Fiction: Huntress on the Prowl

Kneeling before the porcelain goddess, Liz took pleasure in the waiting line behind her as she purged her sins of the night in heaves of mislaid regret. Throbbing bass pulsed in her chest in time to the tapping impatience of her best friend's right foot, rabbiting in opposition to a stiff left side and jutting hip as she examined her manicure with open indifference to the bowl worship as she stood sentry outside the door.  The nicotine cloud was still in her clothes and hair and the revulsion of smell, sight and sound reached deep in retching to void the abyss of anger and doubt that had Liz in this position. Stumbling through the crowd, Liz followed Mags through a maze of undulating bodies with spinning thoughts that raced blurred vision in circles that danced in dizzying images of boys and booze and bad choices that felt good.  She was so focused on her next step she didn't care how high her dress crept or that so many were reaching out to touch her body. She was hot and then cold and the cold outside was a reprieve that was suddenly too cold for the flesh that barely covered her bones.

Mags was always sober and her strut placed one foot in front of the other, hips leading and swaying to the authority of her sex and the power of her gaze.  She could undress a man with one look and strip him bare.  There was no gray area for Mags.  The men loved or feared her, and anyone caught in her seduction wanted her or to be her. She was a vixen but shared her knowing smile with anyone brave enough to openly stare at her. She knew she would be fuel for a few fantasies that night and she was confident in her gifts. Her barter was attention and she had enough of what she craved to last for days just on the way to her car.

Outside of the club, the clacking chant of sling back heels was punctuated by the stumbling stomp of patent leather stilettos on the ground that seemed to shift below Liz.  Mags stopped just feet from her car while reaching into the right front pocket of her skinny jeans for her keys while her off shoulder top slid further down her arm.  She was still tender in this position from her last hike and she loved the feel of sore muscles and the stretch that pulled in tight agony. She pivoted on the ball of her foot to size Liz up.  She was wearing a silver wrap dress that was revealing enough to show off the Daddy issues she had inked all over her body.  Her hair was a tangled mass from fingers running through it all night. It stuck to her neck in sweat and framed her face in damp tendrils that started to curl.  Her makeup was starting to melt in the sheen of sweat. The stench of bile mingled with cigarette smoke and stale perfume.  Mags wasn't letting that mess in her car.

"I told Danny I'd meet him at the pier.  I'll app you a ride," she half lied.  Liz's pout is always worth a laugh but in her current state, that would probably make her cry. Instead Mags tilted her head into compassion and continued, "I'll wait with you until the Uber driver gets here," sealing it with a soft smile that never really reached her eyes.

"Thank you Mags.  You really do love me, don't you," she said between burps that tasted like the cognac she thought she could handle. Liz realized talking made the spinning worse so she swayed in silence and tried to focus on Mags and her pretty hair.

Mags nodded as noncommittally as she could and said, "always love."  She then reached into Liz's bra to retrieve her phone and arranged the ride she had no intention of paying for.

Mags snapped a picture of the car and license that arrived, then watched Liz leave as brake lights glared and the car slowed on the corner .  Then she headed to her own car, stopping at the trunk to rescue her purse and change into her Ugg boots.  She thought about seeing Danny with his blue eyes, soft hair and tender lips but he had so much hate and anger that she always left with more rage than she cared for.  His emotional needs weren't worth his talented touch.  She considered Alessandro with the dark hair.  She loved his thick accent and his need for physical touch but he was a sensitive one and she wasn't in the mood to be his shoulder to cry on.  She considered Tom.  She could tell that he partied too hard at one point and knew all of the neighborhood drug dealers which wasn't her brand of partying but his solid muscles always made her smile. The thought of all of them made her bored and she wasn't in the mood for them. They were all very cute and really dumb. She wore her men like warm socks and decided she wanted to be barefoot for the rest of the night.

Mags pulled into the 7-Eleven parking lot for a bottle of coconut water and almost walked past the glorious specimen of a man reaching for a couple of bananas.  He was tall and lean and he worshipped the sun as much as she did.  He wore running shorts and a t-shirt that clung to his solid chest and grazed his stomach.  He looked at her and flashed a smile that was mainly confident, but betrayed his fear of her rejection in his quick glance away and the slight bounce of excitable energy in his legs.  She stood beside him, examining bananas and him with her peripheral vision.  Mags was on the prowl. She waited for him to look back at her.  She waited for him to say something because in his moment of fear, she could feel his need to prove his dominance in being the first to speak to her. She picked a banana and began to turn when he said, "you know, if you get two it's cheaper."

Mags turned and gave him her full smile.  It's the one that will make you want her or fear her and she knew it was a gamble.  "Thanks for the tip.  I might actually be in the mood for coffee."

"This late?" He looked at her in shock and wonder, and she knew the iron was hot.

"Well, I'm open to tea and thought you might want to join me." She adjusted her smile into demure interest and waited to see how spontaneous he was.

Glancing at his watch, he looked into her eyes with regret etched into the lines of his face. "I have a deadline and I can't, but I'd love a rain check."

She masked her disappointment in a search for the steno pad and pen she kept in her purse.  She scribbled her number and ripped the page out of the notebook before  she folded it and placed it in his hand, holding it until his warmth sent shivers up her spine with a flush that started in her chest and raced up her face.   In that moment she saw their tomorrow and a series of his needs being her desires. She knew his inability to jump at her suggestion made him unworthy of her attention when there were so many options available.

She left him with the memory of swaying hips and a knowing smile, not knowing she had a growing reverse harem and he was her latest addition.

Open Wounds

There was blood on the floor from the gash gaping gore Licking the edges itchy with healing

tang of salted copper pennies

Bite of flesh digging deeper in rage lust vengeance

I want to feel what I need to inflict

Anger angst apathetic vices

you are full of fire and cold embering flames

expired heat and disgust replaced desire

Wrath lashes through dull warm beer haze

And I spit with spite at the little bitch you've become

Washing hands clean

scalding boil of lye and fat

scraping remnants of memories to clear away the decay of your existence

leaving gone and still going

And I call your name one last time

Pussy

Unringing the Bell

Sometimes it would be amazing to unhear or unsee something.  A chance at a do-over is the stuff of great novels and daydreams.  We all want to take something back and start over.  Sometimes it's impossible.  Sometimes you can use the point where it all fell apart as a launch pad for something new and deeper. The devastation I felt when my husband left me was traumatic but there is value in it.  I have learned so much about myself and I have found true joy in who I am.  There was a cost but I didn't expect the payout to touch so many various areas of my life in such a ginormous and beautiful way.

In 2012 I was hospitalized with my last surrogate pregnancy for about a month.  At 25 weeks gestation, a regular check up with the neonatologist showed that my cervix started funneling and the twins were trying to come out. Well, more like my body wanted to force an eviction. I've always been blessed with fairly easy pregnancies and contractions I couldn't feel until I was about ready to push. Why else would I be willing to be pregnant 6 times? I was planning a pedicure and Target trip that day but I was told to head straight to the emergency room. I couldn't stop at home for my laptop or Kindle or even extra panties.  I was in a hospital bed from week 25 until week 29 when they were born.  They eventually left the hospital and then the country.  During that time I was on complete and total bedrest, and allowed to take one 5-minute timed shower while sitting.  The rest of the time I was stuck having nurses give me bed baths, and I spent a week in the trendelenburg position.  This means my bed was tilted so I was laying upside down at a 45 degree angle to keep gravity from doing what is natural.  I will always feel like I could have done things a little differently to keep them in longer and give them a stronger start in life.  I can see most would imagine I did enough, but believing there is always more to do and that I could do a better job is just who I am. I deal with it.  You should too.

This time of being forced away from my family reset things for me.  It gave me a do over. I realized that motherhood was a gift I was squandering in superficial ideals of what I should do and what I should be while my kids suffered my short temper because I couldn't possibly do it all and be happy about it at the same time.  I came home and things changed.  I decided I would be the mother my children deserved, rather than the mother I wanted to be. I started putting their needs ahead of mine and the desire to whine about it settled into a version of peace for me.  I stopped feeling defeated because I felt what it was like to not be able to sleep with my kids near me and steal random hugs whenever I felt son sick and needed a refill.  I never imagined it as preparation for shared custody.  I saw it as patience when I needed it and compassion when they did.

In 2005, my oldest was 4 years old and nonverbal.  His pediatrician with too many letters behind her name told me he would talk when he was ready.  At the time I was a teacher's aide at an elementary school and had a friendship with a speech therapist.  She suggested I ask the school district for an assessment.  His assessment was the same day as his first IEP.  I took him for the appointment and the team asked me to come back in a few hours and bring the whole family.

A few hours later I was there with the ex and our two boys.  They psychologist played with our kids on the floor while the rest of the team explained what autism is and that it was in our home.  They explained the characteristics to us and I right away made the connection that they were describing everything Kid2 does as well.  From the floor, the psychologist told us that in her professional opinion, Kid2 was also on the spectrum and his characteristics were more severe than Kid1.  Kid2 was still 2 years old and an official diagnosis wouldn't come until later. Autism spectrum disorders can often look like normal toddler behavior and while it may seem like everyone has autism through some sort of connection, they really don't like to hand out labels unless they have to.

My emotions were swiftly all over the place.  Before I left that meeting, I had cycled through the stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression) and I was at acceptance. Every thought and action for the next few years became, "But how do I help my boys?" I had to field the questions from family, making them feel better about what it was like for me to raise special needs kids because somehow the stigma affected them even though I was the one dealing with meltdowns and being a bad mother in the eyes of everyone around me.  It was a long time before I allowed myself to mourn the loss of expectations that were born with my kids and died in that meeting.  I would deny myself the freedom to revisit those stages and emotions because it wasn't productive.  I would instead go through a moment of sensory integration messes like poopy painting on the walls and floor and beg others to envy me in snark and frustration, not realizing that there really are women that would give anything for the work I faced in place of the grief they felt.

There are fewer expectations and more pleasant surprises. I was told my middle son would never even say, "Mom." I smile when he has long conversations about Nintendo or tells me how loved he feels.

My boys are still autistic.  That doesn't go away or fade into the background.  It's in our face with meltdowns from time to time. We do our part to make others autism aware, it just doesn't look like stickers and ribbons.  I'm usually good at knowing where their limits are but I constantly remind them that they need to communicate their needs.  I don't mind cutting a day short, but I mind knowing they pushed through a day of torture because they felt my needs were more important than theirs. I will always run the risk of a total melt down with violence if I try to change routines too drastically without plenty of warning and coaching along the way. The difference is they have learned ways to regulate how they feel and they have learned how they are expected to behave in society.  It's not a perfect formula but it's one we have all learned to work with.  At the same time, I am at peace with the idea that they prefer to be home at all times because it's a routine they can predict.  It's structure they crave and when they are calm, we all have peace.  That is until Kid3 has a meltdown. He doesn't understand he's not capable of competing with what his brothers have already done before he was born and the part of me he is poking with a stick has long since been broken and looks at him with pity and amusement.

Would I ever unring this bell?  Probably not.  Of course I'm Mom and would love to protect my children from every moment of suffering.  The reality is they are often blessedly oblivious to most social slights. I'm the one that sees more than I should and I may or may not have wanted to cut a kid because of it.

There are things about being a special needs mom I would never give up.  I'm an advocate.  I know how to fight for my kids.  I have.  I've won.  Fighting Like a Girl and Pulling Punches is all about what my kids have taught me. It has made me grow in patience and empathy.  I'm the person that won't judge the mom with the crying child in a grocery store because I know that child is probably hungry, tired, uncomfortable and bored. I know that parent has been doing all they can think of to do for their children while doing what they need to do in order to take care of themselves and be the parents they want to be.  We all try to do what we think is best for our kids.   Being an autism mom has made me an optimist.  I will always look out for the best in a bad situation and find the silver lining because that is a necessity in the life we get to live.  We have to stay positive because it's not just our joy on the line, but that of the children we are blessed with.  Their peace and sense of self comes from me.  I'm responsible for the inner voice that I've helped shape from their infancy. I'm responsible for their ability to navigate the world outside of our home and the thickness of skin that protects them from discrimination and aggression.

As for Kid1, he has the ability to see the world with a fresh perspective that takes each part separately and examines it carefully before putting it all back together.  He has a gift for art that is detailed because one of his superpower characteristics is to fixate on one thing to the point of mastery.  He amazes me with how he sees things and the specific diction with which he describes things.  One of his loves is my mashed potatoes.  He's always called them "smashed potatoes" because that is what I'm doing when I make them.  (Not much in my kitchen came out of a box until recent months.)

Kid2 is completely guileless.  While he would love to lie, he's often incapable of it. He has an open appreciation for affection.  He understands the value of a great big hug and snuggles that hold you up and together. He loves video games and will research and obsess over them. He's passionate.  He will have moments of joy and laughter and moments of rage.  The only times he is apathetic is when he is experiencing a sensory overload and needs to reset with hugs, and a calming routine. Or when he's being affectionate.

I've heard some lines about special needs parents being chosen.  I call BS on that.  The learning curve has been sharp for all of us, and we haven't quit or died trying, so we're doing okay.  But we're far from the saintly.  We know how to live on call every moment and know that an emergency is seconds away at any given time.  We've been judged for our parenting and had our instincts go against professional opinions and we've been right. Given true respite where someone we trust has our kids, we can let loose and party harder than the average parent.  We know how to accept a break when it's offered and we trust the person that has our kids.  At the same time, not everyone is trusted with our kids.  We're not magical or unicorns, but we learn to choose our battles and let the small stuff slide.  The big stuff will be a bigger battle than you could imagine trying to bargain for.

Right now this first draft is being written with 9 year old Kid3 having a tantrum because I won't allow him to eat Funyuns in my bed.  It's been about an hour of crying, throwing things and slamming doors.  It's part of his fallout when transitions between houses gets to him.  I'm at peace and ignoring him, except when he calms himself enough to talk clearly.  I respond calmly and talk to him at his level while speaking slightly lower than he does until he has begun to calm his voice.  I wouldn't unring this bell.

The Siri Call

I called in a moment of Siri stupidity.  How "Sears" could sound like his name . . . That beautiful name that is born in my heart and melts on my lips.  That name that invokes so much for so little.  Siri wonders why I would save a number that I would never use.  I wonder how to check her hearing. In a slap happy panic I tap and jab at the phone to stop the call because while I think of him all the time, only Siri knows this and she's a rotten little brat for putting our secrets out into his phone.  She's put my name and face right in front of him because she wants him to think I want to talk to him instead of obsessively think about what he's up to. Unless his Siri talks to my Siri and they know what we've only wondered . . .

I hear the ring on my end before I'm able to end the call and I hang up to wait.  Did he hear my call? Was he going to ignore it? Does he think of me with wonder or trepidation? Will he call me back and force me to use my words on him?!?

I'm a missed call but he's been missed too and my phone knows this.  She conspires with me to search for his social media footprints.  I can trust her with my credit cards but in matters of my heart, she's a minx and into mischief.

I wait for him to not return my call and decide Siri is an idiot and I'm glad I don't pay her to be my matchmaker.

My moments and emotions.

In moments of anger  I feel searing bile rise and burn my throat. I feel tears start as a sting in my nose and release a silent stream that trails shackles of heartache that throb in my mind as thoughts lash aggressively.  I want to rail at the injustice of why I would be treated this way, and the rage bubbles like thick phlegm because I know I've probably allowed and authorized it. It's taking for granted the kindness and generosity that are offered.

In moments of disgust I'm often looking in the mirror.  I've taken responsibility for my anger and I see my pettiness.  I see my judgements and preconceived ideas that are clouded in someone else's perceptions.  I hear years of what was said shape my boys into feeling a lie is safer than the truth because they have been taught that what parents feel holds more value than what they feel.  They learned my example of being less so I could make someone else more.

In my weakest moments there is fear.  There are lies of inadequacy that circle and hound each ounce of security that is normally a solid blanket around me.  Cloistered in my comfort zone, the tendrils of failure lace around me quietly in a safe seduction until the air I need is stolen, one breath at a time and unnoticed until I begin panting. I don't fear the world about me, but the darkness inside of me. It's the lisping sigmatism of the sibilant hiss of words.  Weaknesses surge through shushing motions because yeses are so much easier than no.  

In happiness there is peace and contentment.  There's a warmth that feels magical. It bubbles and blooms from within.  It feels like warm sunshine and wonder at things that fly whether it's birds, bees, butterflies or bubbles.  It's alliteration that focuses on the letter B. In my moments of strength, I feel empowered.  I feel beautiful and strong and intelligent.  I feel graceful and anointed in a balm of favor. I feel the envy of others, although I am happy to share in what I have because we can all be made of amazing. I smile at open stares. It's a thick soapy lather and rinse of hands in hot water. It's the luxury of time. It's purple and royal and duty and honor.

In sadness I feel a melancholy pall that falls on my shoulders and presses in softly, solidly.  I reminisce on times of laughter and joy and wonder where I could have done something differently, refusing to believe that change is often for my benefit and the cost is minimal compared to the expense of continuing on a path of destruction. It's lips stained in red lipstick and rejection because I wear it and walk through it, shaping a new meaning for the past and my present. It's a prowl of defiance because here is where I find my hunter instincts and play in manipulation. It's down time and feeling unneeded. I'm unnecessary.

In surprise there are moments that help me stretch who I was into who I am becoming.  It is becoming more than I thought I had a right to be.  It's seeing a smile and a perspective that looks better than mine and wanting to share in someone else's magic and mystery.  It's the flight path of a soaring bird or the silly way their legs flap against tail feathers.  It's an art exhibit that walks through faded history but awakens ancient desires and emotions in a universal ocean of timeless beauty. It's reality that is better than the expectation.

What's My Age Again?

Part of rediscovering who I am means going back to who I was. I hear lists are a thing, so here's my top 10.

1. The roller skates are a great idea.  I just need to take it slow.  I was relying on muscle memory and for now, my muscles want to remind me of all of the times I fell while learning the first time around.  It's funny until it's scary because falling hurts. 
2. Jellies! I went to the Hammer Museum Sunday because I had been meaning to and stopped in American Apparel because I'm all about new things and it wasn't far from where I parked.  I found a pair of jellies to leave an evil impression on my feet that have always been too wide for these.  (Yes, today's post is a special delivery for those with a healthy dose of a foot fetish.) I have memories of running around outside in these and coming home with dust crusted lattice work feet and tan lines.  My BFF since 7th grade used to say they made our feet smell like popcorn.  
3. The guitarist/skater boy.  I dated drummers before.  I dated skaters. I needed to be reminded of why it could never work out and he did so in the most convincing way possible.  I forgot about Beavis and Butthead until he started talking.  It was funny until I realized I was choosing to give him my time. He reminded me a lot of the last skater I dated and they had a lot in common.  It was taking a look at what he would have grown into.  I dodged that bullet twice.
4. Laundry day.  I tried going as long as possible between loads.  Part of it is my dryer is being a problem child until I schedule that repair, but part of it was seeing how long I could go without doing laundry.  I didn't fully regress to my teens.  I finally took care of it all and did it without using laundry day as an excuse to go clothes shopping. "I'm out of underwear.  There's a store for that."
5. Brekkie.  Breakfast for dinner used to mean a huge bowl of cereal.  I'm a grown up though with a different palate.  I'll have breakfast for dinner when I'm alone. I'll whip up poached eggs, hollandaise and ham.  It's not eggs benedict without the muffin but it is full of oozing yum.  Try it. You'll like it.
6. Late night beach trips. When I first got my car,  I was at the beach most nights.  This was before parking on Temescal Canyon Road was restricted after 10.  I used to go and sit on tower 8 at Will Rogers and enjoy the feeling of being surrounded by the waves during high tide. I brought friends there and we would drink and talk and yell at the waves because they were yelling back.  A few friends (with more musical talent than I have) would bring a guitar and we would sing under the stars.
7. Clothes.  Part of the shift backwards is the weight I've lost.  Part of it is deciding I'm alone for half of the time.  I don't have to dress like a mom or a wife when I'm single. According to my niece I also dress like a person who is becoming old. She asked what I used to dress like when I was her age.  "A whore.  I used to dress like a whore." She plans to go shopping with me and exercising veto power on my wardrobe.  At the same time, I'm wearing more skin revealing clothes on weekends.  It's not that I'm ashamed of my body.  I actually love walking around in very little at home because I love the way looking like I do feels.  (Yes, my vapid selfie moments are because I really am vapid.) It's the idea that I'm supposed to dress like a mom and yet I don't have to.
8. My 'rents.  I've always called my parents Mom and Dad, but lately I think of them as Mommy and Daddy.  Especially when they bail me out or I'm being rebellious, because lately I want to do what they've always taught me is a naughty no, no.  My spankings are all life based lately.
9. Name calling. I'm not big on cursing people out.  I find it pointless and lacking creativity.  I have been known to get frustrated and call someone a "hamster penis" or "vulture vomit."  I will even stick my tongue out at a person when they aren't looking.  I'm much more implosive than explosive.
10. Music. My playlists lately are very much what I loved growing up.  Queen, Alanis Morissette, The Cure, Morrissey, The Verve, Radiohead, Paramore, Green Day, Garbage, The Police, Fiona Apple, Everclear, Blink 182, Beastie Boys, Depeche Mode, The Divinyls, Dramarama, Guns N' Roses, Jane's Addiction, 311, Lit, Marcy Playground, Mariah Carey, Metallica, Sublime . . . Throw in current Britney Spears, Taylor Swift, and Meghan Trainor, and you have what I sing and move to.  There's more, but why make a list within a list that much longer? I was in a club Friday and didn't recognize any of the music the cool kids were singing and gyrating to.  I want to be a cool kid that hangs out again and listens to cool stuff.  It just doesn't speak to me when it's sexualized and degrading.  I can do that on my own terms and I don't need someone to tell me how she feels when I know that feeling and it's more empowering than current music would suggest. 

I have moments where my old is showing and she looks like she has much more confidence than I did in my 20's.  She looks like she knows what she wants and she's learning to let go of something that isn't meant for her.  I keep reminding myself that I am not actually a puppy.  I can drop the toy.  I don't need belly rubs and attention. A lioness is also fiercely loyal, and less likely to get kicked for it.

I feel that regressing isn't about trying to be a kid again, but trying to hold onto the security I once held in these things.  I want to hold them and examine them and see how I lost the grip  I held on them, and see where I can learn and grow from them the second time around.  It's looking hard at what I loved, and figuring out what made me let go of them.  Was it a choice? Was it my choice? Am I better off with or without it? You mean I can have it again, and I can pick the color too?

I often point out that I'm being a 12 year old.  I say it in a self deprecating way, but I really can't see that as a bad thing.  I was badass, and the second time around is like cake before dinner.  (Look ma, no pimples!)

Shenanigans, Debauchery and a Desire Review

For months I've been wanting to get out and into something. An unspoken reality of divorce are the friendships that step away to avoid nasty fallouts and sidestep a pool of anger and a dash of messy emotions. My reality is that I am a solitary type a lot of the time and I'm often socially exhausted from being Mom all day. Add these and the math shows I have no one to go out with.  I have friends I sometimes talk to and can always rely on but I rarely see them. The ones that are still close to me are also parents and spouses and my single lifestyle doesn't fit anymore. I don't fit anymore. I spend free my time walking through malls and going to the beach. I find time to pamper myself and doze off while getting a pedicure. This makes me happy.  There has been a shift in recent weeks toward what I want rather than living in the moment and seeing how I can give of myself. I'm feeling the effect of this shift and it doesn't feel good.  It's not right. The last few days I've been in a funk.  I've been experiencing this reaching sorrow that holds me in a place where I can see what I want and I'm hurt at the inability to reach it.  There's powerlessness in unfulfilled desires.

Friday after work I tried filling this void of longing and it looked like:

1. Retail therapy after work.  It looks like pink and white quad rollerskates and a strong dose of hope that muscle memory will keep me from face planting. (I didn't fall, but I looked like a baby giraffe and decided baby steps would start in my livingroom being pulled by hands reaching for walls and furniture.)
2. I went out with family. It was my sister, niece and cousin and our ages ranged from 47 to 23.  We went to a Hookah lounge called Secret in the heart of Hollywood.  I drove past Beso and had a moment of heartsick longing when I remembered an epic night there in January.  It was wanting to smoke even though smoking is disgusting since I quit my 3 pack a day habit for the man I wanted to build a life with.  We went to the Abbey . . . a huge gay bar/club in West Hollywood and right on Santa Monica.
3. It was spending more than I needed to on a manicure, pedicure, eyebrow threading and getting my dye job touch up and trim at my local salon.

It was looking at it all and still feeling emptiness.

I just have to say how amazing my time with my family was.  My beautiful cousin is the most giving man I know.  He took us all out and helped with our make up.  He convinced my niece to join us because he just has this loving light around him that everyone wants to be around, but he's also a fierce gay man that will call you out on where you are going wrong because he's seen and felt enough in being the only family member from Thailand who is gay and has turned the "ka-toy" slur into "Auntie, he's so beautiful." He was strutting down the Blvd. in 8 inch heels, and I didn't feel out of place next to him in my 3 inches.  There was food and laughter and selfie sessions.  We were going to head home around midnight, but it was such a rare night to have me and my niece out with other grown ups that we ended up at the Abbey. There were no Cinderella's this night. As I was dancing, there was a man that stuck his nose in my boobs.  I gave him a gentle but firm push away and a firm finger wag with a smile and he smiled back before moving away.  A straight bar would have probably gotten me aggression from a perceived challenge instead.

Fast forward to Saturday night . . . My timelines shift and I'll help you jump around.

I have a very open face.  It's not hard to see what I'm thinking for the most part.  It's not usually a problem because I'm typically happy and not planning something sinister.  I've learned the value of transparency and I try to offer it where it feels safe to.  At times something will slip and I'll try my best to tuck it back in, but that's usually when my world is shifting and falling apart and I distract myself with transparent lustful thoughts and ideas. Joking about this, my other niece pointed out that I'm like a grown up teenager. 

Tonight, my mind was flooded with too many thoughts and things I want to look different, but have no power over.  Life is great at giving me things without  a receipt.  I don't know the value of what I have and I have no way to return or exchange it.

I was at Target when a woman approached me.  She said she could see I have spiritual blockages and she wanted to give me a reading.  She started to speak about what she believes to be true and for a lot of it she was right.  It's always about a boy, isn't it? And it usually involves drama from women that were in his life before me.  It's about the giving friendliness she felt she could benefit from.  People often see that I'm approachable.  She then wanted to give me a discount chakra clearing.  She wanted me to pay her more than I was willing to.  She then started trying to barter the price by asking me to pay for a few things for her and I did.  I don't want you to think I was scammed.  I wasn't.  As she was talking to me, things shifted just enough, and I needed the shift.

Surviving the pain of the last year has been about shifting my desires.  I've learned that when I focus on what I want, I don't have room for much else and that's bad because desires shift and change and grow.  Desires are often out of our hands.  If I focus only on desires,  the end goal will never be in sight.  Instead I try to focus on giving.  I try to focus on what I need to do for my children.  Sometimes I am giving to myself but it's mainly about seeing how I can help others.  I spoil my kids or buy dinner for a random homeless person. This woman had this plan to have me buy a few items for her and she would call that payment for the reading and chakra clearing she was offering at a discount.  I could see in the things she was buying that she was looking for necessities.  These were toiletries and food.  She wasn't looking for a movie or a purse or even makeup.  I had this moment where I could see that her only desire was to get these things she needed and it became my desire to help her through one night. I bought what she wanted but didn't ask for anything in return.  I won't be in her shop for a reading or clearing.  That's just not where my faith is and I didn't feel the same peace I did when I saw the amazing Gypsy Rogue and wrote about my visit in The Art of Gift Receiving.

So much of the last few months have been about what feels good.  My main goal has been epicurean pursuits in a very hedonistic setting of pleasures that I call shenanigans and debauchery.  Mainly it's shenanigans and very low key, non risky behavior.  I've been doing what I didn't feel I had permission to do before.  It's shopping for things I want, rather than just what I need.  It's the beach.  That sounds nuts because it is.  Okay, maybe going to the beach alone at night should scare me, but I've lived in neighborhoods before they became safe places to walk the block with your kids. I never needed permission to go to the beach, but I had this self enforced idea that beach trips are supposed to last all day and I have to worry about kids.  This means that in the past my play time happened once we got home from the beach and everyone was asleep.  Now a beach trip is an excuse to eat French Fries while watching people play in the ocean. It's the drinking.  I went through out of control(ish) drinking because I've always been a light weight, to feeling like all drinks shouldn't happen.  Especially in front of my kids.  I had a drink with my family Friday night.  It was a Cape Cod because it's usually what I order when I want to drink alcohol, but I was at a Hookah lounge with family.  I had a lightheaded feeling from the Hookah that was stronger than the buzz from the vodka.  The food tempered the effect and when we left, I felt sober and wasn't concerned about driving to the next stop. I didn't drink at the next stop though. I don't drink often because I love the control of being sober, but it was also about feeling like a mom shouldn't drink.  My mom would only have a glass of wine before going to bed and I really never saw my Dad drink.  Drugs were never even joked about.  It wasn't done in my family until we went through experimental rebellion. Even then, I never went past marijuana and that one day I tried huffing.  Not my brightest or proudest moment.

Friday night's drinking, smoking Hookah, then dancing at the Abbey were amazing fun, but it came with a sparkly mirror that showed me where I have placed hang ups on myself. My big desire is to live a life the way I should and sometimes it looks like the way I want it to, but more often it's about what I think others expect of me and when I'm most fulfilled it's in serving someone else. I wanted to dance and watch all of the beautiful men that had no interest in me at all, but part of the joy was about helping my sister feel included.  This was her first time at a club since she became legally blind.  She was really worried about being a burden to everyone else.  Part of the special night was the staff at the Abbey.  They were kind and helped her feel like they wanted her there.  (Honestly, that bouncer was dangerously gorgeous and an obviously used to women falling all over him when he was directing his charm on purpose.) Part of it was having help from my cousin and our niece to guide my sister to the bathrooms and bring her drinks and make sure she had a safe place to stand.

I finally stopped at the Heights Saturday afternoon.  It's a deli and bottle shop that replaced a meat market in my neighborhood because that's what happens when areas are gentrified.  I hated the idea that the carniceria I never went to was gone and my neighborhood is shifting but I walked in to step away from my hang ups and walked out with really good gluten free pasta carbonara and 4 pint sized cans of Glutenberg Beer because I'll try most things that are gluten free. I tried the white first because  it's closest to the MGD I used to drink.  I have 3 more to try out eventually. I'm not trying to get drunk or relive my youth.  It's about not being stuck in what I should be or how I should behave.  I'm home alone and not driving the rest of the night.  I'm old enough to vote and I can buy my own beer, so why not enjoy one?

I'm shifting again.  My perception has widened. I will continue to stretch who I feel I should be.  I will continue to do what I want to, but I will also continue to actively look for ways in which to be of service to others. When interacting with others, I will make my needs secondary and see if I can listen for the needs and desires of others.  It's not that I need to take a back seat and come second.  I need to not forget what being a giver feels like because that always feels better than being a taker.

Anxious Moments

I’m feeling a bit anxious lately, but it’s a mild anxiety.  It’s the grumble and groan of an unhappy belly.  I’m at work but I have down time and that makes me tense.  It’s nibbling on my nails or cuticles or the tapping of my foot.  It’s the constant hand raking through tangled hair and checking my phone every few moments, hoping for a pleasant distraction. A few years ago the anxiety was bad.  I had a lot going on at the time, and it’s better now, but I knew it was irrational when Kid3 wanted to snuggle and I nearly flipped out.  It wasn’t about being busy, but being touched by his little hands was freaking me out.  I wanted space and I needed distance.

Sometimes my anxiety looks like rapid breathing and headaches.  A few times it has felt like chest pain and dry heaving when I just wanted to puke.  I’m usually aware of the stress seeping out in a raised voice.  I try to avoid yelling at the boys and I’ll say mom needs a time out and lock myself in my bedroom for a bit to stay still and focus on what sounds I hear.  It helps.

Sometimes it helps to do something physical and exhausting.  Sometimes it helps to very intentionally and slowly go through the motions of an activity.  Piecing jigsaw puzzles is also soothing and relaxing for me. Or I’ll just write out each letter of the alphabet in capital letters and slowly.  I’ll focus on the scraping of the pencil across the paper and vary the pressure I use.

My daily relaxation looks like blowing bubbles.  I keep a butterfly shaped bottle of solution in my car.  On my lunch breaks I pull a waterproof blanket out of the trunk and spread it out beneath a tree right outside of my job and I blow bubbles.  It’s a place that is on the way to a designated smoking area, but it’s far enough that the smoke never bothers me. It’s the slow and intentional blowing but it’s also the bubbles.  I like watching them float up and away.  I enjoy seeing where the wind will blow them.  I lay under this tree and the warmth of the sun on my face makes me smile.

Making Inferences

I’ve been on stage before.  I was one of those kids that loved theater and the warmth of a blinding spotlight.  I would have wanted you to watch me because the attention feels good.  I get it in other ways now and the need to be watched isn’t nearly as great as my need to be read (both words and who I am). In theater, you learn your lines and deliver them, but you also have to understand what is being said so that you can show your audience what the writer tried to tell you.  You have to dig into your own experiences and pull a character out of who you are as a person. You have to read the situation around you and be able to react in a way that is meaningful so that the audience doesn’t just see you as an inviting smile with great gams and a nice rack. There was so much to watch and learn from in the wings.  By the time your lines are learned, you stand and watch your contemporaries deliver their lines and there is beauty in their interpretation of the human experience that is relived through rehearsals and pushes past boredom. As a student, I enjoyed being able to skim through the reading or not do it at all, and still jump into the conversation because the discussion always leads you to the important things that I would pay attention to in my subsequent and close readings. I would highlight what was read in class, then scribble notes in the margins and pay closer attention to making connections to that on my own for the final or a paper later. It taught me to listen for details to reach out for and tease out.  Literature is about writing something that is universally appealing.  It’s about listening for what I can touch in my own life and tease it out with how I feel about it.  Getting my first scholarship was an amazing feeling, and relying on the template of that first 10-minute essay, I fleshed out what seemed relevant and got 5 more scholarships before graduation.

As a Mom it became really easy to see what my kids needed before they had to tell me.  I could tell which cry was thirst or what discomfort sounds like.  There was a cry for fear and one for pain.  It later became a game for nonverbal (at the time) autistic kids.  They would point or grunt and I would respond like a trained monkey.  Are you thirsty? Are you hungry? Are you tired? When I was taught to make them work so others could offer the care I felt only I was capable of, I began to ask them to use their words.  I’m glad that language was eventually something that emerged around age 5 and 6, but it was slow and difficult.  Some people remain mute, and I was told early on that my kids were being mute by choice.  I know better now, having met some remarkable children that communicate through tablets, but I will always appreciate words.  They tell me what is being said, but more than that, they clue me in to look for fears, doubts, insecurities and games.

When I meet people, I’m making every effort to read into things, while simultaneously telling myself to just go with it and take baby steps.  I feel like I need company that is better than being alone and I’m pretty amazing alone.  I’ve had both long term and short lived romances and friendships.  I watch closely for patterns and details I can read into.  I want to know what is familiar and why it’s familiar.  I want to see what is being said and how much of it is truth and what part is a boundary for both of us. Will this friend ask me to join in shenanigans and will I want to?  Will they need help because responsibility is a dirty word?   I look at when I'm contacted and what made them think of me.  Is it need, desire, loneliness or a memory that made them smile? I want to see if they notice when my calls slow down.  Connections shouldn't have motives, but I'm always looking for them and really intrigued when I can't see or feel and know.

Life is about the big questions and the little details. I wonder what makes a person decide the risk is worth the gamble, and at which point the cost is no longer worth the barter. For me it's about curiosity. Once I've been satisfied I may decide I'm content with what I've learned. I may decide that first taste isn't enough and I need a full belly with an exhausted taste palate.

My Second Grunion Run

It was an emotional morning.  Before My Day Started  I had a phone call that played and replayed in my mind and spilled out just before getting off of work.  I hadn't actually planned to try to catch a grunion run again, but I needed my escape hatch.  I needed the one that I went to throughout high school that has pretty rocks and attracts more locals.  Will Rogers in Pacific Palisades will always be my first choice, but I go to Santa Monica for safety reasons.  I spent the evening going back and forth to sit in my car and the rocks of the jetty.

I had a few phone conversations and texted a few people as the evening clouds rolled in and the sun slipped through them and behind the mountains toward Malibu.  (It was my perspective and I'm sticking to it.) I watched the runners and quietly thanked them for their dedication to a workout that was God's gift to me, and poetry in motion.  I was much obliged for their offerings to my imagination.  I've really missed this beach.

As night became early morning, I watched the waves rush in higher and higher toward me.  The water was churning into foam and the salted air was ripened with the smell of fish and seaweed.  Every few steps, I would crush a bulb of seaweed underfoot.  It would burst with a satisfying crunchy pop. There was loud singing and dancing with ear buds testing my eardrums at the highest decibel and shuffling music because I had the entire beach to myself. I could still hear the pounding surf and watched rocks tumble in powerlessness.  It was a warm night. It was a beautiful time.

I started to wonder if I was really going to see any grunion. I pictured silver fish writhing and flopping in the sand in a frenzied mating ritual.  I didn't consider that these fish were full of eggs and fish jizz or milt and that they wouldn't be as energetic as I imagined.

I wasn't skunked and actually did see a few fish on the sand.  At first there were rocks, then there was trash, but eventually I saw fat little fish, glimmering in silvery shine. They seemed translucent.  They were full of their reproduction materials and rather than writhe energetically, the fish were abandoned by the waves and seemed to roll back toward sea. They reminded me of a spent phallus.

I looked at these fish and decided it was time to go.  I had waited halfway through the expected grunion run window. There is no time in my life to wait around for bad fish porn. I did try to take pictures but the ocean doesn't look good on camera at night when it's super dark at Will Rogers. And running from waves to snap pictures of rolling fish was an overrated adventure. I may have laughed and I certainly was enthralled by the siren call of the sea, but sleep is my true mistress.

Before My Day Started

Her words flow like a balm but land on me like drying honey. Sticky memories and untethered thoughts flood and flow like water on a dessicated sponge. Springing vibrantly from her tender remorse, her sponge renews disgust with the stench of what has died. She's late to the game and needs to rehash, relive, catch the rebound and make it her layup but I was never part of the team and I no longer want to play or cheer on a losing team.

Renewed rejection prickles and itches and my scratch is opening sealed wounds. I'm digging past the edges of a healed scab into flowing blood that was a series of superficial scrapes the first time.

My First Grunion Run

I've lived here my whole life and for months I've been planning my very first grunion run.  Grunion are small fish that spawn along Southern California beaches right around the full moon.  They spawn for about four days in the sand along the shore. I've never seen it before and I've heard it's pretty amazing. I took my usual route from work to the Pacific Ocean.  The day was warm and beautiful in Burbank, but once I started driving through Brentwood, the marine layer was visible.  It was dense and I knew there was no way I'd get a beautiful sunset, so I walked to the Promenade for dinner.  On my way back to the pier, there were a few boys walking behind me and cat calling me.  It's been years since I was treated like an adolescent and not someone's mom, so I ignored it and laughed to myself a little.

In hindsight, the problem was because I was ignoring them.  My music is loud and generally enough to dissuade anyone that hasn't made eye contact, but they were persistent enough to act like monkeys  around me. I was having a kid free night and not in the mood to mother someone else's kids, so I ignored their friendliness and allowed it to become mocking aggression and cat calls that are supposed to make me feel flattered because sometimes men don't know any better.  I generally do know what I look like and didn't need the description through their eyes, as amusing as it might have been for them.

Ideally, grunion like darker beaches with fewer people, but my beach trips are solo trips and for safety, I figured a more populated beach with ferris wheel lighting would be best.  I had about an hour until the run window started at 10:22 so I swapped my purse for my folding chair that is at home in my trunk and started across the sand.  I actually keep a high and low tide calendar in the car. The farther away from the ferris wheel I walked, there were more couples dotting the sand like a minefield of "get a room."  I was excited about fish porn, not people porn.

I found a quiet spot and sat in my chair with music in my ears and singing loudly enough to the ocean that people within earshot probably thought I was drunk or crazy.  As high tide began to reach toward me, I jumped up at least three times, laughing that I was able to run away from water.  (It's the little things.)  I was also chatting with a guy that didn't work out into anything more than friendship.  He's fun to keep around because he keeps me laughing. We texted about the fact that I didn't bring extra clothes and wet denim is uncomfortable.  I considered the idea of driving in my underwear but I haven't done that since I was a teenager and I wouldn't want to have to explain that to a police officer. I'm not sure I could still get out of a ticket. I'm also not sure if it's illegal. I once had a friendship with a cop that showed me crack wrapped up in tissue paper and told me that peeling labels off of beer bottles or nail biting were signs of sexual frustration.  I don't remember why that friendship didn't last, but I think I still came out the winner.

At some point, another family threw their shoes in the sand in front of me and started running in and out of the ocean.  While ocean kissed night air is cold, ocean water gets warmer the moment the sun sets.  I decided I wasn't in the mood to borrow someone else's kids on my kid free night (I might skip Finding Dory this weekend) and I wasn't happy with what the humidity was doing to my hair.  I decided to leave.

As I was leaving, I thought about the idea that I got skunked and didn't get to watch fish spawning.  Part of it was because I left early.  Part of leaving early was remembering the many times I sat quietly with baited hooks and wanted the fish to come but watched falling stars along rocky shores in Big Bear until dawn broke over me in the east with a painful chill that ran from the sun and through my body. The stars made the cold worth it.  There was too much light pollution and too many low lying clouds to see anything worth staying for.  I wanted to watch fish porn but I was avoiding danger and it made the night a silly but wasted effort.

I'm not giving up on it but it's like dating.  There has to be something good enough to make up for the possibility of getting skunked.  The conversation has to be good enough. If I'm going to humidify my hairdo to death, there should at least be a bonfire to make the hair washing necessary and worthwhile.  Maybe I'll plan another trip and bring Sparky, my pink stun gun. Nothing says, "I love you daughter," like a stun gun powerful enough to make a grown man pee on himself.  It's in a drawer and needs to be charged.  It doubles as a flashlight because Dad thinks of everything.

On my way home, my mood was lightened and I was back to singing too loudly and driving too fast.  There was a car that pulled up alongside me.  I can see how weaving through traffic in my car could make me look like I borrowed my Mom's 2016 Camry.  There's a faded autism awareness magnet in the back and my kid's handicap placard is always hanging from the rearview mirror.  Kid1 and Kid2 have them and they're not physically handicapped, but they had runner tendencies and a really cute and sympathetic (to me) doctor.  The driver last night caught up to me, slipped into neutral to rev his engine and wanted to race me.  I mean, I was changing lanes but it was more like the boat like moves of a 1990 Cadillac Fleetwood.  I wasn't weaving through cars to see how close I could get before creative became reckless and then stupid. I gave up frat boys with dropped cars and mufflers that announced their arrival in Rice Rockets with after market modifications when I traded those drivers for the man that drove a 1967 Chevy Nova.  My Dad still has his 1969 Chevy Nova.  I'll leave that right there and trust you to make the connections I couldn't see in 2000.  Back to last night . . . that's when I started laughing at him and slowed down.

I've had some really silly highs and felt like a 12 year old in a good way over the last couple of days.  In the last few months, I've been told I could pass as a 25 year old.  On my way home, I felt like that age is dropping.  There is something to be said about uncontrollable smiles and silliness.  It was a night full of laughter and I am oddly satisfied with the way my day went.

To recap: Yay for grunion runs that become plans for a bonfire and quieter beaches with my stun gun.

Mother of My Othered

When individuals or groups make connections based on setting aside a group as intrinsically different, we've othered them and the cost is being paid in shootings and suicides that we are forced to compensate with loss and cultural anomie. We have done this based on race, sexual orientation, gender, disability and any other thing that could make one person believe they deserve more than the person next to them.  I do my best to keep an open mind and love each person because they are a person and that is enough.  I can't think of a group I'd discriminate against except maybe rapists . . . the irony sounds like, "they were asking for it." (And yet I will objectify random men with errant fantasies because I can.  Don't ask me to justify it.  I can't.  I won't.)

About six weeks ago my middle (autistic) son had a meltdown.  Meltdowns happen, but this one was bad and there wasn't much peace I could offer him.  I'll drop it on you, but you might need a minute afterward.  I did.

He was having a hard time with math and decided he would never be able to get a job to support himself.  It occurred to him that one day his parents would die and there would be no one to take care of him.

At 13, my child has absorbed the idea that he is disabled and can't take care of himself.  It is right in front of him and all around him.  He is sensitive and sweet but he's also aware of what others say and has no way to protect himself from the fears of what could be because tomorrow is uncertain and he is aware that he is different.  He knows that he's been othered by strangers and loved ones alike.  He has violent moments and I really don't have to wonder why.

Wow.  Right?! This is the main reason why my goal is to be a financial powerhouse and set up a trust account where they can eventually live comfortably off of the interest.  Or I just need to set up an amazing life insurance policy.

A couple of months ago my oldest (autistic son) admitted he's not as exciting as another kid.  His Dad's current relationship has built in play dates and these kids are full of what makes a cool kid envied.  Kid1's shoulders slumped a bit, and his deepening teenage voice lowered in shame as he admitted he isn't into sports or breakdancing.  (Kid3 is and they get along fine.) My response was typical of me.

"Has it occurred to you that he might be the boring one that wouldn't have a clue where to geek out if he was thrown in with your friends, and that your friends would probably welcome him before his friends welcomed you?  That makes you the exciting one to me."

Growing up, I was a loner by nature, but that didn't stop me from joining drill team . . . running for office in the student body (and winning that popularity contest) . . .  dancing on stage as well as the steps of City Hall . . .  singing a Les Mis solo in high school and later having a nipple slip while in costume for a Moliere play On the same stage . . .  learning to take down a really tall blonde god in karate . . . squatting for a bump in volleyball  . . .  learning to ollie off of a curb on a fat skateboard . . . swimming on a team each summer . . . or half of the other non-structured ways I played that my kids don't. I did these things, but valued my alone time to be stuck in my head.  I was an emo kid before there was a name for it.

I don't get all of the things my boys love.  It's not for me to learn. What they love has nothing to do with how I love them. Their superpowers are in technology and it looks like anime and gaming.  Kid1's talent is in his artwork that I will frame and hang around the house.  Child’s Play and Raising Gamers is a whole post on this.  Go on, read it.  This will be here when you hit your back button.

My kid brother studied marketing and has a clothing line.  I'm not part of his demographic and even if he offered it, I'm not made to wear his clothes.  I'm a Mom.  By some accounts on various dating sites, I'm beautiful with a great body and an amazing smile.  You don't get the vapid selfie moments that are all over my Facebook and Instagram, so I have to give you their word for it. My point is that my brother is looking for girls that wear their Daddy issues in the skin they expose.  These girls go out in mini skirts that give the illusion that they are in fact weather proof.  I used to be that girl.  Now I get cold and I'm not her.  He's looking for the up and coming young men that need to prove their virility and success most nights in clubs and bars all over the southland and Vegas.  I am not made to wear my brother's clothing line but I'm so proud of him. He can doctor up my resume any day.  (Then I'll edit out the lies.)

When I watched Man of Steel with my boys, there was a scene where young Clark Kent hid in a closet.  He was having a sensory meltdown. He could see and feel and hear too much and it was hard to just be.  He was going through everything an autistic person feels from time to time.  I pointed out to my kids that Superman can see and feel things that we just don't.  We would never call him disabled, and since autism offers those same super powers to a lesser degree, they are not disabled.  They are my super heroes. They gave me smirks of disbelief but I stand by this.

I plan to watch Finding Dory because I hear great things about Ellen Degeneres's portrayal of an othered child in the way she is constantly apologizing for who she is and feeling that she is not enough. Really, it was just this post on the Mighty.  I plan to watch it alone because I tend to ruin movies for people that want to be entertained because I can't shut that part of my brain off.  (I saw Superman vs. Batman with my Dad last and I don't think he's looked at me the same since I shared my thoughts on it.)

There is a flow of ideals that filter from well meaning people to my sons who can't ignore what they hear.  There is a struggle to show them that it's okay to be who they are and being themselves is perfection. I try to fill them with how amazing they are every chance I get.  It looks like more concern for them than broken things that I've had longer than they've been alive and it smells like stinky hugs from boys who don't enjoy wearing deodorant (might be a teenage boy thing).

Showing them it's okay to be in their skin means when Kid2 starts chewing his shirt because he needs the oral stimulation, I don't make him feel bad about a destroyed shirt.  It's a shirt that will be replaced, but his self worth is only what we build it to be.  They don't make eye contact often because according to Kid2, he gets easily distracted.  I once heard an interview given by an autistic girl. She said that faces have too many areas to focus on and it's hard to pick one thing, so she looked away instead.  My kids are okay with eye contact sometimes but other times it's too much to ask.  They will often be destructive.  Paper gets chewed into giant spitball wads. Couch cushions get stabbed with pens and scissors.   Even beloved toys get destroyed.  I have an ammonite that is broken in half.  My kid destroyed a fossil when nature couldn't. I don't get angry anymore.  It just means a need for a fidget was huge and the broken item filled a need.  One day my house may look like a museum but it won't feel like home.

Kid1 gets angry with my more destructive Kid2.  There's an ongoing boundary issue. I've had to learn the difference between a melt down and a tantrum.  A tantrum is intentional.  A melt down can not be controlled and it happens when I've failed as a mom to see when they were reaching their tipping point.  Kid2 punching grandma was a tantrum.  I know this because he would have never punched me.  When anger looks like aggression it usually means they have reached a limit of their needs and wants being put aside or ignored.  It means there is too much noise or they are over stimulated.  Or the teasing needed to be stopped sooner. (They can go from playful to murderous intent fairly quickly and I don't encourage horseplay.) Something needed to be adjusted for them and they can no longer soothe themselves and it looks like a tantrum or they are being loud or they need to lay in bed in sweltering heat under a blanket because they need to reset themselves and stimming movements are not helping anymore. A blanket fort is also a good place to hide the anime porn.

At the end of the day, accepting who they are means I have to meet them where they stand.  It started with my not forcing them to hug people.  If I tell them they can't control their bodies and must give an adult a hug, I have just invalidated their gut instincts that may be saying to stay away.

Forcing them to give affection (in a really extreme set of glasses) can look like grooming them to be victims of abuse.  Hug this person that makes you uncomfortable because making me look like you are affectionate and well adjusted means more than what you feel.  While you're at it, keep quiet and respectful because this is an adult, and their thoughts and feelings mean more than yours.

I don't force haircuts anymore.  It's their hair and I won't touch it as long as they brush through the tangles daily. If they want to be home, we stay home.  If it's not a school night and they want to stay up, I let them.  Even if random laughter wakes me at 4 in the morning. (Yes, I'm editing at 4 and this will suck later when I'm on my way home from the beach tonight.) On a school night, we try to stick to routines and rely on melatonin. If it's the middle of the day and they are tired, I let them sleep.  It's about letting them decide what is right for them and showing them that their needs are important to me and to them.  There is value in their needs and desires.  There is nothing more important than what they think or feel.  I ask them questions and their answers are never wrong as long as they answer with the same respect I offer.

I think all of our relationships teach us what we need to learn to help the next person grow.  I learned to mother my sons from daughtering my Dad (yes, I make up words and you'll get used to it).  I love him deeply.  He will never be what I hoped for as a teenager, but the day I decided to love and accept him as he is and meet him where he is instead of demanding he take my designated route to where I wanted him to be was the day I found healing.  I know that he loves me and will always do what he thinks is best and that is how he expresses his love.  I know my kids will surprise and amaze me but not if I'm too busy looking for ways to measure them up to someone else's ideals and expectations.  I find there is a great reward in flexibility and learning to meet someone where they are.  Sometimes they'll surprise me and return the favor. Sometimes they'll want to stretch because they can feel the warmth of my sunshine.

Distracted by a Memory

Moments flow into milestones and I look back only to distract myself with the memory of your smile. Objectified desire became your inured servant while I was held captive by you.

Your thrall was broken only by your words.

Why did you ever open that beautiful mouth of yours?

Writing For Release

Have you ever created a world out of words or breathed life into a person, loved them completely and then put them through hell? You might be a writer. My writing goes online because that’s where I’m choosing to put it.  I like sharing my words because it validates who I am and forces me to stand firm in who I am, taking away any possible hiding places. I choose to not hide because hiding has always meant I’m not enough, but really, there’s more than enough from where I’m standing now.  It’s lovely here. Join me.

When I was working on my undergrad, a typical day meant I would get up at 7 to get the kids out to school.  I would finish last minute edits on my latest assignment before shooting off to class.  I’d sip coffee (and before my wheat sensitivity), enjoy an almond croissant.  I’d sit in class and tease apart ideas that started the night before in my reading.  I’d head toward home to pick up kids from school, get some housework done, hope for a short nap and start dinner.  My ex would come home and I’d run off to my evening classes with instructions on when to take dinner out of the oven.  I’d finish class and head home, hoping there was dinner left for me.  Bedtime routines would happen and I’d lay in bed and read a couple hundred pages while the ex watched t.v. until he fell asleep. I’d get up and bang out a paper or two, get in bed by 4 and start over. I think that's why I enjoy the forced flow of finance.  I thrive in going full on at a higher pace.

In between quarters, I would read a couple of novels a day, and write most of the night after my family was asleep.  I would read the Harry Potter series over and over because I love the way JK Rowling weaves a plot together.  She drops hints and each reading reveals a layer I missed the first 7 or 8 times.  Then I’ll read the Twilight Series because Stephenie Meyer makes me feel like anyone can do it, even me.  She’s great at telling a story and building suspense in a way that makes being too stupid to live sound romantic and having a stalker/jealous boyfriend the end goal that anyone could support.  I’m not going to comment on her prose, but she can sell horrible ideals and that is what makes her amazing.  Personally I’m horrible with suspense.  I’m always into instant gratification.

When my marriage fell apart it really was hard to write.  I couldn’t string together a paragraph for months.  Gaslighting made me believe my writing made me a horrible wife and mother.  I would get so involved that I would forget to eat and my kids would have to remind me that they needed food too.  It took a long time to realize my kids had another parent that was often in bed watching television while I was reading and we were both responsible for our kids. I loved my Kindle because my ex couldn’t keep track of how many books I was reading, and he couldn’t see my start and finish.  I could suspend time when I said, “at the end of this chapter.” There was a rending of a marriage and a lot of that was blamed on being into words more than I was into him.  That has been hard to reconcile.  I write meaningless fluff, that has meant something to the 600 visitors I’ve had since I started writing at the end of February.

I was talking to someone that makes me miss the craziness of writing enough that I finally put Scrivener on my laptop.  He’s great at shifting my perspective enough that I no longer feel shameless in objectifying him.  (I can almost picture you jumping around with me on that one.) He makes me want to write again, and I don’t have to change my vocabulary for him or worry that he needs change for the $5 word I just handed him.

The thing about writing is that it takes a huge imagination.  You create something out of nothing in a way that makes others see what you see.  You have to love it enough for the many edits you’ll need to not bore you and you want to know that you want to read every word because if you are bored of your writing, how can you expect your readers to care? Writers often have to take care of themselves while writing obsessively.  There’s a full work day and overtime in some cases and then we go to our writing den and exorcise our demons. Writing isn’t a job as much as a release to keep us sane.  I need my escape hatch as do most writers.  This is a place where we can recharge and clear our minds because they are going a mile a minute in several directions at all times.  It’s intense and can be overwhelming.  I love nature.  I love my feet sinking in sifting sand.  I like the feel of mud splattering on my legs, as my toes sink in dark brown sludge.  I like the feel of the sun on my bare skin and the sounds of nature reminding me that I am small and nothing is as constant as I think it is. Some writers exercise.  I find my best ideas when I’m talking to others or sweating it out.  I pull weeds. Exercise usually means I don’t have something to jot down ideas and they run away from me when I need them.  Conversations with people will remind me of a head tilt or laugh lines.  I’ll try to remember the tone of their voice or the excitement in their eyes.

I love to watch people.  I notice more details than the average person and it makes me a bit weird but only when I share what I see.  I love to watch artists draw or paint because they have an ability to put what they see on paper with obedient hands.  Personally, I can only do that with words and I’m in awe of anyone that can draw a straight line with a ruler because I really can’t.  Watching people and how they interact and figuring out what drives them is important to a writer.  We want to see if we can catch you lying and what will give you away.  We also want that one person we can trust no matter what because we need a safe place to just be. No outside pressure please. 

Sometimes I need to experience things.  That’s what online dating was about.  I wasn’t looking for something serious and I really only wanted company.  At the end of the day, I looked at the cost and it was cheaper to pay for my own meals.  I was talking to family and close friends and there was a collective sigh of relief because they saw it wasn’t for me, but they also knew me well enough to know I had to experience it in all of its craziness.  I needed to be able to write about it.

The planning in writing is something I would love to be able to shut off in life.  I’m the queen of putting the cart before the horse.  I can plan and plot out an entire relationship before I’ve even said hello.  I can see our life together and how I would fit myself around him and where I would want him to flow through me.  I keep hearing a special friend of mine reminding me, “baby steps, ma.” I’m working on that, and it has its rewards.

What do I need? A keyboard.  I type my words.  I often need music, but not always.  I will also wiggle to the beat in my seat as the words run through me.  I get it out and for the most part I will go back and edit, but with my blog that doesn’t happen often.  I’m afraid of editing out what I originally felt and that would invalidate my honesty.  Food helps too.  It might be tortilla chips and salsa.  Or bacon and eggs over medium.  I write with coffee or lemonade, but read with tea, but that’s typical and not mandatory.  When I’m writing poetry I need pen and paper and the pen usually has a backup in a different color.  Green and blue inks are my favorite.  My poetry usually only comes out when I’m not happy.  Lately I’ve been too happy to write poetry.  Give it some time and I’ll probably start penning longing love poems.  I’m sure I’ll let you know when I do. The relationships in my head are always much more fulfilling than the ones I experience.

Daddy's Day

I love my Dad.  Even when I can't agree with him, I can always see that his beliefs are firmly grounded in love and that as a Dad, he has and will always do what he thinks is best for me.  He's the salt of the earth, man's man that I always look for when I try to see how a man measures up.  Dad took me to the shooting range and fishing.  He had me hand him tools when he worked on his cars, and I was able to walk around with "tool hands"  They were dirty enough to show I did more than stand and watch.  He taught me a few self defense moves before I took karate and taught me how to change a tire and check the fluids in my car.  He taught me how to make southern fried chicken (which is too greasy for my tastes). He loves me enough to flip out when he will see my latest tattoo tomorrow afternoon.  When my ex left and I was struggling for groceries and figuring out how to keep the house running, he stepped in and for a short while allowed me to fall apart and just be his little girl. It was a short while before I remembered my parents didn't raise me to sit by and be taken care of and I had to get it together.I can appreciate the Grandfather that my step-dad is. He became my step dad after I was 18.  I never saw him as mine, but in the years since I stopped acting like the title gave me a right to step all over him, I have been blessed with the grandfather he has become to my sons.  We recently had a heart to heart where he reminded me that I used to ask him, "are you dumb, stupid,  or both?" He has earned my respect and I have softened into a deep respect and love for him.

My ex's Dad will always be mine.  When I decided I wanted to keep my ex forever, I looked at his Dad and thought, yes, I could take care of this man when he starts to look like his Dad.  He is sweet and endearing and puts love into his cooking and his time.  He is likely to sacrifice his needs to make sure we're okay.  When we came to him with the news of his first grandchild, he had me rest (and napping on his couch was super easy) and he whipped up beef stroganoff from scratch.  He loved feeding me and he's always been generous.

My ex's step dad loves my children in such a way that they love and look forward to talking to him.  He's an angler and a biker and a mechanic. He's another solid man that I appreciate having in my kid's lives.

I was a surrogate Mom.  Three times.  These three Dads were all men that loved their wives and loved children and made me feel honored to be trusted with such a precious gift.

Then there is the ex.  I didn't want kids before I met him.  There was something special about him that made the idea of kids not so terrible.  We had our first and I was excited to give a second and third.  Being a single parent has made him a better Dad than I thought possible.

Before I became a single parent, I thought single moms had to do it all as both mom and dad.  I'm here now and it doesn't look like that.  My boys have a Dad and I don't have to fill those shoes because he's got them filled.  When I'm alone I'm not making up for a missing Dad.  I'm stretching who I am as Mom.  As long as I continue to do my best to be the Mom my kids deserve instead of the selfish person I want to be, we're going to be in good shape.  I'm not being someone I'm not, but I'm stretching who I am.  I'm not defined by gender roles.  One day there will be another man in my life and he'll be part of my son's lives.  He'll be a step dad and I will have to stretch again.  I will have to be open to accepting help and sharing responsibilities.  I have no problems giving this holiday to all of the Dads out there. Happy Father's Day.

Child's Play and Raising Gamers

When my kids were about 3 or 4, they loved lining up Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends or Hot Wheels. They were perfectly arranged and evenly spaced.  They had to be taught to imagine people driving or what a family might do on an outing. Nonfunctional routines were more likely to happen during floor time than functional play. Play times weren't always ordered.  These were the same older two that would dump out all of their wooden puzzles at once to piece them together because that was a superpower at one point.  These days I'm the only one that really enjoys jigsaw puzzles.  With each thing that held their attention they would obsess (much like I do with interesting men).  They would repeat the word "why?" in an echolalic refrain, but perseverative speech would cover every single possibility about a situation. They needed answers from all angles.  It was also an inability to comprehend receptive language. At first it required insane amounts of patience, but I've grown to appreciate and love the curiosity that drives a person to seek deeper meanings and answers. Lately my kids are all about gaming.  It feeds a need for repetitive behaviors and restricted interests.  Taking away their release for punishment has lead to meltdowns and tantrums and I eventually had to start defending their gaming habits to teachers.  It's not just my ASD kids, but my neurotypical 9 year old as well.

One year a teacher kept sending me articles about the negative impact of gaming on kids.  I answered her with the positives, but it was more defiance than anything.  My kids were developing relationships online with kids that were becoming friends.  They talked. They enjoyed each other.  I wasn't about to let anything stop their new friendships.  My kids have friends of all ages from all over the world, and surprising political views that I've never shared.

The latent benefits of gaming that I've witnessed include mastering fine motor skills and problem solving.  You have to be able to plan things and when working with others you are working on teamwork.  These are school and workplace superpowers.  My boys have been curious about history because it's woven into the histories of the games they play and I've caught them singing songs that I grew up with.  I secretly hope gamers will revolutionize modern music.  There's the mental exercise to gaming that can keep those neurons firing into older age.  I know how I feel when I'm mentally stretched and gaming does that for gamers. They have to be able to think on their toes and make quick decisions.  That gut instinct is something I hope to cultivate for myself.  For my middle son, I've seen a huge jump in his research skills.  Ask him about the next console Nintendo is rolling out next year and he has excited answers and will geek out in the most adorable way you could imagine.  He hops and I love it.

Like my reading time, when my kids are gaming, they tend to not overeat because sometimes they actually forget to eat.  My boys first told me about French Macarons.  I had never had them, but their friends made it sound like they taste like love feels and we tried them. Now I make them sometimes because I can and they ask nicely.  Sometimes isn't more often because they're sugar, almond meal and egg whites, but mainly sugar.  The direction that modern medicine is heading in would put my kids on the right trajectory for world star surgeon status. I can live with that.  I can also live with them doing exactly what they are doing now for the rest of their lives.  My expectations are low but they also tend to surprise me in a huge way.  They want to get paid to be gamers with snarky commentary. I once saw a studio where these things are recorded.  I can support that.  Other Minecraft mothers will recognize the voice of that creepy Brit.  That man has been an idol.  I checked out my YouTube and it's filled with recommendations for all sorts of cute girls playing Minecraft, Minecraft School and Five Nights at Freddy's. They're also big on anime.  Anime Expo is coming up and they'll be there with their Dad because cosplay is not my brand of geekology.  In the meantime I'm tasked with checking internet browser histories for anime porn because that is a fun thing for my 13 year old.

Gaming was always something I left to their Dad and I've only gotten involved in recent months because we have separate houses and they need their things at each place.  I bought a PS4 with Call of Duty for them for Valentine's Day.  Kid1 loved it but never touched it.  Kid2 had a meltdown.  He is all about Mr. Mario. His Dad told him two houses mean two of everything and I broke that rule by not getting a Wii U.  Kid3 liked it but also never touched it.  Last night I jumped into the role that is now mine and bought a used Wii U console and Naruto Game for the PS4.  I'm paying attention to the Minecraft games, forums and videos they watch.  I may even start reading Homestuck, but I'm not sure I'm there yet.  Kid1 acts like I'd love Splatoon, but I'm also okay making sure they're well fed and watered while I read and write around them.

You would think I was at one point a gamer, but I've never really been into it.  My big sister bought my Nintendo console when I was a kid.  It was the original console with Super Mario Brothers and Duck Hunt.  I had fun, but eventually got bored.  I'm one of those rare people that never beat the game.  In frustration I would shoot at the dog that laughed at me.  My other sister beat the game.  She is 7 years older than me.  She was the beautiful one that all of my friends liked.  It was especially hard to lose to her and I quit playing.  She had the cute boys that liked her and the body of a runner.  All of my friends liked her and I couldn't compete with her.  It took years to fall into mutual love and respect because it took that long to learn that she was never competing with me and wanted to see me happy as well.  I quit playing video games around the same time I was more interested in skating with the neighborhood boys and before I gave that up for getting lost in romance novels, warping my ideas of love and romance.

I'm Going to Find a Real Boy

Deciding to remove myself from all of the online dating sites was a good choice, but it's been hitting me in different ways as the day progresses.  At first it was this feeling of relief because I had been irritated with every alert on my phone.  I was receiving likes, winks, views and matches that were draining the battery on my phone and they were from people that saw me as a smile or a body and not as a person.  Suddenly my phone was silent.  It was around that time that my work flow slowed down and I was bored.  I didn't miss the attention.  I missed the mental stretch from flirting and running several conversations at once and staying on top of the details they shared that were really boring in themselves, but fun to keep straight. There's confidence in low stakes flirting because you really don't care. Then there were the few text messages from men that I was thinking of seeing or the ones I had seen, but didn't plan to see again.  I kept shaking my head in exasperation or vocalizing frustration because of the things they were saying.  I wondered what I might have said to give them the impression I was okay with being treated as a body.  My pictures weren't sexual or revealing.  I wondered what would make them think I was suddenly in love with them when we had never met in person and I reserved the right to be annoyed by the sound of their voice.  I tend to think anyone that starts professing romantic ideals before meeting me is laying it on thick and can't be trusted.  I started saying "this isn't a good fit and I can't see you." One response was, "if it doesn't work out with this person, let me know," as if I needed to have a replacement to release someone that made me feel like less than I am. There are some that I am going to say goodbye to by text.  We talk almost daily but I don't really care to offer my beach sunsets in exchange for an interview.

There are others that will text me to see if I remember them after a week or two of no contact.  I'm just blocking those numbers.  They have other options to feel out and I'm just part of the herd. I'm on reserve as a back up. They feel like telemarketers to me.

I set up a date for lunch on Monday and I haven't cancelled it because he hasn't made me feel bad about being a woman.  I'm also not attracted to him and I may just cancel because it would be a kindness. He lives in Pointe Dume and I couldn't see myself wanting to go visit him all that often. And yet he's coming to Burbank for me.

It dawned on me that I was setting myself up for constant frustration and allowing others to abuse my self image.  I was allowing it for the idea of company so I wouldn't have to have dinner alone when my kids are gone.  I gave up on finding Mr. Right or Mr. Right Now.  I was looking for company and even then, I was so irritated with it all, and it was the suggestion from Mr. Give Me a Second To Wipe Away the Drool that I don't need to be online to find a date that set off this chain that became cut ties to the abuse I was receiving.  It was aggression and it was abusive.  Sexualizing a conversation without consent was abuse. Even if I never fell for the game being kicked, emotional manipulation for a catfish game is cruel when your prey is genuinely lonely and only looking for a connection.

So why would I accept what I was receiving for the hope of company? That's the greater question. I'm great company and I can continue to enjoy my alone time.

I had lowered my bar to find company because I didn't think I'd find someone worth committing to.  Even with a goal of companionship, I felt happier on nights alone than with the dates I did meet.  That's really sad.  My standards weren't that high.  I wanted company I could talk to and that was it.

My actual dating profile:

You: A pretty face with as much appreciation for your own body as you expect from me. Be able to take care of yourself.

Me: I take care of myself and my boys (50/50 custody). You won't meet them unless you can offer them more than my happiness.  I'm a happy person.  I'm healthy and avoid drama.

Us: I'm looking for company to go out with.  I'm most giving and fulfilled in monogamous relationships.

As for Mr. Right, I would love to meet someone smarter than I am.  That would be incredibly sexy. And yes, I want his body harder than mine is.  I would want to be stunned into silence because his words can monumentally shift everything for me.   I would want him to make me question my confidence.  Not in the way where I wonder what my value is, but in the way where I'm more curious about where I'm placed in his value system.  He should be able to take care of himself and find ways to be happy that aren't reliant on others.

"Loving another person, even several people, will make your life fuller...But it will not make it complete. You have to do that. You must decide what you live for."

Wisdom, Amanda Hocking

I had a moment today that shocked and surprised me.  I was talking and got caught up in a moment of checking out this beautiful body in the same moment when he said something that made me think, "why have I never considered that?"  He has the kind of smile that makes you want to smile and just enjoy being dumbstruck and I had this really stiff smile on my face that was probably all shades of wrong because I was so shocked and uncertain. I haven't had that feeling in decades. The idea that he could be what I stopped looking for hit me so hard my mouth went dry and my usual smile lost it's way.  As much as it scared me, I didn't run from that feeling but I had to really sit with it to understand that the feeling in my belly was sexual arousal because my mind was stroked in so many ways.  Just wow. Then I resorted to hiding behind a keyboard because in that moment I was okay with being 12. It was a just a moment, but it was full of the feels.

So yeah, the real boy thing just means I'm no longer looking online.  I'm following that gut instinct when I get past nerves and shyness.  I'm going by what I feel and think and not looking at pictures and what car he drives or where his career takes him because that didn't matter before I was online and I don't want it to matter now.  There aren't profiles to pick through and I can just enjoy an invite into his world instead of a need to take it apart and look for cracks in the plaster or shifting foundations with outdated electrical and rusting pipes.  I can see and feel and just be.

Until I'm there, I will enjoy the ocean and quiet dinners alone and continue finding the perfect rocks to stick around my pond and set on my porch.  I will consider watching more television and maybe even catch a movie.  I hear it's a thing and I should try it because I might like it.  I'll watch night time skies and see if there are any stars shooting through it and this summer I will catch a grunion run.  I will get lost in a book while my boys are gaming and the sounds of their joy  will filter through the tension I read through.  It's not sad, I promise.

Love Attachments

I’m not immune. I crave attention and desire earth shattering love.  I want to be that first good morning text and the fading memory before sleep steals conscious thoughts.  I want my walk to be the poetry that brightens someone’s day and I want my smile to create one where it didn’t exist before.  I want to be included in outings and tomorrows and be the sure thing in a future of uncertainty because choosing me would be intentional each day as life flows into endless possibilities. I want to share in the pleasures of a physical relationship as much as the next girl, and I want to see how completely I can control someone else’s arousal.  (Kid meet candy store.) I want words.  Long love letters . . .  Epic poetry . . .  Even unexpected post it notes would make me happy.  Yes, I am that girl.  Stick out that pinky so I can curl up around it. I’m travel size.  Take me with you. The thing about this girl is I want meaningful.  I’m big on fantasy and day dream, but I never step away from reality.  I used to fall for quick professions of undying love but I can see that as a fantasy world and the history of my love life has broken that fourth wall.  You can’t suspend my disbelief.  I want a relationship that starts slowly enough by mutual consent that one of us isn’t being taken hostage by one person’s fantasies and desires.  My needs are met and my wants are held in check because I can do that.  It’s a superpower.  I’m not saying I love you should wait for “x” amount of days.  It should wait until you can genuinely say you love this person more than your favorite food or shoes.  If you would sacrifice your comfy jeans for them, then tell them you love them.  Life is too short to hold that in check.

I met a man online about 3 days ago.  His love note was full of unhealthy attachment and I’m not interested.  I’m actually a bit frightened.

“I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life like I am of us.”

I couldn’t even tell you what I wore or ate yesterday. I’m not certain about much at all.

“You make my life complete.”

I make my life complete.  I’m not looking for filler or pillow fluff.  I just want company with kissable lips.

“Today I promise you that I would do anything in my power to make you a great person, outstanding woman and loving wife.”

Spectacular.  Except, you must not see that I’m already a great person, and outstanding woman and truthfully I’m still someone else’s wife and looking for a side piece to be my main attraction.

Honestly I could see this email being the answer that many people seek.  Just not me.  Either he was copying and pasting this email to as many as he could reach in an elaborate catfishing scheme, or he really is disturbed and imagining I said some of the delusional things he wrote.  It started to feel like a catfish situation on day 1.5. He's out. 

Words Around the Watercooler

I had a watercooler conversation this morning that stayed with me most of the day.  There was a comment that was nonchalant, but shifted so much into place for me.  I don't want to misquote him but he pointed out that some people are dating online because of a very specific and necessary reason, and it's not just convenience.  I'm not into the bar scene because I don't drink. For me . . . For him . . . online dating is about convenience.

Last night I was doing a little shopping.  My girl Victoria keeps telling me her Secrets and the latest bit was about her semi-annual sale and how happy she could make me.  I happened to share this information and I probably shouldn't have because it resulted in the question about pictures.  It's never just about a picture, and it's not about seeing the inside of my nose. We had been having normal conversations so I tried to be playful and point out that Victoria's Secrets are now mine and a matter of great importance.  He asked again, stating that secrets are meant to be shared.  I told him he'd never make it to the CIA.  He then asked if my boobs were about national security and I even pointed out that if I were his, he wouldn't appreciate it if I were sharing my body like Costco samples to any man that asked. He wanted to see my flexibility in action and that was when I was done.  He later excused his behavior as having a little fun and it occurred to me that his idea of fun was to make me feel like less than a person with thoughts, ideas and feelings. I did give him something special and individual.  He's now blocked from reaching me by phone.

There was a skater/guitarist that was once featured here.  He wanted to see me tonight but made a comment that made it clear what his intentions were.  I decided seeing the ocean was more important than seeing him.

One man keeps complaining I'm always busy and hardly make time for him.  I flat out told him that I am a busy person, and probably not the one for him.  He insists he doesn't give up that easily.  I don't know how to tell him I want him to without facing another man tantrum.  Those often come with my rejections.

It's about 1 in the morning and there is a man that has been texting me for two days now.  Two whole days.  He says he wants to be part of my everyday life. I'm beautiful and he's got a deep connection.  I tell him I want to slow things down, but I should just tell him he's creeping me out when he tells me about the long term relationship he needs with me because he is falling for me.  Two days people.

I'm not cut out for online dating and maybe it's really not just me. I'm holding on to what Mr. Curious and Profoundly Observant said today.  I deleted 4 dating app accounts, and the 5th will go away when the paid subscription runs out. I'm saying my farewells to the men that make me hate the sound of an alert on my phone because they are harshing my mellow.  I will continue to say hello to cute strangers driving alongside me, and I may even lower my windows so they can hear me.  I'll find the bravery that is pretty deeply hidden and be authentic with what I want.  I went to Santa Monica tonight but avoided the end of the pier with the photographer because I am a chicken.  Eventually I'll be honest and upfront when I tell him he's not the one for me and I won't lie and say I'm not dating.  I am.  Just not him.  And not anyone else that finds me online and wants to know my bra size without spending a moment in my head.

I really do direct men to my blog and they very rarely read it and if they do, they don't stick around.  It's about increasing my readership, but more than that, I bleed freely here.  Lap up the thoughts that spill out and frame the dreams that make me who I am.  Let feminism wrap around you until you feel empathy for what the women in your life feel on any given day. Know that I'm not always nice, and I'm sexual and honesty will come out whether or not you're ready for it.  I won't hide behind or from what I write because it's who I am and I'm not ashamed.

All night my phone has been alerting me that I'm on someone else's mind, but my mind is running laps around a water cooler and the many potty breaks that I seem to end up on as I spend way too much time making myself cups of tea.