The Power of ME

To Be A Woman

2012-01-25T20:41:00.000-05:00

BE A MAN!!!

I hear that a lot. But I’m a woman. So I don’t worry too much about being a man. I actually never worried too much about being a woman, either. I felt like a woman from the time I was born. But now I look around me and I see lots of other females; young females trying to find their way… old females who may have lost their way… and it’s funny… Now I sometimes actually think about being a woman.

It’s not an easy thing to be. I don’t discount the trials and tribulations of manhood by any stretch of the imagination. I truly have the highest respect for men and I’m sure it’s no less of a challenge for any of them who aspire to “real man” status in life, just as I aspire to “real woman” status in life. So what does it all mean? Maybe different things to different people… but this is what it means to ME:

To be a woman you have to be incredibly strong, and strength lies in different things than what you might have been led to think. It means you need the strength to take the high road when life drops drama on your doorstep. It means you need the strength to stand up and be heard even when you’re scared. You need the strength to overcome fears, face challenges, and forge ahead even when life is constantly pushing you back or knocking you down. And, it also does mean you need to be strong in the physical sense. I hate to say it, but you can’t go through life in the 21^st century as a shrinking violet. Being physically fit not only keeps the doctor away, but it makes it a hell of a lot easier to be self-sufficient. Don’t be afraid of muscle. The stronger you get, the stronger you’ll be.

To be a woman you have to have clear and focused vision. You need the ability to see beyond what’s immediately in front of you and focus on the big picture. You need vision to spot lies, deceptions, shady business practices, dishonest people, and even sings of danger in everyday life. You must always have your pretty eyes wide open and alert. They need to see right from wrong, and the path leading you to where you want to be in life. You can’t close your eyes and you can’t ignore what they see. You can’t depend on anyone else to navigate this crazy life for you. It’s YOUR life and you have to take it by the balls.

To be a woman you cannot be lazy. You have to have energy and drive and determination. You cannot be too dependent upon anyone, or anything. You have to know that if the shit in life hits the fan, you’ll be ok just because you’re you, and you can handle anything. That’s not easy. You have to be a fighter, and you cannot be a quitter. You have to be willing to work for what you need, and to go the extra mile for what you want. And furthermore, you have to know the difference between what you need and what you want. They are NOT the same thing.

To be a woman you have to have to be smart. I say this all the time and I believe it right down to my bone marrow: Very few people are actually stupid. Most people are incredibly smart, it’s all a matter of how much education they’ve received, or how much they pursue. It’s all a matter of what they experience in life and whether or not they choose to learn. Aside from traditional schooling, every single person you encounter is a teacher and every single minute of every single day is an opportunity to learn. Do you take it? Or are you under the impression that you know enough? There’s a million different ways to be smart. Street smart, book smart, business savvy, artistically creative… none of it is any higher or lower; it’s what you choose to take away from every conversation and every experience in your life that makes the difference in how smart you become.

Why do you have to be so smart? Because in order to be a woman, you have to be a psychologist, a teacher, a repair person, a nurse, maintenance technician, a plumber, a chef, a housekeeper, a groundskeeper, a bookkeeper, a veterinarian, an administrative assistant, a travel agent, a receptionist, a diplomat, a representative, an advocate, an accountant, a private investigator, a best friend, a fashion expert, a lover, a mother (even if you don’t have children,) and of course… a witty and sexy temptress. (And no… that doesn’t mean you have to be a size 2.)

To be a woman you have to know something about everything. You have to know why and when you must change the oil in your car. You have to know that you can’t throw water on a grease fire and that you can never, ever mix ammonia with bleach. You have to know about sports and muscle cars and man caves and why you should respect male bonding. You have to know about caring for solid wood furniture that was built by hand 200 years ago, and you have to know how to take care of a brand new glass cook top stove. You have to know how to use a plunger and how to jump start a car. You have to know about the insects and animals in your area, and what to do if they bite you. You have to know what’s going on in the world, what the kids are into, where the bargains are, how to use the latest technology, how to make a soufflé, how to get stains out of laundry, how to mend a broken heart, and which one is the salad fork. You have to know so much, and in so many different categories that you’re practically a walking encyclopedia.

Maybe it sounds hard, but it’s really not. I mean… ok, sure, SOME of it’s a challenge, but being a woman is incredibly rewarding. And, FYI, to be a woman, you also have to know when you reach your limits, when to ask for help, and how to let your guard down and trust someone. You have to know how to love unconditionally, how to forgive and forget, how to comfort and how to instill confidence. You have to be pretty damn special to be a woman. You also have to know that you’re pretty damn special… and not give yourself to any old Bozo who comes down the pike. Save your incredible skills and talents for a real man, and when he shows up, know enough to be honest with him and true to him. In the meantime… while you wait… kick life’s ass. If you don’t, it will kick yours for certain.

Karma’s Not Really A Bitch… She Just Plays it Straight

2011-12-24T09:26:00.000-05:00

I will confess that I’m not Little Mary Sunshine every day of my life. I have my days when I’m miserable, bitchy, grouchy, hormonal, self-pitying, and just plain not fun to be around. Basically, though, deep down inside, I’m a happy person. I have happy parents, a happy sister, a happy brother, and I grew up in a happy community. I know I’m INCREDIBLY blessed to be able to say that, and not everybody can say the same. But, I got to thinking about it this morning because … well… for many reasons… but it’s Christmas Eve and though some Christmases in my life have been better than others, it’s always amazing to see the things that go on during the holidays with respect to the way people treat each other. Life, in my opinion, is really all about two things: love, and experiences. It truly all boils down to that. People say that all you need is love, and it’s true. I mean, you need food, water, clean air, shelter, and the like, but the point I’m trying to make is this: If you want to be happy then you have to decide to be happy, and if you want to be surrounded by happiness, then you have to spread it around like grass seed.

Jim Morrison was interested in how much influence he had over his audience at live shows and is famous for inciting riots. He proved to himself and to the world that all it takes is a seed. A seed planted in the minds of those around you; you simply tend to it and it grows. His “experiments” with the crowd, his disgust at their inability to think for themselves… it was something I read about as a kid and, being interested in how things affect people and cause them to behave, I had to look at Jim first and wonder why he felt that way in the first place. Read about him if you’ve got the time; he’s fascinating. Anyway it seemed obvious to me that Jim was a product of his upbringing, and the hatred he felt towards those who are easily manipulated caused him to incite these riots to prove a point. What he proved to me was this: The opposite is true as well, and when you have power, you should use it for GOOD, not for your own agenda.

People who get caught up in a never ending downward spiral of drama and anger and arguments and “bad luck” will often times ask the question “why me?” They want to know why they can’t just “be happy.” Well, I don’t have all the answers, but I can tell you this: It is honest to God true that what you give out in life, you get back. I’m not saying that if you drop fifty bucks in the Salvation Army bucket that you’ll get fifty bucks back… what I’m saying is that if you walk around in life spreading positivity and happiness you will find yourself surrounded by positivity and happiness. By the same token, if you walk around always angry and suspicious and confrontational, you will wind up surrounded by negativity and misery. It’s just how it is. Anyone who walks around with a miserable expression isn’t going to get smiled at. Anyone who is constantly confronting people is going to be treated with defensiveness. Anyone who starts a fight will find themselves in a fight.

Unfortunately, some people simply prefer to be angry and miserable all the time, and you can’t change them. You must know that some people cannot function unless they’re surrounded by drama and conflict, and you can’t change them. You must know that some people absolutely CHOOSE to be unhappy people and no amount of effort on your part will ever make them happy. We can only change ourselves, and we can only make ourselves happy. But, if you choose to be happy… if you choose to see the bright side of things even when the world seems like a giant pile of steaming dog poop every now and again… if you choose to have faith that things will get better and you choose to work towards making it so… honest to God it does come back to you.

Sometimes we’re stuck in a rut, and sometimes we’ve got the unfortunate displeasure of being related, either by blood or marriage or extenuating family situations, to haters and meanies. It’s tough, especially around the holidays, to find that warm and fuzzy place inside ourselves in the presence of those who live their lives with a stomach full of venom and a head full of evil plots. The holidays seem to magnify it all, but they’re quick and we’ll get through them. When it’s all said and done, it’s just everyday life, and in everyday life if you choose to be positive and to be happy and to SIMPLY NOT SURROUND YOURSELF with those who insist on misery and conflict at all times, and if you choose to spread smiles around and be caring and loving… I am here to tell you that it’s contagious. It’s more contagious than pink eye.

We’re only on this planet for a very short time. It’s a huge planet, filled with beautiful places and amazing sights and delicious foods and so many things to experience and be in awe of… and then there is the wonder and miracle of love. Family, friends, lovers… connections with other human beings are priceless beyond words. Not everyone you meet in life is going to feel this way. Some people were raised in a less than loving environment and they perpetuate it as adults, and it makes me sad, but if YOU want to be happy… YOU CAN BE. All you have to do is look around yourself and decide what’s important, and decide that things that don’t matter won’t get to you. Surround yourself with happiness and it will grow like weeds, I promise you that. Kiss the people you love and tell them they mean the world to you. Be happy with what you have in your life. Go outside and let the sun shine on your face. Celebrate small things that make you smile, and love with fury.

Karma does come back to you. People say Karma is a bitch, but it’s only a bitch if you’ve given it a reason to be. One thing that I always try to maintain is the realization that Karma will come back to everyone. Whether it’s good, bad, or ugly for other people is none of my business. I concern myself only with the Karma I create for myself, because let’s face it, taking pleasure in other people’s misfortunes is creating negativity, as well. So, look for the bright side and if you can’t find it, have faith that it will eventually show itself. In my experience, it always has.

Peace, everyone. I hope you all have a great Christmas, and an even better every day of your life.

Ignoring Bad Advice: The Ballad of Veranera Ocho’s Mother

2011-11-15T12:38:00.000-05:00

I’ve had the good fortune to meet and become friends (and in some cases, lovers,) with people from all over the globe. It’s taught me to appreciate different cultures and to embrace the differences in people from many parts of this big blue marble… but it’s also taught me that as much as people can vary culturally; at our roots, we’re all just human beings trying to get through life doing the best that we possibly can. That said, I feel compelled to share with you the advice uttered by Veranera Ocho’s mother… a statement which has stayed with me… lingering in the back of my mind… for the last sixteen or so years.

Standing over steaming mugs of cocoa at the counter of a store in the mall where we both worked part time, Veranera and I were discussing the men in our lives, and their respective annoying habits. She, being a well-brought up, super-smart, incredibly pretty little firecracker from Venezuela, and ME, being a second generation blue collar all-American girl, found it astonishing how much the “complaints” about her husband and my (then) fiancée mirrored each other. We laughed about how, no matter where you’re from or how you’re brought up, you still want to remove that damn Y chromosome from some of these hairless apes, in the hopes of them suddenly understanding that which seemed elementary to us, as women. Of course, it was all in good fun; truly… we loved our men.

After one particularly hearty laugh that set us both over the counter in that familiar “ouch, my stomach” position, trying not to spill our cocoa, we both sat down on crates to catch our breath. Veranera thought quietly for a moment and said, in her lovely Venezuelan accent, “I mean… it’s like my mother says… they are basically all the same… she said to me when I was very young: When it comes to marriage, just pick one who is clean.”

I laughed, but that statement was destined to stay with me from that moment on. Why? Because as much as the majority of us would like to believe that a statement like that would set us free… that it would grant us the power to accept people as they are, with habits that annoy us and aspects of personality that were not compatible with our own, something inside of me knew that the statement was one made by a woman who had married the wrong man; a woman who had accepted her marriage as a fact of life, despite being unhappy in it. I knew it was the statement of someone trying to convince herself that there was nothing better out there for her, and, in fear for her daughter’s happiness, had dished out that advice in the hopes of shielding her from waking up one day and “wanting more.”

I thought about the concept of “them,” of men, being “basically all the same.” I had to admit… I didn’t agree. My father cooked and cleaned. He worked his ass off. He paid the bills. He didn’t drink, smoke, or take drugs. He wasn’t violent, but he had a titanium backbone and would stand up when he needed to. He wasn’t a philanderer. He was family oriented and spent every spare minute with his kids. He was funny. He was fun to be around. He treated his wife with respect and dignity, and was even, in his own way, very romantic. Logic stated, I thought, that if HE existed… the species was not extinct. “Good” men existed out there in the wild… somewhere.

I got married a few years later, and although I was in love and really thought it would last forever, it didn’t. It happens. People grow, people change, people drift apart… call it whatever you want… the bottom line was that, despite how we felt about each other, and despite having grown up only a few miles apart, and being born only a few months apart, and having a great many things, including our culture, in common, who we were as people just didn’t match. Cultural backgrounds be damned, we simply were two different people. And, ten years later, when the marriage fell apart, people would ask me if I’d ever get married again. Suddenly being single for the second time around brought up all the old theories… was there such a thing as true love? Was there such a thing as soul mates? Were all the good ones “taken?” Truly… were all men the same?!

I refused to believe Veranera Ocho’s mother… well intended as she may have been, I knew she was wrong. I knew that all women were not the same. How could all men “be basically all the same” if we were not? They couldn’t be. It was a big damn world out there… and somewhere on this planet there had to be someone like ME. I refused to give up the belief and the hope that when it came to love and relationships… it was, in fact, possible to find “the right one.” I refused to settle. I refused to listen to Veranera’s mother’s haunting voice in my head when loneliness would set in. I refused to hear her sad and defeated advice when I attended functions intended for couples by myself knowing it was better to be there stag than to be there with just anyone… just because they happened to have a Y chromosome.

The world is a funny place. Fate… Karma… Destiny… whatever you want to call it, whatever you want to believe, whether you believe in God or not, whether you think we are the masters of our own paths, you have to admit, truth is often times stranger than fiction. Life always writes the best stories…

Maybe you’ve seen the email that frequently goes around… it says that some people enter our lives for a reason, or for a season… and goes on to say a bunch of lovely things about how and why people come in and out of our lives. It’s true… and just as the seasons always cycle, so, too, does life. I’ve found myself back in the lives of people whose seasons I thought had passed, and as it turns out, Veranera Ocho’s mother was wrong. Men are not all the same… not by a long shot. Just as I always knew, there are good men out there. Some, I have the privilege to be dear close friends with, and, happily, one who has returned to my life like the joyous warmth of the summer sun and has proved to me beyond a shadow of a doubt that I don’t need to settle for just any man… and… she’d be happy to know… he’s also “clean.”

Believe in love. Believe that you don’t have to settle. Believe that it’s real… there are soul mates and true love does exist... it can even come bundled with comfort and compatibility. And whatever relationships you had that didn’t work out… well… there’s always something to learn, and something to gain, and sometimes, if you’re lucky, a failed romance can actually lead to a lifelong friendship. In my extremely blessed case, I’ve got several of those. But in addition, a romance that I never really considered a failure has smoldered and remained alive under the surface for nearly two decades and now lives again … born anew. Embers that lived deep down and glowed brilliant orange are once again a raging fire that rivals the sun, and its warmth and glow seem to be a comfort to others when we venture out and share ourselves with the world.

Don’t settle. Each woman is unique, and so is each man. Whoever you are and whatever you’re searching for…. IT’S OUT THERE. For me, a second generation blue-turned-white collar all-American girl… my soul-mate turns out not to be a yankee doodle dandy at all, but hey… the cultural differences between us bring a richness to our relationship and an endless opportunity to grow and learn together as partners. Your “right one” is out there. True love is out there. I promise you that. And when you least expect it, it’s going to place its hand on your shoulder and say “I’m here” and surprise the hell out of you… and pleasantly so. When it does… I’d love to hear all about it!

WANTED: Brave Soul

2011-10-06T21:05:00.000-04:00

What do you believe about me?

All?

Nothing?

Am I kind and sweet,

Filled with love and honor?

Or am I a play-thing ?

A toy …or a game

That you play in your spare time?

Is there truth in me?

In what you say?

Am I a gamble?

An experiment?

Are you brave enough to look into my eyes

Deep and long

And see that I am real?

Are you willing to put your hand on my chest

And feel my heart beating

Alive

Steady and sure?

Or does the thought of me

Kind and sweet

Filled with love, honor and truth

A woman

A friend

A partner

A lover

Make you want to run?

Is my strength a rock you lean on

Or a dagger through your soul?

Are my thoughts and dreams a touchstone

Or a mirror reflecting self-doubt?

Is loving me a nightmare?

A curse?

Or are you brave enough to stand before my fire

Alive

Steady and sure

Fearless to give me love, honor and truth?

Or will you panic…

Stone me,

Cast me out of your life

Afraid of what you believe about me?

NEVER FORGET! A Memoir of September 11, 2001

2011-09-10T15:50:00.000-04:00

When I was growing up I always heard people talk about where they were, and what they were doing when President Kennedy was shot. Over the years I heard countless personal recollections of that day, and they were all different, but the one thing they had in common was that whatever the person was doing; wherever the person was… seeing or hearing the news of the assassination stopped them in their tracks. When an event stops virtually everyone in their tracks all at once, it’s safe to say that the whole world, for all intents and purposes, comes to a standstill.

In 1996 a movie called Independence Day was in theatres. Perhaps you’ve seen it. It has since become something of a classic; being shown over and over again on cable TV. I have the special edition DVD, and I’ll tell you why. When my (then) fiancée and I went to see Independence Day, the 7:00 pm show was sold out. We bought tickets for the 9:50, and went to get dinner. Of course, dinner didn’t take all that long, and we found ourselves back in the lobby of the movie theatre waiting around for the earlier show to let out so that we could go in. When the doors opened and movie-goers started streaming out of the theatre, I immediately noticed something odd: nobody was speaking. Nobody was laughing, nobody was recounting their favorite scene, nobody was saying “that was awesome,” or “that sucked;” nobody was saying a word. I elbowed my fiancée and whispered this observation to him. After we saw the movie, we understood. Although ID4 was far-fetched and pure science fiction, the idea of the entire planet pulling together against a common enemy was pretty intense. The idea that we could pull together as a human race and no longer fight amongst ourselves but look upon every other human, no matter what gender, race, creed, nationality, or sexual orientation and just see ‘humans,’ was enough to set your mouth to silent mode and force you to think.

In 2001 I was working for a small business and my hours were 10:00 am – 7:00 pm. In the morning, I would get up early with my (then) husband, and spend the few hours before I had to leave taking care of housework, getting dinner into the crock pot, and packing my lunch for the day. Every day I would get up and put on the news. I have no idea why, but on September 11^th of 2001, for some unknown reason, I did not put on the television. To this very day I do not know why I broke from my usual routine that morning. But, for whatever reason, I didn’t put the TV or the radio on. I went about my usual chores, and when it was time to leave for work, I got into my car, turned the key, and heard a caller on the radio say: “I think they timed it so that camera crews could get there in time to get footage of the second plane crashing into the tower.” The DJ replied, “We really don’t know anything yet, but I suppose it’s possible. If you’re just joining us, or if you’re just getting up, two planes have crashed into the World Trade Center….”

The DJ’s voice was not the usual tone for him. I had a love/hate relationship with this radio station, particularly because I couldn’t stand this specific morning DJ. He was arrogant, opinionated, snarky, and annoying… but on September 11^th of 2001 his voice was different. It was somber, hesitant, and even somewhat frightened. It was this one hundred eighty degree shift in his voice that unsettled me. This was a man who was so high on himself, so sure that the sun rose and set on his very existence; to hear him sounding scared actually put fear into me, and I didn’t even know what was going on yet. I didn’t put the car into gear. I sat there, still with my hand on the key, my head turned slightly as if I’d be able to hear better, and listened like I’ve never listened to anything before or since. The news was coming in so fast and furious, and from so many different places, it seemed they could not even keep up to relay it all to the public. I heard it all in what seems like a split second, and a chill ran through me that I honestly cannot put into words.

The next hour is a blur in my memory. I recall pulling out of my driveway, thinking that it was scary as hell to know the planes had taken off from Boston; I was only 45 miles from there! What if I wasn’t safe? What about my family? What about everyone?! Next I remember being on Route 290 heading east and hearing the DJ saying that all air traffic had been grounded, and that no planes would be allowed in the air, and looking up into the sky and feeling creeped out by the fact that they sky was void of any planes at all, even though I’m certain I could have looked into the sky on any given day and seen the same sight… it was just scary as hell to know that we’d taken this measure because… good God… The United States of America was being attacked. At that time, we didn’t even know yet by whom. The next thing I remember is walking into the garage where I worked and seeing my manager standing there looking sort of like I felt, and asking him, “What the hell is going on?” He just shook his head, said he didn’t know, and that he was going to get one of the small televisions that was in the closet upstairs and see if he could get the news to come in, since there was no cable in the garage. He knew as much as I did, and logically I guess I knew that, but he was the first person I saw after hearing the news and I guess I just wanted someone to say “Don’t be scared, everything’s going to be all right.” In reality, though, at that moment in time, nobody could say such a thing with any sort of confidence. He did manage to hook up a small television in the room I worked in, and to get one of the local stations to come in; grainy though it may have been I think I would have lost my mind had I not had some form of access to the news that day. I, along with everyone else, was glued to it all day long.

Looking back I realize that September 11^th was not just one day. In the days and weeks that followed it did seem as though the world had come to a halt. It seemed as though nobody could breathe, as though nobody could function, as though the day… September 11^th… just went on and on and on. The events of that morning and all of the related news were the only topics of conversation no matter where you were, who you were with, or what was going on around you. The small television stayed in the garage for a several days, always tuned to the news, and despite the fact that I continued to enter invoices into the computer and wait on customers and take phone calls, my attention was always fixed on any new information as it was presented. In the evenings, my husband and I would sit on the end of our bed, across from the television, a box of tissues between us, and cry with the victim’s families as they showed photos of their missing loved ones, begging for any information, for help, for someone to tell them this wasn’t really happening. Nobody got a happy ending. We cried and cried with them, unable to wrap our minds around even a portion of what they were going through.

Three things were most frightening and unsettling about the attack, for me. One was the notion that throughout history, when “war” broke out, or when an “attack” was launched, it was one group of people versus another and the line in the sand was always defined. I knew nothing of warfare or military tactics, but I did know that up until that morning, it was clan vs. clan, or tribe vs. tribe, or country vs. country. I knew that until that morning, the enemy was always a clearly defined group of people residing in a clearly defined space, and that the enemy was always after domination, control, land, riches… or making an effort to oppress another group of people. It was generally always a greed driven or power driven thing. Or, at least that’s how it seemed to me. But this enemy… this enemy was scattered all over the globe; hiding in plain sight, living amongst us, and, perhaps most frightening of all, patient to the point of insanity.

That was the second thing that frightened me. It didn’t matter to them if they had to wait 10, 20, even 100 years to destroy us, they would wait, patiently watching for us to become complacent, and then they would strike again. We adopted the phrase “Never Forget” because truly, eventual complacency is what they count on from Americans. The idea that future generations would not be able to grasp the magnitude of that day through accounts such as this and feel the need to guard against it happening again. The idea that the depth of our commitment to pull together as a nation and stand as one against them would, in time, loosen and eventually come apart all together. The notion that Americans care more about consumerism and material things than they do about each other, so much so that in our quest for shiny cars and 5000 square foot homes and the latest gadgets we would become a country filled with people only out for themselves. When I was a kid, my family had a running joke. We would say to each other, when we wanted to let each other know that we’d get our revenge for some silly practical joke: “When you least expect it; expect it!” That’s the exact theory this enemy goes on; they count on us to let our guard down.

Thirdly, I was, and still am, very unsettled and bothered by the idea that there are people in this world who are, unfortunately, not told the truth by their governments and honestly believe, because it’s what they’ve been told their whole lives, that we are evil. It scares the crap out of me that people on this planet are fed false information in an effort to make them fear and hate us. It is so hard to imagine: not having freedom.

In my childhood I developed a love of history that I carry with me to this day. It was my favorite subject in school; I found it fascinating and I was decidedly alone in that opinion. But history teaches us that which we need most in life and in society, in my humble opinion. It teaches us what happens; it teaches us the results of courses of action that have already been taken. It is a guide to life as human beings. It is not just names, places, dates, and facts to memorize for a test and then dismiss as something you’ll “never use in real life.” History is real life at its most real, and every generation will have their shaping event that they talk about in front of children, hoping to God they can convey the lessons they learned by living through it. September 11, 2001 is that event for me. The world truly did change that day, and although the generations that come after me cannot possibly identify with that, since they didn’t live before that terrible day to really understand the magnitude of that statement, the fact remains that the world is not the same. This war on terror has raged for ten years now, and I am still acutely aware that this is not village vs. village. This is not an enemy you can simply surround and capture. This is not a war that will end because of one decisive battle. This is not an enemy that will ever surrender. And so, on the tenth anniversary of that awful day, I implore you: NEVER FORGET. Never forget that they count on us to get complacent. Never forget that they count on us to stop making each other a priority. Never forget that they wait patiently and watch from the shadows abroad and even from among us where they still manage to lurk for signs that we are not paying attention anymore. Never forget that in this case, the truth will not set us free. And, above all else: NEVER FORGET THAT YOUR FREEDOM ISN’T FREE. We have soldiers; fathers, sons, brothers, friends… who have been and still are in the middle of all this ten years later, trying to secure our freedom and our safety, and so many have lost their lives doing so FOR YOU.

YES, YOU.

As I write this today, I know that it’s a miracle that I was born in the United States of America. I am an American woman. That’s a blessing I can’t begin to be thankful enough for. I am free. I wrote this sitting in the front yard of my own home that I purchased because I have the freedom to be educated, to work, to vote, to walk and talk and think as I please, to express my opinion, to sit in the sunshine in a tank top and shorts in public with my laptop and a frosty glass of Parrot Bay and Diet Coke, and tell you what I think and feel without fear or risk of being killed simply because I love to write and because I have an opinion I wish to share with you. I don’t take that for granted. Truly, I hope that you don’t take for granted that you have the right to disagree with every word I’ve said here, to rebut my opinions, and to speak every bit as freely.

NEVER FORGET.

www.adoptaplatoon.org

The Story of Witch & Rabbit

2011-08-13T15:30:00.000-04:00

What you are about to read is 100% true. It happened in the late Autumn of 2008. I wrote this shortly after it happened while it was still fresh in my mind. Today, as I was working on another writing project, I thought back fondly on this experience and realized exactly how much it affected me, and exactly how much my friendship with my best friend, Jason, means to me. I pondered the incredible influence he’s been on my life, how often he’s been there for me when things have been awful in my little world, and how much we’ve leaned on each other. This is not the only thing I’ve ever written on the subject. In fact, I’ve written thousands and thousands of words about Jason over the years. But today, this story in particular came to mind simply because the conversations we had during this experience and the events that took place, many of which did not make it into this piece, were such that I came home and changed my entire outlook on life, the direction in which I wanted to go, and the goals I wanted to achieve. Jason, thank you so much for everything. I wouldn’t be half of who I am if you were not a part of my life.

Witch and Rabbit

There is something mystical about the air in Kauai. Maybe it’s because upon my decision to fly there to be with Jason I had put aside every other thought and concern in life, but for some reason, breathing that air, everything about my subconscious was open and ready to accept whatever I was presented with. Jay had asked me to meet him there, having flown out from LA to “get away from it all” following the final shattering of his marriage. Jason was my best friend; if he needed me… I was going to be there for him. So, I’d booked last minute flights, thrown a few things in a bag, and dropped everything to be by his side. I landed at Lihue Airport, where Jay picked me up in a rental car. He looked exhausted, a little frightened, and utterly heartbroken.

As we sat at a tiny outdoor table at his favorite vegan restaurant, the fresh air and Jason’s hypnotizing blue eyes set me in a state of utter Zen. Whatever would be would be – I had no expectations, I had no agenda, I had no idea what was going to happen over the next several days – and none of it mattered. I was simply there because he’d asked me to be. And what a paradise it was. There were flowers and lush greenery everywhere I looked, and the atmosphere was light with breezy, sweet humidity. It was nothing like I’d ever felt. Warm and cool at the same time, with the fragrances of tropical plants and chamomile tea settling into my soul.

After our dinner, Jay drove us back to the room he’d rented. It was a large, sparsely furnished space, with a bed, a small table, and lots of large windows. I’d been traveling for nearly 20 hours, and Jason offered to rub me down. He asked me to smell some oil he had, to see if I liked it, and then used it to knead the tension out of my shoulders and back. After that, he asked me if I’d wrap around him – spoon him – just for a few minutes. We talked idly… and he said that he was pretty sure he’d end up walking across the street to the beach once I dozed off, and spend the night on the sand, listening to the ocean and breathing the night air. I must have fallen asleep almost instantly. Before I knew it, he was up and out of the bed. He told me he’d see me in the morning.

After he left, I looked around the room. I was in Hawaii. How had that happened, I wondered? It was all so last minute… yet I was more relaxed and calm than I had felt in years, and something in the night air coming through the open windows made me feel as light and carefree as a person possibly could. I’d be here for a while and it was rather exciting – but for now… sleep.

Somewhere in a dream… a picnic table… larger than any picnic table I’d ever seen, sat before me. On top of the table was a rabbit. It was white, and had a black, geometric pattern of zig-zags all over it. The pattern was fascinating; I’d never seen a rabbit like this. Knowing that the rabbit spoke my language, I tried to approach it to speak to it. But as I stepped forward towards the table, the rabbit became terrified and backed away, eventually leaving all together. I felt frustrated. I had no dark intentions – I would never have hurt it, I just wanted to talk to it. Again the rabbit appeared on the table, and I attempted to approach it again. Again, it became terrified and backed away, leaving this time, for good. I became angry. Why would the rabbit think I meant any harm? I only wanted to talk to it.

I woke to the sound of two of Kauai’s feral roosters having a nasty cock fight in a parking lot outside the front door of the room. It wasn’t even light out yet. I got out of the bed, went to the window and peered out into the darkness. A large, full grown rooster was being taunted by a very small, juvenile one. The noise would normally have made me really mad, as I am not a morning person and hate being rudely awakened, but the roosters were positively hysterical and I went back to the bed and layed down. Each time I heard the roosters screaming at each other I laughed out loud. They seemed so incredibly silly to me, it just struck me as hilarious and I couldn’t stop giggling.

The door to the room opened and Jay entered. I wished him good morning and asked if the roosters had woken him up, too? He said no, all he’d been able to hear was the crashing waves – not even the traffic on the main road between the beach and the Hostel penetrated the sound of the Pacific. I told him about my dream. He said that he had a set of Animal Medicine Cards with him, and we’d look up the meaning behind it. For now though, we wanted food.

After a shower and a quick discussion about leaving the Hostel and going to a more traditional hotel, we packed up and Jay drove us to Hanalei for breakfast. The scenery was mesmerizing. On our right, brilliant turquoise water, swaying palm trees and soft white sand. To our left, volcanic mountains covered in lush green plant life and shrouded in ever-present mist. Amazing, it was as if you were in two completely different environments at once. To me, a Gemini, duality of this sort felt as natural as breathing. Yes, it was safe to say, less than 12 hours after landing; I was in love with Kauai.

We had a wonderful breakfast and then sat at a table that would become our morning chat spot and talked for quite some time. Jay had a lot on his mind. He was confused and hurt, feeling like the proverbial carpet had been ripped out from under his life. After he’d had his fill of talking, we returned to the rental car and headed back towards the Hostel, where Jason was going to have to tell the owner that we’d decided not to stay the originally booked number of nights. He was stressed about it, and didn’t really want to deal with it. I told him, “I’m an administrative assistant. I make peoples’ calls for them all day long. Why don’t you just let me handle it?”

He agreed, and after settling up with the owner we drove back north to Kilauea, in search of our new place. As we tried to follow the driving directions, we became mildly confused when we arrived at a construction area where no cars were allowed to pass. Jay wondered aloud if the street on our right was where we were supposed to turn, since there was no street sign. I looked up to my left, and saw a sign that read “St. Sylvester’s Catholic Church.” I smiled.

“That’s the street.” I told him.

“How do you know?” he asked.

I pointed to the sign. He read it and, accepting that this must, indeed, be the place I was destined to go, said “Oh, yeah, ok.” And took the right. Naturally, it was the correct street. The house we rented a room in was only a few steps from the Church.

We unpacked, and after Jason got into the shower I decided to walk over to St. Sylvester’s and check it out. As I rounded the corner by the sign, the octagonal church sat high above me on a mound. Under the eaves of the church sat a massive, larger than usual picnic table. I stopped in my tracks, almost expecting to see a geometrically patterned rabbit sitting on top of it. But no, there was no rabbit. Just a picnic table larger than any I’d ever seen in my life.

The church was closed up, not a soul around, so I went to the table and sat down. The view of the tiny Hawaiian neighborhood from the church was pretty. I felt more at home sitting there than I did in my own house. I felt like sitting in that spot, God would hear anything I said to him. At that moment, I realized that we were staying there for a reason. (Each morning, before Jay and I got going, I walked to my church and sat on my picnic table. I asked God for many things. I won’t reveal them here, but I will say, each and every thing I asked Him for was granted.) I headed back to the room to tell Jason what I’d found.

He opened his Animal Medicine book and read me the story of Rabbit and Eye Walker, the Witch. As the story goes, Rabbit and Eye Walker were friends. Rabbit was thirsty, and Eye Walker used her magic to give Rabbit a drink. Rabbit drank, but said nothing. Then, Rabbit was hungry, and again Eye Walker used her magic to give Rabbit food. Rabbit did not say anything. Then, Rabbit was injured, and Eye Walker the Witch used her magic to heal him. After that, Eye Walker lost contact with Rabbit. Finally, after a great search, she found him and asked him why he was avoiding her. Rabbit replied that he was afraid of the Witch, afraid of magic, and wanted nothing further to do with her.

The book went on to state that if you are presented with Rabbit medicine, you must confront your fears. Jason asked me what it was that I was afraid of? I told him I wasn’t afraid of anything. He insisted I must be afraid of something, but I was not. “How are you so sure I’m not the witch?” I asked him. Seeing that this discussion was getting us nowhere, we went to dinner.

The next day, we went for a helicopter ride out of Lihue airport. On the way there, Jason said he felt like he was getting sick – the flu, maybe. Indeed, he looked pale and had started coughing, and we agreed that after the one hour ride, we’d go straight back to the room so that he could get some sleep. After the helicopter ride, Jay became visibly upset. At first, I attributed it to his not feeling well. Then, as we drove back to Kilauea, he said to me, rather threateningly, “You may have to find a way to entertain yourself while you’re here, because I’m feeling like I really need to be alone.”

I’d known Jason for more than 20 years. I knew that tone in his voice. I knew that this was not out of the ordinary behavior for him, and I also knew that with what he was going through, this was somewhat to be expected. Still, I had flown half way around the globe to be a shoulder for him, and though being in Hawaii was amazing and I wanted to be there, I also didn’t want to spend all my time alone. We went back to the room and I took my book into the kitchen. I sat there reading for a while, but I was unable to concentrate and I thought… “This is silly. Something is wrong and I’m not going to pretend there isn’t an elephant in that room.”

I went into the room and Jay was intentionally avoiding eye contact with me, puttering around pretending to be busy placing books here, cell phones there… I sat down on the bed.

“Can I ask you a question?” I said.

“Sure.”

“Would you be more comfortable if I changed my flights and went home?”

He spun around and looked at me. “What do you mean?”

“I mean: Would you be more comfortable if I called the airline, changed my flights, and left… went home… now.”

“Do I seem that uncomfortable?”

“Yes.”

Jason stiffened. He looked me in the eye, and began telling me all manner of contradictory thoughts and feelings he was having about all kinds of things. About me being there, about him being there, about our friendship, about his marriage, and on and on and on. I sat and patiently listened. It seemed to me that more than trying to talk to me, more than trying to explain something to me, he was working through some of his own things out loud. We talked for quite some time. The conversation became deep, and deeply productive. He admitted to me that he was afraid of my being there. He was afraid of “what I wanted from him.” I assured him, I wanted nothing from him.

As it turned out, Jason had called each of his parents and asked them for help. He had even called his brothers. Each member of his family was either unable, or unwilling to help him. So I said to him, “Jay, you’ve asked God for something. You have told me time and time again that when you pray, God will answer, but maybe he sends you something slightly different than what you had in mind. You asked for family, you got me. I’m here. Now, what do you need help with?”

At that moment, Jay seemed to immediately let go. His facial features relaxed, his breath steadied, he wiped his eyes and said “If I had a wish list, this is what would be on it: There is an Ayurvedic Healing Center across from where we stayed the first night. There is a treatment they offer that I’d like to get.”

“Great. No problem, let’s do it, let’s get it for you.”

“Ok, and I’d also like to get the right foods, I’ll even prepare them, but I can’t keep eating in restaurants.”

“Done.”

“And I need an advocate… I have all these bills; all these bill collectors calling and I can’t handle it. I just need someone to look everything over and help me figure it all out.”

“I will absolutely help you with that.”

He heaved a sigh of relief.

The next day, we went back to Hanalei for breakfast. As we sat at our usual table chatting and working through his many painful issues, I pointed to a small, organic grocery store called Papaya’s behind him. “Do you want to go in and get your food?” I asked him.

At the cash register, Jay started to reach for his wallet. I didn’t even make eye contact, I simply said with solid determination, “Don’t even think about it.” I paid for the food, and as I tucked my ATM card back into my wallet Jason turned to me and said with great humility “Thank you, Witch.” I smiled and replied, “You’re welcome, Rabbit.”

Once Jason’s flu symptoms subsided, we decided to spend a day beach hopping. We went to Hanalei and I bought a bathing suit. I told Jay I’d run to the ladies room and then meet him at the car. As I washed my hands I realized that we’d forgotten to grab towels from our rooms. I went into the boutique beside the ladies room and asked the shop keeper if she had any beach towels? She said she had two left, and pointed to a basket on the floor by the front door. There in the basket, were two rolled up beach towels, each tied with hemp. One was covered with pink, orange and red hibiscus flowers and said “Hawaii” on it. The other towel, however, took my breath away. It was a cream colored background, and had a navy blue, geometric zig-zag pattern. It was the exact pattern on the rabbit in my dream.

I paid the shop keeper and walked back to the car. Jay wasn’t there yet. I opened the driver’s side door and placed his new beach towel on his seat. When he came back, he opened the door, saw the towel and said “Wow… it’s a really nice one.” He looked up at me and said “Thank you.”

We spent a gorgeous day on the beaches of Kauai, and when the time came for me to leave the island, I felt closer and more connected to my friend than I ever had before. Several weeks later, as I browsed a doll, toy, and teddy bear show with my mother, a handsome gray rabbit hand crafted out of antique fur coats looked at me. He seemed to be there for a reason, so I purchased him, packed him up, and mailed him to Jason for Christmas. Rabbit now sits on Jason’s shelf, a reminder not to be afraid of this Witch’s magic.

Writing Behind The Wheel… NOT!

2011-08-04T21:02:00.000-04:00

They say that art imitates life. Well, for me, life seems to get into the way of my art. I often wonder… if I didn’t have a day job… if I didn’t have to spend 11 hours a day occupied by things that I “must” do … how soon would everything come bursting to the surface? I know it would be quick; so quick it might overwhelm me, but how sweet that would be.

Today was one of those days when I woke up feeling pretty damn good, and as the day progressed, my half-way decently happy mood was forced right down the shitter. Can I pinpoint specific things that happened to turn me into a negative, depressed, total downer? Yeah, I can… but you’d find it all quite trivial and boring and I’d have to give you all kinds of background information about each incident… and who wants to wade through all that? Certainly not I, after all, I already lived it once, I honestly don’t have the intestinal fortitude to rehash it all and attempt to make it witty and entertaining while I’m sitting here feeling like total shit. Suffice to say that events of the day all conspired to make me feel like God hates me, my life sucks, and I have nothing to look forward to except more of the kind of crap I experienced today.

Once, a few months back, I had decided that it would be a good idea to get Dragon software (despite my hatred of the idea of speaking instead of actually writing; I believe it will kill the art form eventually, but I digress…) so that when I was driving I could get my thoughts down. It seems like when I’m driving (I commute an hour each way back and forth to work) my mind seems to percolate with prose and when I finally get home every thought and brilliant idea I had is either gone from my noggin all together, or I just don’t have the same passion for the topic as I did in the heat of my road rage induced passion. A friend of mine was kind enough to get me the software for my birthday. Naturally, I have been unable to set it up and try it out thus far because my everyday life has simply not provided me with the opportunity to do it yet. So, tonight, yet again as I drove home trapped in a traffic jam of biblical proportions that turned my usual 60 minute ride into a 140 minute ride, my mind was filled with thoughts that I wanted so badly to be able to get into a Word document that I wanted to scream.

Now, here I sit, keyboard in front of me, opportunity to write it all down wide open, and do you think I can muster the passion and eloquence my mind was bursting like a volcano with just a mere hour ago? OF COURSE NOT!!! What does this have to do with my shitty day today? Ugh… see?! That’s just it. In a state of total depression and upset my mind seems to be a writer’s paradise… I get filled with the kind of angst and longing and soulfulness that I can only cure by writing; words pour out of me. Yet when the moment passes I can still recall what I wanted to say but the passionate desire to write it is gone and I find myself going “Eh…” and not doing it.

Tonight, in the deep dark shadows of what was a terrible experience well over a year ago, and the miserable, rotten events of the past 24 hours, a poem was bubbling to my surface. It was intense and raw and had I been in possession of a fountain pen I might have been compelled to write it in my own blood just to make real the idea of my heart bleeding out … but I had no fountain pen… I had no ballpoint pen… hell… I had no Dragon software. So where did that poem go? Where did the 10 paragraph blog post about liars, cheats, and selfish, toxic, disappointing people up and vanish to? I’ll tell you, my friends… those items and more… they never escaped me. They lie in waiting someplace deep inside me. They will return… it’s happened before.

No, that poem isn’t entirely hidden. I see it peeking at me from around the corner. I am not certain if I wish to play hide and go seek with it tonight. So much of me is reeling from the days drama and disappointments. Do I poke the emotional bear and bring it all to life by writing it all down… or do I force it to hide and declare in Scarlett O’Hara fashion “I can’t think about that right now. I’ll think about that tomorrow… after all… tomorrow is another day!” Hmmmm…. Let’s see what the night has in store.

My Oatmeal Caught Me Watching Food Porn

2011-07-23T13:56:00.000-04:00

A brief and incomplete list of things I am not supposed to eat: Bacon, fried foods, dairy, gluten, citrus, tomatoes, mint, coffee, egg yolks, dark chocolate, anything too acidic, anything too fatty, or anything too spicy. Do I stick to this? Um…. (points to the sky) HEY! IS THAT A SPACE SHIP?!

The first time a doctor told me that I had to break up with a food was in 1989. I’d been having these sharp pains in my side and when I went to the doctor, based on my family history he said: “It sounds to me like you have gallbladder disease.” I was sent for an ultrasound, and no stones were discovered. He told me, as he checked things off on his clip board in an ‘I’ve-got-other-patients-in-the-waiting-room’ sort of way, “Stay away from bacon, fried foods, egg yolks, orange juice, or anything too spicy. See the receptionist to make your co-pay.” Oh. Ok.

After that, over the years, in addition to gallbladder disease, I’ve been told that I have lactose intolerance, high cholesterol, IBS, gluten sensitivity, and that my stomach is basically an acid factory. (The latter being the only condition I decided to accept medication for, because, quite frankly, I was unable to manage the horrible symptoms with diet alone.) It sounds pretty depressing, but honestly, I’m pretty lucky in that you can feed me pretty much anything. I love whole, natural foods every bit as much as I loved McDonalds as a kid. I always tell people that I’m easy to feed, and it’s the truth. I really do adore grilled salmon with sautéed baby spinach and brown rice. I could have that every night and be totally happy. Chicken breast with cilantro and mixed grilled veggies? Bring it on! Fresh fruit with yogurt or cottage cheese? Pass me a spoon! Quinoa… with pretty much ANYTHING? Hell yes! But ask me if I want a slice of really good pizza or if I’d like to go get a traditional New England summer seafood plate overflowing with fried scallops and French fries and … after a moment’s hesitation and the odd prayer that I won’t die an hour afterwards… I’m also going to say “absolutely! What time and where??”

Look, I’m half Italian, and my other half doesn’t know it’s not. Stick a slice of sausage pizza under my nose and I’m going to bite. If I get your hand, oh well. And let’s look at that: Gluten laden crust, tomato sauce, dairy melted over the top, and spicy, fatty sausage. So what happens to me when I indulge? It depends: if I have been a good girl for weeks on end, then probably nothing but the addition of another pound or two. But, if I’ve cheated within the last 24-48 hours, let’s just say I’ll regret the indulgence in a big way, and spend a few hours laying on a beach towel on my bathroom floor begging God to forgive me and swearing I’ll never do it again. Of course, He and I both know that’s never lasted very long…

Back in the days when I had cable TV, I watched a LOT of Food Network. Oh, how I loved Emeril Live and Good Eats! Now that I’ve told the cable company to go pound sand with their insane fees, I look forward to Saturday and Sunday mornings so that I can watch Phantom Gourmet.

(If you don’t live in the Boston area, you’re missing out. http://www.phantomgourmet.com/ShowPage.aspx )

Why the interest in looking at food I can’t touch, taste, or even smell? Well, I suppose it’s for the same reason people look at porn. Really sinful foods plated well and shot from seductive angles … cheese bubbling and sauces oozing for the camera… are just enough to calm the odd craving for something that, should I actually consume it, would get me into a lot of trouble. I mean, let’s face it… if I had mozzarella sticks and garlic bread, fettuccini Alfredo and bacon wrapped scallops, crab rangoons and triple layer chocolate cake every time I wanted to, I’d probably already have had a heart attack by now and I’d definitely be ten feet wide.

Despite all these food restrictions and “conditions,” I actually consider myself lucky in that when I walk into a supermarket, I’m fascinated and awestruck by the produce department. It’s goofy, I know, but really… the colors, the shapes, the scents… and my mind starts going off in 50 directions as to what I could do with each lovely fruit or veggie: what I could pair it with, and how I could prepare it. I suppose this is God’s way of helping me through all the horrible food break-ups I’ve had. Someone like me who loves rich, heavy, gooey foods could easily have given up and just continued to eat all of the things I was advised not to, gained 200 pounds, and developed congestive heart failure or just spent my life morbidly obese stubbornly refusing to change my ways… maybe THAT is the non-Italian half of me rearing it’s life-saving head.

I also consider myself lucky in that there are worse conditions I could have. A friend of mine has all of the same ailments as me with the exception of the gluten sensitivity; but she also has conditions that prevent her from being able to eat anything with tiny seeds, or eating garlic, or drinking vodka, and I’m sure there are other things on her forbidden list that I’m forgetting. She and I maintain a healthy sense of humor about our food predicament, and thank God we have each other to laugh with.

If your doctor tells you that you need to say goodbye to a beloved food, or foods, don’t despair. Believe me: It’s truly not the end of the culinary world and if you’re willing to try new things you’ll find there are fantastic things you have been missing out on. If not for my health consciousness I never would have tried sushi, which I would now choose over Alfredo sauce any day. If not for my “conditions” I would never have attempted cooking Thai rice noodles, which I now love enough to marry. And… when all else fails… there’s always food porn.

Video Killed The Radio Star, But Texting Killed The Romance

2011-07-16T14:52:00.000-04:00

Did you know that your mobile device has a feature that allows you to talk to your friends in real-time and hear them, as well? It’s amazing! It’s called a “telephone call.” You simply dial a number that’s been assigned to your friend, they are alerted of your desire to talk to them by an audible sound of their choosing (traditionally a sound of ringing bells) and they answer …. Voila! You can talk to each other for hours and hours … or only for a moment, if that’s your desire… and actually enjoy a conversation where the sound of their voice, their infectious laughter, and their tone and meaning are able to come through loud and clear. I know, I know… the technology is mind boggling… but it really works! Trust me; I talk to my friends this way from time to time.

Yes, I’m being snarky. Don’t get me wrong, I do text, and I find it useful and convenient for some things, but really people, what ever happened to the phone call? Especially in male/female relationships? Seriously, have we gotten that lazy that we can’t find the energy and drive to actually SPEAK to the people in our lives? Is it too much effort to actually engage in a real conversation where you have to actually give your undivided attention to another human being for a few minutes? It’s bad enough when my female friends want to discuss something important over text and burn a hole in my cell phone but when a man wants to talk to me… really… if he can’t pick up the phone and speak to me I pretty much get turned off and think “no manners on that one.” Besides, I’m really not into the idea of dating the equivalent of an “app.” If all you’re going to do is text me all the time then I’m better off to just read a book.

The whole point of communicating with someone should go much deeper than just the exchange of random crap like “running ten minutes late,” which, by the way, is what texting should be for. Communication should be a little more of a human interaction than that. It’s stimulation of the brain, the art of conversation, the sound of your voice, the spontaneous changes of subject, the laughter, the connection… you see what I’m driving at here? I have nothing against the texting of a sweet message like “Miss you” or some other small phrase that speaks a thousand words in its ability to convey that you can’t stop yourself from contacting your sweetie. Those texts are marvelous and romantic and give a girl a serious case of the warm fuzzies and can earn you lots of brownie points to be cashed in at bed time. (Or dinner time, or shower time, or you know… whenever.) It’s also great to get a text when we know you’re in a meeting or someplace you shouldn’t be texting us. Actually, that’s pretty damn hot.

However… when you’re on the sofa, or otherwise engaged in just “killing time” and you text us to “talk,” it’s basically like telling us that we’re pretty much on the bottom of your priority list. I know everyone is into “multi-tasking” now, but come on… human beings are still way more important than machines. Televisions, Wii consoles, laptops, smart phones… they’re going to be there for those moments when you truly have nothing better to do. They aren’t going to pack up and move out of your apartment if you neglect them. One of my favorite sayings in the whole world is “happiness is only real when shared.” It’s something I saw in a movie. (Into The Wild) In all honesty, your relationships with people are truly the things you should be working on in your life. Not just the people you date, but all of the people in your life.

Texting has its place (and so does sexting, actually,) but you can’t base a relationship on it. A relationship should NEVER get to the point where texting is the form of communication of choice. Relationships are supposed to progress and blossom and become stronger and bring people closer. There is an element of human connection that is lost in texting. Things don’t translate clearly, for one thing; sometimes causing unnecessary arguments or misunderstandings. Secondly, with texting, it’s impossible to have an actual conversation: a FULL conversation. Texting doesn’t convey the true emotion that is in someone’s voice, it doesn’t allow for the natural flow of idea exchange, and it sure as hell doesn’t create bonds between people. And for the love of God... if I call you and leave you a message, don't respond with a text saying "Hey, got your message. What's up?" If I called, you - have the decency to call me back unless you're suffering from laryngitis.

The next time you have to tell someone something, or ask someone something, or even just want to ask how someone is doing, call them. Get comfy and settle into your chair and actually have a human to human conversation with them. You might recall the sensation from your childhood. It’s an amazing thing, human interaction. It brings people closer together. What’s really great, though, is when that phone call leads to “getting together.” Now, THAT is really something special. Yes, I’m being snarky again, sorry. We all have a little spare time in which to cultivate our relationships; the next time you think of someone, try calling them. It could be surprisingly pleasant. I know for me, the greatest thing is the sound of laughter coming from someone I care about. It just loses something in translation when all I get to do is see the letters LOL. Well, gotta go for now, the phone’s ringing! (not mine, yours!)

Keeping It Real

2011-07-04T18:39:00.000-04:00

“Don’t bottle up your feelings!” Who hasn’t heard that before? It’s true, you know. You really shouldn’t. It’s much healthier on every level to let them out. Bottling up your feelings is really unhealthy. It increases your stress level, and it can actually make you physically sick. So, let all that pent up crap fly. For some people that means talking about their problems, but, for some of us, it means diving into our creative outlet and pouring it all out. If you’re a painter, or if you make music, or if you sculpt, or… perhaps even if you write… you know what I mean by that.

For those of us who tend to “create” when we have something inside, there are options you face when creating. How much of yourself and your inner struggles and emotional bullshit do you actually pour into the project? How honest do you get about it? And, if you choose to take it all the way; really dump your heart, soul and guts into something, do you then show it to the world, or do you slip it into the way back part of the closet behind the ugly clothes you never wear?

I always find it a little silly when I hear controversy about paintings or sculptures that depict things people find “offensive.” Nudity, sexuality… whatever the case may be, if you ask the artist what they were trying to showcase they never say “I’m just really into porn, so I thought… hey… paint naked people getting it on.” Maybe you have to have a different mindset to understand that kind of art than some of the stuffier “shocked” folks have, I honestly don’t know. Personally, that stuff never shocks me. But, I’m into writing… that’s my outlet, and my way of expressing myself and my way of coping… I write. So, especially when writing this blog, the question comes up for me all the time: In attempting to keep it real, how real is too real?

I honestly don’t have any issue with pouring out my personal feelings, my thoughts, my opinions, sharing my most personal experiences or confronting my fears publicly. I really do believe right down to my bone marrow that life is entirely too short to ever hold back. Those of you who know me know perfectly well that I’m not shy about telling you in open wound fashion if I love you, what I think your greatest qualities are, or how important you are to me. I’m also not ashamed to discuss private matters if I think my experiences could help you gain some kind of insight into something you’re going through or if you are considering doing something I have experience with.

No, my issues with keeping it real arise when I consider how things I might share would affect other people. You may have noticed that many times when I tell stories I do so without mentioning names. I do that in the hopes that those I’m speaking of will feel anonymous enough not to be upset that I’ve blogged about them. (*Thus far, those who I’ve mentioned have known instantly that they were the person in my story and nobody has been upset… yet.) As a writer, though, there are so many other stories I’d like to tell… so many other things I’d like to share… so many things I go through that, were it not for the feelings of other people, I’d spill my guts out about in the realest possible fashion.

So enters the cliché: Some things are better left unsaid. Unfortunately, as a writer, this really cuts me off in a way I’m struggling with. How polite is too polite? I mean, if writing is my way of coping, do I simply write these things … get it all out… and then delete the file? More and more I’m coming to the conclusion that that’s not really “getting out of my system” at all. In fact, in some way, that’s bottling it all up. I am struggling with trying to answer the question: When are you being unfair to yourself by trying to be kind to others? I’m not about to post something that I think will upset someone I love, yet what does that leave a truly honest and open person to do when they write? It makes me feel like my hands are tied sometimes.

I’ve often heard the phrase “artistic integrity” and never really thought much about it. I guess I didn’t really consider myself an artist. But I do think writing is an art, and one I couldn’t possibly live without. Keeping this blog real is getting harder and harder… because there are things I want to write about that are my observations and opinions about life. My life, the world around me, the people I know and love, and how I feel about things … it was the whole point of starting this thing… and now moving forward may require that people who know me well realize that writing truly is what makes me whole. I can cope with nothing difficult in life if I cannot write about it, and writing about it cannot consist of hitting the delete key in the end, or leaving a will that states “Ok, I’m dead now. Here’s how I felt.”

So… if you paint, or sculpt, or dance, or create beautiful music… do so in a way that is true to yourself, because if you don’t, you might just as well move yourself to the back of the closet with the rest of your reality. I’ve decided not to live there.

Ghosts of You

2011-07-03T21:06:00.000-04:00

There are Ghosts of you everywhere

And I’m supposed to be all right

Ghosts everywhere I look

The door I watched you open

The rug where we made love

The Ghost of you is in this chair

Where I sit to write

I see you

I feel you

I hear your voice

See you smile

I feel your kiss

You’re haunting me

It was just a little while

Yet you haunt

You’re indelible

You just won’t fade away

I keep waiting

Hoping

That someday I won’t see

The Ghost of you

Hear your laugh

And hurt the way I do

Soul mates are forever

And I’m woven into you.

PMS and Other Things That Suck

2011-06-28T21:54:00.000-04:00

Hormonal mood swings are one of the lovelier aspects of womanhood. Not only are they lovely for us, but they’re lovely for everyone around us who has to deal with us when we’re experiencing them. Moments of anger, sadness, or total outright bitchiness for no apparent reason… it’s not anyone’s idea of fun.

You know, this is one of those subjects thats been written about by a lot of people and not once have I ever read anything on the subject that didn’t bug me or make me roll my eyes and say “Seriously? They wasted ink on that?” Most articles aren’t helpful at all, and I don’t really find anything written with biting, bitchy humor to be either entertaining or identifiable. I also don’t think I have ever seen anything written on the subject that would give men any kind of idea what it’s like or any kind of accurate description of what we go through. So… what the hell, I might as well take it on, since, at the moment, I happen to be engulfed in it.

I can’t speak for anyone else, only myself and my own experiences with this, and I’ll be honest, this isn’t like… a FUN subject for me to tackle. Honestly, I’m writing about it because writing is how I cope with things in life that suck. For me, there are months when PMS takes the form of “raging bitch” and months when it takes the form of “sobbing mess.” As you probably just guessed, this month has been “sobbing mess.” Actually, it’s been a little of both; I had a couple days of raging bitch and a couple days of sobbing mess. Today has been a roller coaster of both but mostly sobbing mess.

Unfortunately, though there are over the counter pills out there that are supposed to help with symptoms, they really don’t. There are reports stating that women honest to God do benefit from chocolate at this time in their cycle (personally I am a chocoholic anyway, not just when I’m going through this) and that’s a lovely concept… and it’s why women joke about chocolate all the time. Wine, too. You hear us talk about both of them with the kind of enthusiasm most men wish women had for blow jobs or football like they’re magic elixir or something.

I recall being a teenager and talking about this with a friend of mine. We both knew that when we flew into a hormonal rage and acted like lunatics that it was PMS causing it, but we had no control over it whatsoever, and later would feel terrible for things we did or said. We felt like it was awful to have to apologize later, rather than just simply not behave that way in the first place, especially considering that we knew what we were doing in the moment. I can’t speak for her, but for me, at that time, it was literally impossible to control myself. My theory is that as a teenager, the hormonal imbalance must have been much greater.

In my early 20’s I was dating a guy who, one month, after I had been a total bitch and later apologized, said to me “You know, that ranks right up there with ‘I was drunk’; it’s no excuse to treat people like shit for a week and then say ‘oh, I had PMS’ like it’s a get out of jail free card on your Monopoly board.” Initially, I was really angry with him. After all, it was hormonal and I couldn’t control it. But, the more I thought about it, the more I agreed with him. I knew what I was doing when I was doing it; now I needed to find a way to stop myself from being a bitch.

I happened to be lucky in that my cycle was always something you could set your watch by. Not only did I know what day Mother Nature would show up but for many years, it happened at exactly 6:30 am, give or take 15 minutes. I’m not kidding, I know that’s nuts, but its true. It made it extremely easy to map out when I’d start to experience mood swings. Once I was able to determine when it was going to happen, I started making a huge effort to figure out how to control my words and actions when it hit. I’ve definitely mastered not taking my raging hormones out on the people around me, though I do still get into those uncontrollable bitchy moods. There are days when *I* don’t even want to be around me.

As for the crying part of this lovely condition… well… that’s another story. It’s not really as if crying or being a mess in that respect causes a fight with anyone. Sure, it might annoy the hell out of them, but it certainly doesn’t offend them. I’ve never really battled all that hard against the crying jags, I mean, as a chick, I find the hysterical bawling my eyes out every so often to be cleansing and sometimes I can even laugh about it later. Like when I find myself overcome with emotion because of the coffee commercial where the son comes home from the military and makes coffee to wake up his mom. Forget it, I’m toast on that one.

And that brings us to the really FUN part of PMS. Its like feeling your emotions in some kind of crazy fun house mirror. Weird stuff gets magnified and looks way out of proportion, but seeing is believing in a mirror, and feeling is believing in life. When you have PMS, things that normally bother you a little become these giant insurmountable problems and you believe your crazy hormonal imbalance when it tells you that your life sucks. Before you know it, you’re so depressed that you’re bawling your eyes out and you have no valid reason for it… but you THINK you do.

Today, for example, I got deep into the sobbing mess mentality. I was feeling every single negative thing in my life on a scale so gargantuan that I really don’t know how I got through the work day. Everything in my life that sucks came right to the surface and took over the front and center of my whole existence and ran my thought processes all day. I was talking to a friend and telling her how I was feeling, and as I was listening to myself, I knew that in a day or two, I would not feel nearly as strongly as I did at that moment.

I don’t have all that tough of a life. I mean, I live in the USA, which, to begin with puts a person right up there just in terms of infrastructure and opportunity. I have a good job, I have a lovely teeny little house, a decent car, food on my table, and for the most part… good health. I have a great family of origin, and wonderful friends. I know all of that and I’m thankful for all of it every single day of my life. But, on days like today, things that suck, like having little health problems, being broke, and having a still fairly broken heart over my last relationship all seem like the end of the world. They become so enormous and heavy on my shoulders and unbearable that I just want to crawl under the covers and never come out.

On some level, though, somewhere deep down, I know it’s only a temporary condition, and tomorrow I’ll be me again. And, as I said, I can only speak for me. Yeah, I have PMS and there’s a few other things I have that suck… lactose intolerance, gluten intolerance, arthritis, a crooked spine, bad hips, chronic fatigue, and a budget that leaves me in the red every month… but happiness truly is a choice and if you know that your cycle is frigging up your world once a month then do something about it. Maybe your solution isn’t as simple as mine was. If you’re finding your life disrupted or if you have people in your life who you find yourself apologizing to even though you knew you were wrong in the first place, please talk to your doctor. We are women, and our hormones do flux, but there’s no reason on earth to be unhappy once a month.

Some of us truly do indulge in a glass of wine, some chocolate, a bowl of ice cream, and feel better. Some of us require putting a lot of thought into when to expect it, focus on signs and signals of it creeping in and taking over, and do our best to take control of ourselves. Some actually do need to seek medical help. For me, I know that exactly every 28 days I’m going to host Mother Nature and that 4 days prior I’ll begin to experience moods that “aren’t me.” As they arrive, I have to make a real effort to keep myself grounded and mindful of the world around me and how my words and actions will affect others. That’s not to say I put myself last, not by a long shot. I just try to balance my needs with the needs of those around me, and it’s far more of a thought process on those four days than it is at any other time in life.

Today was a tough day. Worse than I’ve had in a while… but I made it through. Ain’t nuthin' but a thang.

Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby! Part V: Sex… The Final Frontier!

2011-06-06T22:25:00.000-04:00

Ever been bored with sex? Ever thought that you’ve seen it all, done it all, had it all, and that there were no more sexual mountains to climb? No more erotic lands to conquer? Call it what you will… whether you blame a seven year itch, or a stale relationship, or if you just think you’ve done everything you ever wanted to do…whatever the case may be, at some point you may have felt that nothing was really ringing your bell the way it was rung when you were young and sex was a grand adventure.

There’s no question in my mind that the greatest aspects of sex are all in the human mind. The body may do all the work, and the physical aspects of the act; your senses of touch, taste, sight, sound and scent may be the prominent parts of actually “doing it,” but anyone who has ever had an orgasm in their sleep can’t deny that without ever having been touched or touching your partner, those orgasms can be the deepest, most intense, and best ones you ever have. To me, that’s proof positive that sex, above and beyond the act, is in the human brain.

When you’re young and sex is somewhat new, the excitement and adventure all centers around what you’ve heard, what you’ve imagined, what you’ve thought about, heard about and never experienced for yourself. The youth and beauty of the partners, the new places and positions you do it in, and the various “new” things you try. Well… new to YOU anyway. As you try each one; naughty new things… kinky new things… taboo new things… dangerous new things… sinful new things… with all that fresh, new, exciting, hot, crazy sex, arousal levels stay pretty high. But after years and years and years of sex, one day you find yourself thinking… “Where’s that blazing fire? Where’s that orgasm that blows my mind? Where’s that arousal that’s so intense I can’t even function?” Well… I know where it is. It’s all in your head, baby!!! It’s all in your head.

Chances are that you’ve had dreams that have seemed strange to you once you’ve woken up; dreams that left you wondering “Why the hell did that turn me on?” There’s a chance that there have been things people have said or done in your presence that have piqued your interest, and maybe you didn’t understand why, or even want to admit to yourself that they did. My advice to you is this: Don’t be afraid of what’s just under your sexual surface. Allow yourself to wander into those spaces in your mind and explore them. Allow yourself to think about whatever you find strangely intriguing, and let your imagination run wild. Only you are inside your head, and only you can unlock the doors that you’ve subconsciously closed. Open them, and see just how delicious those fantasies can be.

Personally, I’ve got a head full of incredible fantasies that I can dive into and get so hot I can barely stand it. Will I share them with you? No. But I will share them with my partner. That’s the whole point of them: to enhance and embellish the great thing we already have going on. Role playing, having play dates with each other, exploring and sharing with each other in ways that we find exciting. What we want, or what we do doesn’t have to make sense to anyone else. It only has to please us. The ability to be open and share those deep fantasies is one that can lead to incredible sexual places, but there has to be a very solid foundation of trust in your relationship, as well. When you have that the sky is the limit.

Fantasy and imagination are truly the keys to really revving up your engine. The depth of your own fantasies is the only limit to how hot you can actually get, and how great sex can actually be. Now, having a partner who’s down with that would be a beautiful thing, so, obviously I’m going to tell you once again that communication with your partner is key. It doesn’t have to be weird. It doesn’t have to be ‘we-need-to-talk’ heavy and presented as a problem. What it does have to be is honest and there has to be totally open communication. You can’t approach your mate and say “Our sex life is stale” or “I’m bored in the bedroom” or anything that will make them feel like you’re dissatisfied with them, personally, or with the relationship itself. This is strictly about sex. If the relationship itself is healthy and you’re simply looking for that heat and intensity that you’re missing from your youth, there’s a chance your partner probably feels the same way, too.

Only you know your partner and your relationship well enough to know the best way, the best time, and the best angle to approach this from. Personally, my suggestion would be to bring it up when you’re already engaged in a meaningful conversation. Don’t bring it up when you’re trying to pay bills, or when you’re discussing anything stressful or problematic. Bring this up when you’re talking about the good things in life. Bring it up when you’re talking about the positive things, and the things that make you both happy. Make sure your partner knows that you’re still completely attracted to them. Make sure they know that they’re the one you want to share these things with. Make sure that when you tell them you’ve got the hots for some hot sex, that it’s THEM you want to experience it with. And then… get ready to have some of those earth shattering orgasms.

The Fear of "What If?"

2011-05-18T22:48:00.000-04:00

It’s not an ancient and mysterious secret that fear keeps us from doing many things. It’s actually a completely well known and “duh” kind of concept, yet for some reason, a lack of willingness to take a leap persists in so many ways in life. “What if” nags at the back of your head… “What if I do X and the result is less than desirable? What if I say ABC and the response is hurtful? What if I crash and burn? What if I end up alone? What if I lose? What if I get hurt?” What if, what if, what if…

Some people seem to have more ambition and drive than others. Some people seem more willing to take chances, to take leaps; some people seem to have a fearlessness that the rest of us can’t comprehend. Some are brave in some areas of life, and not in others. There are so many times when fear can stop you from doing what you need to do, want to do, or dream of doing “someday.” We admire piss and vinegar in people who seem unafraid to do things that, to us, seem to be a high wire act, and, one that we would not be willing to perform.

Intestinal fortitude can be a fine line kind of thing. I look at someone willing to attempt to jump the Grand Canyon on a motorcycle as a completely suicidal moron, but some people may view that kind of thing as daring and gutsy. When I was younger, I remember thinking a friend of mine was crazy for quickly shedding all of his large belongings, packing the rest into an unreliable vehicle and moving across the country without any kind of landing pad, plan, or even a job lined up. Now, I see it as brave as hell and I wish I’d thrown caution to the wind and gone with him. Interestingly, he recalls being frustrated with me back then for my lack of drive and ambition in life. Truly, what that lack really was, was a lack of backbone. I feared the unknown. I feared the “what ifs” and I feared falling on my proverbial face.

But that aspect of bravery in me seems to be limited to things of that nature. Where emotions are concerned, however, I am fearless, though some see me as reckless and emotionally suicidal in that arena. I believe from the depths of my soul that taking chances in this part of life is one that we cannot fear. I believe that where our feelings are concerned, we MUST be fearless and determined. We must be willing to take the chances that could make us the most happy, or leave us the most sad. If we don’t, then we actively cultivate regret. Perhaps in business ventures or extreme sports you are ballsy, but in spilling your guts you’re chicken.

Think back to the worst emotional hurt from taking a leap that you’ve ever had. Maybe you’re in the midst of it now… or maybe it was years ago. Either way, you lived through it. Painful though it may be, there was life experience in it; there was learning. Most times, where a hurt comes into play, there are good memories as well as bad in whatever the situation was. When the pain is at its zenith, even the happy memories are painful. Everything is painful during that time, but slowly you emerge from it. You learn from it. You honest to God do get stronger as annoying as that cliché is: That which does not kill you truly does make you stronger. (*yeah, you’re not getting out of my blog without a cliché. Sorry.) I think for me, it may be this aspect of getting hurt that keeps me willing to take emotional leaps. I know that if I don’t take the leap, I’ll regret it later. I’ll wonder if it could have been the thing that made a really positive difference in my life, and I know in the back of my head that even if it ends up hurting me… somehow… I’ll still gain in the end.

I get completely irked when I’m watching a movie and a character wants to say something and holds back. It makes me crazy. I scream at the screen, I get so frustrated that I have to remind myself it’s only a movie. In real life when I see someone who has something to say and won’t spit it out, it’s all I can do not to smack them on the back of the head, especially when I know it’s something they need to say to ME. There is only so much guessing you can do in life, and only so much you can coax someone into a comfort zone where they can tell you what’s on their minds. Some people just never find the place inside themselves where they can say “I have to tell you something” take a deep breath, and leap. Even if they open their mouth, sometimes they just can’t get words out. In my eyes, these are the crippled people in the world. I don’t believe you can achieve personal happiness until you’re willing to take emotional risks.

Hurts heal; they’re temporary, believe me. But risks we don’t take can nag and fester for a lifetime at the back of our heads, wondering what might have been. You have one chance at life. This isn’t a video game. If you screw up, you don’t get another guy, and there is no bonus round. If you love someone, TELL THEM. If you tell them and they don’t say it back… yes, you’ll get hurt. But if you love them and you take that leap, and they love you, too, then what wonders you’ve just entered into. There are going to be times you’re going to get hurt. It’s a fact of life. This is not a fairy tale, this is a sometimes incredibly cold cruel world we live in, but it’s the risks you take that pay off that bring you the joys that life is all about. It’s the risks you don’t take that breed regret and unhappiness. So take a leap from time to time. Let go of your fears and say what’s in your heart, even if you fear the outcome. And, if you get hurt, know that this is part of life. We don’t stop having growing pains when we get our diploma. We don’t ever stop having them. Leap, and when you’re hurt, learn. But leap… because some of those leaps will land you in places more glorious than you can imagine. Some of those leaps will land you in the heart of someone amazing and you wouldn’t want to miss out on that, now, would you?

Counsel of The Foolish Souls

2011-05-17T21:15:00.000-04:00

For those I love.... ANYTHING.

Believe it.

So many foolish souls...

If you must stay in your cave,

I hope the fire is warm

and the wood pile endless.

When you emerge

Hunt

I’ll not interfere

Merely watch from the forest

Until you’re strong enough

Sure enough

I leave offerings

Anonymous

Foolish souls…

Now in your tribes

Fighting off those who seek to overthrow you

Looking back to days when I hunted by your side

Fondly

Sadly

Yes, there you are,

Still in your cave

Frightened that you may end up

One of the many

Foolish souls

Warm yourself.

Feast well.

Call to the Gods,

Seek their council.

How long does she wait for me?

Rest well in your cave,

Dwelling

Planning

Letting time steal everything

But do not endeavor to join them

Foolish souls

Wishing I still hunted at their sides.

Settling for offerings at the feast

That I have left as gifts

But never knowing the safety of my tribe again.

Mental Spam

2011-05-12T12:31:00.000-04:00

This morning, as I was waking up, I was in that sort of half asleep / half awake place and I had a surge of writing energy, which, obviously I couldn’t do anything about because I had to go to work. Also, in the shower this morning I had about a half dozen ideas for blog posts that escaped me by the time I was done drying off. That REALLY perturbs me, how ideas can just leave me like that. How does it happen? The same way that we all have those moments when we say “Oh, crap…. I totally forgot what I was about to say!” It’s because my head is filled with nonsense. You know… every day bullshit that takes up hard drive space? I hate it. I think that as kids, that’s why we have so much pure and fiery creativity and imagination. Our brains aren’t full of spam yet. Now, in adulthood, my head is full of account numbers and driving directions and to-do lists and names of people who aren’t even a part of my life and news stories and all of that horseshit, and there’s really no way of clicking on “delete cookies” … which… by the way… I’d also like to be able to do to my fat ass.

I mean really, is it necessary for me to know that Lindsey Lohan pleaded no contest to stealing a gold necklace? Is it necessary for me to know the names and ranks of the Royal Family or what they wore to William and Kate’s wedding? Is it really going to benefit my life to know that crap? But I know these things. I can’t get away from that sort of useless information, and it’s taking up space in my cranium that I want for other things. I’d much rather be able to remember the recipe for Toll House Cookies or any ONE of those six ideas I had this morning in the shower than to know any of that other garbage that has no bearing on my life or my goals or my family or my health or my happiness.

It’s frustrating as hell that my head is full of this mental junk mail, construction debris and plastic. There’s basically a landfill in my noggin full of shit I’d really like to throw out. When your computer gets slow you delete files to make room. When your house gets too full you have a yard sale. When your closet gets overstuffed you give things to the Good Will. What do you do when your brain is too full? Can I see a hypnotist and ask him to “delete cookies?” Can he make me dump all the useless information that’s causing me to have a system crash whenever I come up with a great idea for writing and then 20 seconds later it’s just… GONE… like I accidentally hit the delete key and there’s not a damn thing I can do to get the file back?

At one time I thought… meditation! That’s it! I’ll clear my head… I’ll make all of that every-day baloney that makes life in the 21^st century stressful and makes it impossible to pull up the files I actually want to use line up and march single file into a little prison cell in my head and I’ll lock the door… meanwhile the creative thought process and all of my wonderful ideas and my happy, intelligent, imaginative thoughts will come out and play and when I return to an upright and locked position it will just flow out and I’ll write like wild fire!!! Unfortunately, as fab as it was in theory… it didn’t work. There was this giant bouncer standing there with his arms folded, looking at me like “All right, lady, you’ve got exactly one weekend to accomplish this, and then it’s back to reality.” I have never been good with deadlines.

Thankfully, my frustration and anger at this situation prompted me to vent to a friend via email. There’s something about writing an email to a trusted friend. It brings out an unedited flood. I guess it’s the fact that he is there to be my friend and listen and understand when I’m being a raving lunatic, so my email is just a stream of ferocious aggravation that, when complete, makes me step back and figure out what’s really bothering me or at least purges some of my mental garbage. That’s how writing is for me. I’ve described it before as a bucket you’d put under a leaky roof. The roof drips, and the bucket fills. Every so often you have to dump the water or you’ll have a flood. That’s why I write. I fill up with words, thoughts, ideas, theories… eventually I have to empty the bucket.

Writers block is horrible for me. It’s like a drought, I guess. When crops don’t get water, things start to shrivel and die. The roof doesn’t leak. I have no ability to function when no words are slowly filling the bucket. However… a tsunami is pretty friggin’ frustrating, as well. I can’t write fast enough, I lose half the ideas, I sure as hell don’t have enough hours in the day to devote to it even if I manage to notate all of them for later use… and that brings about a whole other aspect of 21^st century life that infuriates me…. But that’s a post for another day.

For the moment, I’d like to thank my best friend in the entire world, Jay, for helping me out by being there for me and always being the giant wrecking ball that obliterates that insurmountable wall. Writer’s block literally feels like a wall has been built between me and my creative process. So many brilliant writers have given the advice that you should write every single day, even if you think you have nothing to write about. Entire books have been devoted to ideas of things to write about when this happens. Today, I had to write about writer’s block. It’s amazing to me how much I actually had to say, most of which I spared you from, and how the subject itself actually poured out like that proverbial bucket being dumped. Maybe now I can get on with things.

So, you ask, why bother posting this? I mean, really, what’s the point of making it public? I guess it’s this: Sometimes you have to vent. And by you I mean YOU. Maybe you don’t purge your issues through writing, but whatever it is that seems to be blocking your path in life… kick the hell out of it, whatever it takes. Ready for my cliché of the day? Here it is: We all have our crosses to bear. The thing is that each one is different but no matter what the cross you’re carrying around is, it’s just has heavy and cumbersome to you as this is to me. So get rid of it. Holding it doesn’t help. Leaving stuff that isn’t working alone doesn’t help. Continuing down a path that you know is leading to nowhere doesn’t help… and worse… continuing down a path that you know is leading to your own annihilation is just… NOT GOOD. So don’t do it. Rise up and fight!!!

Taking Care of YOU

2011-05-01T18:23:00.000-04:00

I know the whole world is sick of the saying “Life is too short.” But, it is. Especially in adulthood and in this society that’s paced at warp factor nine. Days fly by in a blur; weeks are gone before we know it, and months slip away at what seems like an impossible speed. When I think of something that happened ten years ago, I can scarcely believe a decade has passed since … well, in the case of the current year, can you honestly believe it’s been a decade since September 11^th? I can’t. Also that year, Lifehouse’s “Hanging By A Moment” came out and the remake of Lady Marmalade by Christina Aguilera, Lil’ Kim, Maya, and Pink was in the movie Moulin Rouge. Doesn’t seem like a decade ago, does it?

As time ticks away we work like ants in an ant hill, going about our tasks almost robotically… get up, shower, get dressed, leave on time… fight traffic, park the car, get to your desk, check email, answer phone calls, attend meetings, meet with customers… before you know it the day is gone and your “to do” list might not have been scratched. Fires sparked up and had to be put out, interruptions happened, things were unavoidable. Meetings had to get moved; personal appointments had to be cancelled in order to accommodate business. And when 5:00 comes each day – are you able to head home to your family? Do you have to work from home in the evening? On weekends?

I call the difference between work and home “The separation between church and state.” Honestly, it’s the best way I can describe it. When talking about the concept of over-eating, people will often say “eat to live; don’t live to eat.” It’s good advice. Simple, to the point, and makes perfect sense. When it comes to separating church and state (or, if you prefer the corporate American term “work/life balance” which I happen to hate,) the same rule applies:

Work to make a living; don’t live just to work.

When was the last time you did the things you’re supposed to do in order to take care of yourself? Not your spouse, not your kids, not the dog, or the house, or the bills… but YOU. When was the last time you had a full physical? When was the last time you had a dental cleaning and check-up? When was the last time you had a night out with your friends? When was the last time you engaged in whatever your favorite past time is? When did you last eat at your favorite restaurant? When was the last time you spent time by yourself doing absolutely nothing? When was the last time you went shopping for yourself? When was the last time you bought something you wanted just for fun? Not something huge; maybe a music download or a favorite old movie on DVD… but for yourself.

Do you ever go into a bakery? Not the one stuffed into a corner in the supermarket, but an actual bakery. Not for any specific reason; not because it’s someone’s birthday or because you have a dinner to go to and need to pick up a dessert – but just because it’s a bakery. Just to look at the gorgeous confections and maybe get a cookie or a really good loaf of bread that’s still warm from the oven. If you don’t: THEN DO IT! Walk into the bakery, inhale the delicious smells, look at all the enticing things in the case, and pick out just one small treat for yourself. Something that looks amazing in its decoration, or something that looks so scrumptious that your mouth waters, or something you haven’t had since you were a kid.

Do you ever go into a pet store? Not because you’re looking for something to take the smell out of a sofa, but just to look at the tropical fish? Do you ever blow off the housework in favor of doing something relaxing and fun? How often do you make it to the beach in the few months we have to enjoy it here in New England? Do you play in the sand? Do you jump in the waves? Do you take walks with no destination, and no purpose other than to be outdoors?

Maybe none of these things appeal to you, but I guarantee there’s things that you love that you haven’t done in a dog’s age. The bakery, the tropical fish tank, the beach… these are all things that feed the soul. Things that get your brain out of that stagnant work mode and remind you that you are alive. If you don’t find the things I’ve mentioned here appealing then do something YOU love. Even if it’s only for a half an hour.

And hey...call your doctor, and your dentist… call the optometrist if you go there, too. Make appointments and keep them. Bring everything up to date. Take care of yourself and feed your soul. When you do that, you’ll be happier and healthier, and it will carry into every aspect of your life. It will rub off in your relationships. It will make the sunshine a little brighter, the food taste a little better, and the absurd in life a little funnier. We all have to work. We all have to take care of business, but life is a gift and when it gets tedious and stressful and frustrating… that’s when you have to step away from the ordinary routine and remember the small things that bring an enormous smile to your face and actually go and do some of them. You weren’t put here on this earth just to be an ant in an ant hill. So, get out in the world, and remember why you’re really here. Remember why you have a job in the first place: To support yourself so that you can have a life.

The Sex Was Great! Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby! Part IV

2011-04-20T16:33:00.000-04:00

Remember Kelly Lebrock’s annoying Pantene commercial in the late 80’s? “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful!” It was a great line, and we all used it… picking on each other, laughing at ourselves, and basically taking it for what it was; a joke. But there are women out there who will tell you that beauty is a curse. Being really, truly, drop-dead gorgeous … the kind of gorgeous that turns heads when you walk into a room, the kind of gorgeous that doesn’t require make-up, hair styling, or flashy clothes. The kind you can’t get away from… it can be a major curse. I do understand that. I mean, imagine trying to talk to someone; trying to make a point about something, and having them so mystified by your appearance that they couldn’t hear you. That’s got to be severely frustrating. So, too, I find, is being “great in bed.”

Yeah, that’s right… I’m bragging… I’m great in bed. Deal with it. If you want to think I’m telling you I rock the house down because I want you to be jealous or because I’m trying to get attention, think again. (For the record, I’ve been celibate for the past year. The reason why, at least at first, was a heart so horrifyingly broken that the idea of anyone touching me was just too much to bear. I couldn’t even deal with dinner, much less deal with sex. I did go on one date a few months back. Nice guy; pretty easy on the eyes, polite, articulate, we had a lot in common… but when the check came and I realized the date was coming to a close, the idea that he might try to kiss me chilled my blood so cold that I couldn’t even fake a polite excuse. I haven’t bothered with attempting another date. If you’re out there, Jim, sorry about that. I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but it’s the truth of the matter: It wasn’t you, it was me. Lately, though, the celibacy has been because I haven’t met anyone I want to sleep with, and, as far as sleeping around goes… been there, done that.)

I’ll be the first one to tell you how much I adore sex. The pleasures of a man’s body are positively boundless. There’s a reason why, when people have incredible experiences in life, they compare them to sex. It’s because sex is the be-all, end-all of our existence. You can argue that point any way you like, but great sex is better than great anything else. In my early twenties, I went through a period of unabashed promiscuity that would make a hooker blush. Don’t ask me how many men I’ve slept with because I honestly don’t know. And, FYI, I’m not ashamed of that. I’m not proud of it, either. It just is. I was young, I was pretty, I was built, and it seemed I could have any man I wanted…so I did. I loved the first time with each one so much; it was such an exhilarating feeling. I don’t know about anybody else, but for me, first times are just about the height of physical sensitivity. There is no more erotic feeling than that of the first time you touch someone and feel their body temperature, their heartbeat, their skin against yours. The tension, the nervousness, the newness of it all is something you can never, ever recapture.

I just wasn’t someone who was ashamed of my body, or uncomfortable with my sexuality, or even concerned with lady-like modesty. I never quite understood the concept of Catholic guilt, even though I was raised Catholic. I wanted to experience the men I dated, not just run down some scripted small talk, be paranoid about spilling salad dressing on myself and then sit by the phone hoping he’d call the next day. I still can’t stand the thought of that; it’s so phony. I’m a passionate person and when I met men I think it was obvious that, although I wasn’t throwing myself at them, I wasn’t like most women, either. Maybe it has something to do with being raised predominantly by my father, but for whatever reason I’ve always identified more with men than women. I just find that men are easier to talk to, easier to get along with, more easy-going in general. So, I spent a lot of time with them. Men are so terribly attractive to me. The way a man’s body feels, the sensation of the muscle tone underneath their skin, the smooth yet slightly abrasive sensation of a freshly shaven face, the deep gravelly tones of a male voice, the Adam’s apple, and honestly, there is nothing like a pair of big, strong hands on a man. Testosterone just makes me weak in the knees.

Aside from the sex, each one of those men had some kind of impact on me. These dates weren’t just a pick up followed by a tawdry one-night stand. I didn’t see each guy one time and say “See ya!” I dated them, just nobody serious and nobody for any extended periods of time. The dates always involved a lot of conversation, most times on a pretty deep level. Beyond the bedroom, there was a lot of learning and sharing going on with them, and it was equally as satisfying. I never slept with anyone I didn’t want to sleep with. I slept with all of them, and it was because I wanted to. If that makes me anything less in anyone’s eyes then they’re shallow and they don’t know a whole lot about life; and dare I say, they’re somewhat repressed. This was a period of exploration in my life and one that I enjoyed and wouldn’t trade. Dating all of those men was wonderful, and yes, sleeping with them was, too. I don’t apologize for it, I got a lot more than sex out of those men, and anyone who uses anyone else for just sex isn’t having all that great of a time.

One of the greatest things I learned from them was that what really, truly turns a man on above and beyond anything else, is a woman who is confident enough in herself, comfortable enough with herself, and has the self esteem to let go of her inhibitions in the bedroom. In a committed relationship, men do equate sex with love. They do see how you relate to them in bed as a sign of how you feel about them. Whether you trust them, whether you’re honest with them, whether you feel bonded to them; they seek that out physically. Whereas women want open, honest, intense conversation and think that relationship bonding develops from that, and want to know what men are thinking, what they’re feeling, what they dream about… well… men simply aren’t as complicated as all that.

Men want open, honest, intense shared sexual experiences. Men want that from you because when you let go, when you share yourself, your fantasies, your inner trollop with them, (hmm… how do I put this delicately?) it makes them cum like a goddamn freight train from hell. Truly, that’s what they want to share with you. They want to give you that same thing back. If you want to have that open, honest, intense conversation that will bond you with your man, try starting out by talking about sex. It’s not to say that’s ALL that men want, but it’s a definite crossroads between the sexes. And if you open up to him about sex, he’ll open up to you about other things.

Now then, I told you all that so I could finish telling you this: There are times, for me anyway, when being great in bed has come to haunt me. Men I’ve slept with in the past, old flames and men who broke my heart so badly I can scarcely believe it will tell me how amazing I was in bed, and although the logical side of my brain knows that it’s meant as a compliment, the feminine, more emotional side of me remembers the conversations, the laughter, the inside jokes, the shared experiences that took place outside of the bedroom, and just wants someone who once made love to her to say, “more than anything else I remember your heart.” And leave off the “and the sex was great!” Somehow, though, I suppose that knowing I gave them my heart when I gave them my complete and honest, uninhibited self in bed, I should be flattered that they recall the physical aspects of our relationship so fondly. Those men who’ve broken my heart, they remember a woman who was a hellcat in bed. A woman who was willing to explore, a woman who indulged their fantasies and made them feel like mighty Zeus – and they all made love to me that way, too.

After all, I loved each and every one of them with everything I had. Each of them brought about physical and emotional sensations with their very existence; first with the way they looked, their smile, their voice and their scent, then with the way they spoke and expressed their thoughts, and then the feel of their skin, the texture of their hair, the vast differences in the way each of them laughed and touched and kissed and made love. And each of them, each of these very different men never ceased to surprise me in their minds, or in their hearts. They were never what I expected but they were all great, and I wouldn’t trade one single experience, broken heart or not. But please, boys, remember, though I may have torn the roof off of your bedroom, and yes, the sex was great, I am a whole person with a lot to give, and aside from sex, I also gave you my heart.

The Side Effects Of Blogging

2011-04-14T20:32:00.001-04:00

Writing The Power Of ME may cause: altered friendships with men, feelings of being ostracized by other women, frustration over people’s misinterpretation of your intentions, mouse shoulder, carpal tunnel syndrome, eye strain, unwanted advances, back ache, headache, loss of anonymity, writers block, objectification, unfriending on Facebook, fear of parental readership, sudden uncontrollable bursts of creative energy at inappropriate times, secretarial spread, neglected housework, lack of gym time, burnt food that you forgot was in the oven, random sentimental blubbering, a feeling of pressure to deliver articles on a time schedule that doesn’t actually exist, obsessive checking of “blog stats,” a permanent case of sore neck, strange emails, and an intense desire to write a book.

I’ve been pouring my thoughts out in this blog for a few months now, and I have to say, I really do enjoy it. I mean, aside from the side effects, some of which I anticipated and some of which I didn’t, it’s really been a great experience for me. A couple of years ago, people were suggesting to me left and right that I should start a blog. I was dead set against it. (Honestly, I can’t remember why.)

It took me a long time to finally decide that I not only wanted to start one, but what it would be; what it would contain, what I would call it, and what my goal was in doing it. I thought and though about it. I asked people questions about their blogs, I read blogs, I wrote things I thought I might want to post at some point, all of which, incidentally, I ended up deleting. Finally, one night late last year, I realized that the blog had to simply be called The Power of ME, and that it had to be about not one thing… but everything. I realized that what I really wanted to blog about was life, and life is a wide range of subjects.

Since then, I’ve written about quite a few different things, and had quite a few different reader reactions to what I’ve written. Most have been good, but there have been some things that have surprised me. I fully anticipated a little weirdness to come up over the posts that are about sex, and a little weirdness did happen, but sadly, I have seen some people bow out of my circle of friends over the past few months. Is it directly related to what I’ve written here? Well, I can’t honestly say with 100% certainty, however it seems rather ironic that each time I post something like that people have backed into the shadows and disappeared.

I don’t know if there’s a misconception about why I write about sex, in addition to the other topics. So, although I did do my best to explain why I wanted to write about it in the first post I did (http://thepowerofme.blogspot.com/2011/01/not-to-frighten-you-butlets-talk-about.html ) it seems to me that people may be under the impression that I’m writing about it for the sake of “getting attention” or for “shock value.” I can assure you, neither of those reasons are the case. It is honestly because I think that sex needs to be talked about in an open and honest way without shame or fear between partners. It is honestly because I think it should be taught to pre-teens and teens in school, in church, and by parents. It is honestly because I think everyone should be able to discuss issues with their doctors without tripping over their tongues. It is honestly because I think everyone should be able to relax and enjoy their sex lives and not feel inhibited or as though they’re wrong, or bad, or weird. How can I honestly expect you all to be open and honest with yourselves and each other if I’m afraid to be open and honest with you? I’ve never believed in “do as I say, not as I do.” I believe in putting my money where my mouth is. (*Thought you might get out of this post without some of my beloved clichés, didn’t you? Sorry! Never gonna happen!)

As for some of my other topics… I post whatever’s on my mind. Some days you may like what I have to say, other days you may not. Some of my opinions you may agree with, others you may not. No matter what, though, many of you have told me what you think, and whether that feedback is about my subject matter, my opinions, or even my writing; I appreciate it all and I respect it all. I write because my head is always filled with words. I write it all down here in order to share opinions, to make people think, and to entertain. So, please keep reading. Please feel free to share your opinions, and please know that despite the side effects, The Power Of ME is a pill I intend to keep taking.

Laverne Wore An 'L'

2011-04-11T19:57:00.000-04:00

Once, in a fit of outrage and confusion, blubbering and screaming in a fashion that jilted, heartbroken people sometimes do, I sought an explanation from a friend. I thought, “He is the smartest person I know. His is an opinion that I respect more than I can say. If anyone on Earth has the answers … it will be him.” Through tears and hyperventilation I demanded to know: “What in the hell is so goddamned scary about letting someone love you?!” His reply was simply this: “The fear of letting that person down.”

I am a Gemini. Some say Gemini is the sign of “dual personality.” (That’s a nice way of saying “freaken ‘schitzo.”) In my case, I guess there is a deep truth to the idea of duality, at least in some ways. If I were meeting someone for the first time, I would describe myself as “intensely private.” It’s true. Those of you who know me, and those of you who are reading this blog regularly… stop giggling! The fact is that I can be a very guarded and reserved person. I’ve been accused of being outright snobby at times. I would say that aspect of me comes into play over the idea of anyone being “in my business” so to speak.

But the other side of me is totally the opposite. If you were to ask any of my closest friends what my biggest personality flaw is, they’d probably tell you that I wear my heart on my sleeve entirely too much. That I say too much, share too much, and that I don’t guard my heart at all. That I leave myself open to getting incredibly hurt, and, often times that is the exact result. I admit, there are times when I open my emotional veins and bleed out to someone and I would venture to guess that this is why people sometimes find me “scary,” or “intimidating,” or just “too much.”

I have told many, many people that with me, they will never get bullshit. I honestly believe that life is too short to hold back. The last thing I would ever want in my life is to have held back from someone, and then find that I could never speak to them again. Never tell them what I felt. I suppose most people know what I mean by that. For me, though, this extreme need to be open and honest is deeper than your average never-go-to-bed-angry theory. For me, the idea of holding back what’s really inside of me feels like playing games with another person’s head, and I refuse to do that. That’s not to say I have no tact. I wouldn’t walk up to a friend and say something mean and hurtful; that’s not what I’m talking about here.

What I’m talking about is the expression of emotion. I’m talking about telling people what you treasure about them. I’m talking about expressing love, respect, admiration, and passion for someone. While that may not seem like such an out of the ordinary thing, it seems that when I do it, I’m perhaps a little more over the top than people are comfortable with. It also seems that when it comes to loving people, my deep-end is maybe a little deeper than some are willing to swim. I would describe myself as a passionate person. Others describe me as “scary as hell.”

I guess that’s what my friend meant. It seems to me, lately anyway, that there are people who literally feel burdened by the love of others. Like it’s a responsibility; like it’s something they have to live up to. Like being loved is some emotional birthday present, and when it comes time to reciprocate, they aren’t sure they can afford to match what was spent on them. And here’s where being loved by ME gets really scary. See, I won’t tell anyone that I love them unless I honestly, truly love them. What does that mean? It means:

Unless I can accept a person for exactly who they are, flaws and all, faults and all, quirks and all, then I will not tell them I love them. And… if I tell them I love them, although I’m still capable of being angry with them or being disappointed in them, I will still love them even if something should force one or both of us to walk away. And if I walk away, or if they walk away from me, I will still love them.

This applies to everyone; relatives, friends, lovers, little green men from space and pink elephants. So why is that so scary? Well, evidently because most people are used to getting lied to and screwed over. It seems that most people are used to the word “love” being handed to them like a tissue, to be used and disposed of. They are accustomed to people saying it and not meaning it. They expect to be disappointed. They expect to be hurt. They expect to be treated as though they’re loved for a little while, and then kicked like a tin can. When they hear it from ME, at first, it’s great. But, then the words, the meaning behind them, the truth of that love all become crystal clear and undeniably real… and it gets heavy. It shines like a diamond and they wonder how costly it’s going to be? They test it; perhaps it’s only a cubic zirconium! When it cuts glass, though, some find that they can’t write an emotional check that big, not that I’ve ever asked them to.

So what happens to me? ME, with my big red velvet heart embroidered on my sleeve, bleeding love into the streets like some overly-sentimental idiot? Well, as I said… often times I get hurt. And here’s where my friends tend to really get pissed off, both for me, and at me. When I love someone, and they hurt me, I refuse to hate. I refuse to seek revenge. I refuse to become hardened and soured on love. I insist on forgiving. There are times when, hurt as I may be, I will even love deeper. “Why?!” they demand to know, “Why are you telling this person it’s ok to have hurt you?! Dammit, protect yourself!” But you see… that’s just it. It doesn’t matter one way or the other what that person does or doesn’t know. If I love them 20,000 leagues deep then that will be the depth of my hurt, regardless if I tell them I still love them or not, my hurt remains the same. There is no “protecting myself” from that hurt.

And why forgive? Why love deeper? Why not let the anger phase of grief settle into your marrow and harden you into stone? Well, I’ve tried that, to be completely honest. I’m not exactly sure why, but it just doesn’t ever set. I may burn with rage and fury for a while, but ultimately, (and sometimes, unfortunately for me) love tends to conquer all. It may change; it may turn from a love that I felt for a lover to the love that I feel for a friend. But it will always be there. I can’t change it. I can’t make it go away, and I can’t hold it back. I believe that anyone I love is worthy of it. Worthy of having that love, worthy of respect, worthy of admiration, and, as such, I will tell them so. If that’s scary, well… then I will always be the scariest woman alive.

Life is too short. I have said it a thousand times and I will say it a thousand more. If you love, then love with everything you have and if you get hurt, well, that’s part of life and you cannot hide from it. Ah, yes… time for a cliché. If a tree falls in the woods, and there is nobody around to hear it, does it make a noise? If I can judge by heartache, then yes, it does make a noise. Because no matter what I say to you, if I love you, and you hurt me, but you don’t know the extent of my hurt, I’m hurt just the same. There is no protecting ourselves from that hurt. But a life without love… might as well not be a life. So LOVE BIG. Love strong. Love unconditional and don’t fear heartbreak. Hearts heal. I promise you. Mine has, and I will love again.

Meanwhile, I will proudly continue to wear my heart on my sleeve, just as Laverne wore that 'L' on her lapel.

Speak Low

2011-04-07T21:49:00.000-04:00

I’m a very firm believer that it is the simplest things in life that bring the greatest joys. It is the small, simple gestures that mean the most in relationships. It is the basics that we always come back to in life because basics aren’t boring; basics are needs. There are times in life when we forget how awesome the simple, basic things really are. We begin to concentrate on bigger, shinier, brighter, more complex, multi-faceted, over-the-top rather than tried and true. It’s a sad thing, in my opinion.

I’m quite sure that somewhere in female DNA there is something hard-wiring us women to love the depth of the male voice. There’s something so… ‘meow’ … about a really low, really growly voice on a man that we can scarcely contain ourselves when we hear one. It’s almost a universal quality that women like about men. Some women may say they don’t like big muscles, or some women may like a man who’s really tall and shun the shorter ones but you never, ever hear a woman say “Hmmm… no…. his voice is too deep. I don’t like that.” The fact is that a deep voice on a man is sexy as all hell. I don’t know the science behind that fact, but I’ll tell you this: When a man with a really deep voice speaks low and slow to me… whatever it is in our feminine wiring that makes us want to attack like a wild lioness takes me over and won’t let go.

Tonight, as is the case on many nights, I drove home listening to the soundtrack from the most recent Rambo movie. I love that soundtrack. It has balls. There’s a wild, intense fearlessness to it. I also have a CD from a Scottish band called Albannach that, although not quite as ferocious as Rambo, brings up that same primal, battle-ready feeling and I listen to it quite often, as well. I also have a disc of wild thunderstorms and rain, again the sound is deep, rumbling, intense… nature at its angriest. And finally, a handful of discs filled with Native American inspired music, all of which are predominantly the sounds of drums and warriors singing proudly. The common thread through all of these discs are their link to the masculine voice.

If you’re a man, I wonder if you’re aware of the intense power you have over women with the depth that resides in your tone? Do you know that you can give us goose bumps just by speaking a certain way? I firmly believe that the concept of “whispering in someone’s ear” as a turn on came not from a woman whispering to a man, but from a man… one who knew this power well, and didn’t whisper, but spoke low and soft into the ear of a woman. When it is done correctly, as a select few of the men in my life have figured out, the claws of a wild lioness could do no more damage than mine, and yet for all the raging passion it brings out… carefully chosen words will turn the lioness into a purring little kitten.

Shall I tell you which ones? Hmmm… no… the select few who’ve figured it out may hold the secret of what makes ME purr… but each woman is different. We are mysterious creatures, yes, but always come back to the simple, basic things that make you male. Always appeal to the simple, basic things that make us female. Speak soft and low … it is primal, sexy, irresistible, and it’s so, so delicious as a woman to hear the depth of the male voice in an intimate and sensual way. You needn’t go overboard, just be your sexy as hell male self. It is the simple fact that you are Y and we are X that turns us on.

Backbone: Part I

2011-04-05T20:24:00.001-04:00

Having a backbone is really a beautiful thing. I remember when I got mine… it was 1988. I had just graduated high school and I was working for this woman who was… well… without getting too catty or derogatory… an over-made-up, tacky, obnoxious, self-important, classless, tasteless, bitchy bottle-blonde who thought her shit didn’t stink. (Ooh, was that out loud?? It was?? Aw, what the hell…) She had one of those names that just sounded that way, too, you know? I won’t say what it was… but you all know the type. Even her signature was a wildly flamboyant always-too-big-for-the-space pile of loops and swoops. And of course… she only signed documents with her own pen. You know the kind… one of those silver ones that looks like a javelin.

I worked for her for about three months. The entire time I endured insults, snide remarks, probing questions about my personal life that were none of her business, and, my favorite part, late evening run-ins with her alcoholic husband. He would show up at the establishment stinking drunk and proceed to move things around, mess with the cash register, bump into things with his lit cigarette, and in general be a pain in my ass. I knew that the next day, she’d want to know why each and every thing was moved, how items had gotten burn marks in them, etc… and if I ratted him out he’d show up drunker the next time. If I didn’t rat him out, even though I’m sure she knew it was him, she’d blame me. In fact, many times when things were broken or missing, she would question me with those fake fingernails in my face, accusing me of being a clumsy idiot who didn’t care about her shop.

There was a pizza place across from her business, and I would go there for lunch. That is, at least, I did for the first few weeks I worked there. They seemed nice enough, the pizza guys. Until one day, one of them said to me: “You really work for those crazies over there? How can you stand it? I don’t know if you realize how messed up they are since you just started, but if I were you, I’d get out of there.” The next couple of times I attempted to get lunch there, they’d heave sighs and look at me as if to say “If you like it there, you must be one of them.” I started bringing my lunch.

After those three months, things finally came to a head. I was standing at the cash register, and she came up behind me and made a face which I clearly saw in the mirror. Then she started sniffing, and finally said “What kind of shampoo are you using?” I said “I don’t know it’s whatever’s in the shower. My parents buy it.” She wrinkled her nose and said “Well, it smells awful. You should buy your own.” That tore it. I shoved past her into the back room, pulled my keys out of my purse and started twisting my copy of the store’s key off of my key ring, the whole time muttering to myself that I’d had it, screw this, no job is worth it, and probably calling her every name in the book, I can’t really remember. What I do know is that she heard me, came into the back room, and demanded to know what I was doing and what I was mumbling about. “If you walk out that door right now,” she tried to warn me, “don’t you think you’re getting a reference from ANYONE here!”

Now, in order to truly appreciate what happened next, you must understand that in my life, up until this moment, I had been the kind of person who would quietly walk away. I’d only ever raised my voice to siblings, and we all know that doesn’t count. I was always the type who, when faced with confrontation, might say a word or two, but generally in a calm manner, and mostly in the hopes of diffusing the situation. See, I was born with broken hips (that will be a post for another day) and because of that, my family had always been super-protective of me. I was something of a chicken because all I ever heard in my life was “be careful,” so I guess I thought something catastrophic might happen if I wasn’t. Still though, I was half Italian, and this day, I found out that I sure as hell had the temper when I was pushed far enough.

I wrestled the key off the ring. Her annoying voice was ringing in my ears and I felt something inside me just pop. It was like the lid had come off a pressure cooker. I saw that happen once; it was a loud, scary BOOM and the lid hit the ceiling in less than a split second. The food that had been inside the cooker went everywhere all at once; I had never seen anything like it. That was how I felt. Yet, in my red-visioned rage, somehow my brain slowed its thought process down enough for me to get out every single thing I’d wanted to say for the past three months. The voice I heard coming out of my own mouth was not mine. It was deeper, it was almost a growl; it was the voice of someone who might bite into you and tear you into shreds like a rabid animal. I was walking towards her… slowly… determined… shaking that key in her pudgy, clown make-up face the way she’d always shook her finger in mine with those ridiculous fuchsia acrylic nails.

“Are you kidding me?!! I don’t WANT a reference from you, you rotten, miserable, bitch! A reference from you would be an insult!!! Just who the hell do you think you are, anyway?! What makes you think for even one second that ANY of the things you’ve said to me since the first day I got here were ok?! You are such a nasty, conceited, rude, insulting, TACKY bitch - I don’t have any idea how I’ve managed to stay here as long as I have! Do you know that the people across the street think you’re crazy? They do! I’m ashamed to go get lunch there because they ask me why I work here. Did you know that? I’M ASHAMED TO WORK HERE!!! I’m ashamed that people see me come in and out of this place because they probably think I’m like you!” I had backed her into the bench against the wall at this point, and was still shaking the key in her face as I continued, “You really think I’d do two weeks notice? You really think the way to get me to NOT walk out the door right now is to THREATEN me?! THIS IS WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT! You think you own me; you think you own everybody but you don’t. You think you can scream and yell at everyone and treat them like shit and they’ll do whatever you tell them to do, but I WON’T. I’ve had it with your shit. Here’s your fucking key. Good luck finding ANYONE to take this job and last as long as I did around here. You better figure out how to treat people!”

I honestly don’t remember driving home. When I got there, my father, who is my absolute hero in this world, my mentor, my rock, and the person I probably respect the most in life (along with my mother) was standing in the front door waiting for me. Obviously, the bitch must have called. I didn’t know if he’d kill me for quitting my job, but as I got out of the car and saw the look on his face, it was clear he wasn’t angry with me. Two simple words: “What happened?” and I told him my side of the story. He listened, and, when I was finished, he said, “Well, she called and she asked me to have you call her back. I think you should call her, but, why don’t you go take a shower first. Then you’ll calm down and you’ll be able to talk to her.”

The shower did calm me down considerably, and I did call her. She apologized up and down; clear back to my first day on the job, and asked me to please at least work two weeks notice so that she could find a replacement. I agreed to do so; after all, I had to find another job, too. In the meantime, I needed the paycheck. When the two weeks were up, she bought a chocolate cheesecake for my last day, which is my favorite thing, and gave me a nice letter of reference. Maybe my freak out taught her a little something? I like to think so, anyway. But even if it didn’t; it taught me something.

It’s not only OK to stand up for yourself, it’s imperative. You all know I love clichés, so here’s one more for you. IF YOU DON’T SHOW PEOPLE THAT YOU RESPECT YOURSELF, THEY SURE AS HELL AREN’T GOING TO SHOW YOU ANY RESPECT, EITHER.

…..and… once you stand up for yourself that very first time, you realize it’s not all that difficult to do, and you walk through the world with a kind of confidence that you just can’t fake. People can sense that. The inner confidence you have will be enough in almost every situation to keep people from trying to stomp on you, believe me. As for those who take it as a line in the sand – well… let them try and cross it, and then show them what’s on your other side. Treat others as you’d want to be treated, but don’t take crap from anyone. There are people who will cross you in this world, believe me. It’s how you allow them to treat you that determines your situation.

Peace first, and if all else fails, show ‘em who’s boss.

Being Your Dirty Little Secret

2011-03-30T20:30:00.001-04:00

I remember back in the early 80’s when David Lee Roth was still the front man for Van Halen, and I read an interview with him where he said (and I wish to God I had the exact quote… but I have to paraphrase this) that whatever you fantasized about in your dirty little mind was probably way better than anything he could give you in the bedroom.

I have always loved the concept of fantasy… role play… letting your mind wander into places, situations, and scenarios that may, or may not actually happen. I suppose that as a writer, that’s somewhat natural. But one of the things I’ve found most interesting about writing this blog is people’s reactions to it. Thus far, I’ve entered some topic zones that you don’t generally read about every single day. Some find my openness gutsy and bold; some find it sexy as hell, and others… completely creepy.

What’s been interesting, though, is that not many people will comment on what I write publicly. Some do, but for the most part, I get private emails that whisper, “Psst… I really like what you wrote… I feel that way, too! But PLEASE don't tell anyone I said so!” You know what? That’s all right with me. It’s those private messages that people send that are usually the most telling. It’s the people who don’t dare to step out into the sunlight carrying signs that declare their innermost feelings that I really write for. Don’t get me wrong, I write for everyone, but I love it so much when someone identifies with what I say and finds the courage to whisper to me that they found out that they weren’t alone; because if you can whisper it to me then someday, you can shout to the world.

If you read my blog and you find a way to express your bedroom fantasies to your lover, or if you read my blog and you find a way to tell your friend that something’s bugging you, or if you read my blog and you figure out that you’re not alone on some thought, feeling or opinion that you thought you were alone on, then I’m elated. If you read my blog and find yourself turned on, then I’m flattered. If you read it and you’re creeped out, well, I ask that you keep an open mind and keep reading, but I’ll understand if you don’t.

If you read my blog late at night, with the lights off, when you feel certain nobody’s looking, (and I know by my blog stats that many of you do) then I am honored and happy to be your dirty little secret. I’m glad to be your guilty pleasure, for it is when we’re alone with ourselves and our thoughts that fantasy begins to bubble into the forefronts of our minds… and fantasy is positively decadent. Fantasy is a great stress reliever. Fantasy is the one thing nobody can take from you. In your dirty little mind, you can be anywhere, doing anything, with absolutely anyone, and that’s as it should be. It’s from these wishes, hopes, and wildest dreams that we set our personal goals and figure out what makes us happy.

I encourage you to take the quiet moments when you find them and let yourself drift. Fantasize, dream, and indulge your senses in every pleasure you’ve ever found enticing. Inside your mind… you are the lord and master of all you survey, and the rest of us happily indulge your desires.

Well, good night, and … thanks for clicking on my link… it felt soooo good.

Beauty

2011-03-27T13:52:00.003-04:00

Is beauty on the inside or the outside? From one of my all time favorite movies; Liar, Liar:

Max: My teacher says real beauty’s on the inside.

Fletcher: That’s just something ugly people say….

The fact is: it’s both places. But the thing about beauty is that (and I apologize for the cliché in advance) it is in the eye of the beholder. Everybody has different taste. We all have our own unique ideas about what’s beautiful. The key to being beautiful, really, is in being yourself, having confidence, and in liking what you see in the mirror.

I’ve mentioned in previous posts that I’ve never really had an issue with my looks. I’ve always liked my face, my hair, my figure… and never thought of myself as “ugly” or been one to get green with jealousy over how other women looked. Sure, I very was over-weight for a while, but even then I knew what was underneath the weight and though I wasn’t thrilled with how I looked in clothes or the fact that my waist was non-existent, I still saw “me” when I looked in the mirror and I knew that all I had to do was lose the weight and I’d be curvy and sexy again.

If you take a look at women, (and I know you do,) you’ll see that there’s a wide variety of flavors there. Blondes, brunettes, red-heads… tall, short… and everything from whisper thin to dangerously curvy. Most men see this as a luscious, tempting, endlessly delightful buffet of femininity. And, just like a giant buffet, they have their favorite dishes, but that’s not to say they’re all going to go for the exact same thing and leave the other items lonely for a patron. Too much symbolism?

OK, what I’m saying here is that not all men want a stereotypical Barbie doll. Sure, some men do like tall, slender, blondes with blue eyes. Personally, I have only ever dated one guy who would state that as his preference. That’s more than likely because I happen to be short, extremely curvy, and have dark brown hair and brown eyes. Guys who want Malibu Barbie don’t ask me out, and that’s as it should be. So how did I end up with that one gentleman who preferred blondes? The poor guy had a conversation with me and found out that real beauty’s on the inside. Oops.

Ultimately the relationship didn’t work out, but it wasn’t because I wasn’t pleasing to his eyes. In fact, although he did still ogle random Barbie types in public, it was clear that once he got to know me and looked at me with the eyes that liked ME for ME that he did actually find me very attractive. He would tell me as I changed clothes or stripped down to crawl under the sheets with him: “God you’re so hot… you’re so sexy!” Aside from him, though, most of the guys I’ve been with have been more into the dark-haired, dark-eyed, smoky, sultry, Salma Hayek types and that’s just FINE with me. Incidentally, I think she’s one of the most beautiful women alive, just so you know. Barbie never held any charm for me. How can you possibly look at Salma and think anything other than “Wow?” She’s exotic and curvy and everything about her just screams “WOMAN!”

There are billions and billions of men on this earth, and the ones who will be attracted to ME are the ones I’d rather hang out with. I just can’t see getting jealous of other women and wondering “What does she have that I don’t have?!” The fact is: Nothing. Attraction is just a funny thing. It doesn’t make any sense, there’s no logic to it. There’s no formula to it. There’s no code to crack. I know everyone’s mothers have said it but really, just be who you are. Just be the best YOU that you can be. In that way, you’ll attract someone who really wants you for YOU.

See, it’s not JUST looks that count. It’s about personality, too. This is why you can’t get bogged down in your appearance. This is why it’s so damn difficult to make a connection out there in the dating world. There’s a TON of factors that go into connecting with someone. Obviously the first thing is the involuntary “HELLO!” second when your eyes catch a glimpse of something pleasing. You take a second, more careful look… “What do we have here? Is that person as attractive as I think they are? Why, yes! They are!” Next, there’s a moment or two where you attempt eye contact. Your prey could lock eyes with you and smile… indicating that the initial attraction is mutual. Or, they could gloss right over you. It’s a crap shoot. Lots of people are attractive, but not everyone that you find attractive is going to find you attractive. But, if eye contact is made and the prospect looks good, then you can attempt conversation.

Even then, though, you could wind up disappointed. Maybe they’re an idiot. Maybe they’re an arrogant jerk. Maybe they have body odor. Who knows… the point is that you can’t worry about your looks, and you can’t be jealous of how other people look. You have to be you. You have to not worry about the ones who don’t find you appealing, and stick to the ones who do. Because the reasons why we want to be attractive to the opposite sex are… in the short run “in order to get laid” and in the long run “to find someone to love and to spend your life with.” Believe me, in the long run… it doesn’t matter if another woman has a different hair color than you, a different eye color than you, a smaller pair of jeans than you, better clothes than you, a cuter nose than you, or any other silly thing you might think makes her more attractive than you are. In the long run, the guy who’s looking for YOU isn’t going to give a shit if your friend has killer eyelashes or longer legs than you, because he’s going to be attracted to everything about YOU.

I’ve been known to say “Love is like Rambo” on many, many occasions. I believe that right down to my bone marrow. In the movie (not the novel… I’m talking about the 1982 screen adaptation of the novel here) “First Blood,” as the deputies are trudging through the woods looking for Rambo, Mitch makes the observation that “We ain’t huntin’ him… he’s huntin’ us” and he’s absolutely right. The fact of the matter is that you can’t hide from it. If Rambo wants to find you, he’s going to find you. It’s the same with love. There’s no running, no hiding, no keeping it out of your life. It has nothing to do with your looks, and it can’t be hunted down. When two people connect, it’s not about what color hair you have. It’s not about your facial features. Those things may be the initial attraction, but they are only skin deep, and what will hold you together will sure as hell not be beauty. So, be yourself, and be the best YOU that you can be, and never, ever be jealous of anyone. Appreciate the differences in people and celebrate them, but don’t wish to be anyone but YOU, because YOU are perfect just the way you are.

Going Down; Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby! Part III

2011-03-25T21:34:00.001-04:00

Classic moments in oral sex: Remember the lunch room scene from Fast Times at Ridgemont High? Oh, who am I kidding… who doesn’t? Linda giving Stacy a lesson in blow jobs with a carrot, and when Stacy asks her: “When a guy has an orgasm, how much comes out?” Linda casually says: “A quart or so.”

Ok, now that you’re smiling…

To be blunt: I like giving head. From what I understand, though, a lot of women don’t. I also like it when men go down on me. And, from what I understand, there are actually women out there who don’t. Hmmm… I guess what I should say is that there are a number of women out there who aren’t all that “comfortable” with it.

When I talk to people and I admit that I like going down on a guy, the first reaction I usually encounter is disbelief. “You DO?!” Yes, I do. The next reaction (from women) is usually “WHY?!” This is accompanied by a look of either complete disgust, or, they appear to think I’m flat out lying. Or, (and this is probably my favorite) they flip out on me and tell me that if I give a guy oral sex, I’m selling myself short. I know, I know… silly. But really, I remember having a conversation about it with a friend of mine when we were in our early twenties, and she said to me, in all seriousness: “I don’t give head because why should I? I don’t get anything out of it!” I asked her if she expected her boyfriend to do it for her, and she said “Of course! That’s different! If he wants to have sex he has to get me wet first!” Uh… interesting justification… I guess.

So, people ask, how did I develop an affection for the act? Well, I’m not quite sure. All I know is that I truly like it. That’s not to say I’ve never had a partner I didn’t enjoy it with, or that there aren’t certain things that can turn me off about it, but in general, I love it. The first time I ever did it was with a guy I had a huge crush on and had been shamelessly chasing for months. I had only recently lost my virginity, and that had switched something on inside of me that wanted to know everything, and to try everything. We were in his bed, and things were heating up. Clothes had somehow landed on the floor, and I was exploring him with my hands and taking a really intense look at him. He whispered to me, “suck it,” and I shyly replied: “I’ve never done that before.”

He was surprised by it, and I think a little turned on, too. He gave me a quick short-list of rules and said “Just enjoy it.” So, verbal rule book in hand, I allowed myself to simply let go, and continued exploring him, adding my lips and my tongue to my already adventurous hands, and eventually took him in and found that it was a huge turn on for me. So much so that when he was ready to get me on my back and take things all the way, he had to pull my hair and beg me to stop. For me, there’s just something insanely erotic about it.

It’s interesting how different men can be in how they like it, too. Some men like it gentle and slow, some like it a little rough, some are into deep throating you and some only really like you to tease the head and let your hands take care of the shaft, keeping any sign of the fact that you have teeth well out of range. If you’re not like me, and you don’t enjoy it, but you want to please your partner, do yourself a favor and ask him what he likes. And DON’T be insulted if he says something other than what you’ve been doing. And guys: If your lady isn’t a fan… it’s possible you need to sweeten up your semen by eating more pineapple. Look it up. It works, and AMAZINGLY well.

As for being on the receiving end, (and I can’t speak for all women,)

What looks good on film (yes, I’m talking about porn) DOES NOT feel good in real life.

I’m sorry. I know that may have just broken your heart, or at least bruised your ego. But really, please don’t use your tongue as a pointy poker, and for the love of God, don’t beat the hell out of my clit. Think ice cream… you know… when it’s melting and you have to lick the sides and your tongue is flattened, and as you’re licking the soft, sweet stuff to keep it from running down your arm you make long, targeted strokes that cover a little real estate. You don’t lick too hard; after all you don’t want the empty cone in your hand and your creamy vanilla soft serve on the pavement, do you? Slowly the ice cream begins to behave… it finally comes to a place in the cone where you can apply a little pressure without fear of losing it. It melts faster and faster in the summer heat, until finally it’s slipped down into the cone, and you have to push your tongue into it, go after it… take it… don’t let it get away from you…

Again, though, check with your partner. For all I know, there could be a chick out there who’s totally into the pointy poker thing. I happen not to be, but don’t expect all women to be able to verbalize what they want in bed as easily as I do, or as easily as you do. This is one of the many crossroads between men and women. Men really want to know what women like, and women, often times, just want you to know instinctively.

In the wonderful world of oral sex, there’s really nothing more incredible than taking a few long hours and pleasing one another, either one at a time or engaged in a cozy sixty-nine for a good long time… heating things up and then cooling them down… teasing each other, talking to each other about what you like, coming to the brink of orgasm and then easing off… it’s both scorching hot and intensely bonding at the same time.

Have a wonderful weekend, everybody. You know what to do.

True Friendship

2011-03-22T19:48:00.000-04:00

Did you ever meet someone for the first time and just “click?” It’s a great thing when it happens. It’s rare, but when you find someone you know is a kindred spirit, it’s exactly what life is all about. I am blessed to have at least six really, really close friends. People who I can really trust, confide in, and who I know I share a deep bond with based in trust and mutual respect. That all may sound very textbook, but really… most people can’t say they have more than just a few people who they have a true, deep, lasting bond with outside of relatives.

Friendship is probably one of the biggest joys in life, maybe even more so than romantic love. It’s friendships that hold us together when life falls apart. Its friends that we lean on when romantic relationships end. It’s friends that we turn to when we are sad, lonely, afraid, angry, or when something so unbelievable happens that we can’t contain ourselves. There are so many levels of this thing we call friendship, and the deepest ones take years and years to form. Years filled with conversations, shared experiences, ups and downs, disagreements, battles fought side by side and lots and lots of hysterical laughter. Getting to the deepest levels of these relationships doesn’t seem like much work to me, personally, because I happen to be a very open person (in case you haven’t noticed from my blog posts) and I think that people either like that very much and find it easy to talk to me because of it, or, they think I’m a fruitcake and run for the hills.

Recently, one of my closest girlfriends and I had a very intense conversation about how close our friendship has become. We’ve known each other for six years now. I can scarcely believe it’s been six years. In those years we’ve seen each other through so many major life events it’s almost ridiculous… divorce, deaths, heartbreaks, other friendships that have come and gone, attempted suicides, interventions, countless family crisis’s, surgeries, and the list goes on. We’ve laughed so much and had so many inside jokes that we basically speak our own language with each other now. We’ve discussed how we differ, we’ve discussed things we agree on that make us so friend-compatible, we’ve spent times when we lost contact and then came back together as though no time had passed. We’ve respected each other through choices we didn’t agree with, we’ve picked on each other when we’ve screwed up, and we’ve laughed at ourselves and each other in good fun. But what has really welded us together is the ability to be honest with each other. And, I think, that’s the same glue that’s bonded me with all of my other really close friends, as well.

When I was very young, I remember someone using the phrase “cultivating friendships.” I love that phrase because it is so accurate. Friendships don’t deepen because you simply spend time in the same room. Friendships deepen when you’re willing to give of yourself and take emotional risks. When you respect someone enough to want to have a deep bond with them, when you want to be able to confide in them and you want to know they’ll be there for you when you need a shoulder, you must take that leap of faith and let your guard down. You must move beyond the acquaintance phase and the Emily Post manners as each new experience you share bonds you. If you can’t let your guard down then you can expect to never have the kind of intense, deeply fulfilling relationships with your friends that will really make your life … and theirs… so much better.

Will you get hurt? Absolutely. From time to time friendships end. Sometimes badly, and sometimes unintentionally. Sometimes you get to know someone and find out they either aren’t who you thought they were, or they aren’t someone you can respect, and you must walk away. Sometimes you get to know someone and find out that they aren’t trustworthy. And sometimes, as strange as it sounds, you get to know someone and find out that they aren’t willing to open up and allow you to be there for them, and it’s a strange sensation… but one you know will keep you at arms length forever. Most times, those relationships don’t last.

But, when you meet someone who you mesh with… someone who gets you, and who you have a mutual respect and admiration for, then friendship that lasts the test of time and withstands insane obstacles can grow. I am so, so blessed to have more than a handful of these. You know who you are; I love you all and will always be there for you. Thank you all … individually … for being exactly who you are.

A Phoenix For Your Gasoline

2011-03-19T21:05:00.000-04:00

I wrote this poem in the depths of a devastating heartbreak this past autumn. I have described the process of heartbreak as trying to walk down a mountain. You are constantly circling it as you descend, and one side of the mountain is your pain. At first, you see the pain constantly, as you circle the narrow peak over and over. As the descent widens, you see it less often, as your travels around it become wider and wider. Eventually you are fooled into thinking you've reached the bottom, but then you realize, you've only been making the widest circles yet. Each time I revisit this spot, I must remind myself... I'm almost there.

October 25, 2010

A Phoenix For Your Gasoline

Do you know why we burn?

Why we go up in flame?

Do you know why

We go through this destruction and pain?

Gasoline

You set me on fire

A love so deep

So hot

When you came all over me

Gasoline

You had what you wanted

You had it all with me

I burned with desire

Gasoline…

And you walked away

And you left me in flames

Tossed a match as you tossed me aside

You smiled and warmed your hands for a moment

Over the fire you’d set

Hoping I’d die

But you don’t know why we burn

You don’t know what you started

When you covered me in gasoline

And left me burning

And yearning

For your love’s fire

Your gasoline

It all burns off

Flames sear me,

A cloud of smoke

And I know why we burn

Gasoline

You didn’t kill me

For I am a Phoenix

And I will rise

Gasoline

You don’t know why we burn

But one day you’ll learn

When you feel this destruction and pain

Seek me out

For I am a Phoenix

And I’ll show you the ashes

The smoldering lesson

The reason why we burn

You walked away

You left me in flames

Tossed a match as you tossed me aside

But know this

Gasoline

When you came all over me

I burned with desire

But from those ashes

I rise

For I am a Phoenix

And I will never die.

When Your Rock Breaks

2011-03-16T21:10:00.000-04:00

Today’s been “one of those days.” Not one of the days when everything goes wrong, or one of the days when people act nuts… it’s been one of those days when your rock breaks. If you went to high school with me, you might know what that means. For those of you who don’t...

Have you ever had one of those days when you wake up feeling somewhat blue, and as the day progresses you just feel lower, and lower, and lower? It seems like people are blowing you off, it seems like your friends have no time for you, and it seems like you might have been better off to stay in bed and hide under the covers all day? Well, one day back in high school, a very close friend of mine was having just that sort of day. She was so bummed out and sad, that at the end of the school day, I said to her, if you could do ANYTHING right now, within reason, what would you do? She wanted to go to the playground and swing on the swings. So I said “Then let’s go swing on the swings!”

We got into my car, and I drove her to the playground, all the while she was telling me all of the crappy things that had happened to her that day. When we got there, there were no swings on the swing set. They were literally just gone. She took one look at the empty swing set and said “See? The whole world is against me today!” I knew how she felt. I had had plenty of days like that. So, I said “Ok, what else can we do?” She spotted a hopscotch board painted on the sidewalk and said “Can we play hopscotch? I haven’t done that since I was really little!” I said sure, and, as is customary, we both searched around to find a small rock to toss on the hopscotch board. I told her she could go first. She tossed her rock, and it didn’t even bounce. It simply hit the ground and busted into three pieces. We stood there looking at it in total disbelief. It was like a metaphor for the whole lousy day she’d been having.

Today has been like that. What started off as a mild feeling of blue has morphed into full-blown “bummer.” There are so many little things that normally wouldn’t bother me, so many stupid things that people said that wouldn’t normally upset me, and it all seemed to converge on me like an avalanche until finally, the proverbial rock broke. And once that happens, there’s nothing left to do but say “Ok, that’s it. I’ve had it today.” At some point, the sadness either gets the best of a person and they give up and crawl into bed with the tissues and a box of Godiva truffles, or they get pissed off and say “Screw this! Ok, life, you wanna shit all over me? NOT HAPPENING!”

When you’re having a day of pure and simple depression producing events please try to remember that tomorrow is another day. Even though sometimes there are a few broken rock days in a row… there are always brighter days at the end of the tunnel. ALWAYS. And if for some reason, you can’t get to a box of chocolates then get yourself a heavy bag and some gloves and go to town. But never, EVER let that broken rock get the best of you. EVER. It’s ok to be sad sometimes, you’re human. When you are, let it out and then let it go. Just like Rocky… Get up. Keep moving forward.

Why ME?

2011-03-08T20:56:00.000-05:00

In case you’re wondering why the ME is in caps in my blog title, there are two reasons. One somewhat silly and rather sentimental reason is that my best friend sometimes calls me “Mother Earth.” I got into the habit of signing my correspondence to him simply with:

Love,

M.E.

But the real reason why the letters are in caps is slightly deeper than that. The main reason, bottom line, is that nobody else can make me happy. The only person who can make me happy, is ME. The only person who can give me confidence, inner strength, passion, integrity, good health, a big smile, a positive outlook, and what I really want out of life… is ME. And as you read this, ME is YOU.

The fact is that for a long, long time in my life, I came last on the list of priorities. I always had a good self esteem, and I always trusted myself and my instincts. I always got along with the woman in the mirror, and I always liked myself as well as loved myself. But in life, sometimes we tend to forget about ourselves. We take care of other people, we take care of business, we take care of responsibilities, and we find ourselves on the back burner. Not because we don’t think we’re worth the time and attention, but because there are only so many hours in a day, and so many days in a week. Before we know it, years slip by and one day we wake up and say “Hold on a second… what about ME???”

In my case, when that day came, I made major changes. (That’s a post for another day.) I believe with everything that I have and everything that I am, that we cannot love others unless we first love ourselves. I believe with everything I’ve got that we can’t take care of others unless we take care of ourselves first. Loving and respecting yourself is what gives you the strength to look at unhealthy situations and say “This is not right, and I’m walking away and not looking back.” It’s what gives you the strength to inflict “tough love” on the people in your life who need it. It’s what gives you the strength to follow through when you give someone your word, whether that word is “I’ll take you to the movies” or whether that word is “Do it again and you’re punished.” In other words, it’s what gives you what you need to stick to your guns.

Saying “ME” with strength and conviction when you speak of yourself isn’t arrogance. Saying “ME” with gusto when you speak of yourself is how you let yourself know that you are your own source of everything you need in life. And when you love you, then you are prepared to give love, and to accept love. It’s something that’s been said since the beginning of time, and it’s something that is faded and thin with age, having been said to death, but it’s the truth.

After any given tragedy, or drama, or heartbreak, or disaster, you will ask yourself:

Where am I ever going to find the strength to carry on?

And you must answer:

Inside ME.

It’s always there. Be strong. Be confident. Rely on yourself and take care of yourself. And always be kind to yourself. YOU are your own source of everything you need.

That’s The Power of ME.

It's Sunday: You Have The Right To Be A Slug

2011-02-27T12:43:00.000-05:00

It’s Sunday. One of the precious two days out of every seven that we don’t have to work. We’re supposed to make the most of those two days. We’re supposed to be with friends and family and celebrate just being alive. Today, however, I invoke my right to be a slug.

I think everyone has been damn brave this winter. We've all kept on a normal schedule and tried to continue on with life as if we weren't in the middle of a spirit-crushing ice age. Oh, sure, there were school cancellations and people were advised to stay home from work, but really, was that a vacation? No, absolutely not. They were days filled with shoveling back-breaking amounts of heavy, wet snow, the dangerous cleaning off of rooftops, slipping on icy steps and walkways, and digging out our buried, and in many cases, broken mailboxes. There were electrical outages, bursting frozen pipes, and downed trees. Not to mention the worry and fear over the mammoth ice dams that formed on everyone’s rain gutters, and the constant stress of paying for rising heat costs and unavoidable plowing services. Not exactly a party.

I live in New England. I know that the whole country got its ass kicked this winter, and although here in the northeast we’re supposed to be Spartans… for Christ’s sake there’s only so much battle anyone can take before they just can’t take anymore. Now, the week before last we were blessed with a reprieve; two days of temperatures above 55 degrees Fahrenheit and actual bright sunshine that you could feel. Not just that “ineffectual” crap we usually get in the winter. REAL sunshine. The kind that you need sunglasses for. The kind that creates a greenhouse effect in your parked car. It was glorious. GLORIOUS, I SAY!!! Some of the ten foot high snow banks were melted virtually in half, and I was actually able to take a walk in the outdoors for the first time since Thanksgiving week. It was as close as I’d been to heaven in a long time. I was infinitely thankful for those two days, and I remain so.

I knew, at the time, however, as did everyone else that it was only a “thaw,” and that winter wasn’t over yet. Still, I hoped upon hope that the snow was done … that the biting cold temps were done… that perhaps, just perhaps, we could see an early spring and be released from the bonds of this hell of a winter. Naturally thus far that has not been the case. Why should it be? February isn’t even gone yet which only serves to remind us all that we’re not out of the woods by a long shot. I, for one, am exhausted. I woke up this morning feeling like I just couldn’t even get out of bed. I’m not sick; it’s just that I plain can’t take anymore. Yet that nagging voice in my head told me to get up and carry on as though it’s “like any other day.”

Well, excuse me but SCREW THAT. As the first storm or two set in on us in January, people recalled (as they always do) the blizzard of 1978 and said “We haven’t had one this bad since then.” But then, more blizzards came. No January thaw… just more blizzards and below zero temperatures. We scratched our heads. What happened to global warming? Suddenly the blizzard of 1978 was child’s play. THIS is the winter to be reckoned with. But still we pressed on. We dug out, we salted, and we wrote the necessary checks. We bundled up, we headed out… we kept on working, going to school, keeping our social engagements. We continued to live.

Personally, this winter has been a special kind of hell for me. For one thing, I have arthritis in my back, neck, hips, and one of my shoulders. Cold temperatures cause me to shiver uncontrollably, clench my muscles, and basically enhance the pain. I’m not someone who ever liked snow. Not even as a child. I never wanted to be involved in winter sports, I never enjoyed making snow angels, or building snow men… cold and snow have always equated pain for me. But I’ve done what I’ve had to do this winter, just like everyone else. I’ve handled the pain. I’ve kept up with my duties and responsibilities… I haven’t cracked. But dammit… I’m tired!

Sunday, in case any of you weren’t aware, is supposed to be “a day of rest.” Because we are so busy, and because of the way jobs are in our society, Sunday is no longer a day of rest for most. It’s a second Saturday. It’s a Carpe Diem Day. It’s had to be. After all, we only get a precious two days out of every seven to ourselves, and time ticks by way too fast. So we make the most of our treasured two days. Many weeks, by the time Monday comes, I’m exhausted and wish I had just one more day to stay home… a day of rest. Well, today I reclaim my Sunday. Granted, I won’t do this every week, but when you stop and listen to the signals your body gives you sometimes you have to heed them and know – today you need a day of rest. So, if you feel like the winter of 2011 has kicked your ass, then rest today and know it’s all right. Don’t feel guilty about it. Sometimes, you need to spend a day just being a slug.

Boobs

2011-02-20T18:43:00.000-05:00

I could have called this post “breasts” but I like the word “boobs” better. I also like the word “boobies.” It’s cute. I’m kind of a connoisseur of breast slang. That’s largely (no pun intended) due to the fact that I’m very well endowed and was an extremely early bloomer. I can’t really remember a time when I wasn’t nearly defined by, or, at least, synonymous with my boobs. It was early in the 4^th grade the first time anyone made a boob remark at my expense. I remember it very clearly. I had gotten up to sharpen my pencil, and as I crossed the classroom to return to my desk, two boys were snickering and when I looked at them, one said to me very matter-of-factly, “Bernard says you’re growing.” Well, I knew that! I don’t remember my exact response – if I even had one. I just remember being horrified that someone would point out something so obvious out loud. I mean, I lived in my body, I was pretty sure I knew what was going on with it, and besides, I had mirrors in my house. After that, commentary about my girls was basically an every day event. For some reason, boys really liked to say to me: “You know you’re going to get breast cancer, right?” I came to the conclusion around 7^th grade that it would be silly to get upset about the comments. By 8^th grade, I was proud of them and damn happy to have them in my life.

As a young woman, I had the best set of boobs anyone could ever hope for. Really. Again, I know sometimes I sound like a completely conceited jezebel, but we’ve all seen boobs. We all know what makes a pretty set. Mine were lovely. 36C, perky, curvaceously round, and perfectly symmetrical with the exception of the fact that I actually have a small beauty mark on one nipple. Kind of Marilyn Monroe or Cindy Crawford. I loved them. I displayed them with pride in lovely bras, low-cut fuzzy sweaters, and clingy cotton tank tops. They turned heads. They got me discounts in stores. They got me virtually every man I ever set my sights on. What’s not to love?

Meanwhile, the weight of my lovely friends was pulling and tugging on my shoulders and back. It wasn’t so bad when I was very thin, and only a size 36C, but after my mid-twenties I gained a lot of weight. For a long time the girls held their own, despite my refusal to buy a really sturdy bra. Those bras were ugly! They were enormous and forced you into an unnatural shape. They looked like you were old and really fat! Well, I guess I just didn’t want to admit it, but I was really fat. Still, I continued to wear pretty, lacy, useless bras. And I continued to eat. I gained, and gained, and gained… and my boobs got bigger, and bigger, and bigger.

Finally, after many years, well, ok… a decade…I lost weight. The first time that I went down a bra size, I didn’t really see a difference. I just knew that the bras I was wearing were starting to slip down, and the cups were not as full as they had been. So, I went shopping. I found that I’d gone from (brace yourself) a 40DDD to a 38DD. (And no, 7^th grade classmates, I didn’t get breast cancer.) When I held my new bra up to my old bra and saw the difference – I was inspired! Now the goal was to get back to a 36C. How wonderful it would be to get that small again! I continued working by butt off, and eventually made it into a 36DD, and that’s where I remain today. I’m still determined to get back to that 36C. Heck, I’d almost be satisfied with a 36D.

Why not get a breast reduction, you ask? Well, because as things stand, I am still a little overweight. I see surgery as an absolute last resort. When I look at the girls now, they’re not as perky as they once were, obviously, but I’m also not 17 anymore. They’re looking pretty good considering all I’ve put them through. They’re still curvaceously round, still perfectly symmetrical, and aren’t nearly as far south as they could be, if I weren’t working out. Besides, they’re a part of my body, and they’re healthy, so why take them under the knife? For vanity? I’d say not. If I couldn’t have managed to lose weight I’d have done it, but as things stand, I don’t see it as medically necessary.

Why am I telling you all this? Well… basically I’m telling you about all this because I’d like you to take care of your boobs. Really. I mean, God only gives you one set of boobs, and regardless of what size you got, or what shape you got, or how you have felt about them, they’re yours. They’re a part of your body, a part of your identity, and you should be proud of them. Wear a good bra. Exercise. Do the self breast exam. Get your mammograms when they’re due.

Wait, you’re a guy? Oh… ok. Then take care of your lady’s boobs. Make sure she does the self breast exam. Make sure she gets her mammograms. Make sure she has good bras. (*Yeah, that’s a hint. Go shopping.) And by the way, did you know that men can get breast cancer? It’s true, look it up. If you love boobies… then do your part for them. And give them lots of love and kisses, too. They like that.

How Was Your First Time? Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby; Part II

2011-02-16T21:30:00.000-05:00

Yes, I’m talking about that first time; I’m talking about losing your virginity.

As I’ve told you, I was one of the last people I knew to do it. How was mine, you ask? My experience was exactly what I’d wanted it to be. Unfortunately, not many people I know can say that. I find that kind of upsetting because it’s a pretty monumental thing. I remember when I was a freshman in high school many of my friends had already lost theirs, which means they were 14 years old or less when it happened. The stories they told me weren’t very good. They weren’t anything I’d have wanted to experience, anyway. Guys who issued ultimatums, places not fit to grow mold, and choices made in momentary lapses of reason. Basically… regrettable choices.

Hearing their stories made me think a lot about what I wanted in terms of the circumstances surrounding such a huge event. I mean, as an early teen you think about it all the time. Your hormones are in over-drive, and although you’re somewhat scared and don’t really know what to expect, when guy you like kisses you, your body pretty much pushes all logical thought processes out of your head. Still, the stories I’d heard from my girl friends were filled with embarrassing moments, hurt feelings, physical pain, and the one thing that lingered with me… the words “I just wish it hadn’t been him.”

So, I had a mental short-list of things I didn’t want. Looking back, they seem rather strange, considering that I’m a real serious romantic.

1.) I didn’t want to do it with someone I was in love with. I know; complete opposite of what you’d expect, right? But that seemed to me to be a recipe for disaster. To give myself to someone I was madly in love with, and have him dump me afterwards and crush me into dust? No thanks. I wanted someone I genuinely liked, was attracted to, and above all, someone I knew well enough to TRUST completely with such a delicate situation. But not a boyfriend. Not someone I was stupid over.

2.) I wanted to have the experience in a home. No cars, boats, movie theatres, blankets in the woods, dirty hotel rooms, or other places where I’d feel afraid to undress, and where there was no “real bathroom.” I wanted someplace comfortable and clean.

3.) I wanted a friend there with me. Someone who’d already done it, and someone who I could count on in case it REALLY hurt, or in case I became frightened, or in case anything happened that I either hadn’t counted on, didn’t expect, or made me upset in any way. Someone who’d have my back.

4.) If it was at all possible to avoid it, I never wanted to see the guy again afterwards. I wanted the great memory, and I wanted to keep it perfect. I didn’t want to ever have to discuss it, be asked questions about it, or have the guy “joke” with me about it. (*Of course, now, if I ever bumped into him, that would be completely ok… but the immediate weeks/months following? Hell no.)

5.) Of course… he had to be 100% ok with using a condom and he had to respect that it was my first experience. At least, that is, to my face.

So, long after all of my closest friends had been on the pill for years and had been having sex on a regular basis and long after I was literally climbing the walls with desire to finally have sex, an opportunity that met all of my criteria actually presented itself. A guy who had gone to our high school that I’d had a few classes with and was insanely attracted to… was friends with one of my closest friends’ boyfriend. I’d had a crush on him freshman year and he had held my hand in math class a few times. Of course, being smitten at the time I was barely able to speak in his presence. But, as time had passed and the initial crush dissipated I had relaxed and been able to really be myself whether he was in the room or not. Evidently, my real personality was a huge turn-off to him. He liked quiet, demure girls, and I was … uh… not. He had told one of my girlfriends that he thought I was pretty hot, but that I was “too loud” and that if I “calmed down” he’d consider asking me out. Screw that. I gotta be me. So, we never dated.

At this point, however, he was no longer in school. He had an apartment, and my friend’s boyfriend was going to see him for some legitimate reason… borrowed money or something. Anyway, my friend had her boyfriend make it clear to him that I’d be coming along and … pretty much… that I wanted to just have sex with him.

There it was. As if God himself had served it to me on a silver platter.

As an 18 or 19 year old guy, come on, are you really going to say no to that? A hard-bodied brunette with big brown eyes and measurements of 36-24-36? I think not. We arrived at his apartment and went in. I barely remember what led up to the bedroom. I remember being offered a beer, and taking it. I remember being mildly nervous, but glad that he knew my intentions. It took the pressure off. Clearly, we both knew why I was there. There was no fear of rejection. There was no wondering if he liked the way I looked. There was no question as to how he’d react about the condoms. There was no inexperienced teenaged red tape to get in the way of my plans.

His roommate came home, and since we were in the living room, he suggested we move to the bedroom to allow his roommate to use the TV. Smooth, right? We went into his bedroom, and my friend and her boyfriend did, as well. We hit the bed, lights went out, and it was an old fashioned make-out party. Them on the floor, us on the bed, and me with the sudden realization that I had zero inhibitions, and that it had nothing to do with the beer. My friend was right there beside me, which sounds creepy, but in reality I found it really comforting not to be alone, and to know that all I had to do was say her name and all bets would be off, if that was my choice.

But it wasn’t. He was a great kisser. I’d always liked his lips and he had a great smile and a sexy voice. Kissing him was certainly not a disappointment and I melted into him like butter. I peeled his shirt off, ran my hands over his chest and back, wound my fingers into his hair and got completely lost in the experience of being so close to this guy I’d had a crush on and had always found so attractive. The rest of the world disappeared; even the couple two feet away seemed non-existent. Things were moving slowly… we explored one another and discarded clothes one piece at a time, with each passing item bringing more and more bare skin into contact. More than once I heard my friends on the floor guffaw at me. As it turns out: I’m a screamer.

I began to find myself becoming impatient. I think I may have freaked him out a little, but I wanted him and an inner dominatrix began to rise to my surface. She tore off my bra and wrapped it around the back of his neck, pulling him to me and insisting he kiss my bare breasts. His initial shock wore off almost instantly and he smiled, obliged my demands and rearranged himself so that the dominatrix could remove his jeans. Moments later he was battling a stubborn condom package. Once wrapped, he settled himself over me, asked if I was all right, if I was sure, if I was ready… and when he felt certain that this was my choice and that I was honestly ready and not making a bad choice for myself, and that he wasn’t “doing anything wrong,” he relaxed, kissed me, and slowly entered… taking my virginity and changing me forever. We went through his whole box of condoms that night. Not once did he hurt me, and I remember it as a comfortable, happy, and extremely satisfying experience.

That was December 6^th, 1986. Whenever I tell people on the anniversary, that it’s the day I lost my virginity, they’re always surprised that I know the exact date. But it was something I took very seriously. I have always looked back on that experience and been happy that I had a truly enjoyable first time, and one that took place on my terms, when I was ready, and with someone that I’ve never, ever regretted sharing it with.

After that night, I was perfectly ok with sharing myself with men that I loved without the fear of being “crushed into dust.” I think that for me, personally, the idea that my first time was basically given to myself as a gift, rather than to someone who could lord it over me, gave me a sense of being the master of my own destiny. I had sex that night for ME, because I wanted to, and because I was ready to. Not for any other reason. The great mystery was solved, my questions were answered, and I now knew “what it was all about.” It made me feel ready to enter into a relationship with someone I loved knowing that there was nothing to fear. That was, and still is, priceless to me.

So why write about it like this? Well, for many reasons. One of which being that I see many women around me who don’t have a very healthy view of their sexuality, and I think that it’s something that really needs to be talked about in general. Conversations about sex always seem to be the hardest to have with the people who matter most. Our kids, our partners, our doctors. I, for one, believe that needs to change. So, I write… and I hope that when you read these things… whether you think I’m strange or not… that you find it easier to talk about these things with the people who matter most. Incidentally, the one who matters most is you. So, if you’re not comfortable to speak to others, start by exploring the subject with yourself. You’ll get there.

The Human Touch

2011-02-13T00:11:00.000-05:00

I have an incredible attraction to big, strong hands on a man. I suppose it’s not so strange, being female, to be attracted to such a thing, but there is just something about the contrast between my small, feminine hands and a big, masculine set of hands. There is something about the feel of those manly hands in my hair while I’m being kissed, or on my shoulders when I’m feeling stressed… there is something about the way it feels when a pair of big 98.6° hands caress me. I’m not sure I can describe it. The strong, sure hands of a man that I love; it’s primal and exciting, yet also makes me feel safe and protected.

Lately, I see men handling mobile devices more than I see them resting those hands on the small of a woman’s back that they’re sitting by. I see them holding iPhones and iPads more than I see them holding the hand of their partner. It scares me to think that we’ve become so attached to cell phones and devices that we now text rather than call, and we now sit across from each other in restaurants separately texting people when we’re sitting at a table with another living, breathing human being.

Take a moment and consider the small ways in which we touch one another. I’m a very physically affectionate person. I don’t think I could live without that connection. I get high on the scent of a man’s skin. I love the way their bodies feel; vastly different from mine. The muscle tone beneath the skin, in stark contrast to the softness of my female body. To have my lips against a man’s neck, and feel his Adams apple, and the sensation of a freshly shaved face, smooth and rough all at once. The way his arms feel around me in an embrace; the strength of his biceps, the heat of his body, the taste of him… I get lost in it.

It’s hard to be away from those we love. To be separated by distance and unable to share a hug, to be too far away to sit together on the couch, or to be too busy to physically get together and create an atmosphere of intimacy. I know this feeling well, believe me. And so, I ask you, those of you who are glued to your phone, your iPad, your laptop… please, unplug from the cyber world and tune into your partner. Become acquainted once again with simple physical pleasures. Hold hands, kiss like you’re sixteen, exchange massages, and indulge your senses.

Don’t waste the time when you’re together. Our lives are so busy now, busier than they’ve ever been. We’re expected to be on call all the time due to these so-called miracles of technology. Personally I don’t think it’s a good thing at all. There is very little separation between our professional and our personal lives now. It’s not healthy. Unwinding requires more than removing your shoes and taking off your tie. It requires really letting go of business and returning to your PERSONAL life. Shut things off; and turn yourself back on. Focus your attention on your five senses. If that requires getting out the Hershey’s syrup, taking your woman’s hand, and making a mess of the bed – so be it. That’s why we have laundry soap.

Sight, Touch, Taste, Scent, and Sound. Make them a priority. They’re why you’re on this earth to begin with. Live life and be awake and alive.

I Am The Ghost of Valentine’s Past…

2011-02-09T22:06:00.000-05:00

Valentine’s Day. You’re either for it, or against it. Ok, let’s face it… you’re against it. Pretty much everyone is. I actually feel really bad for guys on Valentine’s Day. Why? Because it’s supposed to be about love. Somehow it’s become about who’s boyfriend/husband did the most romantic thing for them, which is really stupid. And that’s in the GRAND scope. Because it’s not just about this Valentine’s Day, and it’s not just about these boyfriends/husbands. It’s about every single boyfriend/husband on the planet in the entire history of Valentine’s Day. Even your ex-boyfriends/husbands.

I’m not exactly sure why that is, but I know most people either roll their eyes in disgust at the very idea of the holiday, or fill up with dread and angst because they happen to be single when it rolls around. Then, there are the few each year who have to endure painful ghosts of Valentine’s past. Some memory that was so wonderful the year or two prior that has now become unbearably painful and is forever marked by heart-shaped boxed chocolates and long stemmed roses that surround you despite your best efforts to escape them.

I propose we look at Valentine’s Day in a new way. Bear with me a second here.

Ever have that conversation with someone about “What was the best Christmas present you ever got?” You think back, you recall some Christmas morning when you were five or six, and you got the one BIG present you had asked Santa for. Or, you recall a year when something really funny happened at the dinner table, or you remember something meaningful that happened that you always think of at Christmas, and it’s usually a memory that brings a smile to your face and warms your heart.

Yet, because Valentine’s Day is so frequently associated with things that have broken our hearts, we tend never to look back on the best Valentine’s Day we ever had and say “Oh, one year, this guy I was dating sent me balloons at work and then took me to my favorite restaurant and we had the BEST time,” without adding … “and then three weeks later I caught the son of a bitch cheating and I slashed his tires. God I hate Valentine’s Day.”

I propose we make a real effort to let go of the ghosts. I’ll start.

The best Valentine’s Day I ever had, was with this guy who sent a dozen red roses to me at work, and then took me on a Harbor Cruise in Boston. We were dressed up, we were in love, we had a great dinner, we danced, we even got to go up to the front of the ship and hang out with the Captain. It was chilly that night, and he gave me his coat and stood with me looking out over the reflection of the moon on the water. We had a really, really nice time. He had planned everything behind my back and it was really sweet.

Another year, (and, a different boyfriend) I received a massive bouquet of exquisite long stemmed pink roses at work with the most beautiful, romantic card you could ever imagine. It made me feel incredibly special. Especially considering that he’d sent me flowers just two days prior for no reason… just to tell me to have a good day that day. So, when the pink roses arrived, all my co-workers were astonished and jealous, and I felt completely spoiled.

This year, I happen to be single. Valentine’s Day is for lovers. As 2011 starts off, I don’t have one. But really… big deal. There have been PLENTY of years in my life when I was single on Valentine’s Day. There were many years when I was married on Valentine’s Day. None of it really means anything, does it? I mean, in the moment it does, but if you’re single on Valentine’s Day, it’s kind of like having a “just ok” Christmas. There’s always next year… and as kids Christmas is this magical, carefree, crazy time … and then you become an adult and it’s about shopping and wrapping and budgets and all the other not-so-fun aspects.

Valentine’s Day is sort of like that. You have these high expectations, you have these images shoved in your face by the media and you feel like “Gee, nobody ever hands me giant pieces of jewelry or gives me a Lexus with a big red bow on it.” Well, of course they don’t! It’s like that once in a lifetime Christmas. You only got the shiny new bike ONCE, didn’t you? You’ve recounted the happy memory of that Christmas with a quiet smile and a glimmer in your eye since you were eight years old, and you know that’s all right. Besides, Christmas is about the birth of Jesus, anyway.

Valentine’s Day is about love. If you have love in your life… a boyfriend, a fiancée, a husband… if you have a best friend, if you have parents, siblings, kids, or anyone at all in your life who you love… who loves you back… you’re blessed and that’s your new focus for Valentine’s Day, 2011.

Take the pressure off yourselves and your partners. Reflect on the love that exists in your life and celebrate it in some special way that is unique to that relationship. The ghosts of Valentine’s past can’t haunt you if you smile at them and tell them they’re beautiful memories. Know that just as Christmas returns every year, so shall Valentine’s Day. Some years will be more romantic than others, but like anything, you don’t appreciate the good if you never experience the not-so-good.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Taking Nude Photos

2011-02-07T22:42:00.000-05:00

I had plans to hang out with one of my girlfriends last night. We were planning on the usual: dinner, a little TV, a little conversation… nothing spectacular or out of the ordinary. I called her to ask what time she’d be home and she said, “By the way, my cousin is taking a photography class and wanted to know if I’d help her out and pose for some artistic nudes for her homework assignment. Do you think you’d mind doing something like that?” Mind? Heck no, I wouldn’t mind. I told her sure thing, I’d be happy to pose. Mind you, I am not the size three hard-body I once was. In fact, I’m not even the size six somewhat-firm-body I once was. Hell, I’m sure if I attempted to try on any new clothes right now I might be disappointed to discover that I’m not even the doughy size eight body I once was. But what the hell, this was for a homework assignment and her cousin is my friend, so sure, why not.

The idea of the assignment was to take photos of body parts as “landscapes,” showcasing curves, interesting shapes, and practicing with light and shadow. So it wasn’t as if we were being photographed in a Playboy kind of way, in fact, our faces would likely not even be shown in the finished, edited shots. Still, shedding your clothes in front of your lover is one thing. Shedding them in front of random doctors and nurses is another, but taking your clothes off, posing, and having the visual of yourself in bizarre positions be photographed for posterity is really pretty outer limits if you’re not real happy with your body. Add to that the idea that you’re photos will be viewed by the photography teacher, the other photography students, critiqued, added to someone’s portfolio, and, in the era of the internet, who knows where they could end up… and you really have a situation where you wonder if you might just be out of your mind?

My friend poured us some wine and although I don’t usually drink it, I gladly accepted the glass and we watched as her cousin set up the backdrop. Dressed in nothing but bathrobes and socks we viewed the photography of Edward Weston on line to get an idea of what the photos should emulate. My friend took the first turn. With warm rays of sunlight on her skin streaming in from the window, she sat on an ottoman and asked how she should be positioned? Her cousin adjusted a hand, here, a strand of hair there, asking her to turn slightly, or tilt her head a certain way. As she snapped pictures from various angles, my friend became less self-conscious and I could see that the photographs were coming out great. I thought she looked beautiful. I have always like artistic nudes and once even created a slide show of pictures I found on the internet and sent it to my then boyfriend as a little feast for the eyes on Valentine’s Day.

When she had taken quite a few pictures of my friend, she said it was now my turn. I shed my robe, and thanks to the wine, got in front of the backdrop and immediately started posing like a tipsy idiot. I figured, what the hell, I wasn’t going to be happy with the shape I was in, the way I looked on camera, or how my body appeared anyway, so the best thing to do was just ignore that and help this photography student get the shots she wanted. We had joked about the fact that I took yoga and was pretty flexible, so I did throw a couple of yoga poses out there and she actually did end up using a couple of them to take some pictures. Each time she showed me a preview of the pictures she’d taken, I felt worse. They were awful. Ok, no, the pictures were great. She was getting exactly what she needed for her assignment… and she’s an extremely talented photographer and has an amazing eye. The photos themselves were gorgeous, but all I could see was fat, cellulite, surgical scars, and sagging breasts. No matter, I thought, eventually she’ll show me a picture and I’ll see a shadow of that beautiful body I once had. The body that stopped traffic. The body that is still there, somewhere, underneath the remaining cheeseburgers and chocolate that I have yet to work off.

Noticing that the daylight was fading, our student photographer’s attention settled on a window behind the sofa where the last of the daylight was still visible. She suggested that I move to the sofa. I gladly obliged, figuring there was only so much time before the sun would set and she’d be out of luck for getting the rest of her assignment finished. As she began clicking away on me at this new location, my friend commented that this looked really nice. A few clicks later and I was finally shown some shots that, I have to say, I really didn’t mind at all. I was a silhouette seated in a window where behind me the sky was all pink and purple. Though it was obvious that I was not the youthful, semi-anorexic model most people are now accustomed to seeing, the photos were pretty, and showed a curvaceous woman seated by a set of sheers looking out pensively at the sunset. I have no idea how that happened, since it was just me, sitting on the back of the sofa trying to be still while pictures were taken from different angles. They came out so good, in fact, that my friend asked to have a few done there as well. Hers came out even better.

Next we were asked to do some together shots. This proved to be somewhat tricky, as we are different sizes and needed to obtain a sense of symmetry to show four arms, or four legs, or two arched backs. Some poses didn’t work at all, and others that did proved to be rather back-pain inducing. But, what the hell, our photos came out looking exactly as she wanted them to, and after all, it was about her homework, and not about us. Still, we’re looking forward to getting copies of our pictures when she’s done editing them. For me, despite my dislike for how my body looks right now, I have to say, I’m glad I did it. And for you out there: if anyone ever asks you to pose nude, go ahead and do it. I guarantee you: you’re a lot more beautiful than you think.

Not To Frighten You But…Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby!

2011-01-31T20:33:00.000-05:00

When I started this blog one of my oldest and dearest friends called me and said that he’d read my initial post, loved it, and then declared: “You HAVE to write about sex!” Um… yeah… but…my mother reads my blog. He was right, though. I do want to write about sex. Not in a “Letters to Penthouse” kind of way (sorry, guys) but in a way that is somewhat universally identifiable. What’s the point of having a blog… or of writing at all… unless you can write about things in that truly torn-open-soul kind of way? That’s what writing is for. You let people in through what you say, even though sometimes it’s scary as hell. Sex, though? Awfully personal and controversial subject to have my name and face attached to regardless, isn’t it? Hell yes. Besides, aside from my mother, lots of other people I know who I’ve never discussed such a thing with read the blog, too. So, could I take my friend’s suggestion? Well, I’m an adult and so is my mom so… all right… I’ll do it! (*Ma… ya may wanna skip the posts about sex… I’m just sayin’.)

Honestly, though, I think that what he saw in my post “Can You Be A Babe At 40?” was the beginnings of a blog that speaks to people… women in particular… about body image, about modesty, and even about inhibitions and fears. I have no problem discussing any of these things with you. True, the blog has had posts since that first one that have touched on subjects that have nothing to do with any of that, but that’s because life is rich and varied, and people are whole people. And, if you look deeper, you’ll see that what lies underneath virtually everything I write is some level of passion. I can’t help it, that’s just who I am. My writing has been known to smother people, it’s been known to push people away, it’s been known to be a little “too much” for some… but, as my best friend well knows, I don’t believe in holding back a whole lot. If I feel something, I’m going to write about it. I’m going to express it and through the words I choose, you’re going to feel it. It may be fortunate or unfortunate for me that this is what my writing does, but either way, what you read from me will be what I really, truly think and feel.

Sex is a pretty wide topic. I could break it into so many different categories and do an entire blog on each one. So, where shall I begin? I guess the first thing you’d want to know is what my perspective is on the subject? What’s my history and background with it? Am I a sex-crazed lunatic? A deviant? Do I lead a double life as a dominatrix or something? Why post about this? Well, whether or not I’m a sex-crazed lunatic, I guess, is a matter of opinion. I don’t happen to think so. I’m not a deviant, I don’t lead a double life and I was never molested or anything like that. I think, though, that THAT is the reason why I feel so strongly that I should write about it. I think my friend understands that, as well.

As we’ve aged, we’ve realized that very few of the women (oh hell, the people) we know have managed to reach adulthood without some kind of experience somewhere along the line that created uneasy or flat out bad feelings about sex, sexuality, body image, self esteem, or members of the opposite gender. There are days when I feel like I’m literally the only person I know who wasn’t subjected to some kind of traumatic sexual experience. There are days when I think I might be the only person I know who reached adulthood with a healthy outlook on myself and my sexuality. It breaks my heart.

So how did I escape? How did I manage to develop this healthy adult outlook when so many others weren’t able to? I’m not certain I can sum it all up in a few sentences, but in my opinion, I’d say the major reasons are:

· Incredible parents (THANK YOU, MOM AND DAD!)

· LOTS of exposure to high quality sex education as a pre-teen and as a teenager

· A decent head on my shoulders that told me to wait

I remember some of the sillier things I heard around the lunchroom table as a kid. Clearly, my friends were filling in the blanks of what they’d heard with their own assumptions. I know you all have some of these kinds of stories, too… I think the funniest one I remember is a girl telling me that “If you start taking vitamins, you’ll never get your period and you’ll never be able to have a baby.” Seems to me she must have found her mom’s birth control pills and been told “They’re vitamins.” Later, someone else must have explained to her what birth control pills were… or something like that. Either way, she obviously had partial information on “pills.”

Then, of course, as you get a little older, come the many, many bogus “you can’t get pregnant if” statements:

· If you’re a virgin

· During your period

· If you’re in water

· If you’re on top

· If you take a shower immediately afterwards

· If he pulls out

· If you pee afterwards

And the list goes on and on and on… and let’s not even discuss the horrors that can happen to you if you (gulp) masturbate!!! You filthy heathen, you!!!

The reason I want to write about sex is simply this:

Everyone is well aware that things that happen to us in childhood can scar us for life. If we’re abused, if we suffer some horrible traumatic experience, if we are exposed to frightening things… any number of things will be carried into adulthood and cause issues that we’ll carry around with us. I want to write about sex because I know so many people who find it difficult to truly be able to let go and be completely at ease and comfortable with themselves and their partners. Like everything else I write about, I want to write about this because life is too short. Making love should be one of the top experiences in your life. It should be a bonding experience with your partner, and it should rock the house.

I’ll still be writing about other things, too, but expect to see me approach more and more of this in the future. Now, go give your significant other a great big kiss and tell them you love them, because that’s what it’s all about.

It Doesn’t Even Rhyme!

2011-01-17T21:53:00.000-05:00

I’ve got a thing for song lyrics. Yeah, I said a THING. You know… a passion… an obsession… a magnetic pull that I can’t explain or help myself from. Jim Morrison said “Music inflames temperament” and I agree with him. Let’s face it; a happy song can lift your spirits, a sad song can make you cry, a jacked metal song can make you want to hit something, whereas music you don’t like, whatever that may be, can annoy the hell out of you, and a smoky, sexy song can make you wanna... mmmmm… yeah. That may be the best kind. The point is that music is universal. Everyone likes music, it’s simply a matter of what type of music each of us prefers, but everyone likes something. For me, though, when I hear a song I like, the first thing I have to do is look up the lyrics. Why? Because the lyrics (I’m sorry to say) are poetry… and as stigmatic as it is, I’ve been known to write some poetry.

See, I’ve always been a writer. I don’t do it professionally, but anyone who’s a writer knows that you don’t have to be getting paid for it to know you’re a writer. Writers are just writers; they have no choice in the matter. Our heads are full of words and we express ourselves through them. We can’t function when we don’t write. When I was going through that horrible painful teenage crap that we all go through, I wrote tons and tons of poetry. Most of it was complete garbage, but some of it was inspired and brilliant. I had piles and piles of spiral notebooks that I carried around with me everywhere. I didn’t share much of it with people. Poetry came with a preconceived notion for most, and I didn’t feel like hearing people tell me that it didn’t rhyme, or that poetry was for dorks, or any of the other ridiculous bullshit that people tended to dish out.

If you’re one of the masses who rolls their eyes whenever the word “poetry” comes out of someone’s mouth, grab ANY song off your iPod and Google the lyrics. Read them without the music and you might find out to your own horror, that you actually like poetry. I’m really, really sorry to be the one to break that to you. Especially because if you develop an appreciation for good song lyrics, you might find out that you really don’t like some songs that you think you really like. Once you know the words, you may also find out you love certain songs you never gave a chance to before.

I have no musical talent at all. But it’s always been the artists who wrote their own stuff that I came to respect the most, because I understood the poetry aspect of the process. What amazes me, though, is how it’s ever set to music. It becomes something universally accepted the moment that music is added. Without the music, it’s simply a poem, and as such, not often given a second glance.

If you really begin to examine song lyrics, you might find yourself hungry for more poetry… I mean ACTUAL poetry. I recommend getting over the concept of it not rhyming immediately. Really good poetry often doesn’t. I also recommend getting over giggling at dirty words, or blushing over expressions of raw sexuality. If you do that, you’ll come to discover that sometimes the most passion, the most feeling, and the biggest messages are conveyed with the fewest words.

For me, as a writer, there are times when prose just doesn’t cut it. There are times when it’s just a jumble of emotion that is far more understandable if it’s not untangled. There are times when a phrase says more than a paragraph. There are times when the words I have to get out of myself come in short, intense bursts and prose would just never be able to say what poetry could.

I still don’t share much of my poetry. Not because I’m concerned over people’s opinions about poetry itself, but because much of the poetry I’ve written is intensely personal. But, I suppose this post wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t share just one with you. So… just in case you’re curious… Here’s one in honor of my all time favorite poet, Jim Morrison.

A Drink With Him

I sat across from him at a glass table

Long since dead.

He raised his glass,

Surveyed its contents before drinking.

You know

He told me

Swishing the dark brown liquid lazily

You can go, if you want to.

I used to find those eyes so piercing

As though intent

Knowing

Penetrating

Magical

It’s been a long time

He said

What made you come back to me?

Have I?

Looks that way.

He can be such a smartass.

Those eyes are hollow now.

Empty with drink

Glazed with trip

And they could have been so much more.

I’m older than you now.

I guess I sought you out to view the past.

Amazing, you’re so young.

Felt fourty-seven…

It was that shit in your hand.

You never put it down.

You invited it …

all its friends …

to destroy you.

Poor soul.

Your soul.

My soul, indeed!

Your soul, in need.

In need?

Looks that way.

He can be such a smartass.

You can go, if you want to.

Twenty-seven and gone

Don’t try to teach me.

You’re not happy here.

So much to see

So much to do

You’re watching it all go by in a flash

ZAP

And you judge me

Turn your nose up at my glass

But my glass

And it’s friends

They were no ball and chain posing as a chair.

They killed you.

Drove you mad.

There was so much to see

So much to do

We sit in silence for a while

I confess

If only I could relax

If only I could feel free

If only I had a way out of this trap

He laughs

That smile – so bloody rare

It’s a shame you were never happy.

That smile was brighter than a thousand suns

He drains his glass

Sets it down

You can go if you want to

He says again

Gets up from our table

And suddenly those eyes are once again piercing

Knowing

Penetrating

There was never magic to it

And yes, my glass and its friends, they may have killed me

But I lived.

You’re dying.

I flip through the journals he left me

Haven’t seen them since ‘87

I find myself laughing

Seventeen.

I could have gone, if I’d wanted to.

Why did I seek him out?

My soul… in need.

His soul, indeed.

My old words, so ridiculous.

His words, much the same.

I can go, if I want to.

I toss the journals on the fire

Release those words

In smoke and flame

Refill his glass

And gaze thoughtfully at the swirling brown liquid

As I contemplate it

Tossing it to the fire,

I watch the flames turn brilliant blue

The sky and the sea and eyes I’ve gazed into

Perhaps his greatest words were ones he never spoke at all

Except to me

You can go, if you want to.

A Passion For Exercise; Muscles Aren’t The Only Thing With A Memory

2011-01-16T15:29:00.000-05:00

“A body in motion tends to stay in motion, but a body at rest tends to stay at rest.”

~Isaac Newton

There’s been a rotten rat-bastard of a cold going around this season. It hit my office building shortly before Thanksgiving, but I didn’t catch it until December 15^th. I know that because I was at a show in Boston when it hit me, which made watching the show pure torture. It came on like gangbusters and didn’t let go, at least not entirely, until yesterday. Yup. January 15^th. A full month. See what I mean? It truly was a rotten rat-bastard of a cold. Because I was sick for such a long time, I fell off the gym wagon in favor of pushing fluids, crashing on The Velvet, and in general doing anything “restful” in an attempt to feel human again. But today, feeling about 98% healthy, I decided to head out to the gym and see if I could fight off that whole “body at rest” theory, and get back to feeling like Isaac Newton rather than a pile of Fig Newtons.

The worst thing about being a body at rest is talking yourself into the idea that you’ll feel better after the gym. Your body says “No, I won’t, I’ll feel sweaty and tired” and you find yourself procrastinating. I found myself wandering around the house “getting ready” for what seemed like forever. I had to split into two personalities and fight with myself. (According to my buddy Isaac, I have to be acted on by an outside force in order to become a body in motion.)

“Get dressed. We’re leaving in 15 minutes.”

“Ok, but let me just wash these breakfast dishes first.”

“Um, hello? I said 15 minutes, get it in gear, you can wash them when we get home.”

“Ok…ok… I’m dressed. Was that the dryer? Let me fold those clothes or they’ll wrinkle.”

“What the hell are you doing?! Folding clothes?! NO! Move it! Go get your sneakers… NOW!”

“Awww… do I have to?”

“YES! MOVE!”

25 minutes later I find myself finally “ready” and head out the door, armed with water, my iPod, and my trusty gym membership card. As I drive to the gym, I formulate a work out plan. Sort of an inner pep-talk. “Ok, you haven’t been to the gym in a month. Don’t expect to waltz in there and rip it up like you were there two days ago. You’re going to get a good stretch, get on a treadmill, and just walk. Walk and walk and walk. Eventually, you’ll cross the line into the work out zone.” (The work out zone, in case you don’t know that you have one, is the place inside you where you LOVE to work out. If you’ve never crossed the line into the work out zone, you’re totally missing out. It’s inside you, trust me, even if you’ve never known about it.)

Entering the gym after a long period of time is kind of like trying to take a large, knowing dog to the vet. I literally have to drag myself into the building, balking all the way, telling the groaning, whining, lazy couch potato inside me to shut up. I know that once I manage to force her over that line, she will come around to my way of thinking.

I go into the stretching area and begin by stopping all the noise. That is to say, I clear my head, take a couple of deep breaths, and forget all the arguing with myself. I’m here. There’s no going back. Isaac has won. I go through a series of stretches and breathing exercises that loosens everything up, pushes the stress out of my mind, and begins to burn off the fog that blocks the path to the work out zone. Once on the treadmill, it’s all about walking at a slow and steady pace. I haven’t done a damn thing in weeks. Keeping it slow and steady and walking in an almost meditational way, I feel all the phases of shaking off the cobwebs.

First, the dread: I have to be on this thing for HOW MANY minutes???

Second, the reality: Oh good Lord, it’s only been six minutes so far???

Third, the bargaining: What if I only do ¾ of that? It’s my first day back… Rome wasn’t built in a day.

Fourth, the realization: Wait… my back is loosening up… what if I do some shoulder rolls while I walk?

Fifth, the reconciliation: Ah, yes… this is the best way to warm up in the winter! I forgot about that!

Finally: The passion and insatiable desire for lifting weights and feeling “the burn” slowly overtakes me … I’ve entered The Work Out Zone.

“See? Didn’t I tell you that you’d feel better?”

“Yeah, yeah, shut up. Hey! Can we do weights after this?!”

“Yes, but remember, it’s been a month, you have to be conscious of your limits.”

“Ugh, shut up! We’ve got a month to make up for, and besides, look how good we’re doing on the treadmill! We’re going faster than usual and at a higher incline! Maybe we needed that rest! Damn, we should have done the elliptical instead. Why’d you make me get on this thing, anyway?”

Before I know it, I’m pumping iron like I never left, at I’m one with my inner couch potato as we settle our differences and agree never to fight each other again.

That Information is on a Need-to-Know Basis... and You Don't Need to Know.

2011-01-06T20:15:00.000-05:00

In my youth, I developed a habit of asking “why” when I was learning. I didn’t just settle for knowing how to do something; I needed to know why I was doing what I was doing. It’s easier for me to learn that way. I can’t just blindly memorize steps with no reasons behind them. Ok, I can, but I won’t retain the information for very long. But, if I know that the reason why I have to cream the butter and sugar together first in a separate bowl is that if I try to throw all the ingredients into one large bowl and just mix them randomly, the cookies won’t work out… then I’ll never forget to do it. The same kinds of rules applied to math, writing, and even gym. I had to ask why or I’d never absorb the lesson.

In school, that worked out really well for me. I learned my lessons well, and when I had learned something new, I felt pretty good about it. So, naturally, I carried this learning process into life with me. Every day life, that is; personal life.

Whenever something would happen in life that I didn’t understand, I’d ask why. Who would I ask? Well, whoever happened to be handy and seemed to have an answer. Sometimes it was my parents, my siblings, my friends… but sometimes it was strictly between God and I. Most of the time, when I asked why, I got an answer that made sense to me. As a younger person the questions were fairly simple.

Why did girls stare?

Maybe they want to know where you got that sweater? Maybe they’re jealous?

Um, I don’t think so!

No? Maybe because they saw the boys staring?

Maybe…Why did boys stare?

You have boobs.

Oh.

Then the questions became more complicated… and the answers somewhat confusing.

Why can’t I make my own decisions?? I’m THIRTEEN!!

Because thirteen is still a baby.

No it’s not!! I’m a WOMAN!!! Why are you trying to ruin my life???

Because I love you.

In adulthood… I have had infinitely more complex questions, and though I still ask the same group of great minds these questions, sometimes the answers are just not so easy to come by. The humans in my life are busy trying to answer their own questions. Being that we’re all seeking answers, we pool our knowledge and attempt to help each other find these elusive reasons why… and though there are so many wonderful theories, so many obvious ones, so many painful ones, so many funny ones… we never really know which are right, do we? So, we turn to the Almighty.

Recently… extremely tough questions have come up for me, and for some of my dearest friends. We’ve been desperately seeking answers. We seek them from each other, we seek them from those who confused us in the first place, we seek them from any source we can. Always, though, in the end, we find ourselves asking God…

WHY???

…to the point of making ourselves crazy. Personally, I realize now that I’ve spent an awful lot of time wondering why, and feeling incredibly frustrated that no reasons I can understand have presented themselves. God has not answered me with any great sign. The shrubs in my yard don’t burst into flames and speak to me. I am not handed great stone tablets. Hell, God hasn’t even sent me a simple text message, and I KNOW He’s got an iPhone. So what am I to do?

Stop asking.

At least for now.

God's got us all on a Need-To-Know Basis, and right now, I guess I don't need to know. So, I won't waste any more energy on "why"... it just IS and that's that. I'll accept that the answer is none of my business, and move forward. Maybe the lesson is that sometimes when you question everything, you drive yourself nuts. Maybe not. Either way… it’s clear that sometimes "why" really matters, and other times, it just gets in the way of moving on.

Breaking The First Commandment

2011-01-02T12:20:00.001-05:00

“I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. You shall have no other gods before Me.”

Winter in New England: Short days, cold temperatures, dry air, and a serious lack of exposure to the sun. It’s amazing to me how anyone could possibly enjoy it. You see, I am a sun worshiper. No, I’m not a member of some whacko cult; I’m not really talking about religion here. What I mean is: I am acutely aware of how the lack of sunshine, heat, and humidity affects me physically, emotionally and even spiritually. It makes such clear and perfect sense to me that ancient civilizations would have looked heavenward and assumed that the sun was, in fact, God, that I know deep down that I involuntarily break the first commandment every day of my life.

The other day, for example, I was low on gas and, having taken note of the freezing cold forecast, decided to make the gas station my lunch break errand. At least, I thought, the temperature would be above the teens at noon, and I could bear the two or three minutes it would take to fill the tank without going into those horrible “shiver convulsions” that cause my shoulders, back, and neck to ache. When I got out of the car and turned from the pump to remove the gas cap, I found myself facing the noon sun and realized that the clouds were parted enough for it to shine directly on me for the duration of the chore.

Being a shamelessly uninhibited person, I am sometimes aware that I do and say things in public that shock other people, and this was one of those moments. Without realizing it, I sighed in ecstasy “Oh, God… yes!” and dropped my head back, unzipping my coat as though I were letting a lover take me, to let it warm my face and neck and heat the fabric of my black sweater as I filled my gas tank. As the unmistakable caress of the sun’s rays warmed my skin and filled my soul with the sweet memories of … summer… trips to Kauai, St. Croix, The Bahamas, Florida… the sweet smell of suntan oil… the ability to walk out of the house in next to nothing… I sighed and may even have moaned aloud. To be completely honest, I was so lost that anything is possible.

When the pump shut off, snapping me to attention, I saw the look on the face of the man on the other side of the pump and realized he’d been watching me. He must have thought I was either insane, or “on something.” I just smiled at him and said hello. Poor man; he was obviously not as aware of the universe around him and the simple pleasures in life as we all should be.

In my last post, I talked about sensual experiences and how we all need to have them every single day. I’d have to say that spending time in the sun rounds out the top three sensual experiences in life, along with sex and food. The sun not only warms us, enhances our moods, assists us in producing vitamin D, and helps grow our crops, but it provides one of the most amazing sensations available to us. Each year, as I struggle through winter’s biting cold and depressing dark, I am more and more appreciative of the purely blissful sensation that only the sun can provide.

We are past the Winter Solstice now, and as each day gets progressively longer, though only in tiny increments, my mood elevates each day as I anticipate spring. As for the first commandment, and the second for that matter; George Carlin said they were pure bullshit and that I could ignore them, and since he’s one of my heroes, I have to take that into consideration. Really though, If God put us here and wanted us to worship Him alone, I find it hard to believe that WE are created in His image, when the sun is just so much more Godlike than any being I’ve ever seen. So, I will continue to worship it, and if I go to Hell for that, I’ll tell George you said hi.

What's Your Pleasure?

2010-12-22T20:59:00.000-05:00

Mine happens to be a fully restored, very cha-cha, antique red velvet sofa. I refer to it simply as “The Velvet.”

I am one of the least materialistic people I know. “Things” hold no charm or great value to me. I live in a modest little home furnished with hand-me-downs, yard sale bargains, and do-it-yourself pressboard furniture. Each piece is clean, in good condition, and serves whatever it’s intended purpose is, but none of my furniture was purchased “new”at a furniture store, none of it is heirloom quality, and none of it is what you’d call “chic.” Don’t get me wrong, I take care of my things and appreciate what I have, but none of it screams “HOUSE BEAUTIFUL.” So, why the very Zsa Zsa velvet sofa amid the rest of the bargain basement specials?

Basically, the answer is this: The Velvet is a sensual delight. That’s right… I said it’s a sensual delight. When you come home from work at the end of a work day, be it a tough day or not, what do you want to do? Collapse? Maybe have a drink? A hot shower? Five minutes to yourself? No matter what your “unwind of choice” is, it’s a sensual experience. And quite frankly, we all deserve to indulge in sensual experiences every single day.

Most people, I find, limit their sensual experiences in life to just a few garden variety things. Sex and food seem to be the two biggest ones, and most people I know don’t have sex every day. And, unfortunately, many of us, due to schedules being out of control, don’t experience food as a sensual experience every day, either. Food and sex are great sensual experiences, but, are you aware of the sensuality of other aspects of life? Things like textures, scents, colors, shapes, and sounds; how do these things affect your thoughts, moods and sense of sensuality?

When you come home and you’re stressed out, whatever it is that you do to shake off that stress should be a true pleasure and it should recharge your batteries. It should put you in touch with what life is really all about, as opposed to meetings and deadlines and adhering to political correctness all day. When you walk through the door of your home, whether it’s a tiny apartment or a spacious five bedroom house on a two acre lot or anything in between, you should be able to indulge in something that reminds you that you’re human. Human beings have five senses, and those senses should be fed, and fed well, every single day.

Take the time to reacquaint yourself with how simple things like the feel of the sun on your skin affect you. How sensitive your taste buds are to your favorite flavor. How does the smell of a wood fire on a crisp day make you feel? Notice the colors of things, the feel of fabrics against your skin, the scent of your soap or the way the water runs over your body when you stand under a hot shower. Feel things. Notice things. Be aware of all of your sensory experiences in everyday life. It’s what we’re here for.

Think about what you really love. What brings you pleasure? Among my many pleasures… I happen to love soft things like blankets and pillows. I love rich fabrics and jewel tone colors. When I saw The Velvet, I knew I had to have it. It is the one item in my home that was a financial splurge, and I don’t regret it. The fact that it’s an “antique” … bah! Who cares? It’s there to feed my sensory pleasure and I use it every day. I lie on it to take naps on the weekend. I entertain guests on it. Ultimately, it’s an inanimate object and I don’t obsess over “not ruining” it; instead, I celebrate it. You really should never save anything “special” for a special occasion, because life is a special occasion. I can’t bear to think of The Velvet in some stuffy sitting room never being sat on, enjoyed, appreciated, and loved. It’s beautiful, curvy, soft and warm… it’s made to be treated like a lady: with respect, admiration, and appreciation for it’s ability to feed your need for sensuality.

So... What's your pleasure?

Does Money Grow On Trees? No... But It's OK, You're Already Rich.

2010-12-11T20:47:00.000-05:00

“The money tree is said to bring good luck and good fortune to your home or business. Its positive energy will eliminate the stagnant chi in your Feng Shui home.”

At least, that’s what the tag on the little Pachira Aquatica said. Since it was my first home, I thought I could use all the luck I could get. The mini tree was about a foot tall when I bought it, and since I had a bay window, it seemed like a cool thing to give myself as a housewarming present. That was six years ago.

In the time that this little plant has been in my window growing into a four foot high tree, many things have happened. For example, my Dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Fortunately, and I don’t use that word lightly at all, it was caught early (thank the Good Lord that he was vigilant about getting his tests when he was supposed to) and he was able to have surgery and is fine now. If that were the only thing I felt fortunate for, it would be enough, believe me… but there’s more.

Not the least of which is this horrible recession we’ve been in for what seems like forever. I also went through a divorce and took over home-ownership on my own. There have been times when I’ve been so broke that I didn’t have groceries, or enough gas to make it back and forth to work for the entire week without humbly having to ask for a loan from a relative, friend, or co-worker. Countless people have lost their jobs around me. Toyota put out tons of safety recalls, causing panic and fear in so many Corolla drivers… and I happen to have a Corolla, too.

Luckily, though, I did not get laid off from my job. I did have to forfeit overtime and absorb some additional work – but I still considered myself privileged to be employed. I never missed a mortgage payment. My car wasn’t part of the recalls. Although I had to ditch cable TV and change my cell plan, shut off my long distance calling on my home phone, give up Martial Arts classes, not use my clothes dryer anymore and stop going to the hairdresser, nothing BAD has happened.

I haven’t starved. I haven’t lost anything like my home or my car. I managed to find some ways to make extra money and cut back my bills in order to survive the economy as it has been. I’ve been extremely fortunate to get help when I’ve needed it from family and some incredibly good friends. Do I attribute these things to my plant? Well, no, but over the years that I’ve had it, this little plant has grown and grown, been repotted twice, dropping the odd leaf here and there, and eventually gone from barely visible in the window to over-filling the entire bay. Today I had to take the plant down from the window sill and prune it. It had been getting so tall and wild that it was starting to look unkempt. I felt a little nostalgic for it as I cut off it’s upper-most branches in order to force it to fill in wider rather than higher. I reflected on all that’s happened in the time I’ve had it. All that I’ve been through has been nothing more than mildly inconvenient compared to what some people are enduring, and I’m acutely aware that I am blessed.

Did my plant bring me a million dollars? Of course not. Do I believe it’s good luck? Probably not… but if you look at things from a practical stand-point, I guess it’s all about your perspective. I've taken good care of my little friend the Pachira Aquatica, and it's flourished. Has it provided me with "good fortune" in return? Well, I may not be rolling in cash but, plant or no plant, when I look at all the things that could have happened over the past six years, there’s no doubt that I’ve had incredible good fortune. I’m extremely thankful.

No, I'm not "on a diet."

2010-12-05T12:50:00.000-05:00

We’ve all heard that annoying line “It’s not a diet, it’s a lifestyle change.” This is true, but don’t you get completely fed up with over-used statements like this? Especially when you’re trying to lose weight and all you really want is for it to happen, and to be able to keep eating the foods you like in the process? I mean really, who wants to give up their favorite things? Pretty much nobody, as far as I can tell.

I also get really sick and tired of television ads for diet programs, exercise equipment, or DVD’s promising you incredible results “with just 20 minutes a day every other day” with teeny little fine print that says “results not typical” at the bottom of your screen. Believe me, I would love nothing more than to make 5 easy payments of $19.99 and wake up tomorrow morning a buff, toned, size 2 but the fact is, that just doesn’t happen. And if you think any of those people with six-pack abs standing by the pool with their arms around each other’s waists were ever as doughy and soft as Homer Simpson you’re really kidding yourself. Trust me, they looked that way when they were hired to do the infomercial; they didn’t get that way in four weeks with a little plastic machine every other day for 20 minutes a day.

As for “diets” … please let’s just not get me started. Anybody who tries to tell you to cut out a food group should be ignored. In fact… anyone who tells me to cut out a food group can just exit my earshot post-haste before they get hit with a flying shoe. And please don’t give me any crap like “no eating after 7:00 pm” or “drink 6-8 cups of green tea a day” or any other such ridiculous nonsense.

There’s so much “information” all over the place about diets and exercise and what is or isn’t a healthy body weight or how to achieve one… it’s just craziness. Anyone who really needs and wants to lose weight is going to become discouraged almost immediately trying to figure out what “the right thing to do” actually is. So what IS the right thing to do? I hate to say it, but the fact is, you can’t “go on a diet.” You have to make a lifestyle change. Awful thing to say, I know, but brace yourself because I’m going to spout off a bunch more completely over-used statements, too! Bear with me, though, because all of what I’m going to say actually worked for me, and none of it is all that difficult. The main thing, above and beyond any advice that anyone can give you, though, is simply this: MOTIVATION. Without that, you won’t actually do anything. Get motivated and stay motivated, because we only live once and you deserve to be happy and healthy.

After that, the right way for anyone… ANYONE… in my opinion:

Step #1: Don’t look at is as “losing weight.” Look at it as “getting yourself healthy.”

The best thing anyone can do for themselves is attempt to be healthier. Maybe you don’t feel unhealthy. Maybe you just don’t like the way you look, or maybe you just want to fit back into a favorite pair of jeans. But just like all of our teachers used to tell us: You can always do better. (*You see what I did there? Another totally over-used statement. Told you!) The fact is, if you made healthier food choices and added more movement to your lifestyle, whether you intended it or not, your weight and shape would also change. Consider the “weight loss” just a happy side-effect of getting healthier and feeling better.

Step#2: Tailor your “lifestyle change” to your own specific needs.

Nearly every single diet or exercise plan has the disclaimer “See your doctor before starting this or any other (diet/exercise)plan” … another one… but honestly, I actually did go get a physical when I decided to make “big changes” and it really did give me a jumping off point. I found out that I have slightly elevated cholesterol. Maybe you don’t. My blood pressure is just fine. Maybe yours isn’t. I wasn’t at risk for diabetes. Maybe you are. I have some arthritis in my joints. Maybe you don’t. Some people may have a vitamin deficiency or anemia… you see what I’m getting at? Get a physical and find out where you, personally, are in the grand scheme of things and what you need to work on in order to make positive changes. There are any number of things that can contribute to how you need to adjust what you are or aren’t doing in order to get healthier, which brings me to my third piece of advice.

Step #3: Educate yourself.

After you find out what your specific needs are, do some research. When I got my blood tests back and they indicated that my cholesterol was high, the doctor’s office told me that they’d send me an eating plan via snail mail. Naturally, I never got any such thing. But no matter, I have a brain and I’m more than capable of finding out what it is I need to do in order to help myself. So are you. The research I did on high cholesterol took on a kind of snowball effect, too. Finding out about how the body processes foods and manufactures cholesterol kept opening up other areas for research. I just kept going. I read about all different kinds of foods, about chemical additives, about the food industry… anything that seemed like it might provide me with useful information. I read voraciously, always keeping in mind that you can’t believe everything you read. The great thing about being human is that we can make up our own minds about things. We can think for ourselves, we can apply logic and reasoning, and we can decide what we think is best for ourselves. In any area of life – always do this. Just don’t be a sheep! (Ok, that’s a post for another day…) Really, though, there are endless resources out there and you’ll be surprised at how motivated you get when you’re armed with knowledge about your own health. And, don’t expect your doctor’s office to send you that eating plan. If they do, that’s fantastic, but the reality in this country is this: Our primary care physicians are completely over-run with appointments and can hardly keep up. Do yourself a favor and be proactive about your own health.

Step #4: MOVE IT!!!

Oh…. Nike says it best. Just do it. Any form of movement is better than no form of movement. But, the key to exercise is to find something you actually enjoy. I’m baffled by people who go to the gym, and say “I hate going to the gym.” Uh… then why do you do it? There are a billion ways to get exercise. If you have dogs, walk them. Play Frisbee with them. If you have a bike, ride it. Maybe you have an old Jane Fonda VHS tape hiding in the closet that you used to love. Nobody has to know! Honestly if anyone had told me ten years ago that I would become hopelessly addicted to martial arts and cry a river every Tuesday and Thursday night for MONTHS after having to give it up (for financial reasons) I would have laughed hysterically in their face, but it happened. Mom always said: You never know what you might like until you try it. I found out that I love lifting weights. I love punching a heavy bag. I also found out that I hate jumping rope. Do what you like to do. Try lots and lots of things. Try things you think you won’t like. You might be shocked. I never would have thought I’d like yoga, but I tell you, if you have any kind of back or joint pain get your butt into a yoga class ASAP. It’s an odd combination of relaxing and challenging at the same time and BOY OH BOY does it alleviate pain. Even within yoga, there are many different styles that you can try in order to locate one that you enjoy. It doesn’t have to be the treadmill unless you really like the treadmill. Get yourself an mp3 player if you don’t already have one, and put your favorite music on it and just get moving. Even doing the simple things like parking really far away from the store or taking the stairs instead of the elevator or escalator DO make a difference.

Step #5: Make good food choices.

Yeah, I know… “DUH!!” Really, though, this is probably the most argued portion of “health” that I ever discuss with anyone. It’s something I am really, really passionate about, as well. When I say to “educate yourself,” I beg you to educate yourself in this area, as well. Food is something very personal to everyone. If there’s one thing I could never, ever do, it’s allow someone to say “Here’s your shopping list and menu plan for the week, this is what you will eat.” And then look at the list, see 50 things I either don’t like at all or would not get any enjoyment out of eating, and stick to that for the simple sake of winding up in smaller pants. When it comes to food, it doesn’t take a genius to know that a Big Mac is not health food, but kale is really good for you. We’re not idiots. We all know that a salad is a better choice than fettuccini Alfredo, but I hate salad and I love fettuccini Alfredo. We also all know that portion control is a major factor in what we eat, but if you’re currently eating double or triple portions, it’s really hard, if not impossible, to cut back to proper portions just because you decided “I start on Monday.” My advice where your food choices are concerned is this:

Don’t torture yourself; Do educate yourself.

For me, the food choice portion of my life is not difficult because I am not hard to feed. I’m not very picky; I like just about everything. My choice, after all my research, was to cut out fast foods, fried foods, processed foods, massed produced “junk foods” and to consume as much organic food as was available to me. This might not work for you. I’m not suggesting that you do what I do. But, I will explain why I chose to go this route.

For one thing, the research I did on food additives and preservatives just plain grossed me out and made me mad. I could dedicate an entire blog just to that. Secondly, by cutting out the items I mention, I was pretty much on an eating plan that would lower my cholesterol without even trying. Thirdly, by purchasing organics with the same food budget that I had previously been spending on much lower cost “processed” foods I was able to control portions simply because, for example, if you only have 6 eggs for the week, you aren’t going to have a three egg omelet every day of the week.

Pick nutritious foods that you like and eat correct portions. Don’t try to starve yourself and don’t try to force yourself to eat things you don’t like. If you go to a birthday party, have the cake. Maybe you don’t finish the whole piece, there’s no law against that. But torturing yourself is not the goal here, and it won’t get you results because eventually you’re going to say “This is awful, I am unhappy living like this” and you’re going to blow off your plan. Read up on nutrition, read food labels, and try new things. Hang out in the produce section. It starts to look really pretty and mouth watering.

Step #6: Get your required amount of sleep.

This is actually really, really important. The amount of sleep is different for all of us, but we all need proper sleep. Some people only require six hours, and some people require as many as nine. I have discovered that for me, the magic number seems to be seven hours. This is based on the fact that no matter what time I go to bed, if I allow my body to wake up naturally (as opposed to with an alarm clock) it is virtually always after exactly seven hours. When I was younger, I required nine. I’m not sure when it changed, but I am always at my best now when I’ve had my seven hours. Figure out what you need, and if you have to, go to a sleep lab and get tested if you have sleep issues. It’s really not a big deal to go, and it makes a huge difference in how you feel and how you function.

Step #7: Be patient!

It’s very true: Rome wasn’t built in a day. We have all come to expect instant results in life. I know I am sometimes guilty of standing in front of the microwave screaming “Hurry uuuuuup!!!!” I get frustrated when I’ve “been good” and don’t see the scale move for a few days, and it’s hard to not lose motivation sometimes. But if you keep reminding yourself that the goal is to get healthy, and if you concentrate more on how you feel rather than how you look or what you weigh, it’s much easier to be patient. The weight WILL come off. It’s a scientific certainty. But as you move towards getting healthy don’t concern yourself with bathing suit season or the class reunion coming up or any other event that you may have to attend. Just concentrate on how you feel, and how you want to feel as a result of making positive changes in your life.

Remember: Healthy, happy, confident, and energetic are sexy as hell. Make THOSE your goals. It’ll show, I promise!

Can you be a babe at forty?

2010-12-03T21:35:00.001-05:00

Absolutely.

When I was just an awkward pre-teen, I read an article in a women’s magazine that said that women shouldn’t expect to look like Sophia Loren at 40 if they hadn’t looked like Brooke Shields at 14, Farrah Fawcett at 20, and so forth. (Of course, at the time Sophia Loren was in her 40’s. I have to say, even though that was many years ago, she’s still someone to look at and say “Damn, I hope I look that good at her age!”) The point of the article was that your bones are what they are. Your frame is your frame. Your shape is your shape. You aren’t going to suddenly get taller, or grow longer legs, or have a smaller pelvis. You can’t give yourself more prominent cheek bones or an entirely different shape than you ever had through some fad diet or exercise program, but you can sure as hell be the best that YOU can be at any age.

As time passed and I developed into a teenager and then into a “woman”… I was pretty smoking hot if I do say so myself. I was blessed with good genes and I was pretty darn happy with what I saw in the mirror. I never felt jealous of other women. I was perfectly happy being ME. Maybe that sounds conceited or arrogant… and maybe it is… but it’s the truth. I really did like my body, and I really was happy with my looks.

Around the age of 25, I crossed that line we all cross where I realized that I wasn’t 17 anymore and actually had to watch what I ate or I would begin to gain weight. Even at that, it was only my 20’s and I was still easily able to drop a few pounds. Barely an effort and the extra weight would just drop away. (Oh, to be young!) I was pretty active, working retail and not sitting on my butt all day. I could just add a simple walk to the end of my day and drop five or ten pounds in no time.

Then, I met my ex-husband and we settled into a comfortable routine. Before long, bills piled up and I left retail to find a higher paying office job. I also stopped taking those walks, and stopped going out dancing with girlfriends on weekend nights. I stopped doing lots of things that burned calories and swapped that “single” lifestyle for cooking big dinners for my husband and his daughter. Meals which contained things I never ate on a regular basis before. Tons of red meat, Pillsbury biscuits, and “side dishes” smothered in heavy sauces. It was what wives did, wasn’t it? Cook meals for their families? Bring home their share of the bacon and fry it up in the pan? Maybe, but before I knew it I had packed on over 50 pounds.

I say “over 50 pounds” because that was the point at which I stopped weighing myself. I mean, what was the point? Every time I stepped on the scale it just went up a few more pounds. It didn’t happen overnight, but the torture of watching the number creep up every time I got onto one was enough to make me stop stepping on. It didn’t really stop me from eating, though. I mean, those meals were DELICIOUS to me at the time.

Anyway, by the time I was ready to get divorced ten years later, I was so over-weight, out of shape, and unhealthy that I didn’t think I could ever feel good or look good again. I thought maybe I could lose weight, but I didn’t think it was going to make a difference other than maybe making it easier to climb a flight of stairs or carry the groceries into the house. I was dead wrong.

For completely unrelated reasons I ended my marriage. The first thing I did after that was toss the high calorie, low nutrient foods. I literally tossed everything in the kitchen out and went shopping to replace it all with REAL food. You know, fresh produce, whole grains, lean proteins, etc, and as much of it organic as I could get my hands on. Within a matter of weeks the heavy meals I’d been making for my ex now seemed repulsive to me, and the “back to healthy” regimen renewed my love for “real food.” (Is it wrong to say that I LOVE my own cooking?)

I also started working out and putting my health first. It was a lot of really hard work, but I managed to lose 35 pounds. Thank God muscles have a memory, and within less than a year I had a feminine shape again. I wasn’t perfect, but I had a waist and I could see my feet. Aside from pounds coming off, the healthier eating and the exercise also cleared up my skin, solved a bunch of digestive issues, and made me feel human and happy again. Thank goodness for endorphins!

As fate would have it, though, the economy crashed out and in order to make ends meet I had to give up a few things. One thing I gave up in order to save cash was Martial Arts classes, which I had become hopelessly addicted to. I also had to cut back on the organics and eventually I had to stop buying multi-vitamins, and pick and choose one or two produce items per shopping trip rather than buying a wide variety of fresh produce. Money was so tight, in fact, that there were weeks when I couldn’t grocery shop at all. Then, to frost the burnt cupcake, I went through a horrible break up with someone I was hopelessly in love with and became almost irretrievably depressed.

Slowly the pounds started creeping back on. A pound here, a pound there… until I speak to you today having gained back 15 pounds. It doesn’t sound like much, but considering I had only lost 35 and really probably needed to lose close to 60 to begin with, those 15 are a huge setback. I have nobody to blame but myself, and I know this. Sure, there are factors outside of my lack of effort that contributed to the pounds finding their way back onto me, but ultimately, I am the master of my body and my destiny, and I allowed myself to give in when the going got tough.

Now I look at myself in the mirror and think: “What happened to you? Where did all your energy and drive disappear to? Why are you not doing everything in your power to maintain your health and happiness?” Well, for several reasons, but none of them are good enough to warrant the fifteen pounds. And certainly none of them are good enough to warrant my feeling like complete crap. Now there is the prospect of taking my clothes off in front of someone new in my future, and the thought of it has motivated me to head back into the gym and turn from the dessert tray. But, even that has not been enough to truly give me back the mental edge I used to have when working out.

As luck would have it, I found myself staying at a friend’s house for a week recently to do some pet-sitting. Now, I don’t have cable television at home, so I was happy to park my unmotivated behind on her sofa for a week and watch movies and shows I usually don’t get to see. One of the movies I caught was The Wrestler with Mickey Rourke and Marisa Tomei. If you’ve never seen it, you should, especially if you’re 40-ish and thought you were hot shit in the 80’s. It’s very humbling. Anyway…

I’m not one to be put off by nudity, and back in the day I was never very shy or modest… I loved my body and would have dropped my laundry in front of anyone. I mean, why not? I had nothing to be ashamed of; I was SMOKING hot. But those days are gone, and now I see only a shadow of myself when I’m in my birthday suit. Maybe seeing this film was fate? In The Wrestler, Miss Tomei plays a stripper past her prime. Now, when My Cousin Vinny was in theatres, Marisa and I had pretty much the same body, except I had bigger boobs. Now, I found myself looking at this woman, many years later, and she was so beautiful; still slender, toned, and sexy as hell despite her age.

I looked her up on imdb.com and discovered that she’s actually six years OLDER than me. Which means, at the time of filming, she was 45. Here I am at 40 feeling like I’m not capable of looking as good, or at least close to as good as I did when I watched My Cousin Vinny. Well guess what, baby? You ain’t dead yet… and according to that ridiculous article I read when I was 11, if I was once a show-stopping hottie then I have no reason on earth not to be again. After all, your bones are what they are. Your frame is your frame. Your shape is your shape. You may gain and you may expand, but when you lose, if you are healthy about it and if you’re sensible and take proper care of your body – guess what? Your body is going to be the body it always has been underneath all that blubber. I mean, I don’t expect to look 17 years old again, but dammit, why should I settle for looking… well… quite frankly… anything less than “stunning for my age?” Why should any of us?

Obesity has been called an epidemic in this country over and over. We’ve all got high cholesterol, high blood pressure, diabetes, and tons of other health issues due to the fact that we’re not taking good enough care of ourselves. Well, that stops here for this chick. 40 isn’t fatal. It’s a lack of taking care of yourself that can be. So, I say we get off our butts, drop the laundry in front of the mirror, take a good, long, sobering look at ourselves and decide we’re not going to settle for just “ok.”

Health first, people. And for the record, when you’re healthy on the inside, you’re smoking hot on the outside – NO MATTER WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE. Confidence, energy, and happiness are sexy as hell. Get to it! I’ll see you at the gym.