Love Is Not Blind

It's amazing what we will accept in the name of love, isn't it? I mean, there has to be a reason we will accept heartache and pain, loneliness and defiance from those that we love.  We cover their sins by saying we love someone or excuse their poor behavior when they never bothered to excuse it away.  Love isn't blind.  We're not blinded by an emotion we choose. I believe love is a choice.  Lust is more instinctive than love, and we can control lust.  We're not animals.  Rape culture tells us to dress differently and carry ourselves as if we are less so we don't attract men, but I believe we are in control of our lust.  There would be plenty of men in serious trouble if I acted on every single one of my lustful impulses.  My hike this morning put a few beautiful men in my path, with friends, and running.  Amazingly, I didn't assault them.  If acting on an impulse like lust is a choice, then acting on an impulse to care enough to love is also a choice.  You choose to look for the best parts of a person and hold within you an ember of hope that they will be able to step into all of the wonderful things you see in them.  People will fail you.  You see things they can't see and they fail your expectation because they don't hold themselves to the level you do.  It's so much easier to find the amazing in someone else than it is to find it in ourselves.

As a woman that has loved children and men and sisters and parents, I can see stubbornness and laziness.  I can see conditional love and selfishness.  I can see anger and aggression.  I can see people take advantage of kindness.  In love, we can see clearly.  We can also choose to cover them in our love and hope that they will do better.

Love isn't blind.  Love allows us to see our loved ones more clearly than they see themselves.  It allows us to look past their faults with intention and see the parts that aren't yet clear.  Love gives us the space to offer our best to cover their worst and defend the indefensible behaviors that others don't understand.

Love is clarity.  Love is hope.  Love is reaching beyond what is to cull what could possibly be. Love is crystal clear.  Love sees it all and hopes for the vision we hold to come through.

Hiking Runyon Canyon

 

One that is proudly inactive does not simply decide to hike Runyon Canyon.  Unless you're me, and committed to not over thinking anything.  Then I go for it.

I've lived in Los Angeles all of my life and I've recently decided that I can enjoy my city too.  So many people that live here came from elsewhere.  There are people that come and stay in hotels and pay an insane amount of money for the sunshine and beaches and I've spent long enough sleeping in and not going out to explore.

This morning I was up before the sun.  It was my usual morning of my body waking me up for no reason at all.  I looked at my phone, then thought, "I could catch the sunrise . . . go hiking . . . have coffee on the porch." The day was ahead of me because it was still dark outside and I was rested.  Somehow I got sucked into Facebook instead only to look up and discover the sky outside was lighter and the birds were chirping.  I could have tried sleep at that point.  I could have gotten up for housework.  Instead I threw on clothes and told my Waze app to get me to Runyon Canyon.

I parked closer to Vista and used that entrance.  I had my keys in one hand and my phone in the other and didn't bother with water, but decided stretching would be planning enough.  (I also stopped at every fountain for water and sat at every bench to appreciate the view.)  As I started walking with my music in my ears, I was singing.  On the way up, I saw this massive climb with people goat hopping and climbing up and thought maybe I could turn back at that point.  It looked intense.

I started focusing on each step I was taking or the views all around me.  I have never done the trail before, so I figured I would just follow the paved road.  Runyon Canyon Road leads to Mulholland Drive and I was about a third of the way there when I checked my map.  If you were there, I was the crazy woman laughing hysterically on my way back down and to the fork that took me to Fuller so I could complete the loop.

I'm focusing on the fact that the way you do anything is the way you do everything.

From the time I woke up, I sat with the idea for a while before I decided I would just do it.  I bought a sports bra a couple of years ago that is way too big for me now so  I wore a regular bra and found peace with the idea that I would bounce and it didn't bother me as much as I thought it would.  I didn't even think about it.  We do what we commit to do or we make excuses, but at the end of the morning, I hiked a trail I've wanted to check out for a while and didn't have anyone to get me out of bed for it but myself.

I remembered to stretch after watching someone else doing it.  I remembered my post workout stretch when I was sitting in the air conditioning in my car, and got up to stretch and it felt good.  Not gelato good, but good. Doing things properly has latent benefits.  Take the time to stretch and focus on your breathing and being present in the moment.  It feels better than you might imagine.

It was a morning of appreciating the present moment I was in.  I wasn't focused on the really steep climb I could see people struggling through.  I ended up in the opposite direction.  By the time I got there, I was coming down and not climbing up.  Instead of struggling, I was jogging and hopping and it was fun. I hit a crest and realised I was looking at the original ascent I was afraid of.  I made peace with the idea of sliding down on my butt if I had to.  I accepted that I might fall, and hoped I wouldn't end up with a face full of cacti needles because I have plans tonight and want to look cute.  By the time I got down, I didn't fall.  I was able to just enjoy the beautiful view.  I spent some time petting some stranger's dog and we both got lost in a few moments of watching dragonflies.  The dog's owner seemed a bit nervous about the dragon flies and I assured him they might land on you for a little insect porn, but they really don't harm people.

I saw lots of exhaustion and determination on faces, but my face offered a smile and a song.  By the end of the hike, I did more than I planned to. It was exciting and relying on my body felt amazing.  I was more capable than I expected I could be.  I was sweating and really appreciated the fact that I was too lazy to shower first. That post workout shower is a special gift.  I didn't plan, but the adventure made me laugh.  The steep climb looked far worse than it was because it was my descent.  I didn't bring water but I had just what I needed in water and rest stops. And it was a road travelled alone.  It's exactly how I'm living my everything.

Just Say It

I was having a conversation with a beautiful friend last night.  I was slightly envious of her perfect posture but appreciated her strawberry blonde hair, softly swept over her left shoulder.  She was telling me about her trip home and the family love she was surrounded with.  She told me about a camping trip that got rained out.  It reminded me of a trip to Green Valley Lake where the rain pelted the tent throughout the night and we cut our trip short, packing up in the rain, and then setting the tent up in our living room to air out over a pizza dinner which I preferred over the walking tacos or sauteed trout that was probably planned. Those are the best conversations, right? The ones that revive a memory or a thought of another time and place that feel like home and taste like warm honeyed milk.

We walked and talked and she danced around telling me about the love in her life.  I've known heartache.  She was expressing something I have known and have grown to appreciate. It's an effort to remember that the love I give is given and not bartered.  I have to remind myself that the amazing I see and praise isn't a chip I get to cash in at the end of the romance.  I told her that I loved her.  I do.  It's not difficult to admit, because I can say it and know there is truth in it.  Am I in love with her? No.  I couldn't see myself putting her above my needs because doing so would bring me joy.  I could do it, but it would be about generosity, not personal fulfillment.  I can say I love her.  I know that as special and wonderful and amazing as she is, I'm not in love with her.

The thing about saying you love something or someone is you should really just say it.  Think about what people proclaim their love for on a daily basis.

I love pizza!

I love tacos!

I love Fridays!

I love Saturday sleep ins!

I love rough porn star sex! (What, you've never heard this one? Try online dating. Or don't, might be the lesson.)

My loves? Beach sunsets, museums, food joy, but you know this and it's meaningless.  Without a person to love, things are meaningless.

Love was never meant to stay within you.  It feeds off of others and that's how it grows.  You can't force change through fear or domination but you can through love because that is what helps an ideal solidify through intention.  We're all world changers in our way.  Wouldn't you want to impact the world in a greater way? Do it through love. It's universal.

When you hold in your expression of love, does it feel good? Do you enjoy the wonder of what their reaction will do, or do you let your love sit within you, surrounded by the fear of a reaction.  Fear lies to us.  It tells us what the worst possible outcome is and we believe this without proof.  It tells us to forget what we know and run from what we can't see. It allows us to hide in stagnant waters that are unable to oxygenate and make us grow.  It allows us to die through emotional suicide.

When you hold love in and the situation changes but you kept those words to yourself, you have not only robbed the focus of your affection of the opportunity to be loved, but you've robbed yourself of that moment of expression.  You have placed the value of your emotions in the fear of someone else's interpretation without realizing that they don't count the way you do because you aren't willing to teach them.

I'm guilty of this. The last time I withheld that expression, it became a withheld confession.  I attached guilt to it. Not saying it was about my fear that it would frighten him.  It was about placing his needs of being superficial in our connection ahead of my need to get it out of myself.  I robbed him of the opportunity to prove me wrong or show me he is who he's always shown up to me as. I care more about how he might react than a missed eggy breakfast.  That's love.  With him, the words were meaningless to me when I could take the opportunity to express it through the action of doing what was contrary to who I am becoming.  Life is practice.  I'm not done yet.

How you do anything is really how you do everything.  I shoot from the heart.

The Cigar

I want the chocolate one. Make it two. Please cut the tip. He bags it and adds a pouch for humidity. Who knows if I'll smoke it? It's rebellion enough to buy the thing. I'm in my early 20's again, scratching at the void with longer nails to mask what I refuse to notice.

I walk familiar streets and along the pier, sitting and watching people watch their phones.

Rolled and rectangular with a hint of chocolate. Dark leaves neatly folded like fey clothes in the Seelie Courts.  It smells like rebellion. The taste of leaves feel dry and moist. I lick the end and feel closer to the earth and dark soil. It's almost sweet until I light it. I fake a habit I used to own, preferring to blow out an oral fixation and imagine dragon's breath out of a borrowed phallus I destroy in embers and flicked away ash. You would think I forgot how to smoke but it's work to not step into instinct from a three pack a day habit nearly two decades old.  I turn it slowly for an even burn, blowing more than puffing so I can keep away the light headed bliss that tells me I want to return to this escape. I'm at peace with how unattractive it is because I handle it like a boss.

The moon is full and tells me these phases come and go with the force to pull waves along a shore, crashing and eroding even solid rocks with constant force because the moon is greater than anything we have on earth. It's great because as big as the earth is, you can't ignore the size of a moon that orbits the earth while dancing around the sun. It does what it will as I watch in gratitude for it's beauty and it's lessons and the life it forces in partnership with the sun.

It's a clear night with dotted lights along the shore and winking at me from the sky. I find a moment of grace and it feels like peace with joy around the edges. The other cigar will be a gift to brighten someone else's day and I smile because I find happiness in my giving.

My Tiara

I have a tiara.  Let it sink in. 

I was in a silly mood when I bought it. It's cheaply made and entirely frivolous. But I have a tiara. 

There was a whole thought process behind it, but I have a tiara. I was never on any of the royal courts in high school. It wasn't my thing. Leadership Council, yes. Prom Princess, no. But I have a tiara.

The thought was about saddling up and paying bills. If I wear it when balancing my checkbook and paying bills, I can be the Queen that is handling the business of her Kingdom ... Queendom. I'm doing my duties and not getting bent over and robbed at the same time. 

This morning Kid3 was having a melt down. He had one when he went to bed last night and had one in the morning. I stepped outside to discover what happened to half a dozen eggs that disappeared and realized the kids were revolting. I put on that tiara and the extra dose of patience I needed fell softly around my shoulders. 

Queens don't lose their shit. 

I couldn't lose my shit. 

I caught my reflection in a mirror and started giggling. My son started giggling. There were hugs and tickles and silly laughter. And there's a tiara. 

Best $10 I've spent this week. 

Second Chances

I'm not a giver of second chances.  Not in romantic relationships.  Once upon a time I tried it. It was a guy that I was friends with first.  As friends, we shared so much of who we were. He even held my hand through a breakup with someone else.  As a couple, he wasn't the right fit, and trying a second time was for him.  There was a shift in the relationship. My friends were all guys.  I wanted him to have his time with his friends so I could hang with mine.  I didn't want him to meet my friends. He wanted my time apart to mean I stayed home to wait for his call.  He would call while I was with friends and I made fun of his attachment to me.  I didn't want to be with him and I was sad that I had to tell him this and he couldn't see that I turned into a mean person because I wasn't happy. For the record, I was also a coward that couldn't own up to what I wanted out of our relationship.  I just couldn't get back into the idea of "us" because I had accepted we would only be friends.  I was so immature that friendship with my ex meant he was my go to when I was looking for a punchline.  It didn't help that he liked me more than I liked him. As a couple, I tend to be intensely obsessive.  I want to know every detail about him and I want to enjoy his company.  I'm such a believer in the good of who he is, I give every opportunity and spend way too much time hoping he'll see my amazing and want to be with me just as much as I want to be with him. It never goes well, and by the end, he's pushed me so far from him I finally take the hint and wouldn't want him back.  I mean, typically.  In theory.  I couldn't tell you what my reaction would be tomorrow because I just don't know. Lately my relationships look different because I'm different.

Right now, I'm all about my alone time and company is great, but I have to be convinced that the person I'm talking to would improve on time I really like spending alone. The other day at work a woman asked if I'd like to join her group.  It was kind, but I declined.  As friendly as I can be, I prefer to sit alone, doodle, sing and be the happy pariah. In the past, I always jumped head first into romance, and I gave so much in relationships that by the time it was over, he was long gone and I was being that puppy that couldn't drop the toy.  Those feelings linger so long because I really love falling in love and I can appreciate the good, milking it for every racing heartbeat and fluttering butterfly moment.  I like the many things a relationship will make me feel.

Once I turn away, I'm done.  Once I accept the romance is over, we'll only be friends, if that, and that's all I want. It means I've stepped away to heal damage we caused.  It means I've opened up to the possibility of a new romance somewhere in the future.  It means I'm able to appreciate the good, and really examine the bad for once.  But I'm done.  I wasn't always nice about it. Once I was asked for a second chance and I told him I didn't have the Jesus juice he was looking for. He was calling me his "goddess" and I told him I'm not the one that gives second chances or mends broken hearts. (I keep telling you I'm not nice and as you can see, I have a tendency to be so wrong.) I used to change perfumes when I changed men.  It was a scent memory I was leaving behind. I'm not nearly as dramatic anymore. Now it's a moment to moment decision. Can the person in front of me improve on this moment, or can I handle this on my own? The guys that I walked away from recently weren't relationship kinda guys.  They were looking for something physical and I wasn't.  Then there were the two crushes I've had this year.  They were just that and entirely perfect in what they were. And sometimes a muse is just a muse. I don't know how I would react to a revisit from Mr. He's Hot and So Not Into Me, or my latest crush that was too kind to get a silly name for my objectification moments.

I'm starting to wonder about my stance.  I took a stand in my late teens and early 20's, but I've lived through so much during the marriage where I only dated my husband.  I recently had a moment where a memory from 18 years ago revived desiccated butterflies I thought were extinct.  How can a memory make my heart race and my stomach flip in a way that doesn't feel like heartburn? I related the moment to a friend and she suggested, "it's good to be excited and reconnect. It's been a long time, people are different.  It'll be like meeting someone new and different at the same time." I have to believe her.  She puts up with my horny teenage boy moments and laughs at the midlife sex drive of a celibate woman.

There was a boy. That many years ago I was just a girl. He was beautiful and intense. He was so driven and ambitious. I was immature.  I needed to go through my bad boy stage and work out my Daddy issues and he was smart enough to not get into my craziness. As intense as I can be, he was too intense for me.  This doesn't mean I need to find him and insist on a do-over.  Maybe one roll of quarters in my crazy arcade is enough for any boy.  The point is the memory of him shifted things just enough.  This may be one of those many revolutionary acts of starting over in the middle of your life. Like starting a new career, you get to revisit a romance with the perspective of someone who actually knows what they will and will no longer accept in relationships.

I'm still figuring out what I like and what I want and I'm not actually planning on giving up my "date myself nights." I treat myself really well and I'm really looking forward to my five kid free days this week.

Two of my sisters have grown up and reconnected with their first loves.  Each one of mine ended badly enough that my "what if's" were answered and never need revisiting. I've thought about every significant relationship I had before I got married and decided months ago that they weren't worth the data of an internet search.  It helps that I always had a thing for guys that my friends would always warn me about, and often dumped guys that were too nice.  It's a quality I like now but if I dumped them, I wasn't very nice about it and may have thrown words like, "little bitch" around.  I couldn't come back from that if I wanted to.  I learned those lessons and the memories are a strong enough repellent.

What about all of those versions of Mr. Almost, and Senators of Maybe Someday? I don't mean the men I politely said I'd meet for coffee even though I was more interested in watching clouds float through the sky.  I don't mean the ones I had  no interest in.  I mean the boys I really liked, and wanted to spend my free time with. I mean the ones that I looked forward to seeing. Could I revisit that? There's no one that I've held a torch for all of these years, but I was struck by a memory.  For the first time since high school, I'm wondering about the possibilities about a second chance at what I passed on the first time. I may be open to the idea of a second chance.  But I'm not sure I have an answer to that or that I could come up with an answer at the end of this post.

I would need that moment and that person to decide if it was worth the risk to revisit a memory. I would need to decide if my memories are sugar coated versions of reality or if life has made a mediocre painting less than it used to be. Maybe I'm over thinking my needs.  Maybe I just need some time alone with gelato.

When I Don't Say "I'm Sorry"

As a woman, it's easy to apologize for things we're not even responsible for. It's a gift of femininity when we are taught to not make waves and make others comfortable.  It's a gift without a receipt.  We can't take it back and we don't know what it's valued at, but we wouldn't mind taking it back to the store for something else. We apologize for someone's loss. We apologize when someone walks into us.  We apologize to the person we want to get around when they are standing in the middle of a grocery store aisle with their cart blocking both directions. Take the same person and stick them in a car that is slightly more dent proof than we are and you might get road rage. We give meaningless apologies for the space we take or step into.  I'm sorry for being too close to your pain to offer real comfort.  I'm sorry for the space I was taking when you forgot to look where you were going.

I'm sorry you didn't like what I did or felt or thought.  I'm consistently sorry for hurting others or making them uncomfortable.  When I'm not, I take a careful look at my motives and I'm often trying to be dominant in a powerless situation. The guilt is often a heavy burden I accept willingly.  What I try not to apologize for is the life I am trying to live.  The idea of holding back who I am for someone else's comfort hurts.  I wish it didn't, but that is what my scar tissue feels like.  It's pain when I am asked to be someone I don't want to be.  It hurts the most when I can see I'm trying to be less because the request comes from someone I want to mean more than I do. My apologies come with careful consideration and weigh heavier than they used to.

There are times when I don't say sorry.  There were times when I justified and defended my choices.  There were times when I made excuses but I didn't experience contrition.  Or I wouldn't admit to being apologetic.  Usually this happens when my shame is such a bright and heavy jacket that I throw out excuses and justifications to offset the weight of what I carry.

Other times I feel there isn't a fault in what happened.  It is what we've made it and I accept it for what it is and what it feels like and how it shapes itself around us.  A love of books . . . Shameless adoration . . . Fighting for what I believe in . . . These are things that aren't about shame but a willingness to stand in all I am capable of being and doing.  An apology says I'm willing to be less of who I am so you can be more and I'm not willing to do that.  Not anymore.  Not for anyone else.

I make mistakes all of the time.  I have doses of regret fall heavily when I don't expect it to. I hurt feelings and mine are hurt but I accept what lands as the cost of transparency because there is deep connection in letting others see and letting others in.  Connection feels good.

I tell my sons they can tell me how they feel, and it can include yelling as long as it's not an attempt to wound me.  They can tell me they're mad at me.  They can tell me they don't agree with me or they can point out when I am wrong.  Just this weekend I was freaking out a bit when looking for my keys.  I insisted the boys should help me find my keys that I lost . . . On my bed where I thought I had left them.  I told them they should laugh at me, and they did.  And I laughed with them because it was silly of me to freak out when I should have looked more diligently in the first place.

There are alternatives to "I'm sorry," and there are ways to submit without being submissive.  I feel it's about the balance of accepting you were wrong, finding out how to correct it, and moving on, without the burden of your guilt confining you into stagnation.

Pride Blanket

I pull it around me like a blanket made of stone. It's rough hematite scraping against my chest.

I'm holding it close to comfort me.

It's streaking red anger in bleeding emotions Pride promised to stop.

Feelings seep from a crevasse of loneliness but my Pride goes before me.

It's a bridge that leads me no where.

It covers the soft parts I left exposed as I stretched in hopeful longing.

In transparency, we grew cold when the sun we exposed was too bright, too weak.

I felt the burn once his heat was gone and the sting lingers long after night falls.

It covers the weakness and longing that sit around me in solitude.

It whispers the strong words we hide behind because the feelings were too new, too strong.

Pride tells me it was nothing and didn't matter.

Pride tells me it was a mess we stepped over and away from.

We're given a clean break in the world of the unknown.

Pride protected us from ourselves.

Pride tells me it's better to never know.

Pride prevented me from needing, loving and losing.

I wrap my Pride around me.

I pull it closer so you can't see I'm shivering in the cold of almost.

A Week

Sunday wakes slowly and stretches languidly before remembering the week ahead.  She runs around, picking up and preparing for the busy jaunt that will come quickly. She rests when she can because it's still her day off.  With kids. Is there such a thing? She'll contemplate that after she puts away the drill and adds anchors to her shopping list. She pulls cobwebs out of her hair after reorganizing the storage shed and re homes spiders (not black widows, they get a rubber mallet funeral) and beetles that land where they didn't belong.  She sips coffee throughout the day but it's always just a little too sweet.

Monday is all business.  She rises promptly and falls into routine like a drill sergeant.  The hot water of a morning shower forces her awake.  Her bark gets the boys up because it's time to face their week too.  She sends them off with a call for "good choices," and drives on to start a work week with eager excitement.  She loves what she does.  She walks in confidence to her desk, sending a sleeping computer into running order.  She cracks her own whip and smiles at naughty adventures she can still taste in fading memories. After her coffee, she'll hold a mug of hot tea in prayerful supplication.  She likes her green tea unsweetened, her black with cream, and everything else with raw sugar.

Tuesday knows she has to get up and get the boys out but she begs for 5 more minutes before she remembers they are her 5 minutes to take. She flows into the routines of the week, taking advantage of a street cleaning threat that hovers over the clock, knowing they'll get out before parking enforcement will make it to her block.  She passes the demand of responsibility onto the threat of a ticket because she wants to be forceful but rely on someone else's authority. She gets tired of being on her own when it comes to parenting the boys. She eases into routines that Monday started and she'll be thankful for that bore's easy organization because the reality of Tuesday's morning is the product of Monday evening and the boys shifting back into a school week is torture for all involved.  She loves the crunch of sugar snap peas and salted popcorn.  She likes a brisk walk to 7-Eleven for Green Apple or L'Orange Perrier and will enjoy the smiles she receives when doing it.

Wednesday is a hoppy rabbit with excitement for the evening.  The boys go back to their Dad and Wednesday has a taste for shenanigans.  She spends her day in dreams of the ocean and performers that wrap music around them with their goatees and easy to watch physiques.  Their smiles whisper of naughty adventure, and she understands the language they speak. She has tasty visions of the things she would do with a boy like that but she knows the rest of the week knows regret in the morning feels like spit warmed over and swallowed back down.  She is a randy whore that likes to look but has little interest in touching.  She feels the eyes of strangers and it feels like warmth and lowered inhibitions.  She goes home alone and sings love songs to herself.  That feels good.  Enough.  It feels good enough.  She likes an Apple Martini that tastes more like an Apple Blow Pop than something sour and foul.

Thursday is a teenager.  She wakes up alone and will go to sleep alone.  She'll make herself eggs for dinner one week and coq au vin the next.  It's not hard to convince her she deserves a night on the town and she will sometimes end up at a table for one where she will scribble in a notebook or laugh at her phone.  She likes a Scooby-Snack at a bar, but she will chase it with water because she has never met a hangover she could be friends with. She doesn't worry about who might be watching her because she is comfortable and doesn't really care.

Friday is a happy girl.  She loves waking up and heading to work and she'll find any excuse to stop at a store before she settles in for the last day of the work week. She is either planning a long weekend at home with the boys, or she's planning a night of debauchery.  She likes putting on something short and low cut, but the other girls always chime in and demand she dial it back a bit. She is someone's mom and she should try to be considerate of what that means, even if she is redefining what it means.  But maybe her butt isn't all that impressive and could be made into less of a main attraction. She'll sip a Cape Cod, but has a taste for a Bloody Mary from time to time as well.

Saturday makes an appearance throughout the week.  She insists on doodling in notebooks and sitting under trees on a lunch break.  She blows bubbles with a wand she keeps in her car for traffic.  She once made them stop for a cigar to relive their youth and she insisted the unfinished stogie was worth it but everyone else knows it wasn't. She's been known to serenade her boys, getting them used to the idea of someone singing to them directly.  She sings alone at work because it makes her happy but she might also be trying to convince the world she might be a little bat shit crazy. The idea of being offbeat amuses her. Every phrase is "shit" or "awesomesauce" because she doesn't do anything that would fall in between. There are no shades of gray when the world is so rosy colored.  She has a sweet tooth but no one else does.  The stash is for her but everyone else insists sugar snap peas are just as good as Peanut M&M's and Perrier is better than soda.  She's not buying it, but she adds all the cream to their coffee so it tastes like candy.  She has projects around the house that wait until it's a weekend at home with the boys, or she has a list of places she can't wait to explore. She's never idle and loves her own company, so anyone that wants to join her had better be damn special.  She doesn't put up with anyone that isn't. And she doesn't give second chances, but the rest of the week does. She accepts it but will slam a Purple Hooter Shot, their whiny complaints ignored on the rare occasions the week will allow a little inebriation.

15 Years Later For Me

If you are old enough to remember, you can never forget what you were doing when you found out about the attack on our country.  We aren't used to bombs going off around us, or planes being hijacked in protest.  We are not accustomed to areas we should avoid because there are IED's that were planted . . . Or once upon a time, bouncing betties never went off.  We aren't used to seeing child death from drowning in an attempt to escape the violence in a place that was home or toddlers still with shock and covered in blood and dust.  This is not our normal.  When it happens, we remember.  Details may get fuzzy.  Who hurt us or why they felt they needed to will burn into memories that are never met with understanding.  The indelible mark on us all is the way we felt because unless we're lucky enough to heal properly, this will be how we feel about this situation for the rest of our lives. I was on bedrest.  It was a year and 9 days since I said "I do" and I was 34 weeks along with my firstborn.  He wasn't gaining weight and his amniotic fluid levels were low, so I was in bed with him.  My husband was at work in Downtown L.A. as a security guard.  I've been asked, and I'll say it here, I married for love, not looks or money. I loved his company and our simple way of living.  I lived for our late night Walmart dates of household shopping and our fishing trips in Big Bear Lake. I would've followed him into homelessness if it meant waking up with him every morning.  I would've cared for his every physical need as long as he let me and I did until he stopped wanting me to. I couldn't imagine the years before us being anything but happy, and the ways our lives blended and solidified looked nothing like what I imagined.  I stopped dreaming and just took each day as it came.

The man I loved called me to ask if I had seen the news about  a plane in a building.  I turned on the news to a live feed and watched the second plane strike the second tower.  It was several moments of confusion for me because I was watching it live and it didn't occur to me that a plane flying into a building would be anything but an accident.  I couldn't understand how he could tell me to watch for something I was seeing live.  I didn't understand how someone could do that intentionally.

I remembered my short trip to New York in June 1997.  I had a boyfriend that missed his grandmother and high school friends.  I couldn't take care of myself as I was living with my mom, but I managed to take us to New York. We crashed Jerry and Nora's wedding (no clue who they were).  We went to Roosevelt Field Mall (so much like every other mall).  We went to Six Flags Great Adventure (which looked a lot like Six Flags Magic Mountain). We went to a restaurant owned by models (who barely eat and I don't remember if it was good), and we walked through Manhattan.  This is the only picture of me in New York I have.  Now if your boyfriend (on the right and shorter than me) is walking with you but doesn't want to walk with you that is a problem.  He dumped me right after the trip.  We'll always have that trip to San Pedro because in that moment, there was love. You can search "San Pedro" in my blog and see where I thought about this boy enough to include in a few posts.  The amazing thing about growth is that if I were to meet him for the first time today, what he taught me then wouldn't get him a first date now. I miss that purse though. I need to go back to New York one day.

New York was beautiful with its humidity and fast pace on the streets.  It was glittering lights and I would've loved to check out a play or visit the Statue of Liberty.  We rubbed the Charging Bull on Broadway and Morris and I imagined what it would've been like to be there in the winter with slush around my feet.  On the flight in, my boyfriend pointed out the twin towers and told me about the first attack in 1993 but I had no clue about the significance of the buildings until 4 years later when I was home and watching it.

I watched the news shift between New York, D.C. and Pennsylvania because none of us could understand why so much hate would take innocent lives.  I worried about my husband who had a duty to the building he worked in.  For weeks, we were still in complete panic that the next attack would hit closer to home, and he was in the heart of our financial district.  In the weeks following, his responsibilities included logistics around building safety.  He got an upgrade on his cameras and he made great use of them, zooming in on pretty ladies on the the street.  I was in bed.  Watching the news.

I couldn't stop watching.  I felt the fear begin to cripple me into worrying about my husband and what I would do without him.  (Well, that question was answered and I'm doing fine.)  I started to react to the situation in the way I saw my Dad reacting to life.  He's a war vet. He served in the Army and was there for the Tet Offensive in Viet Nam.  He sees a war torn America every day.  It's a pair of glasses he can't take off because PTSD won't allow the present to be just the present.

I had this growing life inside of me that would tap and kick and roll.  I had him under my ribs, and resting against my heart and there was so much life inside of me.  I had to step into the faith that there is more good than bad in the world.  Instead of focusing on the many broken bodies carried out, I began to focus on the many helping hands that gave selflessly and the stories from the plane that ended up in a field after so many stepped bravely in spite of fear to keep that plane from hitting its target.

There was and is so much hate brewing in our country.  Ignorance has cast anyone in a hijab as a vile creature of hate and bigotry has become entertainment and worse, a political vehicle.  It's disgusting.  I had the absolute privilege of carrying twin girls for a family of arabs that also practice Islam.  They showed me love and respect.  The father of the twins I carried wouldn't even enter my room without my husband in the room out of respect.  I was floored by the value they place on their women.  I don't agree with all they do, and I'm not trying to proselytize their faith.

I can simplify it by looking at my family.  I come from an international family.  By birth, my heritage is African American and Thai.  Through adoption and marriage, my family is also caucasian, Mexican, and Vietnamese.  If you want to trace heritage, I'm Mexican, Italian, French, Sephardic Jew, Choctaw Indian and a slew of other things that dilute blood from a slave ship from Africa.  I couldn't begin to tell you what is on my mother's side because I don't know.  My boys are Dutch, Irish and Jewish.  We're international.  Each of us is responsible for our own choices and we are a mix of good people you would trust with your wallet and people you might not trust (I hear my Kid3 steals from other people's houses when with his Dad but he doesn't have that problem when with me).

I can break it down in terms of food.  I love good food.  My food baby is well fed and my palate is frequently pleased.  Food joy can sound orgasmic. My international family means we have international foods at holiday gatherings.  Christmas will include a turkey and ham, but my sister and I have made loads of tamales and champurrado to go with her sangria.  What I've learned is that even if you come from Thailand and know how to cook Thai food, it might not taste good because not everyone can cook.  Your Italian aunt's spaghetti might be homemade but you might still prefer a jar of Barilla to her labor of love because she could burn water without supervision.

We can't judge a group of people on the actions of a handful of people that probably could have used more hugs than they got when growing up.  Bigotry and hate often look like fear.  Fear, like stress and guilt are within you and if you let it cripple you into bigotry, that's your own fault and can't be blamed on beliefs you are too afraid to try to understand or challenge.  Woman up, or man up, or tranny up.  Get that handled so you can do epic shit and look past what you didn't understand to be more than you see right now.

I didn't know anyone that was in one of those buildings that day until a couple of months ago, and she amazes me with her zeal for life.  She wasn't in the building when it was hit, but she was in the building that day and in the city at the time of the attack. Her children and her work are her passions and there is so much room for intentional engagement when I do see her.  I know a rescuer who was a fire fighter at the time and she's still tough as nails and likely suffers from what that dust did to her lungs. Both of these women are inspirations to me for getting through that as closely as they were and living a life that isn't a prison to that experience.  They live.  In all they do, they don't allow their strength and courage to die.   They are braver than anyone will ever give them credit for because it wasn't born for recognition but for survival.  It came in silence and is not something they put on but who they are. They are amazing and strong women in every sense of what being a woman means to me.

In 1994, September 11th was the day I was baptized.  It was a day to declare my belief in the religion I was raised in.

In 2001, September 11 was the day our country felt hate.  A war was started and my children don't know what it means to live in peace.  It was the starting point for many of us, and a mark in a long history for others.  It is the most significant entry in my son's history books that I can give a first hand experience of.

In 2012, September 11  was the day I made a trip to the hospital to visit 6 day old twins and marvel at the fact that they were still alive even though they were born at 29 weeks. It was the first time Baby A was allowed kangaroo care, and I held her against my chest so she could hear my heartbeat and borrow my warmth.

In 2015, September 11 was a day of hope for me.  I had encouragement from my son's principal because she saw me struggle through being a single mother and she knew what I needed to hear from her own walk through it.  I wish her the best in her new school. My family had just surprised me with groceries because I needed the help to feed my kids after their Dad left me.  That day showed me that I'm stronger than I thought I could be.

Today, it's a day of peace. I get to hear happy sounds as my sons interact with each other and I steal hugs throughout the day.  I'm sipping coffee and I'm writing where the only editor in my head sounds like my voice and not what someone else might say.  Today, September 11 is a day of personal freedom.

How I Show Up in Romantic Relationships

I've had 3 conversations in the last few days that have really forced me to look at my romantic history.  The conversation last night was with a really great guy. He's handsome and sweet.  He's known me since my teens and he's constantly calling me out to expect greater than I do.  He says, "How are you love?" and "Raise the bar, ma." Decades ago I was the confident flirt.  If this expression of him were to meet me then, I'd be in trouble because he is dangerously hot and his emotional intelligence of women is off the charts. He's capable of making someone very happy, but he would be settling.  He was shy and quiet when we were young.  I may have enjoyed him for that on more than one occasion. We talked about what we want in romance.  I'm not polyamorous but we talked about it.  It's about wanting a mental, emotional and physical connection with several people.  That would never work for me because I thrive in monogamous relationships. I like the idea that I'm on someone else's mind as much as he's on mine. I want to know that random things remind him of me and that he's on the street and something about the person in front of him makes him think of me.  I guarantee that happens for me when he's special.  When he's special, I don't have a poker face and I can't hide it.  It's written all over my face and it's in my body language. When he's special, I feel like who I am is bending around him into ways that make him a part of me. And yes, that scares me. I'm the type that gets a rush in doing the brave thing in spite of fear.  I would go with it.  I can press in without worrying about the future because there is amazing joy in the present.  But it scares me.

Yesterday I had a brief conversation about where I am in my dating life right now. I'm not seeing anyone and enjoying the many ways I get to date myself. I buy myself lingerie and flowers. I take myself to nice restaurants and museums. I catch beach sunsets and take long walks through beautiful parks. My dating history looks nothing like what I do for myself and if someone wants my attention, I have to first believe I'd have a better time with him than alone because my alone time is special to me. There aren't many people I would give up my free time for. There's an even smaller number of people I'd be willing to drive to and meet on their side of town. And if he wants to meet my boys, he'd have to be able to offer them more than my happiness. He has to be curious and intelligent and beautiful. . . So I date myself and my sex life is only in my dreams but that's okay too.

My reality is that I was sexualized at a young age. I had men make me uncomfortable with their desire before I even needed a training bra. By the time I was the same age as my first born, I was having regular sex with a boyfriend. Through high school I had a few relationships that lasted over  a year and a half and my in between times were about learning to flirt comfortably.  I may have a problem with shutting that off.  It's not on purpose.  Early college days meant many fleeting hookups.  Then I met the man I married. I had never had an innocent relationship that was just about making out.  There were innocent enough hookups but innocent relationships skipped me entirely.  My sexual history tells me the best encounters are the ones in meaningful relationships.  My last relationship isn't one I would want my children to model.  So I'm cautious.  I'm a chicken shit.  I'm happy in my celibacy.

When I was younger, I would find someone that was full of amazing and I would very easily look over their terrible qualities.  I was having a conversation with a co-worker and naming out things that were part of my marriage that I now see were not normal, but her reaction told me how far from acceptable it all was.  It's not okay to be jealous of platonic friendships to the point where I'd end them.  It's not okay to feel responsible for how others see the man I'm dating when his actions will speak for him.  It's not okay to feel bad about wanting to learn more and do better in life because of how that might reflect on someone else's ambition. I don't know how to be in a relationship that doesn't walk all over me.  But I'm learning.

I had many relationships where it was very clearly just sexual on his part.  He would let me know in direct and subtle ways that I wasn't the person he was pouring his soul into.  I would accept what he offered and hoped that I would grow on him. Like a fungus.  I was very big on settling for what I was being given. I was always in this perpetual state of hope that my love could flow through him and back to me, even if he consistently proved to me that it was just sex.

I'm learning.  It's changing.

I look at my history.  Today would have been an anniversary for my parents.  They've been divorced since I was still in high school and I have a high schooler now.  I saw their dysfunction and persistence as normal.  Mom yelled.  Dad ignored.  When my ex said he was leaving, I became them.  I was my Dad that first night in packing and separating our stuff at 3 am.  I was my Mom in saying, "go." I didn't need him.  Then I was me, in my crazy need to hold on and fix it because I saw my mom hold on and try to fix it for so long.  It was all I knew.  They had rare moments of affection that skeeved me out, but I was too young to remember if they were ever madly in love with each other.  As an adult, I can see the ways they still love and care for each other, even if they still refuse to talk to each other.

As Mom, I see my kids in their good and their bad.  I see more than anyone else, and I consistently choose to love them deeply, even if there are moments I don't like what they are doing.  I tell them they are consistent in who they are.  It's my ability to be patient that fluctuates and it's my fault if one day I lose my shit. This blog post was born from my need to step away and calm myself. As a mom and a daughter, love means I accept you as you are, without a need to change you because that would rob me of the gift of knowing you in your purest form and warmest light.  I want love to be about accepting the dark and the light and basking in all of the ways it feels to.

My latest goal is to love unconditionally.  Offering love isn't the same as being in love.  There's a difference.  I know it.  Lust and infatuation are very different from being in love and I'm aware of it too.  I'm a hugger.  I don't offer a hug unless I know I can hug the way that feels good.  If it's an arm or a side hug, I'd rather not bother.  If I feel I can hug you, I can offer transparency (in doses).  I can offer affection and build a person up with the amazing I see in them.  I'm going to let a person know when I randomly think of them because this is expressing love. When I get to the point that I know I would offer more than I have to give, that is a transition into being in love and that is where I step back.  I run away when it feels like my moods are dictated by how they make me feel.  That is what being in love feels like to me.  Otherwise I'm offering love without expecting a return. It feels good and in the offering I'm being selfish by not expecting an exchange or allowing myself to rely on them.

When There Are No Words

What do you say when there are no words? A moment . . . A surprise and a thank you that tastes like dark chocolate that lost its bite in the velvet melt of lingering taste and cocoa powdered lips.  I'm humbled with gratitude at its unexpected arrival and the smile that says more than words could express.  There's affection and tenderness when I see the care taken in finding the thing that shows me I was noticed and so were my preferences. Something so little means so much that there are no words.

A call. . . A call from a friend, and I take leave of my task because I always have time for this person.  I miss a face and the warmth of a hug that holds me up and keeps me together.  I can feel the love wrap around me in words that want to know how I am and what I'm doing and when we can see each other again. I walk away with a contented smile and there are no words for the joy that remains.

A question . . . My son wants to know why someone that was once a sister would hate me so much. He wants to know why the woman that replaced me doesn't like me.  I have no words.  I tell him I don't know why, but I don't worry about it because I think of them far less than they think of me.  But his question lingers and I feel I've shortchanged his trust that I would have the answers or look for them because I always do.  I'm not worried about how they feel.  It's not my job to make them feel better about what is inside of them and it really doesn't bother me that people that never see me don't want to be around me.  I'm not worried about it at the beach or exploring museums, but I see the pain in his face because it hurts him.  I tell him he can ask them why they feel that way and he can tell him how he feels about it, but I really can't answer for them.  There are no words for the pain I can't soothe for him.

A moment of recognition . . . My sons notice more than they speak of.  I call them to remind them to eat before heading home to pick them up.  I drive 13 miles home, then 15  miles to visit their Dad with traffic before me and exhaustion on my shoulders.  It's the second day in a row that I've made the trip for them and the first day was uneventful, but the second day is full of precaution for the scene I might cause and they notice it wasn't necessary.  I spy a note that calls me an "ex wife" although I haven't been given the divorce I keep asking for, and smirk at the password, "God First" because there are no words for a paper that makes such a claim while also lying. They notice I've been trying to be the mom I want them to have, and I hope they didn't notice the moments where I fought my wants against their needs because being selfish feels good.  It burns and rages and I drive the last 15 miles and sing so I can direct my focus in the words that speak my emotions because I'm afraid of the words in my heart hurting my sons, so there are no words.

A question was asked . . . It was an opening to expand on my ideals and I did.  I was so wrapped up in the passion and excitement I felt in expressing my vision and areas I need to break through.  I see who I am and where I want to be and the excitement bubbled over. I looked around and I could feel it was too much.  My intensity was intimidating and it was all too much and I gave too much at the start.  I was assured that it was fine and it was welcome to hear too much.  I sat in the empowerment that was offered because it seemed like it was too much until I saw that there is enough.   But there are still no words.

Control Freaking

In the Basic class I took through MITT, the lecturer, Jorge gave us an example that I've been leaving all over town. I've probably left it here already, but I'm okay with that. I've added my own embellishments, because that's what I do.

When you really have to poop, you have to poop.  If it's a case of raging diarrhea, beware of white walls that beg for poopy painting.  When babies wear swim diapers, you can see it as a dark poopy cloud in the blue of a chlorinated pool.  When you're constipated, you can sit and wait, and strain . . . You can get up and walk and try to relax . . . If you can't go, you just can't go.  You feel uncomfortable and your normal flow is halted.  You literally can't control the shit that is in your body, so why try to control anything else?  All we can control is our reaction and our interpretation.

There's a story that isn't mine to share but the end result is my kids needed me to come get them a day early.  They need me to keep them for more than my usual custody days.  They need me to be the Mom they deserve because this situation has required me to spend more time with the women that my ex surrounds himself with than I would like, and they are being the guard dogs he seems to need around me.  I'm just that vicious.  Grrr.  Well, he keeps calling me a bitch but he has no clue that I could be far worse than I have been, but being kind is something I do for my boys and something he couldn't possibly understand.

In their effort to avoid a fight (that I wasn't in the mood for anyway), they have put plans in place to keep me from my ex (that I really don't want to see).  At the end of the day, you really can't take away the rights of a wife and rightful next of kin.  There are perks to the stubbornness that hasn't started a divorce or legal separation.  I can exert my authority where the other woman can't.

I'm not talking about pulling a plug on anyone.  It's not that kind of a situation.  At the same time, if I want to go to visit or get basic information, I have yet to be denied.  I don't need to know details other than how it will affect my boys.  Is it serious? Not fatal.  Is it going to put him out of commission for a while? Yup.

I had serious control freak issues for a while.  I still do, but I've relaxed. I remember a few years back I was doing IVF and preparing for an embryo transfer.  I was really big on sorting recyclables at home.  I had two separate trash cans and would recycle cardboard, and plastic.  I would neatly fold used aluminum foil and recycle that too.  I was keeping a productive herb and vegetable garden.  And I was doing IVF.  Generally after a transfer, you are supposed to take it easy and let those embryos stick to calm, relaxed uterine walls.  I was preparing for a couple of days, but that got extended when I had some spotting.  For days I stayed in bed and my couple hired help so I could stay in bed and not worry about my kids.  My help didn't know about my crazy recycling or how much my garden meant.  The moment I was off bedrest, I was trying to revive plants, and digging through the big city trash bins to sort it all.  I was a mess.  It was about control.

I love tackle boxes.  I keep one for my jewelry making supplies and tools.  I used to keep one for my jewelry too, but then I never wore different things.  They're out so I can see and choose now.   I keep a tackle box for my sewing kit.  Right now it's a bit messy.  Normally the threads are all organized and wound tightly.  I brush out lint and dust.  I keep all compartments full of extra supplies.  It's about control.

My garden is mainly dirt and a collection of rocks I pick up because I always find a rock that needs to fit in my pocket or go home with me in the trunk or front seat.  Right now I'm never home and we're in the middle of a gnarly drought. Once upon a time, I was growing fresh thyme (I need a new plant, it died), chives, flat leaf parsley, sage, rosemary, oregano, mint and basil.  I had a bed I loved and mulched with crushed cocoa nibs. I would walk barefoot in it and each step smelled like chocolate.  I grew zucchini, tomatoes, cucumbers, spinach, lettuces, bell peppers, and peas.  I loved that I could plant something and my kids usually wouldn't pull it up.  They even ate vegetables they helped me harvest. I did have to stop a sword fight that attacked a new fig tree.  It wasn't like housework.  Just today I got home to the drying sticky mess that was a soda earlier today on a floor I stayed up last night to clean.  I couldn't control the natural disasters that looked like my sons and sometimes felt like sensory integration dysfunction to them. Gardening was about control.

As a daughter, my parents always told me what to do, but now it's a constant expectation of what I should do.  They are starting to nudge and give distance.  They are starting to see me as an adult and they understand my rebellious streak. I have to remind myself that they can't give me guilt.  That can only come from within me, and if I feel guilt, I need to examine what I'm doing and why I'm doing it, because I refuse to live in shame for my choices.

As a sister, I still get told what to do.  "Don't post where you're going all the time on Facebook . . . Stop going out alone to the beach." I really don't think anyone cares about what I'm up to.  Otherwise they'd say something and I'd probably include them in my shenanigans.  I sometimes catch the surprise on my sister's faces when they realize I am actually an adult and capable of making grown up decisions and observations.  I will always be the baby to my older three sisters and they will always want what's best for me. They'll always have a hard time seeing that it might look like what I do, rather than what they think I should do and that will have to be okay.

As a wife, I was told what to do but it often came with the weight of the ideal he held for me.  He knew what kind of wife he wanted me to be and even if I wasn't her, I wanted to be her for him.  In the end, there was always a rub that left me raw, and I often did what I wanted to do and accepted he wouldn't be happy with it.  It's how I got my degree, and built up my Kindle library.  It's how we got all of the camping supplies he now has.  I did what I wanted and hid my actions or faced the music after the fact. How sad is it that I lived  a life where I knew what I was doing was wrong or would upset him and the only balance was to do what I wanted and know it wouldn't be okay to do what I wanted to do? I really am grateful to the life I get to live without him.  Our struggles weren't about money or housework, as much as he wanted to believe that.  It was about control.  We fought for it without actually fighting.

My obsessive observations of beautiful men . . . In my writing . . .  On the street . . . In social media feeds . . . It's all about control.  It's more than aggression in objectifying someone or calling out to him in a way that would offend me if roles were reversed.  It's about noting intricate details to avoid dealing with the real issue bothering me.  It's about control.  There really is no mystery to my extreme boy craziness, and unwillingness to step into more than a glance or smile.  I'm not dating anyone because then I would feel obligated to stop getting lost in a beautiful body and genuine smiles.  I'm more into silly nothings that stay nothing. I prefer the chase of a crush. If it's more I have to address my fear of abandonment and you can't abandon me if it's not serious.  You can't dump me if we were never together.

I've become a rebellious teenager.  I see it in everyday moments and taking notice doesn't always mean I want to change it.  It's been a balance I've been trying to strike, and I don't mind moments where I'm behaving badly. It's between taking control of my life, and letting go of what I can't control.

Sharing my latest anguish and frustration with strangers and keeping those details to myself when it comes to people I have made an emotional connection with . . . It's a way of distancing my intimacy from those I have already made a connection with and asserting control in the details that I can't control. I see intimacy as a moment where there is transparency and I've invited you to see into me, as I see into you.  I can step into it.  I can dance in it.  If it goes deeper than I'm ready for, the fear claws at me and I back pedal and try to avoid the risk that seems to pile up and around me until I'm unable to move forward.  I'm still broken in many ways, and this is one of them. This weekend had great highs, and extreme lows and I'm still finding myself trying to stay afloat in it all but the details weren't offered to all of the people I really do care about and have connected with. At the same time, all it takes is an empathetic smile from a stranger and I've spilled it out in a cascade like falling marbles.  Rolling and spreading outward and impossible to control.

In my life, I am responsible for my choices as well as the consequences of those choices.  It's about taking ownership of the things that make me smile and the things that break my heart.  I have a huge heart. That means it breaks beautifully and terribly almost daily.  I refuse to hold back and control my outpouring of love. I've done it for long enough.  I choose to live in abundant unconditional love.  I love freely and without expectation.  I give and if I feel my heart breaking or offense setting in, I remind myself I attached a cost to what I offered and love isn't something you barter unless you're into prostitution.  There's control in not expecting anything.  In not expecting a return, I'm not allowing you to be someone I can rely on.  I'm not allowing you to offer anything that you could potentially take away.

It's about letting go of what I can't control and holding on tightly to the way I look at things and my reactions to them.  Saying goodbye when I don't want to . . . Not having a voice in who spends time with my kids when I don't have custody . . . Being the person that others want to fight with and putting my pride aside so I can be the mom I want my boys to have, and not the person I feel like being. Accepting that my plans will change and then deciding what about the change I want to be excited about.  For example, I planned to stroll through a museum Saturday and instead got to sit with my sister and take her home from a surprise hospital visit.  I got to check out the Self-Realization Center in Hollywood and I got to do it while being the sister I want to be.  Sunday I planned to catch a beach sunset and spend some time listening to street performers.  Instead I got to pick my kids up a day early. I got to take the control I wanted by using the title I've held for 16 years.

In moments where I completely give up control, I have moments of clarity and grace.  These are times when I'm able to catch a corner of the big picture.  Giving up control is work.  It's difficult.  It's rewarding.  It's what you do when you want to grow because it pushes you past what you are used to and that's the only way to grow.

Being a Woman

I remember my first women's history class, and the many books I read to discover what the patriarchy was so I could smash it.  I wore blinders so I couldn't see it in my life because that distance was a safe one to keep.  I saw it in make up and it gave me an excuse to not wear any because it was feminism and not being lazy (which is what it often felt like).  It was fighting against a man that would hit a woman, and not the one that alienated her from her friends and denied her permission to have her own checking account.  It was pointing out that high heels made a woman look like she was always ready for rear entry and claiming empowerment in knowing this when I walked in them.  It was hating on Hello Kitty because she was created with a large brain, tiny body and without a mouth to speak.  But it wasn't the ways I let motherhood define me, rather than deciding what motherhood meant to me. In recent weeks, I've gotten to know a beautiful transgendered woman with a more fluid gender identity than I'm used to.  I was given my name, and the nickname "Yessie" before I could speak.  She chose to go by Jessie before we met and that makes her super special.  Our friendship was one of those things decided before we met. We hang out because she's sweet and caring and smart.  She has a geeky flair that soothes those itchy parts in myself and we get along really well in spite of the fact that I could probably be her teenage mom.  By being the bright and amazing person she is, and without ever saying a word, she has been pushing my idea of what a woman is.  She can dish on gender studies and you should listen here. If you're looking for an actress, producer or editor, check out her amazing here.

It made me take a look at Caitlyn Jenner and what it means to be him/her/them.  I won't pretend to know where they stand on their gender so using fluid language will serve my laziness in researching who they are right now. The identity they have chosen calls out the idea of what a transgendered woman is supposed to be.  I don't actually watch Ru Paul's Drag Race, but the idea of a transgendered woman always meant to me that she had a fit body, perfect makeup and outlandish style.  She could dance in 8-inch heels when I can barely walk in them.  Clearly I'm writing about it because I recognize the parts where I'm wrong.

What does it mean to be a transgendered woman?

Is she supposed to look more beautiful than your average woman? Is she supposed to look like a man on most days because that was what she was born as? Could she choose what gender she expresses herself as on any given day?  I learned from my new friend that being transgendered is much like being autistic.  It places you on a spectrum where you can fall under an umbrella because those that don't understand it need to quantify and qualify what someone else's life means.  I do that and I'm examining it so I can stop, because it's not okay.

In terms of race, it's like saying, "Racism means . . . and when white people say . . . " without ever looking in the mirror because that moment when you identify another race . . . Yeah, have you met that kettle yet?

Uh, oh, no she didn't . . . Yeah. I did.  Was it good for you, too?

When I was enjoying my friend's company yesterday, I asked her a question I would normally never ask another woman. Do you ever wear make up? It was a question I brought up because some days putting on layers of glitter and gloss make me insanely happy.  After the words left me, and I settled into my drive to my next destination, I thought about what I asked. As a feminist, you don't need to wear make up.  Alicia Keyes made the news because she chose to go out without a full face of spackle and I applauded her.  It's her face.  But being a woman that was once a man somehow placed in my mind a need to make up for something that was lacking in femininity.  You would think that lacking a penis, having boobs, and owning an identity that she chose is enough to hand over my girl card, but then there I go again, assuming we would even carry a girl card to be who we are.

Yikes.  I'm that person.

On most days, I'm still working out what it is to be a woman.  At what point is wearing a dress about what I want, and not what my experiences with seduction have made it? When it comes to being the Mrs. Cleaver I once thought I was supposed to be, how did it become okay to let the girl I was die in favor of a person I had imagined and could never live up to because she wasn't real?

When it comes to being a woman, and ideals of femininity, is it about makeup or nails? What about hair and clothes?  I generally don't exercise, and decided a short while after my first pregnancy that yoga pants and sweats were a gateway drug to not wanting to brush my hair or teeth.  It was a way to hide from the world by wearing something I found completely unattractive.

This weekend when hiking with my beautiful friend (okay, so it was a short walk) I admired her strength and beauty and she was this powerful woman in yoga pants, hiking with her 3 year old son on her back.  I admired her for it and bought a first pair (or 3) of yoga pants for the first time since I swore I would only exercise if it looked like fun about 4 years ago.  I'm not planning a marathon or anything that looks more sweaty than fun, but I'm planning outdoor adventures once fall settles in and temperatures dip just enough to not need shorts for survival.

Right now I'm lounging in yoga pants, and no makeup and wearing my glasses and diamonds because I want to.  I think that's what a woman is really about.  It's not what magazines sell.  It's not about sexualizing your existence.  I'm a firm believer that male attraction is easily persuaded by your confidence, interest and willingness to play rather than how sexy you look.  Boys can be easy in terms of attraction. On the other hand, my confidence is intimidating to most men and I think I like it that way.

When I was working on my BA, I had my first quarter as an English major and a baby to deliver in the middle of it.  I had a husband that sometimes supported me in school but more often gave me the reasons why he didn't.  Each quarter presented a new challenge but that is how life works. Nothing you need badly is ever too easy to be considered work. I was heading to a luncheon where I was honored as a scholarship recipient when I found out my grandmother had a stroke.  We drove to Houston, drove home, then I forced through finals and flew back out to get to her funeral. I had cars die, child care that fell through at the last minute, the last surrogacy put my last quarter on hold for a year.  It wasn't easy.  It was something I wanted to do and even when I was working on no sleep, making my family happy and being the best student I was capable of, I couldn't complain because there were too many excuses offered for why I couldn't do it.  It was a time when I learned that you do what you choose to at any cost, and as a woman, if you complain, others will find reasons why you couldn't do it to begin with.  I learned that as women, we suffer in silence so we can accomplish what we want and make it look easy.

Being a woman isn't about being able to have a baby. I've carried babies for women that were beautiful and powerful.  They were gentle and caring and in nurturing me, clearly everything a mom should be.

Being a woman isn't about wearing makeup and having perfect hair.  I still can't work a curling iron.  It's not in my wheelhouse and that's okay.  I still have days where my makeup makes me look like I'm going for a raccoon or clown look and no amount of YouTube videos will make up for my lack of talent in this area.  If it's not important for a woman, it's not important for a transgendered woman either.

Being a woman is about the inner strength to face what life hands her and power through gracefully.  It's about knowing that if the words you speak were a dress you wear, you'd be just as beautiful as you are with your elaborate or simplistic covering.  With your foul mouth or polite demeanor, it's finding ways in which you are beautiful to yourself.  It's not the size or shape of a body.

Being a woman is about loving and hating what you see in the mirror but finding ways to appreciate all you are because you recognize the gift that is life and the love you offer can hold someone else up and that feels good.

Being a woman is about loving and caring without reservations and doing what you can to create a better world because as nurturers, it's part of who we are.  It's also okay that some of us are incapable of nurturing and find our strength in being able to accept help and being cared for. It's perfectly fine that some of us are fiercely independent and would wilt under someone's protection and covering.

Being a woman is about deciding what is right for you, whether it's marriage or children or a career and knowing that you are empowered by and through your choices.

Being a woman is about letting others live the existence they choose and supporting where you can because in the end, we know our sisterhood is a strength to rely on and not a wall to tear down.

Being a woman is about building up what we can and helping others reach their full potential while balancing our power with our influence so others feel this accomplishment was their own.  (I feel this one is often a subconscious act of mothering and I'm working on being more mindful of it because I don't have to be everyone's Momma.)

Pregnancy memories.

Today the twin girls I carried during my last surrogate pregnancy turn 4.  It's been that long since I've had children in my body, tapping all of the amazing places you might feel a random foot or hand.  Having had five boys before them, one at a time, I wasn't prepared for the crazy hormones.  I had pimples and I was so sensitive that crying in sadness and joy and because clouds were fluffy was completely normal.  All of my pregnancies before them were easy in comparison. With Kid1, the placenta wasn't functioning the way it was designed to and he was induced at 36.6 weeks to save his life.  He wasn't gaining weight and he didn't have enough amniotic fluid to swim in.  I was at a clinic full of learning doctors, so my pregnancy was a learning experience and I got used to random doctors poking and prodding around my lady bits.  If I had any modesty that survived my adolescence spent in raves, I lost it during this pregnancy.

Kid2 was so by the book it was almost boring, but his labor was sped up for the doctor's convenience and I went with it.

Kid3 was also easy.  I felt labor pain for about an hour before we went to the hospital and found out I was already at 10 cm dilation, although my water hadn't broken.  After some assistance, he was born an hour later.

Kid4 was my first surrogate pregnancy, and my second IVF cycle.  Considering how quickly Kid3 came, we went early and they kept me because we had a whole party waiting for his arrival.  What I wasn't prepared for was back labor, but he prepared me for the back labor that came with Kid5 who took 3 IVF cycles.

Kids6&7 were different from that first HCG level.  The first IVF cycle was cancelled on the day of the transfer and we had a second cycle and both girls decided to stick around. The numbers were really high, which could mean a strong and healthy pregnancy or twins.  At first, I had really bad morning sickness.  In all of my other pregnancies, being sick was a novelty and I laughed at those rare moments. As I was getting through the first trimester, my heart would start racing randomly.  I was losing weight, but that was normal for all of my pregnancies.  High HCG levels can make your thyroid act wonky. I had an erratically racing heart rate.  There were moments when I was jittery from it.  What looked like Grave's disease eased after the first trimester. At a normal perinatologist appointment during my 25th week, I was sent to the emergency room because my cervix was funnelling, meaning, my body was trying to kick them out.

With the girls, I was hospitalized from 25 weeks until they were born at 29 weeks. It was a private room, but I was still woken every few hours for monitoring and testing. I was allowed two showers that whole time, sitting and timed for exactly 5 minutes.  I had sponge baths by the nurses every other time.  For a week, I was in the Trendelenburg position.  I was tilted upside down at a 45 degree angle to keep pressure off of my cervix. At the end of the pregnancy, there was bleeding and one of the umbilical cords decided to block the opening that the girls were too tiny to use anyway.  I had my first c-section.

The girl's parents are from another country and they had to go back home to their careers and other children but I was asked to visit them, and bring breast milk, which I was honored to do.  Towards the end, it was stressful and exhausting and I didn't like going, but in the beginning it was an opportunity to see them grow.  They were on feeding tubes and oxygen and had masks over their tiny eyes.  They were tiny and fragile but I got to see them get strong and eventually I caught their first smiles.  They spent 8 weeks in the NICU.  They went home after that, and a month or two later they went to their home country.   Every once in a great while I'll see a picture of them in my Instagram feed.

I've been asked if it's hard to give up a child I carried.  It really wasn't.  I was loved so deeply and cared for so much by their mothers and fathers that I know they'll be okay.  It was harder to release friendships with amazing women to let them have the life I imagined would have happened without needing my help.  It was worth every inconvenience because it was an amazing experience.

So this was my moment to remember and celebrate the girls with names loosely translated into "Commitment" and "Shiny" like the sun.

Gay Bar and Hookah Lounge Shenanigans

It's early Sunday morning and I think I'm still recovering from Friday night.  It sounds much worse than it is. Yes, there was dancing, and my calves and feet have been shooting off painful missives to remind me that I don't exercise, but that's probably more about potassium and I'll have a meeting with some bananas and avocados throughout the week.  I want to learn Bachata one day so my body will just have to suck it up.

Yes there was drinking, but it was a Scooby-Snack followed by a couple of water and lemon slice chasers.  I used to drink until the ground was hard to find while walking, and puking was a natural progression for the night, but I eat wheat when I want to feel like bad choices are trying to kill me.  And it's no longer on purpose.

Then there was the lack of sleep.  Waking up at 6 and spending all day at work (leaving only after it wasn't fun anymore because I love what I do) . . .  Only to go out with fresh makeup and eyes so red they matched my lips and then getting to bed by 3 . . . Then waking up at 7 because my internal clock is evil.  At the same time, I was able to get up, get my pedicure and waxing, take a short hike to the Bat Cave (or Bronson Park), run to the hospital to sit in the ER with my sister and cousin (she's home and fine, we were exhausted), check out the Self-Realization Center in Hollywood, enjoy family time at a late lunch, then fall asleep insanely early, only to wake up and think trolling Facebook was a great idea to mask what looks like insomnia.  On the plus side, I get to give you words and pictures.

I went to The Abbey in West Hollywood. There was a moment where I became a chair.  I was sitting in one, and a boy (not my type) thought I would make a great chair and when his friend called to look for him, he said he wanted to introduce him to his new wife.  I was in a good mood so when a chair opened up within moments, I had him take it.  He wanted to stay, insisting he wasn't that heavy, and I kept it to myself that it really wasn't a selling point.  My cousin wanted a drink and I was ready for water so we left him at the table and for the first time in my life, I said "bye Felicia."  Not actually to him but when we were likely out of earshot. Dating tip: just no.  This whole thing - just don't do it.

So here's where the amazing came in: There was so much love that it flowed around us in glowing embers.  You would think this was the booze because that is the extent of my mind altering (exhaustion doesn't count because that can make a person crabby), but there was this loving flow that is beyond words.  I mean, you walk in and once you get past the idea of the dancers gyrating for cash in their underwear, there is a really friendly vibe in the gay community.  There were so many beautiful and friendly people.  Gay, straight, bi-sexual, transgendered, young, really old, obvious sugar daddies with their sugar babies . . . Just having a great time and not at all angry.

We danced, we watched.  We talked to the dancers.  We swooned at the accent on the cute ginger that did that thing where he twerked his tush in mid air above us.  We checked out guys because we have the same taste in men and both love watching because our standards are really high for the actual introductions and touching.  There is so much safety in knowing I was surrounded by beautiful men that had no interest in me, whatsoever.  As we walked through the club, we would stop and tell these men how beautiful they were.  I was included in so many group hugs.  It was a really different feel from my creepy moments of looking at strangers while driving and saying, "Hi" in my best Stitch (Lilo and Stitch) voice, or "You're beautiful," and "thank you for what you are doing for me right now." And my more aggressive moments of actually saying that with the windows down so I might be heard.  That only happens when I'm feeling more out of control and my behavior matches my inner destruction.  I see it, and taking note means I must change it.

We left the club and walked arm in arm, continuing to tell men they were beautiful.  I got these really great hugs.  It wasn't about trying to get a number or take someone home.  It was about seeing someone's beauty.  It was about telling him (and a few hers) that they were beautiful.  We liked their dress.  Their hair made me happy.  It wasn't for an exchange.  It was just an offering and it felt good.  There were lots of smiles and beautiful people.

We left for Cafe Dahab in West LA where people around us were enjoying their hookah and playing card games.  The food was amazing.  I'm convinced they toast their garbanzos or sesame seeds to give their hummus that smokey flavor.  It was more than roasted garlic and it was amazing.  It was a sensory meal where I just savored every bite, with eyes closed.  It was the crunch of falafels covered in creamy hummus and garlic sauce.  Their chicken kabobs were tender and juicy and the company was terrific.  We had deep conversations about life and love and goals. Never underestimate cousin time.  He was the biggest blessing of my day.

I spent Friday night with a gay man that wears makeup and every once in awhile, a dress.  We went to a restaurant and were surrounded by Muslim Arabs with beautiful hijabs and perfect eye makeup.  I spent my Saturday morning hiking with a Muslim woman and her beautiful son.  Then spent part of my afternoon in the Self-Realization Center in prayer and meditation while I worried for my sister. Then I explored and took pictures.  When I was little I would watch the news and felt so much fear and hate for Muslims and the gay community.  My parents watch the news and when I was little I watched news about terrorist attacks and the gay community and HIV. I no longer watch the news and have no idea what is going on in the world unless it's something that is so large that it's jumping out through my social media feeds. Then I can search for details I want. I'm far too empathetic and will cry with a mother I've never met and will never know.  And of course what the bible says about Muslims and homosexuality and anything else you could imagine has always colored my views in ways I'm continually striving to alter. This is what healing looks like.  This is understanding that all lives matter and this is what living it out looks like in my life.  It feels good too.  The best part is my weekend isn't over and neither is my story.

Handle With Care

I've been extremely fragile this week.  I have moments where I feel happy and confident, but one nudge and I'm shattered and scattered.  I assume whispered conversations are about me, because naturally, I am that important.  I analyze and misinterpret glances and words and text messages until they are so far from reality that I force myself to shift focus and see where my imagination painted the situation like a Picasso. . . So far from reality and to me, unappealing. My 16th wedding anniversary is tomorrow.  My writing never planned or plotted and my marriage was the same way.  Like most of history, it was a cataclysmic explosion that created who we were and the children we share.  We met in April of 2000.  By August 23 he proposed and September 2, we got married.  The following September we had our first born and the September after that we found out we were giving him a sibling.  It was very spontaneous and in our haste, we had few milestones of our relationship before getting married.  I celebrated every August 23, even if he didn't and every Labor Day weekend was special although it was years before I realized our anniversary fell on and around a legal holiday each year.  My family would get together, and keep our kids and we'd do something as a date or we'd run away.  My marriage ended for him sometime in late 2014 but I was informed in March of 2015 and I let go in February of 2016. Last year was my first anniversary without him but I had the kids.  This year he has the boys and I will be alone.  I don't know what that will be like.

It's not that I want him back or miss the marriage.  I've since learned that there were things I accepted as a normal part of marriage that I wouldn't tolerate as a single woman.  I love balancing my checkbook.  I enjoy taking myself out on solitary dates.  I treat myself very well.  I take myself out to eat, and don't embarrass myself in tipping.  I get pampered at the salon a few times a month.  I regularly buy myself flowers if I see a bouquet that grabs my attention.  I pick out jewelry I like and I no longer feel guilty about buying myself clothes.  I really like the way I'm treated and I don't have to worry about being expected to put out at the end of the night.  I decided that if I'm going to share my company, I want to have no doubts that I'd have a better time than being alone.

Loneliness is not what being fragile is about.

I like to do things well.  I like knowing that I can accomplish what I set out to, and that if there is room for improvement, I will easily close that gap.  In school, that meant giving birth in the middle of the quarter, missing a week of classes and still passing above average.  It meant applying for scholarships and earning seven awards as an upper division english major, in spite of my grades, but based on my drive, tenacity and compelling essays.  It meant advocating for my family until I got what we were fighting for.  It's hard to see my marriage as anything but a failure.  Yes, I chose to stay after he left, until I made the choice to move on.  No, we haven't filed for divorce.  I'm stubborn and want him to file.  He doesn't want to do anything I might suggest.  We're at an impasse.  It's marriage purgatory.  We don't even have a legal separation.  We rarely talk and usually text but I try not to respond when I can avoid it. We have a custody agreement, with separate finances and separate homes, but we're otherwise still very much married.  But it feels like a failure and I can't fix it without taking it back and I don't want it back.

I've had ugly moments this week.  Moments when my broken pieces are reaching out to hurt others.  Moments where I can't unhear what my ex told me or what his girlfriend texted me from his phone.  Moments where I see nothing but a physically unattractive woman.  I know that is only tied to them and that situation though.  Most other times I can remember the times men have given me things just to make me smile.  I remember the times I get smiles and winks at work and an appreciative sidelong glance because some people like watching me walk.  I'm beautiful to myself most of the time, but this week I've felt really ugly.  Last night I even put away the mirror I keep on my desk. I keep it there because my resting face helps me keep self aware. Am I happy? Am I stressed and can I use a few grounding breaths? Am I sad, and what is bothering me? Am I just thinking. . ? Because that look is a combination of cute and hot.   It got so bad I couldn't look at myself.

Earlier this week, a coworker was asking about my custody schedule.  We ran into each other in line at the 7-Eleven down the block.  The conversation went to my kids and weekend plans and I explained I don't do much when I have them.  As I explained what a 2-2-5 plan is, I forgot about the hole in the pocket of my skinny jeans and threw my change in my pocket.  His curiosity was gentle but I was so fragile, my answers came out like pennies being pulled from a toddler's mouth.  Reluctantly and messy with drool, and he didn't realize he was risking sharp teeth, eager to bite him. I focused on the $.51 that was slowly making its way out of my pocket, shocking bare skin with cold metal.  I held the coins against my thigh as we walked and talked, and the cold became comfortable, warmed by my skin and then seeming to burn with discomfort.  I had this inner dialogue to be polite because his questions were polite enough and he was doing his best to normalize my situations with examples of people he knows, because in his mind, their experience fits mine, but in my mind, each is a separate hell we're meant to grow from and those don't come in cookie cutter shapes. I got to my desk and worked the quarters and penny down my leg while breathing deeply.

My family has been asking what's going on with me.  I think that's why posting so much about what I'm getting into is easier for me.  I can post it and avoid deeper connections through intentional communication.  I've been hiding.  I nearly had a melt down at the latest request.  Don't ask and I won't have to think about it.

I had a questionnaire to fill out this morning and it asked if I'm single, married, or divorced.  It didn't even have separation listed, not that we're legally separated.  It's amazing how new couples try to define themselves to know how much faith to put in their relationship and I'm just over here wondering which box to check because this strange situation means I'm all three, depending on my mood.

Today at work I was feeling good.  I had a moment the night before where someone else gave me the perspective I usually have.  He is a friend I respect and care deeply about, so hearing it from him surprised and challenged the mood I was in.  In the end, I was amazed at what he said and better for it. Today I was throwing myself into work and fist pumping my accomplishments while dancing and singing in my seat.  It was going well, until it wasn't.  I needed a moment because throwing myself into work meant taking my focus off of myself and I'm too selfish for that.  My brain kept wandering away from my computer screen. Nothing was making sense. I wasn't making sense.

I took a moment to sit alone on the back patio and sing out loud while reading old blog posts.  I read A Profusion of Gratitude to the Men in My Life and A Moment of Gratitude and they gave me warm fuzzies.  It reminded me of the many amazing times men showed up for me in a great way. I re-read Closing The Book and Starting New Chapters and How My First Crush in 16 Years Is All About Me and these posts made me feel better.  They made me feel stronger.

The ex wasn't full on trying to pick a fight tonight, but I could feel his antagonism in his texts.  I decided to ignore him and keep working, but when a coworker was leaving and said her farewells, I couldn't ignore what I heard in my voice, and a short while later I left because I couldn't see through the tears.

Yeah, transparency can be uncomfortable, but if I can suck it up, you can too.  I won't know who has read this post, just how many times my homepage was seen. You can hide.  I'm not going to.

So, to recap . . .

I'm afraid of the unknown and what it will be like to be alone tomorrow.

I feel like a failure and it feels bad.

I don't like needing to define what relationship I'm in or not in when it feels and looks like I'm a single and occasionally lonely cat and dog lady.

I'm fragile.

And yet, I'm okay again while writing this.  After work I went to the beach and walked the pier.  I saw a seal swimming in silent prayer for bait from the anglers.  I watched a bird fishing for dinner.  The coast guard was flying their helicopter over the water, and over a boat that must have been experiencing some sort of distress to still be on the water after the sun set. There were a couple of young guys surfing next to the pier.   I listened to live music, and music I would have been okay not hearing.  One of my favorite vendors moved on to a better opportunity. The world goes round in good ways.  I'm up past my bedtime but it's about laundry because I can't keep putting it off and I won't leave wet clothes in the machine because I'll forget them.  Again.

Even the finest china is delicate, but still a treasure to be able to touch and embrace.  I can be fragile.  I can be strong.  I accept me with all of my limits and boundless abilities.

Cut Flowers

Broken stride halted by solitary beauty

She was standing in a crowd so quietly unassuming

You can't hide beauty so glaringly obvious behind pretentious contemporaries

There was strength in her posing

and tenderness in her velvet feel

Coloring delicately solely for me

I forgot what I was doing, holding, going to do because she was all that mattered in that moment.

I held her, breathing deeply of her sweet perfume, intoxicated with sensual need

Marking me with her beauty my hands left bruises where hands expressed need

Whisking her away I will watch her wilt and fade confined in my view

A private viewing of her demise and she'll love it.

Her only need in this limited life to make me smile

Would You Rather. . ?

Gluten free is easier and feels better than eating wheat. Food that makes me feel like death is coming for me through my digestive tract is evil. Even if it is buttery and flaky with sweet marzipan filling. It should be illegal to make sugar free foods if you can't make them taste better than the idea of starvation.  Meals should be based on taste and hunger. Anything that makes me want to brush my teeth to get rid of the taste should not be considered food. Yes, I've tasted sugar free snacks that tasted far worse than toothpaste.

We're all looking for something.  It might be a pinata with a blindfold.  It could be your keys that are just chilling in your door.  It could be sanity in the bathroom where you can lock the door and hide from kids.  I bet you've spent some time looking for a sock or two and just decided to accept your role in the House Elf Liberation Front (if you don't know Rowling, just know there are libraries for people like you). If you're really lucky, you have help looking for that ever elusive g-spot, even if it is just a girlfriend sipping a bloody Mary and describing the journey over dinner with lots of giggles. I'm looking for company, but it looks like I'd rather be alone.

I did it again.  I tried online dating.  It lasted less than a week this time, but the horrible feeling was just as fresh.  I'm in a different place from the last time and I didn't get pulled into the needs of others.  I was able to distance myself in some ways, but at the end of the week, I felt just as violated. There were a few decent people online.  We just wanted different things.  They wanted a forever partner and I'm not her. Two out of three men wanted me to get sexual because I was willing to say hello.  It was usually, "Hi.  Sex tonight?" Sometimes it took a few texts before they were comfortable enough to treat me like a discount hooker.  I wanted someone to stretch my perception, make me think, get my heart racing and give me peaceful moments.  It was too much to ask.

Laugh at my Freudian slip.  I did. The not gorgeous doctor stopped talking to me after this.  It was going so well as we talked books and museums.  The person I was thinking of was worth the slip up.

I'd rather be alone than go through all of this again . . .

Sometimes they are friendly for a while until they subtly ask for a picture, and not one you would be willing to share with the world.

I was up front with my shallow side.  I like looking at beautiful men. I like watching them run.  I may or may not have taken a few detours on my way to work to watch that lovely poetry in motion on Chandler.  It's a public service they perform and I will be that public audience, shamelessly.  I mean, there is a point to that really close relationship they seem to want with a bench press, and it's for me, right? Except, I won't dehumanize him to his face unless we mutually arrive at that point and I haven't gotten there.  He has to be amazing.  He has to be worthy of that next crush (#4 in 16 years, because I was a faithful wife). For now, I'd settle for someone willing to jump into my intensity.

There is a dating app that looks like a really great idea.  You get to see people that cross paths with you.  The problem is most of those people worked near me or at the same company, or they lived in my neighborhood.  It's all fun and games until you are looking over your shoulder on a Perrier run at your local 7-Eleven.  I got a "hello neighbor, it's nice to meet you" followed by, "let me bring you something from the store" in the same evening before I fully wigged out.  I live on a street that is 3 blocks long.  I made the mistake of naming it, and now I'm slightly paranoid every time I drive past the house he carefully described.

He ignored me after this and later the next evening I deleted the profile and the app because the gravity of my tiny one way street with no parking really sunk in.

And then on my way home tonight I met a beautiful hipster with blue eyes and a terrific smile while walking home with Kid3.  I may or may not have seen him topless through his bedroom window and I might have missed offering the neighborly suggestion for drawn curtains at night. I can't remember his name, but the look that was friendly and not predatory tells me I really don't belong online.  At least when looking for company. And no, he's not the one.  He looked really young.

The Look

There's so much in his look. A glance

A moment

A millenia

Captivated by a smile and imprisoned in his eyes.

I'm caressed

Undressed

Set ablaze and released

His searing stare guts and cleans me out

Purged of everything because without the power of his thrall I am nothing.