), she did that on purpose."
Dad was standing there in semi-shock, also trying not to convulse from holding in his laughter, and he says to her, "No, that couldn't have been on purpose. It went everywhere. She wasn't aiming it at you."
I just kept saying, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry . . . " but the tears in my eyes from the suppressed laughter were obvious.
Mom actually got up from her chair and lunged at me. I took off for my bedroom and slammed the door behind me. I was kind of in shock, but laughing my ass off because really - it was fucking funny!
Then later on in high school, mom accused me of being a slut.
Not exactly in those words, what she said was, "I always talked about your aunt's daughters, never did I think MY DAUGHTER would turn out to be like one of them."
Mom has a penchant for the dramatic.
I don't really rember when my mom and I chilled out with each other.
But, I think it had a lot to do with me going away to college.
I was away from home so we weren't in each other's space as much and that whole bizarre little Electra Complex that I had developed was finally, FINALLY whithering away.
Anway, I left for school, got married and started my own family.
Then I moved out of state.
Which, was fantastic as it really allowed me to create a life for myself that wasn't hindered by someone else's expectations of me.
Then, then I got the call that no child should ever get.
It was mom on the phone barely whispering out, "I have breast cancer."
I don't really remember what I was thinking about right before she said it. Maybe something about work or my day.
I do remember that J and I were driving home from somewhere because I was looking out the windshield watching the snow fall and everthing started moving at super slow-mo.
Mom's cancer was caught super, super early. So early that they did a lumpectomy (sort of, as the cancer was still in the early stages and there really wasn't much of a lump) and a few months of radiation. No chemo.
Her cancer was caught by a routine mammogram.
That mammogram saved her life.
And, I will be eternally grateful for the fact that mom has always been a believer in preventive medicine.
We didn't come close to losing her, but for the first time the reality of losing her was there and it scared me.
So, even though she drives me crazy still and sometimes when we talk on the phone I roll my eyes so much I practically sprain my eyeballs - I'm glad she's still around to drive me crazy.
I wouldn't trade her for anyone.
I love you, mom.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Why You?
Because
... you don't just laugh at my jokes, you make them better.
... when I'm getting ready for work in the morning you bring me a glass of orange juice.
... you remember our first kiss and don't give me a hard time for forgetting it.
... first thing in the morning you say "Hey beautiful," to me without a trace of sarcasm.
... your kisses make me lightheaded.
... your inspired me to take a four-hour road trip to see you.
... even now, 10 years later, the sight of you makes me weak-kneed and gives me butterflies.
... you always make sure that I "win."
... when we make love you look directly into my eyes.
... you always do your best not to wake me up when you get up in the middle of the night.
... if you do have to wake me up, you do it by slowly kissing my finger tips.
... you always offer me the last oyster first, even when you know it's yours.
... you make me laugh.
... you don't just laugh at my jokes, you make them better.
... when I'm getting ready for work in the morning you bring me a glass of orange juice.
... you remember our first kiss and don't give me a hard time for forgetting it.
... first thing in the morning you say "Hey beautiful," to me without a trace of sarcasm.
... your kisses make me lightheaded.
... your inspired me to take a four-hour road trip to see you.
... even now, 10 years later, the sight of you makes me weak-kneed and gives me butterflies.
... you always make sure that I "win."
... when we make love you look directly into my eyes.
... you always do your best not to wake me up when you get up in the middle of the night.
... if you do have to wake me up, you do it by slowly kissing my finger tips.
... you always offer me the last oyster first, even when you know it's yours.
... you make me laugh.
Monday, October 04, 2004
On My Own
I left home at 18. Okay, so I was still on mom and dad's payroll, but I was out of the house and living away from them at 18.
I left for college and never looked back!
It was quite possibly the best thing I could have done for myself, it's probably the best thing anyone can do.
Because, see, the thing is, when you live with mom and dad you never really grow up. And by growing up I don't mean paying the bills and rent. You can live at home and pay bills and rent, so I don't mean growing up as much as I mean growing into your own.
Loosely, I think mom and dad think of me as messy, afraid to speak Spanish, lazy, quiet . . . whatever.
But, when I left home I got to be whomever I wanted to be.
I got to keep my stuff neat and organized, I got to be brave and try new things without someone's voice in my ear saying, "you shouldn't try that, that if you fail . . . " I'm in the middle of interviewing for a job in my home town. When I saw the posting, I decided I'd go for it. Even though, mom thinks I should stay at my current job for a while. Her reasoning is that moving from job to job will only harm me. Well, the truth is, moving around has actually made me a desireable candidate for this position. I have experience in a variety of related industries that would make me kick ass in this job. But, maybe if I'd stayed at home I never would have tried for more because there would have been a compelling force affecting my decisions. I might have listened to her saying, "You have a good job right now with good benefits. Why go for something else?"
Moving out was the beginning of my road to becoming a "whole, fully viable entity . . . " and making decisions without considering what mom and dad thought, thus allowing me to develop into half of a successful relationship. I got derailed by marrying too young. I really wasn't a "whole, fully viablel entity at 19." I should have waited.
And having learned that lesson, I have certain criteria that gentleman must meet before I take the next step in a relationship (i.e., living together).
I can't live with someone who's going from mom and dad's to my place.
Why?
Because I need to know that you've been on your own and discovered who you are without any interference.
Moving out means you're not afraid to take things on, to be by yourself, to choose for yourself what you want to do. It means that if you choose to be lazy then you make yourself feel guilty or you decide that being lazy today felt good and was exactly what you wanted to do. But, you don't have to apologize for taking it easy.
So, my "stipulation" that you live on your own isn't arbitrary.
Living on your own is a part of the natural evolution towards adulthood and if you haven't done it, then how can you live with someone else? You know what I think happens when you move in with someone else before living on your own?
I think you set yourself up for being co-dependent. It's too easy to rely on someone else to tell you what you like and what you don't like. It's too easy to let someone else prioritize your life.
I worry that I haven't explained my reasoning well enough. But I do know this, living with mom and dad is a dealbreaker for me.
If you're reading this blog, share with me the importance of living on one's own.
I left for college and never looked back!
It was quite possibly the best thing I could have done for myself, it's probably the best thing anyone can do.
Because, see, the thing is, when you live with mom and dad you never really grow up. And by growing up I don't mean paying the bills and rent. You can live at home and pay bills and rent, so I don't mean growing up as much as I mean growing into your own.
Loosely, I think mom and dad think of me as messy, afraid to speak Spanish, lazy, quiet . . . whatever.
But, when I left home I got to be whomever I wanted to be.
I got to keep my stuff neat and organized, I got to be brave and try new things without someone's voice in my ear saying, "you shouldn't try that, that if you fail . . . " I'm in the middle of interviewing for a job in my home town. When I saw the posting, I decided I'd go for it. Even though, mom thinks I should stay at my current job for a while. Her reasoning is that moving from job to job will only harm me. Well, the truth is, moving around has actually made me a desireable candidate for this position. I have experience in a variety of related industries that would make me kick ass in this job. But, maybe if I'd stayed at home I never would have tried for more because there would have been a compelling force affecting my decisions. I might have listened to her saying, "You have a good job right now with good benefits. Why go for something else?"
Moving out was the beginning of my road to becoming a "whole, fully viable entity . . . " and making decisions without considering what mom and dad thought, thus allowing me to develop into half of a successful relationship. I got derailed by marrying too young. I really wasn't a "whole, fully viablel entity at 19." I should have waited.
And having learned that lesson, I have certain criteria that gentleman must meet before I take the next step in a relationship (i.e., living together).
I can't live with someone who's going from mom and dad's to my place.
Why?
Because I need to know that you've been on your own and discovered who you are without any interference.
Moving out means you're not afraid to take things on, to be by yourself, to choose for yourself what you want to do. It means that if you choose to be lazy then you make yourself feel guilty or you decide that being lazy today felt good and was exactly what you wanted to do. But, you don't have to apologize for taking it easy.
So, my "stipulation" that you live on your own isn't arbitrary.
Living on your own is a part of the natural evolution towards adulthood and if you haven't done it, then how can you live with someone else? You know what I think happens when you move in with someone else before living on your own?
I think you set yourself up for being co-dependent. It's too easy to rely on someone else to tell you what you like and what you don't like. It's too easy to let someone else prioritize your life.
I worry that I haven't explained my reasoning well enough. But I do know this, living with mom and dad is a dealbreaker for me.
If you're reading this blog, share with me the importance of living on one's own.
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Classic
A few months ago I called my mom to tell her that my divorce had been finalized. She said to me, "Well that was quick! I'll bet you were more eager than J to get that going."
Me, "Actually, it was J that got us the lawyer and set up the appointments."
Mom, a moment of silence, then, "Well, It's not like your looking to get married any time soon are you?"
Me, incredulously, "To WHOM?"
Mom, "Well, Stanley!"
Alright, the thing is, I know she knows S's name and I know she know's it's NOT Stanley.
And because I'm a mean daughter I decided to have a little fun with her.
Me, "Who's STANLEY?!?"
Mom, frustrated, "Oh, you know - S----!"
Me, laughing, "Mom! Who do you think I am J-Lo?"
**************************************************************************
Over Labor Day weekend I went in to NO on Thursday night. I took Friday off and stayed through Monday. This is the longest I've been home in a while. On Sunday, mom and dad decided to go to Pontchatoula. They like going to the farmer's market out there as well as this antique store they've just found. My Aunt Toya joined us as well.
I had maybe 10 pages left to read of To Kill A Mockingbird and when you're that close you just don't want to stop. So, I took it in the car with me and kind of half-listened to the conversation on the way to Pontchatoula.
My Aunt was talking about McD and how he'd gone out the night before.
She said, "No se. I don't know where he went - he just said there was music all night long y bailo, he danced."
Me, "He went to the House of Blues."
Everyone, "Huh? How do you know?"
Me, "He told me last night. Said it was Latin night."
Toya, "Si, si, he said they played salsa music, merengue and punta."
Me, "Right, Latin night."
Dad, "Can Donald dance that?"
Mom, "Ah, he just does like on the MTV. In the videos. Asi, like dees . . . "
And Mom busts out the pimp haaaands!
Hands all waving in the air like she just don't care.
(Pimp hands. Like you’re in your hooptie, and it’s got the mad hydraulics, and you’re just like, unh! TM Chiara Pimp Haaaands should not be confused with Raising the Roof Hands - which require one to turn palms upwards and push up).
My aunt, "Ah, si si, like dees."
And then SHE busts out with the pimp hands.
But, not only is she waving the hands like she just don't care - she's also rocking her body back and forth to this silent rhythm that she and my mom are big pimpin' to!
For that brief moment, it was as if dad's Toyota Camry had been turned into that scene in 8 Mile where Eminem's rockin' the mike and all the people in the club have the single-handed pimp hand going.
I love my family!
Me, "Actually, it was J that got us the lawyer and set up the appointments."
Mom, a moment of silence, then, "Well, It's not like your looking to get married any time soon are you?"
Me, incredulously, "To WHOM?"
Mom, "Well, Stanley!"
Alright, the thing is, I know she knows S's name and I know she know's it's NOT Stanley.
And because I'm a mean daughter I decided to have a little fun with her.
Me, "Who's STANLEY?!?"
Mom, frustrated, "Oh, you know - S----!"
Me, laughing, "Mom! Who do you think I am J-Lo?"
**************************************************************************
Over Labor Day weekend I went in to NO on Thursday night. I took Friday off and stayed through Monday. This is the longest I've been home in a while. On Sunday, mom and dad decided to go to Pontchatoula. They like going to the farmer's market out there as well as this antique store they've just found. My Aunt Toya joined us as well.
I had maybe 10 pages left to read of To Kill A Mockingbird and when you're that close you just don't want to stop. So, I took it in the car with me and kind of half-listened to the conversation on the way to Pontchatoula.
My Aunt was talking about McD and how he'd gone out the night before.
She said, "No se. I don't know where he went - he just said there was music all night long y bailo, he danced."
Me, "He went to the House of Blues."
Everyone, "Huh? How do you know?"
Me, "He told me last night. Said it was Latin night."
Toya, "Si, si, he said they played salsa music, merengue and punta."
Me, "Right, Latin night."
Dad, "Can Donald dance that?"
Mom, "Ah, he just does like on the MTV. In the videos. Asi, like dees . . . "
And Mom busts out the pimp haaaands!
Hands all waving in the air like she just don't care.
(Pimp hands. Like you’re in your hooptie, and it’s got the mad hydraulics, and you’re just like, unh! TM Chiara Pimp Haaaands should not be confused with Raising the Roof Hands - which require one to turn palms upwards and push up).
My aunt, "Ah, si si, like dees."
And then SHE busts out with the pimp hands.
But, not only is she waving the hands like she just don't care - she's also rocking her body back and forth to this silent rhythm that she and my mom are big pimpin' to!
For that brief moment, it was as if dad's Toyota Camry had been turned into that scene in 8 Mile where Eminem's rockin' the mike and all the people in the club have the single-handed pimp hand going.
I love my family!
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Everybody Poops - LUCKY BASTARDS!
(I posted this on a bulletin board a few weeks ago. I'm posting it here because I'm only 29 and have poop problems. I'm too young for this. I also posted it because I'm a big advocate of preventative healthcare. Get your checkups people - and look at your poop.)
I had some issues a few years ago and my bowel movements were on this weird cycle.
For a few days I'd have nothing, just gas and bloating.
Then when I finally went to the bathroom I'd only produce what I referred to as rabbit poop because it just looked like little pellets and I'd be in there for ages for just 10-15 pellets. Then, I'd have diarrhea.
This cycle went on and on for months until I saw blood. (FYI, bright red blood should be looked at but it's probably not cancer or anything. It's probably from a hemorrhoid or something. Dark red blood though is a problem as it could be from your colon.)
Anyway, I had a colonoscopy and everything checked out okay except for a few internal hemorrhoids.
In conversations with my doctor though we talked about a typical day for me regarding diet and came to the conclusions that 1.) I'm lactose intolerant, 2.) I need more fiber and 3.) I have Irritable Bowel Syndrome.
I love cheese and ice cream so I tend to avoid those things now. But, I give in and I know I'm in trouble when I eat pizza, lasagna, a burger with cheese.
If I really, really want it I give in to the craving but I know I'll pay for it later.
I have to have Lactaid milk and those Lactaid pills never did anything for me.
I also get plenty of fiber now.
I have a salad with lunch and dinner or at least snack on some fruit during the day.
But, I really upped my fiber intake with these fancy little Bran Flakes I buy at The Fresh Market. It's something like 22% of my daily fiber and not only does it keep me ridiculously regular, but a small bowl of that stuff really sticks with me and normally I'm not hungry until lunch.
I have to stay away from greasy foods (hamburgers, tacos, fried chicken) as I know that will send me running towards the bathroom before the end of the evening and forget popcorn. It just makes me gassy.
I'm a Louisiana girl, but even overly spicy foods sends me like running like Flo Jo to the restroom.
Turns out my dad's the same way: Irritable Bowel Syndrome.
It's all been a pain in the ass to deal with (both literally and figuratively), but once you figure out what you can and can't eat then you can go from there.
There are also medications for IBS.
I'm not currently on any, but I know there are some things I JUST SHOULDN'T EAT.
I love broccoli and cauliflower but I just can't do it.
I had some Mashed Cauliflower (supposed to be potatoes) and I loved it, but a few hours later I was in the bathroom with the worst stomach cramps and explosive diarrhea EVAH!!!
I don't currently journal my food intake (which maybe I should just to see what triggers an upset stomach), but when I'm on the pot bent over with cramps, chills and the hair standing up on my arms I take a moment and think, "What did I eat? What did I eat?"
That's at least the first step to figuring out your trigger foods.
And, you know, look at your poop.
It's gross but you have to know what's going on in your body to be your best advocate.
I had some issues a few years ago and my bowel movements were on this weird cycle.
For a few days I'd have nothing, just gas and bloating.
Then when I finally went to the bathroom I'd only produce what I referred to as rabbit poop because it just looked like little pellets and I'd be in there for ages for just 10-15 pellets. Then, I'd have diarrhea.
This cycle went on and on for months until I saw blood. (FYI, bright red blood should be looked at but it's probably not cancer or anything. It's probably from a hemorrhoid or something. Dark red blood though is a problem as it could be from your colon.)
Anyway, I had a colonoscopy and everything checked out okay except for a few internal hemorrhoids.
In conversations with my doctor though we talked about a typical day for me regarding diet and came to the conclusions that 1.) I'm lactose intolerant, 2.) I need more fiber and 3.) I have Irritable Bowel Syndrome.
I love cheese and ice cream so I tend to avoid those things now. But, I give in and I know I'm in trouble when I eat pizza, lasagna, a burger with cheese.
If I really, really want it I give in to the craving but I know I'll pay for it later.
I have to have Lactaid milk and those Lactaid pills never did anything for me.
I also get plenty of fiber now.
I have a salad with lunch and dinner or at least snack on some fruit during the day.
But, I really upped my fiber intake with these fancy little Bran Flakes I buy at The Fresh Market. It's something like 22% of my daily fiber and not only does it keep me ridiculously regular, but a small bowl of that stuff really sticks with me and normally I'm not hungry until lunch.
I have to stay away from greasy foods (hamburgers, tacos, fried chicken) as I know that will send me running towards the bathroom before the end of the evening and forget popcorn. It just makes me gassy.
I'm a Louisiana girl, but even overly spicy foods sends me like running like Flo Jo to the restroom.
Turns out my dad's the same way: Irritable Bowel Syndrome.
It's all been a pain in the ass to deal with (both literally and figuratively), but once you figure out what you can and can't eat then you can go from there.
There are also medications for IBS.
I'm not currently on any, but I know there are some things I JUST SHOULDN'T EAT.
I love broccoli and cauliflower but I just can't do it.
I had some Mashed Cauliflower (supposed to be potatoes) and I loved it, but a few hours later I was in the bathroom with the worst stomach cramps and explosive diarrhea EVAH!!!
I don't currently journal my food intake (which maybe I should just to see what triggers an upset stomach), but when I'm on the pot bent over with cramps, chills and the hair standing up on my arms I take a moment and think, "What did I eat? What did I eat?"
That's at least the first step to figuring out your trigger foods.
And, you know, look at your poop.
It's gross but you have to know what's going on in your body to be your best advocate.
I Am Not An Animal
I'm having kind of a shitty day today.
I woke up at 5:30 a.m. feeling fairly well-rested.
Did I get out of bed and try to make it to the gym for that 5:45 a.m. Spin class I keep wanting to attend?
Fuck no.
I laid in bed, pulled Jack (my grey tabby) in for a snuggle and went back to sleep.
I kept going in and out of sleep until I finally decided to get up for work, and of course, I was late.
I walked into the bathroom, looked in the mirror and my mouth fell open at my reflection.
Now, I'm not exactly at my most beautiful right when I wake up in the morning, but this morning I was hideous.
My left eyelid is swollen.
Noticeably swollen.
Like Jack sucker punched me in my sleep kind of swollen.
So, right now I look like I'm wearing the prosthetic makeup Eric Stoltz wore to play Rocky in that movie Mask. (You know, that one with Cher and Chris Christopherson.)
I think something bit me.
See, last night there was a big cockroach in my room, (Not that I think that's what bit me, because . . . ewwwwww) and my room is a mess right now (stacks of boxes and papers that I keep meaning to get to since I moved in) so finding the roach so I could kill it took forever.
While looking for it, I decided to go through two boxes of beauty products that had been sitting in a corner of my room. I put the boxes on my bed and sifted through them.
Throwing away a small fortune in expired and practically new bottles of Neutrogena and other assorted products.
I think maybe there was a little spider or ant or something in one of those boxes.
See, I remember waking up in the middle of the night to scratch my forehead.
I figured it was just a mosquito because I could feel the swelling and the itching.
But the motherfucker must have gotten my eye, too!!!!
I'm very much a live and let live kind of person.
I don't even mind spiders all that much because they eat other small bugs that bite.
But when you start biting me on the eyelid - that means war.
I don't care if your a long-lost relative of Charlotte and her infamous web - your days are numbered.
I woke up at 5:30 a.m. feeling fairly well-rested.
Did I get out of bed and try to make it to the gym for that 5:45 a.m. Spin class I keep wanting to attend?
Fuck no.
I laid in bed, pulled Jack (my grey tabby) in for a snuggle and went back to sleep.
I kept going in and out of sleep until I finally decided to get up for work, and of course, I was late.
I walked into the bathroom, looked in the mirror and my mouth fell open at my reflection.
Now, I'm not exactly at my most beautiful right when I wake up in the morning, but this morning I was hideous.
My left eyelid is swollen.
Noticeably swollen.
Like Jack sucker punched me in my sleep kind of swollen.
So, right now I look like I'm wearing the prosthetic makeup Eric Stoltz wore to play Rocky in that movie Mask. (You know, that one with Cher and Chris Christopherson.)
I think something bit me.
See, last night there was a big cockroach in my room, (Not that I think that's what bit me, because . . . ewwwwww) and my room is a mess right now (stacks of boxes and papers that I keep meaning to get to since I moved in) so finding the roach so I could kill it took forever.
While looking for it, I decided to go through two boxes of beauty products that had been sitting in a corner of my room. I put the boxes on my bed and sifted through them.
Throwing away a small fortune in expired and practically new bottles of Neutrogena and other assorted products.
I think maybe there was a little spider or ant or something in one of those boxes.
See, I remember waking up in the middle of the night to scratch my forehead.
I figured it was just a mosquito because I could feel the swelling and the itching.
But the motherfucker must have gotten my eye, too!!!!
I'm very much a live and let live kind of person.
I don't even mind spiders all that much because they eat other small bugs that bite.
But when you start biting me on the eyelid - that means war.
I don't care if your a long-lost relative of Charlotte and her infamous web - your days are numbered.
Monday, September 20, 2004
Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed, Something Blue
I've been to a couple of weddings in my life.
The best wedding I ever went to was my friend Nose's wedding.
Nose is really laid back. So laid back that when I saw her eight months before her wedding she said to me:
"My mom really wants to have the reception at The Pavillion of Two Sisters (http://www.neworleanscitypark.com/pavillion.php) at City Park. I figure, 'Hey, since she's paying for it then whatever she wants is fine with me."
I smiled and said to Nose, "Honey, if that's your attitude then you're going to have an awesome time at your wedding."
And I meant that, Nose has never been a stressy, control freak so the fact that she was letting someone else take the reins saved her from turning into Bridezilla.
I've never seen a more beautiful bride than Nose.
She looked so beautiful and so serene.
At the reception she and D danced to Van Halen's "Dance the Night Away."
A bold choice for a first dance. But, if I know D she picked it because it was a song she and D BOTH wanted. It was sung by a live band so it was slowed down in tempo a bit and at the end, D picked her up and they both sort of spun around the dance floor.
The surprise on Nose's face was delightful. This was definitely something she wasn't expecting. After he set her down, she looked up at him, smiling and laughing.
And, when I saw the look on her face tears sprang to my eyes.
I got sad.
Sad because I knew I'd never be able to look up at my spouse with that look of wonder and amazement. With that undeniable "I'm the luckiest girl in the world" look.
I think I also got so emotional because I was so moved to see Nose so happy.
I know that brides always look radiant, but Nose was more than just radiant.
She was beaming, as if a ball of sunshine had filled her soul and she was feeling it from the very top of her head to the tips of her toes.
And so, while I've seen several brides, Nose is the first I've ever seen so happy, so relaxed, so natural.
On that day, I looked at her and realized that I want to be that happy.
That I deserve to be that happy.
We all do.
The best wedding I ever went to was my friend Nose's wedding.
Nose is really laid back. So laid back that when I saw her eight months before her wedding she said to me:
"My mom really wants to have the reception at The Pavillion of Two Sisters (http://www.neworleanscitypark.com/pavillion.php) at City Park. I figure, 'Hey, since she's paying for it then whatever she wants is fine with me."
I smiled and said to Nose, "Honey, if that's your attitude then you're going to have an awesome time at your wedding."
And I meant that, Nose has never been a stressy, control freak so the fact that she was letting someone else take the reins saved her from turning into Bridezilla.
I've never seen a more beautiful bride than Nose.
She looked so beautiful and so serene.
At the reception she and D danced to Van Halen's "Dance the Night Away."
A bold choice for a first dance. But, if I know D she picked it because it was a song she and D BOTH wanted. It was sung by a live band so it was slowed down in tempo a bit and at the end, D picked her up and they both sort of spun around the dance floor.
The surprise on Nose's face was delightful. This was definitely something she wasn't expecting. After he set her down, she looked up at him, smiling and laughing.
And, when I saw the look on her face tears sprang to my eyes.
I got sad.
Sad because I knew I'd never be able to look up at my spouse with that look of wonder and amazement. With that undeniable "I'm the luckiest girl in the world" look.
I think I also got so emotional because I was so moved to see Nose so happy.
I know that brides always look radiant, but Nose was more than just radiant.
She was beaming, as if a ball of sunshine had filled her soul and she was feeling it from the very top of her head to the tips of her toes.
And so, while I've seen several brides, Nose is the first I've ever seen so happy, so relaxed, so natural.
On that day, I looked at her and realized that I want to be that happy.
That I deserve to be that happy.
We all do.
Friday, September 10, 2004
Summer Nights
I was wearing a skirt because I know how much you like it when I wear one.
We had just gotten back from a late night movie.
You asked if I didn't mind waiting a while before we went inside.
I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Okay."
I put my foot against my car's rear bumper and lifted myself up to sit on my trunk.
You were standing in front of me, taking one last drag and I said, "Come here."
You smiled, walked over to stand in between my legs and I took your face in my hands and kissed you.
You pulled away and my eyes remained closed for a few seconds afterward. My face may have had what you call my "drunk" look.
You whispered, "You want to be bad?"
I smiled, bit my lip and nodded.
You got closer to me and I jumped when I felt your hand slide up my thigh. I gasped when your fingers pushed my panties aside.
It wasn't long before you were making me tremble, kissing me, drowning out my cries in the quiet night.
We had just gotten back from a late night movie.
You asked if I didn't mind waiting a while before we went inside.
I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Okay."
I put my foot against my car's rear bumper and lifted myself up to sit on my trunk.
You were standing in front of me, taking one last drag and I said, "Come here."
You smiled, walked over to stand in between my legs and I took your face in my hands and kissed you.
You pulled away and my eyes remained closed for a few seconds afterward. My face may have had what you call my "drunk" look.
You whispered, "You want to be bad?"
I smiled, bit my lip and nodded.
You got closer to me and I jumped when I felt your hand slide up my thigh. I gasped when your fingers pushed my panties aside.
It wasn't long before you were making me tremble, kissing me, drowning out my cries in the quiet night.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Swoonworthy
I am a bulletin board nerd.
I admit fully that I visit www.mathplusone.com and love it! I even think of the women there as my friends. Which, I guess is what tips me over into nerd/loser territory. I mean, can you really be friends with a group of women that you've never met?
I don't know.
But I do know that anytime I'm having a crisis or want to share good news, MATH is the first place I think to go.
Plus, the women on there kick all kinds of ass. They are smart, witty and totally willing to wallow in their girliness. It's tough to find women like that.
Anyway, I'm pimping MATH because right now there's a Breakup Songs thread getting a lot of action. I made my contribution, but it got me to thinking.
What about love songs?
And that made me think about songs that "just melt my butter." (And if you know what that quote is from than you and I might be destined to be friends for life.
Here are just a handful of songs that would totally make me drop my panties:
I admit fully that I visit www.mathplusone.com and love it! I even think of the women there as my friends. Which, I guess is what tips me over into nerd/loser territory. I mean, can you really be friends with a group of women that you've never met?
I don't know.
But I do know that anytime I'm having a crisis or want to share good news, MATH is the first place I think to go.
Plus, the women on there kick all kinds of ass. They are smart, witty and totally willing to wallow in their girliness. It's tough to find women like that.
Anyway, I'm pimping MATH because right now there's a Breakup Songs thread getting a lot of action. I made my contribution, but it got me to thinking.
What about love songs?
And that made me think about songs that "just melt my butter." (And if you know what that quote is from than you and I might be destined to be friends for life.
Here are just a handful of songs that would totally make me drop my panties:
- Peter Gabriel "In Your Eyes"
- Modern English "Melt With You"
- Bob Marley "Is This Love?"
- Paul McCartney "Maybe I'm Amazed"
- Christine McVeigh "Songbird"
- Billy Joel "She's Got a Way"
- Momma Cass "Dream a Little Dream"
- The Association "Never My Love"
- Etta James "At Last"
- John Mayer "Back To You"
- Harry Connick Jr. "It Had to Be You"
- John Mayer "Wonderland"
- Eric Clapton "Wonderful Tonight"
- Barry White "You're The First, The Last, My Everything"
- Marvin Gaye "Let's Get It On"
- Frank Sinatra "You Look Wonderful Tonight"
- Marvin Gay "Sexual Healing"
- Faith Hill "Breathe"
- George Strait "Cross My Heart"
- John Michael Montgomery "I Love The Way You Love Me"
- Faith Hill "This Kiss"
- Dave Matthews Band "Crash" (I know, I know - DMB)
- Shania Twain "You're Still the One"
- Tim McGraw "Watch the Wind Blow By"
- Trisha Yearwood "How Can I Live Without You"
- Garth Brooks "Shameless"
- Shania Twain "Forever and Always"
- Dido "Thank You"
So, I don't know who's reading this but I'd love to hear from anyone that is.
What are YOUR "Off Like a Prom Dress" songs?
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Why Breakfast for Dinner?
Because I like it.
I went to a party a while ago and the theme was Breakfast for Dinner.
It was awesome!
It started at 6:30 p.m. and everyone was assigned to bring his/her favorite food.
I brought Mimosas.
WHAT?
I was on a liquid diet.
Anyway, people brought cinnamon rolls, made waffles and scrambled eggs. This was all up my alley as I love breakfast foods at any time of the day.
So, that's the first time I heard the phrase "Breakfast for Dinner."
But, that's not really why I named my blog that.
I named it that because "Breakfast for Dinner" makes me think of my mom.
When I was a kid and she didn't feel like making a meat-and-three type dinner she'd make omelets. Great big ass omelets with tomatoes, onions, green peppers and cheese. We'd have a slice of toast or whatever on the side and that was that.
Mayn! That's all it took to make me happy because I love me some eggs!
Even now, when I don't feel like cooking dinner, I'll make scrambled eggs, drizzle some ketchup on them and have a side of toast with grape jelly. Something about the sweet and salty combo makes my mouth very happy.
"Breakfast for Dinner" also makes me happy because it takes what would be a normal meal in the a.m. and makes it special.
But, I really like the idea of Breakfast for Dinner because I can knock back the Mimosas and/or Bloody Mary's with breakfast and not be thought to have a "problem."
Which, I totally don't!
I'm just . . . from New Orleans.
I went to a party a while ago and the theme was Breakfast for Dinner.
It was awesome!
It started at 6:30 p.m. and everyone was assigned to bring his/her favorite food.
I brought Mimosas.
WHAT?
I was on a liquid diet.
Anyway, people brought cinnamon rolls, made waffles and scrambled eggs. This was all up my alley as I love breakfast foods at any time of the day.
So, that's the first time I heard the phrase "Breakfast for Dinner."
But, that's not really why I named my blog that.
I named it that because "Breakfast for Dinner" makes me think of my mom.
When I was a kid and she didn't feel like making a meat-and-three type dinner she'd make omelets. Great big ass omelets with tomatoes, onions, green peppers and cheese. We'd have a slice of toast or whatever on the side and that was that.
Mayn! That's all it took to make me happy because I love me some eggs!
Even now, when I don't feel like cooking dinner, I'll make scrambled eggs, drizzle some ketchup on them and have a side of toast with grape jelly. Something about the sweet and salty combo makes my mouth very happy.
"Breakfast for Dinner" also makes me happy because it takes what would be a normal meal in the a.m. and makes it special.
But, I really like the idea of Breakfast for Dinner because I can knock back the Mimosas and/or Bloody Mary's with breakfast and not be thought to have a "problem."
Which, I totally don't!
I'm just . . . from New Orleans.
Thursday, September 02, 2004
21
21 years ago today I was lucky enough to meet a boy that would change my life forever.
McD was beautiful.
He had great big brown eyes and that great baby smell.
I was eight and I was convinced that this beautiful baby boy was mine. That he was my baby to take care of. It's funny because if you look at pictures of us from back then I'm toting him around everywhere.
I was raised in a unique household. It was my mom, dad, brother and myself. My Aunt Toya also lived with us. See, I'm from Honduras and as most Latin Americans will tell you, family stays close.
In the same house kind of close.
The story goes that when my mom, dad, brother and I moved to N.O. we were on the plane and C and I looked around and started looking around for Toya. It wasn't long before we were both crying because she was not with us.
See, when my mom got married, the only one of her sisters to marry, Toya went to live with her. With us. I don't know a single day without Toya in my life. She's a second mother to me in so many ways.
She is also McD's mom.
McD is like my little brother. I used to hear him playing with his friends and he'd always refer to me as his sister.
And we were close, maybe it was the eight year age difference that helped us get along.
Maybe it's just that McD is a terrific kid.
When I got my license I hated driving anywhere alone. When I was 17 and he was nine, we drove around all over New Orleans together.
He was my co-pilot.
Everywhere I went he was with me. The time we spent together is time I'll never get back and man am I glad I had it.
He was just such a cool little kid.
Today he's funny as hell.
A trait that I like to think he inherited from me because he can match me point for point on smart ass comments and looks.
He's taking his time and coming into his own.
Sometimes I look at him and I can't believe he's becoming a man.
A man that I am proud to know and honored to be called his sister.
Happy birthday, McD.
I love you.
McD was beautiful.
He had great big brown eyes and that great baby smell.
I was eight and I was convinced that this beautiful baby boy was mine. That he was my baby to take care of. It's funny because if you look at pictures of us from back then I'm toting him around everywhere.
I was raised in a unique household. It was my mom, dad, brother and myself. My Aunt Toya also lived with us. See, I'm from Honduras and as most Latin Americans will tell you, family stays close.
In the same house kind of close.
The story goes that when my mom, dad, brother and I moved to N.O. we were on the plane and C and I looked around and started looking around for Toya. It wasn't long before we were both crying because she was not with us.
See, when my mom got married, the only one of her sisters to marry, Toya went to live with her. With us. I don't know a single day without Toya in my life. She's a second mother to me in so many ways.
She is also McD's mom.
McD is like my little brother. I used to hear him playing with his friends and he'd always refer to me as his sister.
And we were close, maybe it was the eight year age difference that helped us get along.
Maybe it's just that McD is a terrific kid.
When I got my license I hated driving anywhere alone. When I was 17 and he was nine, we drove around all over New Orleans together.
He was my co-pilot.
Everywhere I went he was with me. The time we spent together is time I'll never get back and man am I glad I had it.
He was just such a cool little kid.
Today he's funny as hell.
A trait that I like to think he inherited from me because he can match me point for point on smart ass comments and looks.
McD hasn't had it easy.
But he's still trying and still dreaming.
He's taking his time and coming into his own.
Sometimes I look at him and I can't believe he's becoming a man.
A man that I am proud to know and honored to be called his sister.
Happy birthday, McD.
I love you.
Road Trip
Oh, the last 24 hours have truly sucked.
I was on my way to the gym last night when a gentleman on the interstate gestured that I should roll down my window.
So you know I did right?
He yells at me, "You have no brake lights."
Me, "Huh? Oh SHIT!"
Because you know this is Labor Day weekend and I'm heading to N.O. on Thursday night and a 4.5 hour trip on any interstate, AT NIGHT, just isn't safe.
So, I got off interstate and wound my way back home. Where I proceeded to get at least 12 silipillion mosquito bites while testing my fuses.
Which, in a way, was kind of cool.
I know it sounds silly, but I like the fact that I'm not afraid to just start messing around with my car. After eliminating a fuse problem, I started checking my bulbs.
Now, I didn't figure they had all gone out at once. I mean, it was possible (infinitesimaly) but unlikely. It turns out I did have one blown bulb. Which, I changed because, you know - it's easy.
To which my dad said, "Maybe it's like Christmas lights. If one goes out then they all go out."
I had about ten minutes on dad on that one as it was the first thing that I had thought, too (Great minds and all that we are.) So I said to him, "You know, I thought the same thing only I realized there's no way an automobile engineer would design a car that way. It would be too dangerous. They'd just be waiting on the lawsuits to start pouring in."
He said, "Yeah, you've got a good point."
So, I called in late this morning and drove my car to Broadway's Automotive in Montgomery, AL (Yeah, that is such a shameless plug but these dudes know what they are doing.)
I walked in and said, "I have no brake lights."
The guy behind the counter asked me, "Is your shift locking up on you? Are you having to release it in order to take it out of park?"
Me, "Funny you should ask. I've had to use my key in the Shift Lock Release for few days now."
Guy, "Sounds like your Brake Light Switch. Now, that's just an armchair diagnosis but that's what I'm thinking."
An hour and a half later that was exactly what was wrong with it to the tune of $130.
Which, is great because this means I can leave as scheduled! Only, I'm still a little screwed since I slept a total of three hours last night because I kept worrying over this whole thing with the car. I didn't even pack (which, in hindsight was dumb, dumb, dumb) because I didn't figure I'd be able to leave on Thursday night.
How to have fun with your mechanic:
I sat there for quite a while and at one point, just before I got my bill actually, two of the guys in the office started singing along, and rocking out, to some old classic rock song. Then a third guy walks in, gives them the, "Ya'll are crazy!" look and they all laugh.
Singer 1 says, "Come on, we have a lady in here who was about to pull out her lighter and bandana . . . "
Me, looking up slowly from the Time magazine in my lap, "I was thisclose to taking off my bra and throwing it up on the counter actually."
All three guys stare at me in open-mouthed silence.
I went back to reading my magazine and slowly each one of them started to laugh.
Then, I'm called up to pay and I ask the guy (Singer 2), "Seriously, if I DO take my bra off will you consider lowering the price."
Today, I made my mechanic blush.
UPDATE:
I got a call from the guys at Broadway's and they were calling to let me know that when they totalled my bill they accidentally overcharged me for labor.
I'm totally going in there braless next time!
I was on my way to the gym last night when a gentleman on the interstate gestured that I should roll down my window.
So you know I did right?
He yells at me, "You have no brake lights."
Me, "Huh? Oh SHIT!"
Because you know this is Labor Day weekend and I'm heading to N.O. on Thursday night and a 4.5 hour trip on any interstate, AT NIGHT, just isn't safe.
So, I got off interstate and wound my way back home. Where I proceeded to get at least 12 silipillion mosquito bites while testing my fuses.
Which, in a way, was kind of cool.
I know it sounds silly, but I like the fact that I'm not afraid to just start messing around with my car. After eliminating a fuse problem, I started checking my bulbs.
Now, I didn't figure they had all gone out at once. I mean, it was possible (infinitesimaly) but unlikely. It turns out I did have one blown bulb. Which, I changed because, you know - it's easy.
To which my dad said, "Maybe it's like Christmas lights. If one goes out then they all go out."
I had about ten minutes on dad on that one as it was the first thing that I had thought, too (Great minds and all that we are.) So I said to him, "You know, I thought the same thing only I realized there's no way an automobile engineer would design a car that way. It would be too dangerous. They'd just be waiting on the lawsuits to start pouring in."
He said, "Yeah, you've got a good point."
So, I called in late this morning and drove my car to Broadway's Automotive in Montgomery, AL (Yeah, that is such a shameless plug but these dudes know what they are doing.)
I walked in and said, "I have no brake lights."
The guy behind the counter asked me, "Is your shift locking up on you? Are you having to release it in order to take it out of park?"
Me, "Funny you should ask. I've had to use my key in the Shift Lock Release for few days now."
Guy, "Sounds like your Brake Light Switch. Now, that's just an armchair diagnosis but that's what I'm thinking."
An hour and a half later that was exactly what was wrong with it to the tune of $130.
Which, is great because this means I can leave as scheduled! Only, I'm still a little screwed since I slept a total of three hours last night because I kept worrying over this whole thing with the car. I didn't even pack (which, in hindsight was dumb, dumb, dumb) because I didn't figure I'd be able to leave on Thursday night.
How to have fun with your mechanic:
I sat there for quite a while and at one point, just before I got my bill actually, two of the guys in the office started singing along, and rocking out, to some old classic rock song. Then a third guy walks in, gives them the, "Ya'll are crazy!" look and they all laugh.
Singer 1 says, "Come on, we have a lady in here who was about to pull out her lighter and bandana . . . "
Me, looking up slowly from the Time magazine in my lap, "I was thisclose to taking off my bra and throwing it up on the counter actually."
All three guys stare at me in open-mouthed silence.
I went back to reading my magazine and slowly each one of them started to laugh.
Then, I'm called up to pay and I ask the guy (Singer 2), "Seriously, if I DO take my bra off will you consider lowering the price."
Today, I made my mechanic blush.
UPDATE:
I got a call from the guys at Broadway's and they were calling to let me know that when they totalled my bill they accidentally overcharged me for labor.
I'm totally going in there braless next time!
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
Momma
What is it about my mother that drives me crazy?
I know my mother loves me. In fact, I'm fairly certain she'd lay down in front of a speeding bus if it meant my life or hers.
But mayn! She can drive me nuts sometimes.
When I was married, at around year four she started gunning for grandkids.
It was subtle.
Little comments about how her friends were wondering when she'd hear the pitter patter of little feet. She of course, would turn to me with big sad eyes and say, "I have no answer."
The thing you need to know, is that my mom has this way of turning on those big sad eyes when she needs to.
A long time ago she tried to cry me into doing something.
I was tired and wouldn't budge.
I looked at her and said, "I'm not dad or C (my brother). This crying thing you do is not going to work on me."
It was the first time anyone had ever called her on this and she did not like it.
But, she did dry up those tears faster than I could say, "Manipulate."
Since then, mom and I have had a very different relationship. Things are just the way they are and neither one of us tries to hide behind pretense.
So, when the grandbabies campaign started it was pretty brutal.
Finally, I said to her, "If you don't stop - for every time you ask about babies, I'm going to add on another year of waiting."
And I did.
And then she realized I wasn't kidding so she quit.
But then I got divorced.
On the cusp of year nine of my marriage we ended it.
The promise of grandchildren is just about gone, for now.
See, when I was married I insisted that I just didn't want children.
The truth is, I did and I do.
It's not that my biological clock has started ticking.
It's more that I've finally allowed myself to admit, "Yes, I want children."
That's what the last six months have been for me - for the first time in a long time I can see again.
I am dating someone, but that's just a thing - you know?
There's no pressure, no serious commitment and no talk about tomorrow or forever.
It's all about today and the fact that he makes me happy today and I make him happy today. Maybe he's not Mr. Right, but he's definitely Mr. Right Now.
I'm perfectly content with that.
So, when mom throws out the stuff about the fact that I'll find love it bugs me because the implication is that I won't be really, truly happy until there's a man in my life again.
And that, as my father would say,
"Is bullshit."
I know my mother loves me. In fact, I'm fairly certain she'd lay down in front of a speeding bus if it meant my life or hers.
But mayn! She can drive me nuts sometimes.
When I was married, at around year four she started gunning for grandkids.
It was subtle.
Little comments about how her friends were wondering when she'd hear the pitter patter of little feet. She of course, would turn to me with big sad eyes and say, "I have no answer."
The thing you need to know, is that my mom has this way of turning on those big sad eyes when she needs to.
A long time ago she tried to cry me into doing something.
I was tired and wouldn't budge.
I looked at her and said, "I'm not dad or C (my brother). This crying thing you do is not going to work on me."
It was the first time anyone had ever called her on this and she did not like it.
But, she did dry up those tears faster than I could say, "Manipulate."
Since then, mom and I have had a very different relationship. Things are just the way they are and neither one of us tries to hide behind pretense.
So, when the grandbabies campaign started it was pretty brutal.
Finally, I said to her, "If you don't stop - for every time you ask about babies, I'm going to add on another year of waiting."
And I did.
And then she realized I wasn't kidding so she quit.
But then I got divorced.
On the cusp of year nine of my marriage we ended it.
The promise of grandchildren is just about gone, for now.
See, when I was married I insisted that I just didn't want children.
The truth is, I did and I do.
It's not that my biological clock has started ticking.
It's more that I've finally allowed myself to admit, "Yes, I want children."
You think I don't love the promise of one day looking at a man and thinking, "I want my children to have your eyes." The thought of loving someone so much that I want to see that love and that man reflected on the faces of our children is enough to make me swoon.
But, right now I don't have a husband.
This, of course, is what mom's been bugging me about lately.
Lately, she's been assuring me that I will find love. That it's out there.
I think maybe she sees me as a little lost because I don't have J. Because I don't have a spouse or partner.
The truth is, I'm not looking for it right now.
I mean, yeah, if it comes along then great. But I don't feel incomplete because there's no man in my life.
If anything, I feel like I found myself again. (I know that sounds completely hokey, but that's really how I feel.) You know that line in Amazing Grace:
But, right now I don't have a husband.
This, of course, is what mom's been bugging me about lately.
Lately, she's been assuring me that I will find love. That it's out there.
I think maybe she sees me as a little lost because I don't have J. Because I don't have a spouse or partner.
The truth is, I'm not looking for it right now.
I mean, yeah, if it comes along then great. But I don't feel incomplete because there's no man in my life.
If anything, I feel like I found myself again. (I know that sounds completely hokey, but that's really how I feel.) You know that line in Amazing Grace:
I once was lost, but now am found;
Was blind, but now I see.
That's what the last six months have been for me - for the first time in a long time I can see again.
I am dating someone, but that's just a thing - you know?
There's no pressure, no serious commitment and no talk about tomorrow or forever.
It's all about today and the fact that he makes me happy today and I make him happy today. Maybe he's not Mr. Right, but he's definitely Mr. Right Now.
I'm perfectly content with that.
So, when mom throws out the stuff about the fact that I'll find love it bugs me because the implication is that I won't be really, truly happy until there's a man in my life again.
And that, as my father would say,
"Is bullshit."
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
You're Still the One
There's always been something about you that just levels me.
Even when we were kids and flirting mercilessly, I'd touch you on the forearm or whatever just to touch you. I'd bite my lip and get a little breathless, but I'd just goof off with you so that you didn't know your nearness made my breath catch.
Every time you walked by I'd watch you move and wish you were moving toward me.
We had one perfect day together.
Ten years later I called you and you called me back.
And the first time I saw you all those old feelings came rushing back.
I got out of my car and there you were, standing in front of me with that smirk on your face.
That smirk that always meant trouble.
It took you two steps to stand in front of me, slide your hand up my neck and into my hair. You pulled me in for a kiss that made me weak in the knees and took my breath away.
We pulled away and I smiled and whispered, "Hey . . . "
It didn't take us long before we were both in the car.
You were good.
You started talking about how you were and you're night and what you were up to.
I heard my voice in my head saying, "You walked away from him the first time. Quit wasting time, slide over and grab him!"
So, I did.
You looked a little surprised, but then you smiled.
And the next 20 minutes were an embarrassing gropefest that I hadn't experienced since high school.
Our hands and lips went everywhere.
It was as if we were trying to consume each other.
My heart was racing.
I pulled your shirt out and slid my hands up your back.
Then, just as quickly as we'd started we stopped.
That was it.
Just 20 minutes of behaving like high school kids in the back of a car.
Before I drove off that night I put my face in my hands and I could still feel the warmth of your skin.
I took a shuddering breath and I could smell you on my hands - cedar and pine.
The next morning I thought it had all been a dream.
A really great dream.
And now, when you give me that look my breathing still hitches and when we're together you still make me feel like I'm the only woman in the world.
Even when we were kids and flirting mercilessly, I'd touch you on the forearm or whatever just to touch you. I'd bite my lip and get a little breathless, but I'd just goof off with you so that you didn't know your nearness made my breath catch.
Every time you walked by I'd watch you move and wish you were moving toward me.
We had one perfect day together.
Ten years later I called you and you called me back.
And the first time I saw you all those old feelings came rushing back.
I got out of my car and there you were, standing in front of me with that smirk on your face.
That smirk that always meant trouble.
It took you two steps to stand in front of me, slide your hand up my neck and into my hair. You pulled me in for a kiss that made me weak in the knees and took my breath away.
We pulled away and I smiled and whispered, "Hey . . . "
It didn't take us long before we were both in the car.
You were good.
You started talking about how you were and you're night and what you were up to.
I heard my voice in my head saying, "You walked away from him the first time. Quit wasting time, slide over and grab him!"
So, I did.
You looked a little surprised, but then you smiled.
And the next 20 minutes were an embarrassing gropefest that I hadn't experienced since high school.
Our hands and lips went everywhere.
It was as if we were trying to consume each other.
My heart was racing.
I pulled your shirt out and slid my hands up your back.
Then, just as quickly as we'd started we stopped.
That was it.
Just 20 minutes of behaving like high school kids in the back of a car.
Before I drove off that night I put my face in my hands and I could still feel the warmth of your skin.
I took a shuddering breath and I could smell you on my hands - cedar and pine.
The next morning I thought it had all been a dream.
A really great dream.
And now, when you give me that look my breathing still hitches and when we're together you still make me feel like I'm the only woman in the world.
Monday, August 30, 2004
Boys
I went out on Saturday night.
I don't normally go out.
I have a tendency to get bored really easily and I've got a healthy stash of many books or movies waiting for me at home that I'd rather just stay in.
Whether or not that makes me a total loser I don't really care.
I really like my own company (on occasion I prefer it), so staying in suits me just fine.
But, this past weekend I went to see Saved and then went to a new bar in town.
A new martini bar.
I am the Appletini's bitch!
If you like sour apple Jolly Ranchers then you and the Appletini should meet.
I met a cute boy.
A really cute boy and while I wasn't interested I got the feeling he was really interested in me.
You know, sat really close to me, accidentally/on purpose brushed my arm or hand while he sat next to me.
I felt him touching me and kind of thought, "Hmm, this is interesting . . . " But, you know what was missing?
That spark.
I've had that happen before even with someone I barely know. When the accidental brush of a hand kind of takes your breath away. When the heat of their skin on your skin makes you jump.
Yeah, I need that.
Anyway, as it happens with most cute boys - he got less and less cute the longer he talked to me.
The conversation started to get tedious.
He's at that stage where he's just beginning to question some big issues (death, morality, happiness . . . ). So, of course, he thinks his opinions are compelling and fill him with the need to share his "new" thoughts with people.
I know, this smacks of condescension, but I really just don't feel like having to listen politely to this boy's ruminations.
He needs a girl his own age who thinks he's a genius for having these thoughts.
A girl who looks at him with big eyes of admiration, as if he were the smartest boy she's ever met.
He doesn't need my squinty-eyed, pursed lip look of impatience.
I need more than just a pretty face and pseudointellectual conversation.
I don't normally go out.
I have a tendency to get bored really easily and I've got a healthy stash of many books or movies waiting for me at home that I'd rather just stay in.
Whether or not that makes me a total loser I don't really care.
I really like my own company (on occasion I prefer it), so staying in suits me just fine.
But, this past weekend I went to see Saved and then went to a new bar in town.
A new martini bar.
I am the Appletini's bitch!
If you like sour apple Jolly Ranchers then you and the Appletini should meet.
I met a cute boy.
A really cute boy and while I wasn't interested I got the feeling he was really interested in me.
You know, sat really close to me, accidentally/on purpose brushed my arm or hand while he sat next to me.
I felt him touching me and kind of thought, "Hmm, this is interesting . . . " But, you know what was missing?
That spark.
I've had that happen before even with someone I barely know. When the accidental brush of a hand kind of takes your breath away. When the heat of their skin on your skin makes you jump.
Yeah, I need that.
Anyway, as it happens with most cute boys - he got less and less cute the longer he talked to me.
The conversation started to get tedious.
He's at that stage where he's just beginning to question some big issues (death, morality, happiness . . . ). So, of course, he thinks his opinions are compelling and fill him with the need to share his "new" thoughts with people.
I know, this smacks of condescension, but I really just don't feel like having to listen politely to this boy's ruminations.
He needs a girl his own age who thinks he's a genius for having these thoughts.
A girl who looks at him with big eyes of admiration, as if he were the smartest boy she's ever met.
He doesn't need my squinty-eyed, pursed lip look of impatience.
I need more than just a pretty face and pseudointellectual conversation.
Thursday, August 26, 2004
Crazy
I don't handle stress very well.
On the surface I look like I have my shit together, but deep down I'm a mass of twitchy nerves.
I can handle a crisis.
Mostly because a crisis will just present itself and all I have to do is react. I don't have to worry it to death.
But deadlines and that sort of thing have caused me serious stress since I was about sixteen.
I went to a fairly competitive high school where although I wasn't one of the top students (not even close), my friends and I still compared grades. So, 11th grade rolls around and on top of grades, I'm worrying about test scores and college. I was also performing in five numbers at my dancing school and forgetting half of the steps for each dance. Then, I added to that by being in my first "serious" relationship. All of that made for a very stressful year.
One night, I was playing with my hair and felt a really coarse strand. Curious, I plucked it. It stung a little but it also felt kind of good. That hair also happened to be growing through a teeny, tiny zit on my head.
So, I pulled another hair near the same spot.
And another and another . . . until eventually I had a silver dollar-size bald spot on my head.
I don't remember setting out to do this, I just know that it felt good and while I was rooting around in my hair I couldn't think about anything else other than plucking another hair. It was a brief moment of peace in my stressed-out life.
I let that bald spot get pretty big before stopping myself. Then I moved on to the other side of my head. Pretty soon I had two perfectly round bald spots. If you can imagine a person growing horns on their head, the spot where a horn would sprout from is about where I created the bald spot. I have thick, dark hair and I part it to the right so hiding the bald spot wasn't every difficult. I never told anyone what I was up to an no one ever found out.
I did however live in fear of strong winds.
Now I know that I had [URL=http://www.nmha.org/infoctr/factsheets/92.cfm]trichotillomania*[/URL]. I didn't know what this was back then, I didn't have a name for it. I just thought I was crazy.
I don't quite remember what triggered it back then, but the next time in my life that it got bad was when I had Hepatitis B. I was already depressed about a lot of shit and laying around in bed while my liver recovered left me with too much time on my hands.
My hands immediately went to the place that I'd pulled so many years ago and started up again. It got soo bad that I even took the tweezers to it. When the hair had grown back in, anywhere from 1/8 - 1/4" I'd pluck it out with the tweezer. Sometimes I'd gauge my scalp a little and pull a little of it, too. I even started saving the tiny hairs in an envelope.
Why?
I don't know.
But, it did give me a twisted sense of accomplishment to see how much hair I had pulled.
Eventually, I calmed down and let it scab over. I'd run my finger over the tender bald spot and itch for the hair to grow back in so I could pull it some more. Have you ever pulled a hair through a scab? It stings a little and you can feel the root of the hair get hung up on the scab, but it feels a little good, too.
The trickiest part about trich? Going to see your hairdresser. It takes careful planning. You have to let the hair grow out enough that he/she won't see the bald spot and think you have mange. I had a hair dresser ask me once why this swatch of hair was only three inches long. I shrugged and said, "Too much abuse from the blow dryer and curling iron I guess."
I don't allow myself to give myself bald spots anymore. But, I have one little hair on the left side that grows out all course and tight, like a little slinky hair and I'll search for it every three months or so and pluck it out with my fingers.
Usually, I'm aware of the urge to pull my hair and it tends to occur when I'm in a stressful period in my life. Sometimes it's when I'm facing a deadline for work or just when I feel overwhelmed in general. My scalp tingles and my fingers itch to root through my hair.
Sometimes I stop myself.
Sometimes I don't.
*(Sidenote: I scrolled down that page and saw something of interest. Trich is thought of as an OCD disorder. The site goes on to say, "Such as compulsive counting . . . " Hello!!! I totally do that and always thought it odd but never equated it with OCD. Sometimes I count the alphabet on my fingers, making sure Z always lands on the same finger, the number of words in the last sentence I just said . . . random stuff.)
On the surface I look like I have my shit together, but deep down I'm a mass of twitchy nerves.
I can handle a crisis.
Mostly because a crisis will just present itself and all I have to do is react. I don't have to worry it to death.
But deadlines and that sort of thing have caused me serious stress since I was about sixteen.
I went to a fairly competitive high school where although I wasn't one of the top students (not even close), my friends and I still compared grades. So, 11th grade rolls around and on top of grades, I'm worrying about test scores and college. I was also performing in five numbers at my dancing school and forgetting half of the steps for each dance. Then, I added to that by being in my first "serious" relationship. All of that made for a very stressful year.
One night, I was playing with my hair and felt a really coarse strand. Curious, I plucked it. It stung a little but it also felt kind of good. That hair also happened to be growing through a teeny, tiny zit on my head.
So, I pulled another hair near the same spot.
And another and another . . . until eventually I had a silver dollar-size bald spot on my head.
I don't remember setting out to do this, I just know that it felt good and while I was rooting around in my hair I couldn't think about anything else other than plucking another hair. It was a brief moment of peace in my stressed-out life.
I let that bald spot get pretty big before stopping myself. Then I moved on to the other side of my head. Pretty soon I had two perfectly round bald spots. If you can imagine a person growing horns on their head, the spot where a horn would sprout from is about where I created the bald spot. I have thick, dark hair and I part it to the right so hiding the bald spot wasn't every difficult. I never told anyone what I was up to an no one ever found out.
I did however live in fear of strong winds.
Now I know that I had [URL=http://www.nmha.org/infoctr/factsheets/92.cfm]trichotillomania*[/URL]. I didn't know what this was back then, I didn't have a name for it. I just thought I was crazy.
I don't quite remember what triggered it back then, but the next time in my life that it got bad was when I had Hepatitis B. I was already depressed about a lot of shit and laying around in bed while my liver recovered left me with too much time on my hands.
My hands immediately went to the place that I'd pulled so many years ago and started up again. It got soo bad that I even took the tweezers to it. When the hair had grown back in, anywhere from 1/8 - 1/4" I'd pluck it out with the tweezer. Sometimes I'd gauge my scalp a little and pull a little of it, too. I even started saving the tiny hairs in an envelope.
Why?
I don't know.
But, it did give me a twisted sense of accomplishment to see how much hair I had pulled.
Eventually, I calmed down and let it scab over. I'd run my finger over the tender bald spot and itch for the hair to grow back in so I could pull it some more. Have you ever pulled a hair through a scab? It stings a little and you can feel the root of the hair get hung up on the scab, but it feels a little good, too.
The trickiest part about trich? Going to see your hairdresser. It takes careful planning. You have to let the hair grow out enough that he/she won't see the bald spot and think you have mange. I had a hair dresser ask me once why this swatch of hair was only three inches long. I shrugged and said, "Too much abuse from the blow dryer and curling iron I guess."
I don't allow myself to give myself bald spots anymore. But, I have one little hair on the left side that grows out all course and tight, like a little slinky hair and I'll search for it every three months or so and pluck it out with my fingers.
Usually, I'm aware of the urge to pull my hair and it tends to occur when I'm in a stressful period in my life. Sometimes it's when I'm facing a deadline for work or just when I feel overwhelmed in general. My scalp tingles and my fingers itch to root through my hair.
Sometimes I stop myself.
Sometimes I don't.
I have learned what I shouldn't do when I get that urge. I shouldn't read or talk on the phone. I have to find an activity that keeps both of my hands busy. Otherwise, my hand will just wander into my hair and the next thing I know - I'm plucking.
It's been a long time since I've pulled my hair out excessively. Yeah, there are moments when I slip and I try to check myself when that happens.
But, even now that my hair is pretty much all the same length I can reach up there, instinctively find the area I always pull from and give my hair a little tug.
It stills give me the most delicious little thrill to feel that little sting at the root.
*(Sidenote: I scrolled down that page and saw something of interest. Trich is thought of as an OCD disorder. The site goes on to say, "Such as compulsive counting . . . " Hello!!! I totally do that and always thought it odd but never equated it with OCD. Sometimes I count the alphabet on my fingers, making sure Z always lands on the same finger, the number of words in the last sentence I just said . . . random stuff.)
Friday, August 20, 2004
These Boots are Made for Walkin'
I'm having one of those days where I can't focus, so two blog entries today.
A while ago I realized I have a shoe fetish. Okay, it a long, long time ago.
I've always known how much I love shoes. I have at least, at least 15 pairs of black shoes alone and they are all different as each has a different function.
For instance, some are dressy, some go with skirts, some go with jeans, some are sandals, some go better with shorts . . . so while I was straightening my shoe collection and setting some aside for my yard sale I've realized that my shoe shopping technique parallels my experiences with the opposite sex.
Check it.
So far, in my life I have tried on a lot of shoes. I used to just try on shoes for the hell of it.
I don't do this anymore.
My time is precious to me and I don't feel like trying on a bunch of shoes at random just for the sake of trying on shoes.
Now, when I go into a shoe department I cruise the selection very discriminatingly. If nothing looks particularly attractive to me then I just walk away.
If I'm going to spend time flagging down a sales associate, taking off my shoes (and/or socks) and walking around in then, then when I decide to give up my time the shoe better be damned special.
When I first started shoe shopping I would just grab shoes off the rack or have a salesperson bring them to me all willy nilly. Maybe they looked pretty, or just different, on display, but I really didn't have any sort of vision for them.
I mean, sure they looked cute but what good would they do me if I wasn't ready for them. But I was young and inexperienced, so I'd take them home and try to make them go with something. I'd dish out the cash and then build an outfit around them. Or worse, I'd buy them, bring them home and never really grow fond of them. I was just seduced by the fact that they were different. By the fact that they weren't mine.
Sometimes I'd get lucky and find a really amazing shoe that looked great on the rack and when I'd slip it on it made me feel and look wicked hot. But, the first step I'd take in them I'd glance down swiftly at them to see when the bitches turned into a medieval torture device.
I'd hobble over to the mirror in them, hike up my pants leg and think, "Oh, but they look sooooo good!" And a woman sitting just out of my line of vision would say, "Those look AMAZING," and I swear, swear to you it was the voice of God, so I'd say, "Wrap 'em up!"
So I'd do take them home and wear them when I was vaccuuming or washing dishes or ironing clothes, hoping in vain that I'd "break them in" so that I could wear them in public without fainting from the pain. Only to realize that it wasn't the shoes that were being broken in as much as it was my feet.
Really, those kinds of shoes make sense in every way but for some reason the fit just isn't quite right and no matter how much you try to make it work it just isn't gonna happen. I was never going to feel comfortable with them.
And on and on . . . I could keep going on about all of my shoe encounters, but it would be the same thing: girl finds a great pair of shoes, girl falls in love with shoes, girl gets shoes, girl gets tired of shoes, girl goes looking for new shoes.
Stashed in my closet right now is this perfect pair of loafers that I fall back on time and time again.
I have them in black and brown: I love them that much. They are sturdy shoes with non-trendy square toes. I adore them. In fact, one pair (yes, the black ones) I've worn so much that the insoles have become unglued.
You know why I keep coming back to them?
They feel good, look good and go with 98% of the outfits in my closet. I don't have to make them work, they just do and I take extra special care of them because I love them so much.
I think they may be my solemate.
Sure, I keep looking and trying on new shoes, but the fact that I have these at home keeps me from trying on every other pair of shoes. I keep comparing anything else to the ones I already have.
I love those shoes.
Now if I could only find that same love with a boot.
A while ago I realized I have a shoe fetish. Okay, it a long, long time ago.
I've always known how much I love shoes. I have at least, at least 15 pairs of black shoes alone and they are all different as each has a different function.
For instance, some are dressy, some go with skirts, some go with jeans, some are sandals, some go better with shorts . . . so while I was straightening my shoe collection and setting some aside for my yard sale I've realized that my shoe shopping technique parallels my experiences with the opposite sex.
Check it.
So far, in my life I have tried on a lot of shoes. I used to just try on shoes for the hell of it.
I don't do this anymore.
My time is precious to me and I don't feel like trying on a bunch of shoes at random just for the sake of trying on shoes.
Now, when I go into a shoe department I cruise the selection very discriminatingly. If nothing looks particularly attractive to me then I just walk away.
If I'm going to spend time flagging down a sales associate, taking off my shoes (and/or socks) and walking around in then, then when I decide to give up my time the shoe better be damned special.
When I first started shoe shopping I would just grab shoes off the rack or have a salesperson bring them to me all willy nilly. Maybe they looked pretty, or just different, on display, but I really didn't have any sort of vision for them.
I mean, sure they looked cute but what good would they do me if I wasn't ready for them. But I was young and inexperienced, so I'd take them home and try to make them go with something. I'd dish out the cash and then build an outfit around them. Or worse, I'd buy them, bring them home and never really grow fond of them. I was just seduced by the fact that they were different. By the fact that they weren't mine.
Sometimes I'd get lucky and find a really amazing shoe that looked great on the rack and when I'd slip it on it made me feel and look wicked hot. But, the first step I'd take in them I'd glance down swiftly at them to see when the bitches turned into a medieval torture device.
I'd hobble over to the mirror in them, hike up my pants leg and think, "Oh, but they look sooooo good!" And a woman sitting just out of my line of vision would say, "Those look AMAZING," and I swear, swear to you it was the voice of God, so I'd say, "Wrap 'em up!"
So I'd do take them home and wear them when I was vaccuuming or washing dishes or ironing clothes, hoping in vain that I'd "break them in" so that I could wear them in public without fainting from the pain. Only to realize that it wasn't the shoes that were being broken in as much as it was my feet.
Really, those kinds of shoes make sense in every way but for some reason the fit just isn't quite right and no matter how much you try to make it work it just isn't gonna happen. I was never going to feel comfortable with them.
And on and on . . . I could keep going on about all of my shoe encounters, but it would be the same thing: girl finds a great pair of shoes, girl falls in love with shoes, girl gets shoes, girl gets tired of shoes, girl goes looking for new shoes.
Stashed in my closet right now is this perfect pair of loafers that I fall back on time and time again.
I have them in black and brown: I love them that much. They are sturdy shoes with non-trendy square toes. I adore them. In fact, one pair (yes, the black ones) I've worn so much that the insoles have become unglued.
You know why I keep coming back to them?
They feel good, look good and go with 98% of the outfits in my closet. I don't have to make them work, they just do and I take extra special care of them because I love them so much.
I think they may be my solemate.
Sure, I keep looking and trying on new shoes, but the fact that I have these at home keeps me from trying on every other pair of shoes. I keep comparing anything else to the ones I already have.
I love those shoes.
Now if I could only find that same love with a boot.
Your Cheatin' Heart
I used to know this woman who had cheated on her husband.
It was all very soap opera, really.
See, she started working with me at The Magazine and she was really quiet and wholesome.
I hated her immediately.
I mean, come one, who's that good!
Well, I quit a few months after she started and a really good friend of mine, C, asked me, "So, you're not working with B anymore?"
I said, "Well, I did quit so I guess that would mean I no longer work there. Hey, you're right! I don't work with B anymore!"
Anyway, my friend C went on to tell me that she knew B from a few years back.
Back when B had cheated on her husband.
C, B and I were all Air Force wives so you tended to run into the same people from time to time. Also, our husbands were engineers so more often than not we ended up crossing paths at different bases and at different periods in our spouses careers.
Anyway, B's husband was sent away for a few months for training and while he was gone B decided to take on some extramarital activities. In the process, B got knocked up by her boyfriend. She told her husband who said, "Be gone fie yie faithless hussy!" and kicked her out. So, there she is pregnant with no place to go.
She turns to the boyfriend who pretty much says, "Well, it's just as much mine so baby I'll take you in and we can live happily never after."
Then, B loses the baby and the boyfriend kicks her out. B goes crying back to hubby saying she's sorry she done him wrong and will never stray again.
By the time I knew B, she and her hubby were still together and were avid churchgoers and glued at the hip.
I wonder about them sometimes.
I guess she realized the error of her ways and recommitted herself to their marriage, but can a marriage really go one once someone has cheated?
The last I heard she and hubby were expecting their firstborn. I'm happy for them and for being able to stick things out, but I've always wondered about hubby and their marriage.
I clearly remember that when I worked with B she never did any afterwork activities (happy hour with editorial) and never worked late nights. She'd always call home to let hubby know when she was leaving and if she had to be at work on a weekend then he was there with her.
I've been in hubby's shoes and it's not a style that works for me.
It was all very soap opera, really.
See, she started working with me at The Magazine and she was really quiet and wholesome.
I hated her immediately.
I mean, come one, who's that good!
Well, I quit a few months after she started and a really good friend of mine, C, asked me, "So, you're not working with B anymore?"
I said, "Well, I did quit so I guess that would mean I no longer work there. Hey, you're right! I don't work with B anymore!"
Anyway, my friend C went on to tell me that she knew B from a few years back.
Back when B had cheated on her husband.
C, B and I were all Air Force wives so you tended to run into the same people from time to time. Also, our husbands were engineers so more often than not we ended up crossing paths at different bases and at different periods in our spouses careers.
Anyway, B's husband was sent away for a few months for training and while he was gone B decided to take on some extramarital activities. In the process, B got knocked up by her boyfriend. She told her husband who said, "Be gone fie yie faithless hussy!" and kicked her out. So, there she is pregnant with no place to go.
She turns to the boyfriend who pretty much says, "Well, it's just as much mine so baby I'll take you in and we can live happily never after."
Then, B loses the baby and the boyfriend kicks her out. B goes crying back to hubby saying she's sorry she done him wrong and will never stray again.
By the time I knew B, she and her hubby were still together and were avid churchgoers and glued at the hip.
I wonder about them sometimes.
I guess she realized the error of her ways and recommitted herself to their marriage, but can a marriage really go one once someone has cheated?
The last I heard she and hubby were expecting their firstborn. I'm happy for them and for being able to stick things out, but I've always wondered about hubby and their marriage.
I clearly remember that when I worked with B she never did any afterwork activities (happy hour with editorial) and never worked late nights. She'd always call home to let hubby know when she was leaving and if she had to be at work on a weekend then he was there with her.
I've been in hubby's shoes and it's not a style that works for me.
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
Kiss Me Deadly
Big Ole' Jed Had a Light On - Man, I was singing this Leta Ford Classic in my head just this morning and realized it's "Kiss Me Deadly," not, "gently."
Okay, I'll admit I have a love of Leta Ford so how could I not go with that for a title.
Seriously, 10 years ago today I kissed a very sweet young man for the very first time.
I've already retold the story of our first kiss in The Magic and pretty much covered a few other details of our first date in To All the Boys I've Loved Before.
I know there are a lot more details about that day that I've left out. Like the fact that even though it was August in New Orleans the sky was a beautiful bright blue and you could feel the promise of fall in the air.
It's probably the only date I wasn't nervous about because I didn't know it was a date.
Which happens when the gentleman tells you he invited another girl, but she backed out.
I know, why did I say yes right?
Well, S and I were friends so I didn't really care that he didn't see me in "that way." I'd written him off as a romantic interest months before and figured we were just buds.
It's the only first kiss that I can remember.
That I can actually say, "Our first kiss was on August 18, 1994." It's also the only first date that I can pinpoint that way.
I remember other vague details. The misting tent that was awesome because August in New Orleans is hot. The misting tent that I kept going back to because S would pull me close to him, grab my ass and slowly slide his thumb across my nipple. Which isn't really my memory as S remembers it better than I do, but it sure does sound like something I'd keep going back for.
I also remember taking a break in the shade to sit down and listen to the music. With S's head in my lap, me stroking his hair and realizing he'd fallen asleep in my lap. I remember checking him out while he slept, thinking, "Mayn! He's CUTE!" and deciding against leaning down to kiss him because it would wake him up.
When the day ended, S drove me back to my house and while we were stopped at a red light he looked over at me. I was giving him a goofy look and then I reached over, grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him to me for a long, slow kiss.
And that was that.
That's how the date ended. I never saw or heard from him again.
Until I called him ten years later.
And you know what?
His kisses are still as sweet as I remember them.
Okay, I'll admit I have a love of Leta Ford so how could I not go with that for a title.
Seriously, 10 years ago today I kissed a very sweet young man for the very first time.
I've already retold the story of our first kiss in The Magic and pretty much covered a few other details of our first date in To All the Boys I've Loved Before.
I know there are a lot more details about that day that I've left out. Like the fact that even though it was August in New Orleans the sky was a beautiful bright blue and you could feel the promise of fall in the air.
It's probably the only date I wasn't nervous about because I didn't know it was a date.
Which happens when the gentleman tells you he invited another girl, but she backed out.
I know, why did I say yes right?
Well, S and I were friends so I didn't really care that he didn't see me in "that way." I'd written him off as a romantic interest months before and figured we were just buds.
It's the only first kiss that I can remember.
That I can actually say, "Our first kiss was on August 18, 1994." It's also the only first date that I can pinpoint that way.
I remember other vague details. The misting tent that was awesome because August in New Orleans is hot. The misting tent that I kept going back to because S would pull me close to him, grab my ass and slowly slide his thumb across my nipple. Which isn't really my memory as S remembers it better than I do, but it sure does sound like something I'd keep going back for.
I also remember taking a break in the shade to sit down and listen to the music. With S's head in my lap, me stroking his hair and realizing he'd fallen asleep in my lap. I remember checking him out while he slept, thinking, "Mayn! He's CUTE!" and deciding against leaning down to kiss him because it would wake him up.
When the day ended, S drove me back to my house and while we were stopped at a red light he looked over at me. I was giving him a goofy look and then I reached over, grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him to me for a long, slow kiss.
And that was that.
That's how the date ended. I never saw or heard from him again.
Until I called him ten years later.
And you know what?
His kisses are still as sweet as I remember them.
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