My Transparency, part 2

Tonight I was thanked for my transparency and told it was refreshing.  I call in to an intercessory prayer line on the first Tuesday night of the month.  These ladies in Alabama have been praying through my lowest lows and praising in some of my most profound miracles. Transparency is something I've been thanked for more than once in church.  A lot of people hide what troubles them, but I usually don't.  When I'm upset, it's all over my face and in my voice.  I really don't have a poker face. I don't buy into the shame that often surrounds our most petitioned prayers.  I believe in prayer and I know focusing on our biggest goals is often how they fall into our laps. That and lots of hard work, persistence, follow up, tenacity, grace and fistfuls of favor. I told my ex so many lies.  Stupid lies about the smallest, most insignificant things.  The one therapy session he went to, he told my therapist I was a pathological liar.  I could see how he thought that.  She couldn't. The more we talked, the more it became clear I only lie to my parents and him.  I'm working on telling the truth to my parents, even the uncomfortable truths that involve how I feel about things, and not just facts of my existence. I don't talk to the ex anymore. These are people with opinions I cared about.  These are people who I couldn't share myself with because for some reason I felt shame in my choices when it came to my parents and the ex. I wanted approval and I lied to hide myself so I wouldn't have to face the fact that I might not get approval.

My Dad will often quote scripture.  It's just part of who he is.  He traced our family tree and found that we come from a Sephardic bloodline on his father's side.  It makes sense.  My maiden name is a fairly common Egyptian name. That being said, the bloodline follows the mother, by tradition. He still likes to remind me I am of the vine, and not grafted into it, and I accept that this is his belief.  I've witnessed a friend's bar mitzvah. It was at University Synagogue on Sunset, and it was such a rich ceremony to witness.  Dad takes it to another level.  He buys gluten free matzoh for me so I can have communion at home. (I won't tell him it's not seder worthy matzoh if you don't.) He was studying Hebrew when I was born and used what he learned in choosing my name. It comes down to pronunciation and letters we have that aren't in the Hebrew alphabet. He's had more than one passover meal and loved the look on my face when I tasted the horseradish to humor him.  (The things I do to show him I love him.) He walks around with a yarmulke under his Viet Nam Veteran trucker cap in an act of faith, and he's given me a prayer shawl, and Chumash because this heritage is important to him.  I have a mezuzah next to my front door, but one graces the doorways in his home and he has one on the dashboard of his Suburban.  My Dad's faith is stronger than I care to imagine and his favorite music is Messianic worship songs to Jesus in Hebrew and English.  I grew up with him quoting "whatever is hidden will be shouted on the rooftops," as one of his favorite scriptures. There are variations of this throughout the bible and he has many more scriptures.

There's irony in that being one of his favorite verses. He will often tell me I disclose too much online.  It's not safe.  He wants me to be afraid of what might happen if someone decides they're super interested in me.  So not my problem lately and it's almost comical. I'm not saying I'm invincible, but I will not live in fear. I remind him of the many times the bible tells us to "fear not." My ex hated that I like to share.  He is more private than I am.

I feel being private invites gossip.  I will share enough that you at least have the full story and enough information to be bored with the subject of what I have done.  I write this blog under a pseudonym.  I'm not hiding in fear.  I'm job hunting and it is a move of discernment and wisdom.  Companies want faceless workers who don't exist outside of work performance.  Would you hire me with all I've blogged about since February?

I've always been the person to tell you more than you are comfortable knowing.  My friends are often speechless because they don't know how to react to my truth.  My close friends see my openness as part of who I am and more reasons for open love and acceptance.  And a good laugh.  My honesty is often snarky. My nephews know I will "tell it like it is" because I have.  I've had long talks with them about dating. My nieces and nephews know I will talk to them about the uncomfortable things.  I don't always need a response.  I just want to make them think, and hopefully my perspective is guidance and not control.

I've done lots of things most people wouldn't be proud of.  I feel my past doesn't define me but it has helped shape me. I learn from my mistakes all of the time and some of those lessons are more fun than I deserve. I believe if you don't want people to know what you are doing, you shouldn't do it.  Most of the choices I'm not proud of are followed by the thought that it's done and I can apologize if my decisions adversely affect others and move forward, but I don't bother trying to hide it.  I own what I did because nothing in my life was done to me without my being part of it. I've done it here when I wrote Transparency.  I'm not a victim to my choices and  I won't feel shame for what I've walked through in life.

I'm transparent.  I will shamelessly explain what I'm going through because what I'm going through doesn't define me.  I am not my marriage or divorce.  I'm not my surrogacies and I'm not just an autism mom, any more than I will accept a disorder defining my children. I am who I choose to be, shaped by who I have been, and open to the possibilities of all I care to dream. I blog about a lot that I don't necessarily post on Facebook, but it's less than I would share over coffee.  I don't have a censor that says I should hide from people because at the end of the day I'm comfortable in my own skin and while my skin isn't necessarily thick, I don't wait to let others test it out.  I don't try to listen for what others think.  My day to day life is primarily my kids and lately just me. I use the errands I run as an excuse for a field trip, and enjoy my kid free zone.

Today I took a walk around Mulholland Fountain.  I was on my way to my Dad's place and decided to stop for a few minutes of sun and xeriscaping that circled the rose garden.  The roses were mainly white, but evenly spaced are red roses that peek out in tiny bursts. I have pictures around the filled fountain when I was a baby but I don't remember the last time I walked around it.  I loved the way the trees framed the mountains behind the fountain.

There's little room for the opinions of others when you are busy looking for roses to smell and sunsets to catch.  There are enough little and big things for me to obsess over and observe. There's no shame or reason to avoid transparency. If I find shame in what I think or feel, I will do my best to shift my perspective because I can change what I think but I can't remove the stain of shame in actions that make it hard to live with myself.

My Children Need a Reset Button

Sunday night I picked the kids up a day early. I don't mind my schedule shifting, but the kids don't do well with changes to their routine. Bedtime came later and the idea of going to school the next day was harsh. After school yesterday there was fighting and micro aggressions became assault. I decided I needed to go to my happy place. I thought of that single mom that recharged every few months with her kids when she shared her  Blessings with me. I made a choice knowing at least one child would be angry with it. He was.

We piled in the car and I told them we were chasing the sun. I knew kid1 would hate it because he hates the beach. We parked at Will Rogers just as the sun dipped behind the mountains.

It was a last minute trip with no planning so we didn't pack extra clothes but kid3 always remembers his skateboard. He's a perfect opportunist.

My plan was to pick rocks and find munchies along the pier. Realistically, I know better than to take kids to the ocean and ask them to stay out of it but I wasn't going to freak out over water and sand. That's what a heater and a drive thru are for. Kid2 and kid3 played tag with the ocean and did really well in not pushing each other. Kid1 sat in the car and found more anger by the time we were leaving.

We took the streets home and I pointed out Pacific Palisades High school where my sister graduated. Then I pointed out the street that led to my elementary school, Brentwood Science Magnet. I pointed out UCLA where kid1 plans to go after graduation. Kid2 likes my alma mater, CSULA. I told him I chose that school because of it's location. I didn't tell him how happy it would make me for him to be a 3rd generation alumni. I won't limit him in his goals. I pointed out the Beverly Hills Hotel and admitted I would love to spend a night there one day. I showed them the iconic clubs on Sunset Strip like the Roxy and Rainbow Room, and the shops that aren't flooded with merchandise but are more about the experience they offer. I pointed out the cars that wound through the streets alongside us.  They liked the Ferraris the most, but there was a Jaguar and Lamborghini worth pointing out. I showed them where I worked in January and February. They were curious and my tour guiding kept an open and easy rapport.

Later I plied kid1 with cheesecake and blood orange sorbet. He likes anything with blood oranges in it. Kid2 likes cheesecake and caramel ice cream. Kid3 got strawberry ice cream and no cheesecake but it's in our freezer right now.

Kid2 was happy. Kid3 thinks I'm the best mom. It pays to be irresponsible on a school night. Kid1 was happy to have his sorbet and head home and was even singing in the shower.

There was joy in them last night. They were ready on time this morning. Adding chaos to their thrown off schedules brought peace. I win.

Picking at Scabs When I Should Allow Healing

These scabs are healing into itchy discomfort. I scratch them off with frequency. I don't mean to. My body moves separately from thoughts of healing with intention to what is familiar and feels good. Lies. My self moves into ways that feel. Good or bad, I must feel this thing that makes me wonder if I might have wrecked him just as beautifully as he has altered me. I think of him in kindness and sometimes in echoed sorrows from misguided angst. I've let go of the rage and at times it will surprise me with a visit or because it is no longer around to help me feel. When the rage is gone, thoughts dance in nostalgia and I am bereaved in longing and glowing embers of memories and unfulfilled dreams. Early morning birdsong wakes me and pulls my thoughts out of my control into a movie screen of memory and in predawn silence there is no control in child song distractions. In the glowing light of gentleness before the onslaught of life's demands, there is kindness and wonder and no way to let go.

Closing The Book and Starting New Chapters

I've closed many books in life. You read the last lines. You read them a second time and you sit with it in your hands. You relive the good and the bad and walk through the things that may never have an answer. Then you sit with the book before you and you thank it for what you felt, and wonder if you'll ever read something that wrecks you so beautifully and you take a deep breath. You smell the ink on pages that smell like the history of raw emotions. There are dried tears marking pages of the best reads. You feel the weight of the book and you test the binding you may have abused. You fold back the dog eared pages as you prepare to start a new book because you don't need to go over the important bits you tried to relive. You've internalized those memories and they are carefully kept in the forefront of your mind, no matter how many times you've tried to ignore their significant clues to the ending you didn't see coming. It's time to put it down and move on to the next one. As per Dr. Cantu via Dr. Calabrese at Cal State LA, never deny literature as something that is not a part of your heritage. Don't give it to someone else because it was written in a language not your own. Don't deny yourself by giving ownership of a text away to anti-intellectual whims. Literature is universal with themes that cross cultures. Its values are eternally true.

As for your individual story, we are surprisingly adaptable to revision.

Look for Blessings and They Will Find You

I expected blessings yesterday and I was blessed. My day started with helping my Dad around his house.  I’m starting to enjoy moments when he underestimates me and I surprise him with my strength and ability.  His local Albertson’s is like his Cheer’s bar.  Everyone knows his name and they are full of bright smiles for him.  He kept introducing me as his daughter, then pointed out to his favorite butcher that I am single.  My response? "Seriously.  You really just did that?" We had fun shopping together.  He wanted to fill my fridge and I introduced him to goat’s cheese with water crackers and fig preserves. He’s a fan.  He filled my gas tank and funded a manicure.

I got groceries home and spent "me time" in a nail salon.  From there I headed to Will Rogers State Beach where I caught the sunset and picked out a few rocks.  I love quiet beaches and sat in my car for a bit to watch the waves in comfort.  As the last families headed home, I went to Santa Monica where there is more light and patrolling officers.  I wanted to thank the photographer that brightened my Wednesday.  He thought I was kind, and offered more coffee and tea.  I declined, and walked around the pier, checking out the night fishing. A few anglers were just setting their bait and hadn’t had a chance to catch anything. I used to fish with my Dad off of that pier and laughed a little at all of the couples leaning on the rails, oblivious to the fish guts they romanced in.

I walked around and approached the police officers that stood in conversation across from Bubba Gump. I thanked them for their service and wished them well in safety.  They thanked me and as I walked away I could hear their conversation shift into the gratitude I offered and their gratitude that it came from someone who looked like me.  That made me smile.

I wandered to the other side of the pier, and enjoyed a few moments as a shameless cougar, watching young shirtless men play beach volleyball under the stars. I left when I felt like I was being creepy enough.

I found myself watching the surf alongside a single mother.  She understood my desire to stay out when I know there's an empty home waiting for me. Her children were fully dressed, running in and out of the ocean as if it weren’t freezing.  They kept running to her for hugs and praising her for being a terrific mom. They’re on a similar plan where she also has stretches of days to decide what she wants to do now that she can do whatever strikes her as fun. They had spent a day at Disneyland and she was tiring them out so she could have a quiet drive back to San Jose with dry clothes and blankets in the car.  We talked spousal and child support. We talked love. In all of my anger, I still held back from trying to hurt my ex with every bit of fire in me.  She helped me see that with those I love, even when they’ve hurt or upset me, I would never try to cause them pain or make them feel insecure.  The love I looked for in him looks a lot like power and domination. We talked dating.  She dates, but she doesn’t get too close to anyone.  The natural progression of a relationship means having someone to sleep by your side every night.  She has young children and cannot sleep with one eye open.  She ends her relationships before they get to that point. That never occurred to me.  In all of my dating thoughts, I just assumed I’d get to be a fun grown up when I didn’t have my kids and both worlds could remain separate.  I never considered dating for keeps and just thought about dating and being married again.  The in between phase and the practical aspects of it never crossed my mind. She reminded me that I need to deal with my codependent tendencies so I don't bring them into my next relationship.

We talked tattoos and how she covered hers. She used a hamsa, because a hand of protection used in many cultures must mean several religious folks have placed their values in something meaningful. (Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Shamanism, Jain beliefs and Anatolia, but we didn't talk cultural appropriation.) She made a suggestion for mine.  I have a bee and my ex’s name on my shoulder.  My nickname for him was Honeybee.  For so long he would’ve done everything in his power to make me feel like a queen.  The name is going to be covered, not altered. I don’t know if I want to keep the bee because I like bees and I have longer than I've known the ex, and it ties into the life that brought me my kids.  I don’t know if I want something to devour the bee, but that thought makes me laugh.  I love California Poppies and like the idea of flowers on my shoulder. She suggested a honeypot.  Bees eat honey.  Bees need honey.  Without the queen, the hive dies.  I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I really liked her suggestion. At the same time, my days on movie sets make it impossible to not think of a honey wagon and that's not an image I am fond of. Besides, I've had his name on me for long enough that covering it should be all about me.

For today, I’m overflowing. That means I’m able to give and that looks like helping out with my niece and kid brother’s 11^th birthday party.  I’m not a party planning mom and lucked out in my kid’s sensory integration dysfunction.  I don’t like to throw parties and they don’t like to be at parties.  Usually they want Mountain Dew, Doritos, Gummy Worms, and a fast Wifi connection. Today I got in a tug of war with a bounce house and didn’t freak out over ruining my new manicure.  I have polish at home and I may play with my own nails later. Depending on how this day makes me feel, I may decide to hit the beach again tonight.  Whatever my day brings, I will look for the blessings and see the grace that covers me.

Exploring What Love Is

When I was younger, I would check the newspaper to clip a cartoon that would offer an explanation of what “Love is . . .”  My parents told me they loved me and they showed me in their way. For them, love was an actionable expression.  It was hard work to provide for our needs with occasional splurges of frivolity.  My mom still gives me jewelry because she loves sparkly things and I do too.  I love metamorphic rocks, and they frequently look like diamonds, and other swanky bits of crystallized rock often cut and shining under glass in jewelry stores.  I also like sandstone with quartz inclusions.  It doesn’t have to be expensive to be pretty.  My favorite rocks come from outdoor adventures and my latest acquisitions are from Will Rogers State Beach. I’ve always listened for “I love you.” I try to tell my kids I love them several times a day, and I demand hugs because hugs are healing. They don't need to tell me they love me.  I see it in their actions.  They need to hear that I love them because I don't want them to ever doubt that truth.

In the last few months I started to delete most voicemails and text messages.  Some things don’t need to be revived because being hurt once can be enough and my mind likes to recreate certain injuries.  Pain turns literature into tangible emotions. I deleted things so I wouldn’t be able to torture myself with them. I only keep a handful of texts and voicemails on my phone.  That means I’m intentional with listening to the voicemails and reading the text messages and the ones that make me feel special or giddy or happy get to stay.  A couple of months ago I focused on listening to voicemails and saving photo attachments from emails and text messages. Listening to voicemails taught me that I need to tell people they are loved. It’s so easy to call someone when you have a need.  It’s so easy to say I’m checking in on someone, but it should be just as easy to tell someone I love them.  I noticed when I don’t do exactly what my Dad wants me to, I’ll tell him I love him, but he will say his goodbyes with stoic finality.  His idea of love falls heavily on obedience. For him love means he can call me for help and he knows he can rely on me. My Mom calls to check on me and there’s love in the call, but she won’t say she loves me.  Not usually. Calling to check on me is her way of expressing love for me. Bringing me groceries out of the blue because she was thinking of me when she was shopping for her own home tells me she is always thinking of me and loving me.

I’m not looking for someone to tell me they love me.  I’m not trying to recreate a feeling and I’m not trying to replace what I felt in marriage.  In regards to the opposite sex, my smiles are given freely but I haven't wanted to do much more than smile for the most part.  I've decided I'm not interested in killing time with Mr. Right Now.  I’ve given enough years to silly infatuations and really, I like falling in love, but it’s not always worth the emotional exhaustion. Besides, right now I’m really enjoying my own company.  I like being picky about where I want to eat when I actually feel like eating. I like deciding to do whatever my mood dictates without worrying about fitting into someone else’s plans.  When the kids are home, they are never interested in much outside of Minecraft and YouTube.  Kid3 loves a good skate park with my younger brother and step dad. I let the kids dictate my plans when they’re home and I find contentment in being home with their sounds and random snuggles. Doing what they value is part of my display of love and affection.

Expressing my love for someone comes out as gratitude.  I try to thank people for their words of encouragement or their consideration.  My love comes out as a careful observation and my willingness to show someone that I see them and they don't have to prove who they are because I see them so clearly.  They mean so much to me that I can see them outside of the mess in my own mind - in my own life.  I used to have a thing for Martha Stewart.  That lady knew her way around a home and I wanted to learn from her.  I had over 8 years of magazines on a shelf when I met my husband.  A few men before him was a man that noticed how important it was to me to subscribe to a magazine for a few years and keep every single magazine.  He watched me as I would touch each one along its spine, in search of the right one because I knew the articles I loved and could find one in minutes based on the spine.  He used to laugh at how my brain worked when it came to words.  They pop out at me and I have a hard time not reading whatever is in front of me. He saw me when I wasn't looking at me because I was being me.  To me, that was love, and it's my favorite way to show my love. When we moved, I was pregnant with kid1 and the ex had lots to move on his own while I was on bedrest. Those magazines were heavy and ended up in the trash. Real life took over and I stopped worrying about magazines.

I’ve read that I should be compiling a list of what I will and will not accept in a partner once I start dating but that homework doesn’t seem interesting right now.  Right now I’m thinking someone I can talk to would be great.  I want to be challenged and I want my perceptions to shift because I find myself talking to someone I can respect. I haven’t thought further than that. I mean, I want what every girl wants.  I want attention and I want to know that my smile has made someone else’s day better. I want to be looked at with desire and I like intimidating someone because they don't know that I want them just as badly. Realistically, I’m a single mom and not in a hurry to introduce new people to my sons.  I like the idea of someone that isn’t jealous of my time with my kids because for the foreseeable future, they will be my priority and while they are with me, they will come before my needs and desires.  For now, that’s all I can think of.  I think there’s an instinctive voice that tells you when it’s right.  First impressions mean a lot and I usually know when I’m attracted to someone in the first two minutes of meeting him.  Usually those relationships are intense and fizzle quickly.  I've seen that a few times in recent months and I run in the opposite direction. That being said, all of my long term relationships were with guys that grew on me after weeks of them flirting and changing my mind because I was very quick to reject them.

Pain and trauma are subjective.  I get that, but I believe love is as well.  We each experience it differently and we express it in unique ways.  It’s in the way we shift our needs around others.  It’s in the choices we make that don’t make logical sense, but feel right.  I love my dog, but I was willing to give him away.  I love my children but it doesn’t destroy me when they go to their Dad.  I love a good meal.  I could easily look at a person I genuinely care for and tell them I love them because I can justify loving the person before me enough that I would care if I never see them again, and yet I loved almond filled croissants and I haven’t shed a tear because I’m now sensitive to wheat.  I love food, but I easily feel more attachment to someone I've talked to and connected with. There’s beauty in human connection and the loss of a relationship will always be worth the mourning period. That truth looks a lot like love to me. It's easy to use love as a manipulation, but really, we see what we choose to look at.

More recently I see love as more of a choice than an emotion. Emotions come and go.  Emotions are fickle and shifting and depend on hormones and chemical reactions and brain signals.  Love that is real comes down to a choice to still love, no matter what the benefit or cost may be.  It’s the feeling you have the first time your angry child tells you they hate you. Waiting for a husband that rejected me forced me to make a daily decision to love through the rending of my heart, our family and my dreams.  The moment he told me he was done, I started sorting and packing our things separately.  I was immediately okay with letting him go, because he didn’t want me.  Later the choice to wait and fight for a dead marriage became more than a desire to preserve what we had, but a need to prove to him and me that I could be the wife he wanted.  I could forgive him.  I still forgive him, but I decided to value my desire to walk away more than my need to be everything I thought I should be. I always told him I didn’t need him but I wanted him, and this year proved it. Now I no longer want him.

There is a fear in accepting I was wrong to wait for so long through emotional abuse and humiliation.  There is shame in deciding that the people that told me he wasn’t the right fit could see much more clearly than I could. I won’t say I wish I had never met him.  We had many terrific years.  I can walk away knowing that there was a great reason for the marriage we shared and it reaches beyond our children.  I can also say that we had given each other all we could and the growth we experienced was becoming a destructive weight on both of us.  We shared most of our 20’s and 30’s and in that time we grew up and it’s okay that we grew apart.  I’m not sure what I feel for him, but I know five minutes with him Wednesday affected my evening and distracted my Thursday.  Today is Friday and I expect great things to fall in my lap.  I expect to experience love today, even if it is in a cup of coffee with the sun on my face.

A Date Myself Night

Last night took a detour.  I was excited and filled with Anticipation. It started when the kids were picked up by the ex.  He kicked me to the curb, down the gutter, and for months I couldn't even get out of the manhole.  He seemed shocked in saying I looked good.  I wasn't expecting the shock or the rage that seemed to fuel it.  He wanted to talk child care and I told him to go ahead and use his girlfriend.  The agreement we drafted was made pointless by the loophole he immediately saw, and I decided to stop fighting it when I decided I wanted a divorce.  I've told him to divorce me several times, but I decided to do it myself mid-February.  I let him know in February.  Last night he asked why we have to go back to court and I reminded him about the divorce that is coming.  He asked if I was divorcing him because of my new man.  I told him it was none of his business.

I went to visit my childhood friend that we named our firstborn after at his job and he showed me the rooftop.  The sun was starting to set, and it fell between two buildings. It's right in front of the Deloitte building which has always been my favorite because of the football shape on top of the building.  When I find hilltops in my neighborhood to look at the Downtown Los Angeles skyline, I always look for that building. The sky slide on the US Bank building was on the side we couldn't see, and I could see the Library but know it's much more beautiful inside, and I'm due to visit the fountains in the courtyard because it's been too long. I can't remember the names of all the other buildings he pointed out. He took pictures of me because I looked like I cared and that is a good look on me.

As I headed out, my date night became a date myself night.  I started heading home, but ended up taking the streets to Santa Monica.  I had a pair of jeans and my Uggs in the car, so I threw them on under my dress in the parking lot as teenaged girls were flirting with the Bubba Gump staff enjoying their breaks.  Walking up the stairs on the north entrance to the pier, I got a face full of strawberry e-smoke and an apology.  I told him I was fine.  When I smoked it smelled like tobacco, and not like fruit.  He told me the e-cigarettes helped him quit smoking and I told him I quit cold turkey but it didn't make me a nice person.  He told me that took a lot of mental strength and his observation made me smile as I hit the pier.

I thought I'd dine at Maria Sol and rewrite an old memory with someone else.  They were closing and I ended up wandering around the pier. As I was walking, a vendor stopped me to ask where I'm from.  I'm a native Californian, but he couldn't imagine me being from Santa Monica, because he would have remembered me. He takes pictures of people in front of the lit up Ferris Wheel and sets them one of top of the other for a holographic dual picture effect.  He offered to take a gratis picture of me to make me smile.  It did make me smile and I thanked him and admitted I was having a rough night at that point.  Years of being gaslighted made me start to believe I was divorcing my husband so I could date and that it had nothing to do with the times he told me he was done, or the many times he cursed me out at the top of his lungs or by text, or the time his girlfriend texted me from his phone to tell me I was a horrible mother, and physically unattractive. He was negating his responsibility for the other times my arguments with him became her fight to battle. I think the photographer's name was Martin, but he offered me coffee or tea, and told me I was beautiful. He asked me about my day and gave me words of encouragement. He handed me a free picture without a hologram and asked me to visit again sometime.

I walked away feeling better because it had been a few months since a stranger handed me something free just for the opportunity to see me smile.  Then it occurred to me that most people never have that happen to them and for me it has happened a few times a year for much of my adult life.  I truly live a charmed life when I remember to look past the drama. I walked the shoreline and passed couples in the icy water, or huddled on the sand.  There was a beachcomber with a metal detector and sand trap, sifting for the day's lost treasures.  The sound of the crashing waves is energizing and it just makes me happy.

Walking the pier, there were several men that looked at me and smiled once I acknowledged their looks.  I was being friendly but I wasn't feeling like a shameless cougar. There were two men old enough to be my grandfather.  Some were young and in groups.  One was female. Two were chasing kids or holding hands with someone else.  Then there were the handful that were purposely avoiding any glance in my direction.  They made me laugh.  Earlier in the evening I had joked with my friend about finding a self car wash near a high school in my dress to boost my mood, but that is really disgusting and something I totally would have done in my early 20's.

I left and took the streets home again.  Driving past Hollywood High School I remembered the junior high graduation I was late to. Our auditorium was too small so we borrowed theirs.  I barely made it in time step into the moving procession and make it to my seat on stage with the rest of the graduating Leadership class.  Years later I was sitting on those steps as an ex boarded all over them, grinding the rails.  I don't know if he wanted me to watch him, or if he didn't care that I was bored. He skated and I lit up one cigarette off of the butt of the last one. It might have been both. I realized I shouldn't skip dinner even if I wasn't hungry, so I stopped at the Denny's near Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles were I had my very first set up date.  It was my 10th birthday and my sisters took me out with one of their friends and his kid brother.  I sat and tried to rewire the thoughts running through my mind.

I can't be the whore I felt like for divorcing the ex.  You can't blame a divorce on a person that doesn't exist.  I reminded myself that I waited.  I waited over 10 months after he threw his wedding band in a parking lot to take mine off.  It's been over a year and it's okay to decide I am done.  As I was leaving the restaurant, the security guard asked where I am from.  That's a common question because I look uncommon. I'm mixed.  I don't fit the standard categories.  He called me beautiful too.  I thanked him and told him I was having a rough night and it definitely made a difference.  I believe taking a chance that a compliment wouldn't bring out my crazy should be rewarded with gratitude. He said I had a glow about me and he couldn't see how I could be having a rough day.  I get that a lot.  I had just eaten a Denny's pot roast, with tepid and not hot tea because I forgot I prefer IHOP's pot roast and I had a waitress doubling as the hostess. I didn't send it back because I was trying to focus on not feeling like a whore for reclaiming my future from a dead past. I smiled on my way home and this morning emailed a friend about my cover up tattoo.  I'm ready to look at designs and ideas.

First Date Anticipation

It's happening and the clock teases me by going too slowly, then speeding up too much. My 5 day kid free stretch starts in about an hour and a half and I decided I would accept not staying home or enjoying my own company.  Tonight I will share my company and consider it a public service.  I also think it's time to bite the bullet and stop being afraid of people. It shouldn't be this exciting, but it is. The caveat is the excitement is heavy handed with fear.  Right now I don't at all feel like a shameless cougar. I hold up hangers as options and then I wait and see what they have to say.  Will this one call me easy?  Does this one say I'm a prude? If I wear this dress will you see my personality, and will the sweater on top if it make it all that can be seen? My insecurities creep in and I choose the dress that feels so sexy, no one needs to care what I think.

The shoes are next, and it's an elimination process that starts with color.  The shoes should match.  Then I try them on, one at a time and walk in my underwear.  Which ones feel stable? How do my legs look? Do they pinch my toes? I go with the pair that make me feel tall and are hard not to notice.

I put on the ensemble and decide it's too much for something so little and I go with the dress that says I'm pretty and I'm really not as desperate as the last one made me feel.  It requires a little less commitment to being weatherproof as the temperatures dip into evening and I don't want to rely on a stiff drink to keep me warm.  Stiff drinks present their own shenanigans and debauchery and I'm just dabbling in my own mischief tonight. I choose the heels that are easier to walk in.

On most days I start with a clean and moisturized face.  I add blush on my cheeks, eye shadows, and eyeliner, and as an afterthought, a bit of lipstick.  I like it when I can give a hug and my makeup won't stay on someone's shoulder.  Tonight I started with a clean face but then layers of makeup piled on in layers with time to set, then in shades that compliment my dress.  My mascara smells like it's time for a replacement and I plan to grab a tube on my way out.

I change my jewelry and look for something flashy to wear, because I want soft lighting to hit shiny bits . . . if there is soft lighting.  Then I take it off because I want to wear something that is tied to my every day. Part of going out is the mystery of what someone else thinks will be my idea of fun.  My nerves are messing with my stomach and I'm considering if it would be better to puke or to cancel.  I decide deep breathing will work too. I spritz a little Versace Red Jeans on my pulse points and decide my next splurge will be on a bottle of Ysatis by Givenchy because I've always loved that scent even though I rarely wear perfume.  Then I giggle when I remember the time a friend tried to coach me into the correct pronunciation of Givenchy.  I'm officially out of control and all over the place.

The ex calls because he's running late, and that buys me another half hour to debate a cancellation.  It's a last minute night of shenanigans with someone I hadn't daydreamed about spending time with.  It's a chance at spontaneity and I didn't allow myself to think this one through and I have more time to think of the many reasons why I should take myself out alone instead.  It was so much safer to imagine a silly crush because that was safe.  I get a second chance at being single and it's a bit terrifying right this second.

I might tell you how it goes, but it won't be part of this post on anticipation because it'll be about my Date Night. One day anticipation will smell like excitement and not taste like heart burn.

My Weaknesses Displayed

Ask about my weaknesses and I'll tell you I spend more time plotting the next thing I plan to say and not listening to the ideas you've just plopped before me.  If I'm doing well, I'll stop talking at that point.  I tend to talk too much and it will cross my mind that it's a problem because you take too long to spit out what you are thinking and odds are you are not cute enough to entertain me and I will guess repeatedly what you should have said by now because my curiosity isn't satisfied by your slow self expression. Your point should have arrived and you are now stepping on my time and my interest has flown. In short, I can be really impatient. At the same time, I can get completely tongue tied.  When my words come out a jumbled heap and the words don't sound like words, that means I'm excited and nervous and feeling intimidated by the person I'm talking to.  This is the time when silly confessions and saying more than I should becomes a problem.  I will shine with the creepy observations that the average person doesn't see because that careful observation of everything around me and the imagination that fuels them are normally the perfect breeding medium for what I write, but I've turned off that censor and words tumble out and make messes of embarrassment that cover me in bright excitement and the heat rises and my cheeks feel it the most.  It's not as simple as shame or embarrassment. It is a jeweled crown of mortification.

I also have more passive than aggressive in my anger.  I may write what I think, but I won't live it out. I should verbalize my anger. I'm much more careful with the gilded frame in which I situate my words when I have fear my words will hurt another person.  I'm always a little too worried about hurting others. It's usually a strength, but not when it's only at my expense, and not when my caution is fear based. Being assertive is on my radar but I'm very much into hedonistic exploits right now, and assertive training isn't part of that. At the same time, I believe joy and happiness are choices, and I haven't found the balance between happiness and aggression.  Let me know if you think of a safe place to express my pissy moods.

Insecurities are a thing, and they're my thing.  I wrap them around me and push through them until they become my strengths for the most part.  At times I can't even see my insecurities until they've been twisted into weapons by someone else. That's the point of this post.  If I announce it, I can own it and deal with it.

I have been teased about using $5 words and shamed for trying to sound smart.  I like reading and being a bookish broad wasn't always a strength.  Again, it might just be the men I was dating. I find men that can get lost in a book and are able to converse about the ideas bounding from their shifting perspective is a new kind of sexy that I didn't know how to address before. It still intimidates me. I have spent too long trying to simplify my language so I don't look like I'm trying to make someone feel bad. I don't mind explaining myself, I just hate second guessing myself.

I do a lot of reading and much less talking, so I'm sometimes unsure about the words I want to use because I know what they look like and what they mean, but I don't always know what they sound like.  I don't want to relive reading "melancholy" out loud in junior high. That was bad.

I love too hard, and for much too long.  There are patterns we get from our family of origin, so thanks Mom. This inability to quit for the sake of love is what had me holding on to my marriage for so long.  Letting go and accepting that some questions are not meant to have answers is difficult for me.  Closure sounds so silly in the face of all that was done, but at the end of the day, it matters more that too much happened, and not why it had to.  Some things don't need a reason that I can understand.  Earthquakes are natural but not normal and we don't always know how to predict them with accuracy enough to evacuate cities.  Sometimes the shaking is the only point I need to process and grow from.

Some puzzles keep bothering me.  People and their motives are fairly easy to grasp for the most part.  Every once in awhile I'll see a puzzling expression or someone will very clearly bite their tongue on a rogue thought that very nearly escaped. A moment kept crossing my mind to the point where I had a dream about it and woke up to keep turning it over like a cat tiring out a field mouse.  A month later and it was still crossing my mind.  I've had random moments where I'll catch a similar expression on someone else, and that moment is renewed and fresh in my mind for further torment.  It's insidious. I have a hard time letting go of things I want to know that I have no possible way of finding out. It's the same for riddles and plot lines that are not neatly tied by the author.

Math is a weakness. It started with multiplication tables in the 3rd grade.  I couldn't memorize them and math tends to build on itself.  I was solving quadratic equations and slowly counting out the multiplication I should have memorized on tapping fingertips and whispered counting on murmuring lips. I did really well in geometry, but algebra was a challenge. In high school I got through my second year of algebra and believed my counselor when she said I wouldn't need anymore math.  She lied.  You need a certain level of math to graduate college, and that class likely has several prerequisites.  If you don't practice it, you will forget it.  I wanted to be a geologist until the math required scared me away.  I got through college level algebra, but then I was looking at Trigonometry, Calculus, Chemistry and Physics, which are all special names for different math tortures and I decided English sounded a lot easier.  It was the practical decision when I looked at mothering and running a home. It was the boring choice to get lost in literature when  I could spend a night in a tent and get up with the sun to play in the earth with other scientists. Banging out a paper while half asleep was easier than solving equations and mapping complex equations along the x, y, and z axis. It's a weakness I've made peace with but every so often I entertain the idea of going back to do better in those classes.

I'm messy.  I have always been messy.  I grew up with too much junk in the house and it was comfortable. As an adult, walking into the home of a hoarder is both familiar and it gives me extreme anxiety.  As mom, I tried to keep up but found myself snapping at sensory integration dysfunction meltdowns.  When kid1 and kid2 were little, I would piece their wooden puzzles together and neatly stack them.  I'd leave the room for laundry, and hear the crash of a box of wooden puzzles being turned upside down and scattered with the Hot Wheels and Thomas the Tank Engine.  My kids might not have survived being toddlers if I hadn't decided the messes weren't that important. I had to let it go, or risk becoming an abusive parent.  Now I will save major cleaning for when they are with their Dad and I even enjoy cleaning up, but to clean while they are actively making messes can make me angry and a bit terrifying. I used to get so angry when I was trying to clean up around the ex that was watching television or laying in bed. The wife I was had to do everything at home on my own and I knew that if I left a mess, it would wait for me to get to it whenever I got around to it. Ideally, they would clean up after themselves, but that first struggle of having to wait for people to talk translates here as well.  It's easier on me mentally if I just do it myself, and one day I would love to hire someone to do it for me. Sometimes they help and from what I understand, they do a lot more at their Dad's house, but when I'm not exhausted, I find peace in picking up after my natural disasters while they sleep.  I put on music and dance through it.  There's balance.  If you saw how organized my sewing kit is, you'd see how much I crave the control.

I don't cry often.  It's a weakness because humans are not meant to hold it all in. At times I'll have a slow leak of too much emotion.  The tears fall silently and I may sniffle a bit, then blame it on allergies.  Most people around me might not notice it unless they are super sensitive or over informed about my latest drama. There's always drama. I have a seething angry cry.  That usually comes out when I withhold a beating of angry words for someone else's sake.  I don't ugly cry though and those cries are the most healing.  I don't even cry chopping onions anymore.  I could use a good cry and I'm not even sure how to turn that stuff on.  I could have been one of those women that manipulates a relationship with waterworks, but I never figured out how.

The Pets I've Loved

As a kid, I remember finding a dead bird and wrapping it in large ivy leaves and giving it a full burial.  My neighbors had a thing for birds and I watched over several days as they carved a piece of softwood into a nest for their little eggs.  The neighborhood dog had puppies every spring.  I wanted to witness every aspect of puppies and dog life, and would laugh at seeing two dogs stuck together. They were cute until they became loud and stinky.  I eventually convinced my parents to let me have one.  There's nothing like the smell of puppy breath and seeing them wander aimlessly on bellies with pudgy and useless paws, leading with noses that know the smell of their exhausted mother, though their eyes and ears were sealed shut. I've rescued a litter from underneath a house because the spot chosen during the beginning rains wasn't ready for the water sluicing through the mud as the storm progressed.  One spring I was cramming for an exam and the dog sitting at my feet started whelping pups. That carpet was doomed and I ended up ripping it out myself. With the many births and pets I've had, death and loss are part of that.  I've cried over some of my animals, but not all of them.  Maybe that makes me cold, but I doubt you cry over every human life lost and broadcast on the news.  I tend to do that and don't watch the news anymore because of the uncontrollable empathy that I feel, but I will read and catch up on stories as I choose to. I've always thought of animals as part of my home, but home is shifting for me.  I have a home, but more and more my home is where I am happiest, and that place shifts depending on my mood.  It's no longer tied to a place and a person. It's all about me, and while I still have animals in my home, they are not my home.  I miss my children when they are gone, but shared custody has given me an early empty nest for part of the week.  For a while I wanted home to be my haven, but I'm finding peace in knowing my home travels wherever I roam and I can find joy in almost anything.

We're down to two animals! My lonesome koi doesn't count as I have nothing to do with his survival.  That little thing just won't die.  I never even named the little guy. I like having the two animals.  We're down to the first two we adopted when we moved here 9 years ago and before we found out about the many allergies my older two suffer from.

Nature is the German Shepherd mix we adopted as a puppy.  I can't justify her name, but I can justify the pride my then 5 year old felt in naming her.  He's 14 now.  He was nonverbal for so long, we were encouraging his words in any way they came out.  She has old lady joints and forgets about them sometimes.  She reminds me of myself although I would be willing to part with her.  She follows me and lounges near me.  She understands when I tell her to get off the couch or go to her yard, but she will also look at me as she tries to steal scraps at the table. She gets that from Kid2. Socks is the cat we had since she was a teenager of a kitten.  She was playful and loved socks on laundry day.  Now she's a murderer that will eviscerate birds, rodents and lizards, leaving entrails and feathers with an occasional tail.  She eats her kill, then she'll delicately lick her paws as if it's a regular bath and not destruction of evidence. She keeps rodents away, so she's a keeper. She likes people though.  The first few weeks after my ex left, she would bring me a freshly killed bird each morning.  I hate the way she loves me.

We had Max dog for several years.  He was a stray that followed my niece home.  She couldn't keep him and we took him to the pound.  We kept checking on him to see if he had a missing owner that missed him.  We eventually adopted him because I couldn't imagine that sweet boy being put down.  Now my niece is a grown up with her own place and she was able to take him back.  He was my teenager, always hungry and sneaking food off the table, and sneaking out for a midnight run.  He was very sweet and loving and often tried to steal kisses from me, but he knew I don't get licked by dog tongues. Every so often he would try to convince me he could be a lap dog. My niece picked him up last night before I hit the beach. I didn't ask the kids.  I just did it and when they got home today they were okay with it.  They like the idea of visiting him still or having him visit on holidays when my brother brings his dog, my sister sometimes brings hers, and my nephews bring theirs.

I've had so many animals.  It started with a German Shepherd named Spikey Brownie Power.  I wanted to name him after Spike from Tom and Jerry.  My sister wanted to name him Brownie but I was the baby and I won almost everything until my parents started foster care.  Spikey came from the neighborhood dog that got knocked up every time she was in heat and we called her Puppy.  I called her Puppy Power and that's where his last name came from.

Bear was my favorite.  He didn't do tricks because I didn't teach him any, but he was smart and he understood me.  He understood English and my very limited Spanish. My early 20's were rough and he was by my side with his head in my lap whenever I cried.  I got him through Parvo only to lose him to a rattlesnake bite a few months later. Living in the wilder areas near Dodger's Stadium wasn't always great.  Sure parking at home and walking to the stadium had perks.  The grassy lots on Elysian Park and Stadium Way that people park in now were always full of rattlers.   My friends were always giving Bear tastes of their beer. He was a chow mix mutt.

All of my animals were mutts and either came from a shelter or got adopted out of a back yard in the neighborhood. Mighty Max was a chihuahua that came with the name a friend gave him before she had to give him up. Gorda ended up being an only puppy because her mother (Puppy) was part stupid and had her litter on the couch we kept on the porch.  Some of them were smothered in the cushions and under her. Puppies that survive when their littermates all die get to sample each nipple as many times as they want to.  She loved falling asleep in my pumps.   Eventually only her muzzle would fit in my shoe. Chester was mainly black with a patch of white that looked like chest hair.  Cuddles was a husky and she was a whiny little bitch. We had a chihuahua named Naughty List.  You can't be a homeless dog at Christmas without being on the Naughty List.  Honestly, I don't remember all of the animals I've had.

The cats I remember were Sugar who was white with a orange litter mate named Tang. Our sitter's neighborhood cat died, leaving her kittens homeless and I wanted to rescue them.  Arwen was my cuddly cat.  She would lay on me at night.  I would shift positions or roll over and she would walk on me as I rolled and ended up on top of me as smoothly as if I had never moved.  She was the mothering cat that took in and loved all kittens.  We adopted her from the pound after her abortion.  She's been gone a little over a year. Milk was a kitten I got from my sister.  His mother was a Savannah that my sister bought on sale which means she still spent more than I would have. He was my first tiny kitten and I had no idea cow's milk could be fatal.   A large vet bill later, and I named him Milk. My ex brought home a pit bull for long enough to break in a window that Milk jumped out of.  Milk died by dog when the pit decided it was play time.  The pit went away after that.  I've fostered a couple of kittens long enough to know round the clock feedings with a wet cotton ball were not worth the cute.

We also had reptiles.  For a while, the ex wanted to run a reptile rescue.  I never volunteered to be his mother, so I went with it as long as my involvement was as minimal as I wanted. The kids preferred sleeping on the couches, so he commandeered their room to house over 30 different reptiles.  I had a few I liked.  I had two sulcata tortoises I named Slow and Poke.  I had a couple of baby albino corn snakes I named Clio and Calliope.  We had a tegu that I fed raw ground turkey mixed with raw eggs and calcium powder.  We just called him Tegs. He had a dog like temperament, and would follow me around in the little play pen we put up for him.  The cats would watch from outside, super curious and more cautious.  We had a mali uromastyx named Chubby that I grew collard greens for.  He was sweet and loved so much by Kid2. I hated the iguana and that temperamental tail whip of a beast hated me too. One Father's Day one of the red tailed boa constrictors gave live birth, then smashed some of it's babies because snakes are awful mothers.  We had ball pythons and bearded dragons that were always in the mood for love. We had turtles and frogs, and chameleons.  There were live rodents and frozen rodents, live crickets and freeze dried crickets.  I chopped fresh produce and was grateful that someone in the house was willing to eat a salad.

When I was a kid I had a hamster named Goober.  My uncle found him and his habitat with food and everything else he needed left with the trash collection in 90210. He was a sweet little food hoarder.  We brought home a rat and didn't feed the snakes right away.  She gave birth and I pardoned her.  That is how we started breeding rats for a while.  They don't mind incest and we had several rat litters going for a while.  They are amazing mothers, willing  to steal babies from other mothers to raise and care for.  Feeding them is important because once food becomes scarce (even by a couple of hours), they will turn into cannibals and eat each other.  I couldn't keep doing it because, ew.

I fully recognize I've done more than most would, and it's quite enough. I like other people's animals, but this newly designed life I'm choosing isn't going to keep including animals.  I may keep a cat because I prefer an invited cat that is okay staying outdoors to uninvited rodents, but once Nature dies I'm not getting a replacement dog.  I plan to run away on weekends and I can't do that without worrying about the beasts.  In the last decade or so, animals that can't reproduce were a first choice.  We'd have pets and ask someone to check on them when we wanted to skip town, but now I love the idea of an empty house and no obligations because I know the kids are fine with their Dad when he has them and I love the idea of skipping town to play in towns I've always wanted to see. Is it horrible that the last guy that asked for my number while walking his dog was rejected because of the dog I was petting? Really, the question of whether I'm dating comes down to who's asking and so far I haven't been asked by anyone I'd be willing to change my dating status for. Dog or no dog, I probably would've found another reason to reject him.

Laughter and Flirting Over the Pacific on Easter

I can't complain about my Easter away from my kids.  I was with family.  There was lots of laughter and joy.  Maybe a little Jim Beam Apple Whiskey, straight up. Very little.  Like a taste, but not enough to call it a shot, and I gave my Mom's orange tree a taste too, because it looked thirsty.  I'm so not a drinker but there are enough in my family that my weak contributions are made up for.

My brother had an idea for my cover up tattoo.  I haven't nailed down ideas yet for covering up the ex's name.  He offered a mock up with a sharpie. It was somewhere along the lines of a craigslist ad.  I declined his offer.  All of us laughed for a little too long over that, and it was a moment of my family joining in on what they've spent a year respectfully giving space to.  My nephews and even my baby brother suggested different dating sites and apps.  They want to see me move on and they believe in my ability to find happiness.  They saw what years with the ex meant for me, and they want better.  I have no idea what better looks like, but they believe he's out there for me. They encouraged me to jump in and go after what I want. They made me laugh and they made me smile and these days my smiles come so much easier than they used to. I wanted to laugh and smile and I was happy to take their suggestions. I needed that push.  It was a good push.

I came home for long enough to get a few things done, then I drove to the beach.  There's something about the ocean that makes me happy. I walked along Will Rogers for long enough to be slightly creeped out at being completely alone except for the few men going through the trash cans with flashlights.  I was approached with a friendly request for a joint.  I haven't touched one in decades. I decided a more populated beach might be a wise decision and drove to Santa Monica.  I walked along the sand for a while, then decided to walk the pier and see if fish were biting for the anglers up there.  I was surprised by a text, and ended up flirting shamelessly for a while before heading home.

I've decided the moment my husband changed into my ex, was when I was ready to consider a next.  The men in my family encouraged me enough to take a chance and the reward on my gamble was huge.  There's been laughter tonight.  Lots of laughter and silly giggles.  There is so much healing in silly giggles and belly laughs. The flirting was completely one sided.  It was entirely on my side, with spaced out polite responses from the other side.  The huge take away was that I loved the way flirting made me feel. Even a polite lack of interest is something to celebrate.

Angry Diatribes and Self Inflicted Injuries

The husband is on his way to pick the kids up for Easter.  We haven't really talked since my birthday and that was before I started blogging.  I can't stop the million and four mean things I should have said that run through my mind.  I start an internal chant of, "I forgive him," but the rage pushes through because I can't forget how he burned that bridge with me still on it.

I love my boys.  I love their hugs.  I love their silliness.  I see their fear and the uncertainty they live in.  My son spilled his drink while pouring it.  Sugar free fruit punch splattered, then pooled on the countertop and he began to attack himself over the accident.  He vocalized his frustration with himself.  He started to hit his head.  I stopped him.  I hugged him.  I told him it was a little spill and when was the last time I freaked out on a little spill?  On the other hand, actively making messes while I am actively cleaning up will piss me off.  He smiled at that and hugged me back, then I cleaned up the mess because it took two seconds and a flowing motion from what I was already in the middle of. It's the next morning and I feel I need to be gentle with myself for nurturing the responsibility of the mess away from him.

There was a chance I wanted to take that I didn't, and those thoughts still haunt me.  I know the timing is wrong because I am still angry with my husband that I am still legally married to.  I believe there are chapters in my life on hold, waiting to be woven into the narrative. I know that in time everything falls into place in the best possible way.

Today I will be gentle with myself.  I will love my quirky ideals and accept my anger as a valid feeling before I release it.  I will play with my hair and spackle on makeup because I owe myself the focus and I may meet my next adventure later tonight. Then I'm putting on jeans because that adventure usually lies along Pacific Coast Highway. I hear good things about Zuma Beach and I haven't been there yet.

Scent Memories and Lingering Ghosts

There's something so primal about a memory tied to scent. Infants at birth will use their sense of smell to know where food is coming from.  They are familiar with the sound of mom's voice but her scent is instinctual. There's an entire science of pheromones and secretions from sexual organs that call to sexual partners.  It's really fascinating and gets me excited in all my geeky places.  Scents can flood your mind with memories, help your memory and brain function, boost your mood . . . Your nose is amazing.  Mine tends to spread across my face a bit like peanut butter. It's adorable on my kids though. I was part of the last minute hordes on an egg run at the grocery store this morning. Reaching for a dozen eggs, my nose started sniffing in the opposite direction from where I was reaching and looking.  A man walked past me and his scent hit me in the memories of 8th grade.  I don't remember what he looked like.  It didn't even matter.  He reminded me of a boy in a semester length typing class.  I loved walking past him because he smelled like his black leather jacket and Drakkar Noir.  I didn't have a crush on him.  I just loved smelling him.

Dial antibacterial hand soap reminds me of a particular summer.  I once bought a ginormous refill bottle that lasted the entire summer.  There was a blonde skater who was in the middle of renovating his house.  He used the same soap in his bathroom, and that scent always reminds me of him. One whiff reminds me of him, but it only took two dates to decide he wasn't worth my time or the free drinks.

Old Spice reminds me of a frat boy with a gift for a single handed bra removal, and a love of binge drinking. He was an engineering major, and dorky enough to be cute. He didn't always wear it, but the one time he did left a memory that revives itself when I smell the original after shave. He loved how tall I was and had the silkiest black hair.  At the end of the day, commitment was never meant to be part of our relationship.

Sun tan oil reminds me of a season in skate shops and sandalwood scented sex wax.  That was a spring filled with Boone's Farm, sage smudge sticks and nicotine kisses. It was a time when I could expect a hand picked bouquet of some neighbor's flowers each day.

Lately my scent memory reminds me I have a history before marriage and I will have a future after this one.  There will probably be a next husband once I get past the fear of being open to the first date.  I wonder what that will smell like.

Why Confidence is More Than Body Image

I was bathing suit shopping with a friend who told me she wished she had my confidence.  If I can accept the lower aspects of the people I love, then I have to accept the lower parts of who I am, and be willing to grow from where I am to where I intend to be. I've loved large men, even the morbidly obese. I've loved drug addicts.  I've loved narcissistic men who cared more about how I made them look, than how I felt.  I've loved materialistic men, and men with less attractive features. I didn't let bad hygiene keep me from love.  If I can love in spite of a less than ideal partner, what makes me any less loveable? I tell my autistic sons that Superman has super sensory abilities, but we would never call him disabled.  If he's not disabled, they're superheroes too.  If they're superheroes, and I am the curator of their future, what makes me any less than amazing?

I spend a decent amount of time each morning in my bra and panties, standing in front of a full body mirror like Linda Carter did when I used to watch Wonder Woman.  Hands on hips, proud of my . . . well, I like the way a good bra fits. From this angle, I can see all of me, and I refuse to look for imperfections.  That would be like watching the sun during a sunset, but ignoring the shifting colors in the sky and clouds.

I never take off the class ring my Dad bought me.  I refused a ring in high school because I always knew I'd eventually get my college ring.  It took 17 years for a 4 year degree, but I earned it without cheating or taking short cuts.  I did it with a young family, and through surrogacies, and I usually had to fight for and justify my plans to my husband because being a student meant I had less to offer him and the kids.  I still had to do all of the cooking and cleaning and studying, and coming to bed because he was tired of waiting up for me, even though I'd sneak out of the bedroom once he was asleep and bang out a paper into the early morning hours for class the next day.  For a while, kid2's greatest goal when he grows up was to be a graduate.  More than what I accomplished in school was what it looked like to my kids.

On any given day, if I pay attention, I can spot at least one person checking me out. He will usually be fully aware that it would be a waste of time to approach me, but he's looking and for a moment, he sees something he wants.  Ignoring these looks is part of survival as a female in a larger city.  No matter what you look like, people will look, and for a moment, you become a living centerfold.  Teenaged boys could have a breeze make them happy.  It doesn't take much to spark male imaginations. You can wilt at the blatant objectification, or let it empower you as you decide what that look means or doesn't mean to you. Keep your head held high, and consider your attraction a public service as you've probably brightened someone's day.

Wear the short skirt or low cut blouse.  Stuff yourself into those jeggings because feeling like stuffed sausage looks hot. (I actually don't own a pair of jeggings.) Sway your hips with each step you take, one foot directly in front of the other, shoulders back.  Choose the bikini.  Wear the heels that make your calves rock solid and lift your butt just enough. Always throw on your confidence.  No one can manufacture it or make it fit, except for you.

A Princess Poem

Another fall back Friday poem from before 2005. A Princess

I am a princess

I don’t hide it

Every one knows

Though they see me differently

That man,

Over there drowned in his

Hip-hop style

That street-talking-no-class-having boy

“What’s up?” he says

I smile

He sees me as some ghettofied Nubian Princess

My waiter

The waiter that has claimed me while I dine here

That dickies-wearing-gang-style boy

Attempting an honest living

He sees me as a puta

When I refuse the tap water he places in front of me

A puta

To some men, even princesses are putas

As the customer

I own him

As a princess

I pardon him

That girl

The one who can’t control her dirty looks

The one with the cheap perfume and

Butterfly wing eyelashes

The one who tries to cover her foul insides with that

Elaborate

Covering.  She tries

So hard and doesn’t know

That she too can be a princess

I smile her way

And I don’t care what she thinks

Of me

I know I am a princess

Glendale College Parking

This is a fall back Friday poetry offering from some time before 2005. Glendale College Parking

It’s a dance, really

Driving in circles

Watching, coveting the person

Walking to their car

They tease you seductively

Knowing they’re being watched

Your pulse races

Foreplay

The car is moved

And it returns to the sea of other cars

Somewhere on the floor – in the backdrop of your mind

Before your spot is stolen

You plunge forward

Backing slowly

Then forward and in again

It’s become an art now

Easing the friction

Sliding in and out until

Your surroundings are

Equidistant with the slickness of space

You’re surrounded

Held almost

That spot is yours

You shift the gear into park position

And the hum of the engine is calm

It sits in it’s spot

Idle and content

You turn off the engine

And your car is at rest

You lock up and head off to class

And you forget – that space was raped

And will be again

Once you pull out

And are discarded

And forgotten

My Apologies for Objectifying A Beautiful Man

I can see how shameless my crush watch on Mr. Hot (and so out of reach) was. This revision comes with perspective because time is generous that way.  Also, it seemed important to give this apology a special place. What started out as silly with That’s cute. became out of control with my Obsessive Observations.  It's faded into the delight of what my crush became to me, even though he offered nothing more than smiles and someone to daydream about that wasn't my ex. It was a series of firsts that I wrote about in Crushing and Laughter  and I was able to share my gratitude about some of them in Thank you. which was about many men in my life. It was nice to imagine someone else in writing Haunted and Your name. What is most shameful is my blatant objectification of a man who probably has strong feelings and I so obviously wasn't interested in them.  I wrote about his body, and in keeping what I saw when I looked in his eyes to myself, I completely made him a thing. What kind of human being does that? It might have been a partial attempt to keep certain things private and only mine, but in so doing, I've violated him in the way so many women are violated and objectified.  I used him for my lusty purposes and a part of my audience, with opinions I actually care about know I'm not all sugar and spice and hiding in a closet somewhere there might be leather and lace and we won't discuss restraint, because clearly I have very little.  I've taken off my mask unintentionally and while I was received in love, it wasn't planned and there was shock. Whether or not this is or one day will be publicly tied to me, I feel I owe him a sincere apology.  For nearly a year I was determined to be a wife, accepting all my husband dished out to me, and in a few sentences he changed my mind.  I met that with fear and reacted by objectifying him to avoid how deeply he affected me.  It was a cop out and I really am sorry that I was so afraid of the light he exposed into my darkness. This light grew into a confidence that helped me remove my wedding band and decide it was time to let go. People we both worked with have been given access to details about my lustful infatuation and I really feel bad if it's caused him any embarrassment.  It is a responsibility that falls solidly on my shoulders and my apologies to him are weighted with a debt of gratitude.

Being Drained by Emotional Vampires

Lately when my phone rings I'm pretty sure it's going to be someone that needs a zap of my sunshine because staying positive is a thing I do.  Most interviews and follow ups come in as emails. I answer all calls and return the calls I miss because I believe a call (or text) means someone has something important to say to me.  Even pocket dials are taken as an opportunity for serendipity. Most of the time, these calls from a small handful of people leave me exhausted.  Opening with a hello often opens the door to the many ways their frustrations and stresses and depressions weigh on their souls.  They unload, and I don't avoid it because there is a trust in being the keeper of secrets.  There is an undeniable honesty in the heaviness unburdened on me.  The phrase "emotional vampire" comes to mind, but I dismiss it because it seems harsh. Every call ends with their heaviness weighing on me.  It usually takes a moment to shake it off.  Sometimes it takes effort.  Sometimes it takes a minute in the sun.  Sometimes it just requires clothing optional lounging.  The best escape and recharge is when I get lost in nostalgia and remember the times and the men that made me smile.  It's playing with my dogs or my cat taking hostage of my arm (when she's kind enough to retract those claws). Those calls end and I'm putting on music to sing and dance to.  I'm shaking off the lingering energy that is heavy and sticky.  Sometimes those calls force me outdoors.  Today  I was content in the powerlessness of being stuck in traffic.  Wow.  Does that mean I prefer traffic to the voice I heard right before it?  I'm not sure.

Free Hugs From a Hug Addict

I'm back to that person that loves hugs.  I really love hugs.  Have you ever had a hug that lingers? It's a moment of "let me hold onto you because I'm lost outside of your arms."  Or when your world is falling apart and you get one of those hugs that seem to hold you together?  Those are golden.  I don't hug everyone.  If I can't hug you like I mean it, I have no business hugging you.  If I hug someone, I want my warmth to fill every part of them.  If I'm the one that needs a refill, I find the calm of another heart beating against mine to be an amazing feeling.  Kid3 always requests a bear hug.  He likes it when I hold him so tightly he can hear his spine complain, and I lift him off the ground and nuzzle into his neck. He likes those more than I do.  I like kneeling and wrapping my arms around him, and breathing in his hair.  Kid2 likes a snuggle in bed where he fits his shoulder in my armpit and his head rests on my chest.   They all know when I give them the look that used to put fear in them, it now means I have gone far too long without a hug and I'm in need of one.  Kid1 walks over to me and puts his head on my shoulder and I wrap my arms around him, but he very rarely hugs back, and that's okay too.   I miss man hugs.  Those are special on their own.  I will never again take for granted the safety and protection a man hug can give.