why we write

I like words. Reading them, writing them. I like transforming thoughts and emotions into communication. My brain likes it. My heart likes it.

I started blogging almost two years ago when my heart and my head ached. When I made such poor choices with men and sex that I was chipping away at one part of myself while burying another part.

I believed I had moved on from many of those choices, from many of those men. I learned a lot, and I kept writing. I write vignettes. A slice of my life, my brain, my soul. I write about whatever bubbles to the surface, certainly whatever boils over.

Brutal truth? I did move on from many of those choices, from many, although not all, of those men. But sometimes my head and my heart still hurt. And that is why I keep writing.

We write because we all have issues. When we face those head on, admit our imperfections and weaknesses, it makes us stronger.

We write because until there is a cure, this is our treatment.

We write not because we have so much to teach you, but because we have so much to learn.

We write because putting it into words makes it sometimes far less scary and sometimes far more funny. And it always makes us feel less alone.

I know why I write, why we write. I would ask, why do you read? But I think the answer to that can also be found in the words above.

summing it up in one sentence

The more I date, the more I am glad I am single.

apathy

Last month, I felt the visceral definition of true love.

Recently, I have felt the physical definition of apathy.

I knew it was the definition when I realized that I had felt it before. I knew it was true when other people shared with me that they had thought that same thought.

You are completely naked. Limbs entwined with another’s limbs. Moisture, whether sweat or other, slides across your bodies. For a woman, you are most likely underneath. His body pinning yours. There is unquestionable penetration. There is likely thrusting.

And the thought goes through your mind:

Why am I doing this?

And you just don’t care.

That is the physical definition of apathy.

what’s your sign? crazy conservative?

An attractive blonde sits at the corner cocktail table reading the Wall Street Journal.

I am sitting with another attractive blonde and one of my favorite men. We suggest that our gentleman friend buy the corner blonde a drink. It is always classy to send a beverage to a lady drinking alone. So he sends over a glass of Prosecco with what I can only imagine is an eloquent note.

When she walks over to thank him, I realize she looks very familiar. She veers to the ladies room, so I ask him to repeat her name. As soon as he does, I know exactly who she is.

She is not someone I know well. Someone I have met a handful or fewer times. She is the ex-girlfriend of a friend.

Correction. She is the crazy ex-girlfriend of a friend.

I have only enough time to explain that what little I know of her is that she is crazy. Crazy and conservative. When asked, What kind of crazy? I have no answer. Those stories are not mine to tell.

I excuse myself so she and my gentleman friend can get to know one another. Because the other things I know about her is that she is very attractive and smart. And I could be wrong about the crazy part.

I am not wrong as the text from my gentleman friend later reveals, Really, you left me with a crazy conservative chick? I mean, really?

I promise him my firstborn in penance. He laughs me off. I am certain that I am obligated to bar tabs for the next few years.

Within moments of sitting down, she says two revealing things. One, she admits to being conservative. Tell me something I don’t already know. Her ex-boyfriend calls me a flaming, hippie liberal.

Two, she says she’s a Libra. Explains that as such she often finds herself in conflict. You know, conflicted, a.k.a. crazy.

Later that same evening, a gentleman I am getting to know waxes poetically, wait, no, just waxes, about being a Virgo and his compatibility with my sign, Cancer. Conclusion, we are compatible.

It strikes me as an interesting way to describe oneself. To have a label as simple as an astrological sign to whip out and explain yourself rather than allowing folks to know you through conversation.

I am a Cancer. I am emotional, clingy, loving, imaginative, loyal, sensitive. But it is far more telling that one might describe me, accurately or not, as an artsy-fartsy, flaming liberal hippie.

Just as it would have been more helpful to my gentleman friend if the attractive blonde had described herself, not as a Libra, but as a crazy conservative.

It would have saved him time and me a year’s worth of bar tabs.

cocky

I put on my SuperFriend cape this weekend. Spent my time being all about other people. Had a ball doing it.

Took a friend out for her birthday Friday. Matched her shot for shot. Let it be her evening.

I cheered on folks at the 5k, and when I say cheered I mean screamed at the top of my lungs, The finish line is right there. It’s RIGHT THERE. I can see it from here and it’s alllll downhill! I woke with no voice on Sunday but had gift of peppermint foot rubs for the neighbor who finished her first 5k.

I shopped for a care package for Prague. Tampons, soap, Sweet N Low. And books, gadgets, fun stuff. I even found the Archie comics that the husband joked that he wanted.

I grocery shopped for the newlyweds. Wanted to make sure they arrived home from their honeymoon and could have morning coffee without leaving the house. Bought milk, bread, eggs, beer. Put flowers in every room.

SUPERFRIEND has come to save the day!

I had a big smile on my face and a warm fuzzy feeling in my heart. But let’s face it- I got cocky about my friendship skills.

And you know what happens when you get cocky about something?

You get leveled.

I don’t know why I emailed her today. The honest answer was that I was thinking of her and wanted her to know I was thinking of her. Her baby comes next month. And even though I blew her off when she blew me off by sending me an email announcing her pregnancy, I wanted to reach out.

So I sent her an email.

And she replied.

Her dad died at the beginning of this month. Lost a long battle to leukemia.

Where was I?

Stuck in a phone booth somewhere, eyes blocked by the enormous cape I was flaunting so proudly.

I am leveled.

i reserve the right to change my mind

I am that girl you can say anything to.

(Please pause to notice that I just finished my sentence with a preposition. Lilu, I avoided the word whom just for you!)

I am genuine, open, and honest and typically mean what I say and say what I mean. People tell me all sorts of crazy shit all the time. I love it. They also tell me really revealing, tender stories. I love that, too.

The derivative of this is that people feel free to ask me whatever intensely personal question pops into their minds on a regular basis. One of the most popular- do you think you’ll ever get married again?

I used to say yes.

While I don’t need to get married again, while I’m not on the hunt or looking for it to happen on a timeline or in the near future, I used to think that I would find a partner, fall in love again and tie it with the traditional ribbons of matrimony.

Amidst the tear jerker, amazing time had by all this past weekend, I have found emotions difficult to put into words. I wrote about it, but I have not found adequate words for my feelings.

It came to me last night. It wasn’t a flash epiphany, not a sudden lightbulb turned on. It came to me in conversation, the words just spilled out of my mouth coherently. With the words came a rush of peace. I finally figured out what had been bubbling right under the surface.

I don’t think I will ever get married again.

True love is the rarest of finds.

Like the Biblical parable of the rich man, it is easier to get a camel through the eye of a needle than to find true love. We are inundated with images and songs and sentiments of love. We are sold on the notion that love is there for us all, and yet we turn a blind eye to the rational statistic of our divorce rate.

The tear in my eye, lump in my throat, enormous smile on my face? That is what happens when I witness true love. Having watched it this weekend, I can honestly say I have never known that depth, breadth or kind of love. Not even when I stood in my own white wedding dress.

True love is the rarest of finds. And I am not naive enough to think that if I search for it, I will find it. Not silly enough to dedicate time and energy to a quest that would rival the search for the Holy Grail.

So my answer has changed- I don’t think I will ever get married again.

The realization came so peacefully and the realization is good. I feel at peace and good about it. But I still reserve the right to change my mind.

marriage

He stood in the back of the church. Dressed in a tuxedo, looking more handsome than I have ever seen him. It wasn’t simply the formal attire, he was radiating happiness.

I knew I only had a moment, and I touched his arm and said, I love you. And I am so happy for you.

I couldn’t say another word. The lump in my throat was too large.

I watched two of my best friends marry one another on Saturday.

I spent the weekend as you might expect- rehearsal, rehearsal dinner, ceremony, reception. I drank too much good wine. Enjoyed every carefully selected detail. Hit the dance floor with a vengeance.

I felt like a member of each family.

I also felt pangs familiar only with others who have gone through these motions before. Worn the white dress, exchanged the vows, and, yet, find themselves in the present sans a plus one. If you have been there, I don’t believe you can sit among the dearly beloved gathered at a wedding and not wonder, Will I ever find someone so right, feel so strongly, fall so hard, trust myself so much to go through those motions again?

As I process those pangs, I reflect on how much more I know today about myself, love, life, than I did on July 7, 2001. These best friends have taught me so much about the intersection of true love and greater-than-the-sum-of-its-parts partnership.

I don’t know if I will ever find someone so right, feel so strongly, fall so hard, or trust myself so much to stand in front of my family and friends and promise forever again.

But I know now a bit more how it should feel.

It should feel like water welling on the lids of my eyes and a lump in my throat unable to express the joy.

It should feel like looking at a best friend, and saying, I love you. And I am so happy.

feet

I have lovely feet.

Really.

For decades, I abused my feet. Taped them, bandaged them, squeezed them into pointe shoes and danced on the tips of them until they bled. When I moved to modern, I forsook shoes, turning, sliding, jumping until my bare feet were calloused and tough.

Now I have lovely feet.

Just today, my feet melted into warm water, sea salt, a massage and the perfect purple polish. An interest of mine used to compliment me on how my toenails and fingernails were always so nicely done. While I think it separated me from the teenage-like girls he usually bedded, I liked that he noticed.

I remember the first time someone sucked my toes. It did nothing for me, and I wasn’t in tune enough with fetishes to know or understand what it might have been doing for him.

I remember the last time someone offered to suck my toes. I declined. It did nothing for me, and although I knew and understood what it might have done for him, I couldn’t help but think, I did not need to take my clothes off for this.

My feet are proportionate, not petite. My left foot bears the tattoo faith. While no longer bruised and battered, both maintain the look of dancer feet with their high arches. Now, those arches are supported by 4 or 5 inch heels.

I more than understand shoe fetishes.

I don’t get foot fetishes.

A few weeks ago, a blush burned across my cheeks as a man friend talking to two of my girlfriends said, Have you seen her feet? They are sexy and gorgeous. They make you wonder- are they feet or hands?

What the fuck? When I recovered from my embarrassment, my girlfriends and I laughed ourselves off our bar stools. Are they feet or are they hands? Yuck.

When I took a massage class, I was taught a non-threatening way to start your massage was with the person’s feet. First gently placing your hands on their skin so they could feel your warmth and using a firm touch so as not to be perceived as sexual.

I know I am equally comfortable and enamored with someone if I am draw to give them a foot rub. I know I am wildly comfortable and enamored with someone if I allow them to give me a foot rub. I want to know and like you before you become intimate with my appendages.

I had an unfortunate encounter at my neighborhood bar the other evening. I arrived to find a place set for me next to an attractive man. His attractiveness quickly evaporated as he demonstrated his oral skills, and I’m talking about talking here.

I know the names of his 5 siblings, his alma mater, and his preference for hunting deer and turkey with a bow and arrow. He shared with me that he  has perfected the ability to eat almost all of the meat off of chicken wings and was still single at 38 because he wanted to do things the right way rather than end up divorced. The icing on the cake was when he proceeded to count my cocktails. Is that your third or your fourth? It is fairly easy to breeze through cocktails when you don’t have a chance to say a word.

Because I am tolerant and kind and was consuming three, or was it four, cocktails, I listened. I brushed his hand off my knee politely. (After which he proceeded to ask me when the last time I shaved my silky, smooth legs was.)

The tattoo on my wrist caught his eye. He asked how many others and where were they. I turned and lifted my  black patent leather peep toe pumps to show my left inside arch. He was instantly drawn to my foot. Complimentary words spilled out of his mouth while he simultaneously reached his hand down and attempted to massage my still shoed foot.

I jerked away. Bewildered. Slightly disgusted.

I do not understand foot fetishes.

But I know when my feet have been assaulted.

a tame tmi thursday: word choice

I like words.

I’m a grammar nazi. I like to diagram sentences. I like proofreading. I hate ending sentences with prepositions. I like carefully considered words.

My LA man-friend and I have been amusing ourselves as of late with a misplaced vowel. A single vowel that changes an entire word.

Here’s how it started.

Him: Rumor has it that he has a huge duck but doesn’t know what to do with it.

A huge duck. A huge dick. Same thing, right?

Feel free to play along. This game will make you smile. Start talking dirty, but every time you want to use the word “dick,” say “duck” instead.

If you don’t find this amusing, we cannot be friends.

There is an indisputable value in thinking about what you are going to say before you open your mouth. The ability to do so is certainly affected by factors as simple as how much you have had to drink and as large as the emotions rushing through your body at the time.

A man with whom I am aquainted struggles with word choice. He uses the p-word. He refers to condoms as prophylactics. He talks a lot, especially when he’s been drinking, and words spill out of his mouth like a faucet with great water pressure.

He just doesn’t think before he speaks.

And so it is that Tuesday evening perched on bar stools, he shares a kinky experience he had just over the past weekend in which a stripper he met accepted cash in return for providing oral relief.  His words, not mine, people.

He then attempts to compliment me, But you are so much hotter than she was.

Did you catch that?

I am hotter than the stripper he paid to blow him last weekend.

Thank God. Just when I thought I was losing my touch.

my vows

The 3 of us have been dating for close to 2 years now.

While it may be difficult for anyone else to understand, it’s a pretty perfect arrangement. Dinners, drinking, date nights. When plans are being made, I’m an automatic part of them. I’ve never felt like a third wheel, and I don’t have to sleep with anyone. Perfection.

Our relationship is about to change drastically.

Because they are getting married this weekend.

I’ve asked repeatedly, Where exactly in the ceremony do I get to say my vows?

I ask this in jest. They answer in chuckles. But I know the truth.

On Saturday, the two of them become one.

Someone, please pass me the tissues.

I’ve written my vows. I don’t get to say them aloud during the ceremony, and apparently I don’t get any new jewelry as part of this deal. But I can assure you, these were written not at all in jest.

I know exactly how you feel today. And not just because I’ve stood in a white dress and exchanged vows before.

I don’t know if there exist two more complementary individuals, two more loving, caring partners, two more smart, funny, talented people than you two. You are meant for each other, and as fantastic as you both are alone, you are best together. Your love is enviable and contagious.

This is the day after which life will never be the same. And I know exactly how you feel today because my life hasn’t been the same since our friendship began.

I consider our friendship to be one of the great blessings of my life. One which I will likely never deserve, but one for which I am grateful.

There is no place I would rather be than watching you two exchange vows. Thank you for including me in your wedding day. Thank you for including me in your lives.

I love you both dearly.

 

Seriously, tissues, please. These tears. Liquid joy.

Congratulations.

And as an added wedding present, I promise not to sleep with any groomsmen or ushers.

Again.