Welcome Distractions, or My Latest Crush

I prefer a good crush.  This has been decided.  I have yet to be convinced otherwise.  They're safe.  There are too many ready excuses why I'm not ready for a real relationship.  I think the biggest thing is my paranoia.  I'm low maintenance and easy going and that is so easily manipulated.  Most people that know me have noticed that I'm fairly resilient and adaptable to adverse situations and uncontrollable change.  That is an abuser's fantasy and I'm aware of that. I won't demand to see someone's phone, or insist they tell me every detail.  (Okay, so I would check my ex's phone, but it never occurred to me to look at any texts other than the ones from his sister that hated me. I might have seen the affair if I had.) I don't even need to be in constant communication or contact because I really love my time alone. I can be intense and passionate and dialing it back is always a challenge and not always a welcome one. A freefall into love means I'm giving it my all at 110% no matter what the return, or if there is one at all.  At the same time, I'm afraid of welcoming someone into my life that will eventually want to play house and I'll have to trust someone with my kids and that's the last thing I want right now.  I like silly crushes and superficial connections. I like playing it safe. My latest crush has very solidly placed me in his friend zone.  It was somewhere between a crush and almost a thing, but never really a thing.  I once joked that he keeps dumping me but we're not together. It feels like cooling off is leading to a final answer and while there is a little sadness because I always want what I want, I can accept it for what it is and appreciate it for what it was.  There was no leading on.  His honesty is new.  There isn't something to read into because his words have always matched his actions.  I think he was always flattered, somewhat curious, but he was always clear that I'm not the one.  I was never the right one for him. I won't explain his reasons but I will say I understand them and would never hold them against him. Maybe this moment is setting doves free.  I'm releasing what I have so carefully kept to myself.

There were a few moments when that friendship was a blurry dance but it's firmly back in place again and I'm okay with that.  Or I will be. It's where I keep all of the ones I refuse to let go of.  It's a good place to be.  I did consider a real and lasting relationship with him for a little while.  He's pretty amazing.  If being with him when I didn't have my kids could ever be enough, he would be the one. My kids have a way of creating radical change and I wouldn't want to change him.  I enjoy so much about him that shifting who he is would be a disservice to him and his eventual Miss Right.  He could only ever be Mr. Right Now but he's so great I would want more for him.  There isn't a time limit on Right Now, is there? Besides, it's not that serious. When I'm having a rough day, I'm not trying to hand it to him to fix for me.  We don't get into deep discussions about our dreams and our histories. We haven't actually gone out on a date. I'm very open and transparent and he's incredibly private.  I'm more into escaping into who he is and what he looks forward to each day than trying to fit him into me and my life. It's enough that on a rough day, a memory of a conversation or his shy smile can make me smile.

On a tangential side note, I'm listening to a playlist that includes Radiohead's Creep, Self-Esteem and She's Got Issues by the Offspring as well as Dramarama's Anything, Anything.  We won't analyze that, but I will leave it right here for me to notice and you to laugh at.  Go ahead.  It's a freebie.

What kind of man could catch my eye and hold my attention?

He's amazing and special.

There's something transcendent about his hugs.  To be wrapped in his solid arms and held against his body with that amazing scent that is so masculine and sexy . . . I will not admit or deny that there is occasionally drool involved. Bald men with healthy tans and hard muscles has always been a thing - my thing because I'm not above being shallow, but he has been a special treat.  His eyes are dark brown and so expressive.  There's a quiet calm in the way he slouches in a chair and it's almost like watching a wild animal that is bored between kills.  Lithe.  He has a beautiful lithe body. When he talks about astronomy, physics and geology, there's passionate excitement. I don't know if he's into Potter, but he'd be a Hufflepuff and that's not a bad thing.  I've always been a little more Ravenclaw but I can see that in him too.  He's well read and like a sponge, he not only absorbs what he's read, he can expand on it and watching him express what has blended together and mellowed into certainty for him is a special pleasure.  His eyes will tell you when he's unsure or insecure and there's a soft vulnerability in his gaze with lifted brows and full lips.  I could coddle him in those moments.

He's the strong and silent type but there's a vulnerability about him that brings out my protective side. In many ways he's so open, guileless and innocent. In other ways he's closed off and unmovable. Manchild isn't a dirty word if that's what would define him.  I rarely have this much patience or kindness for men since I realized my role as a wife was more important to me than being my ex's wife was. There's something about him that speaks to that part of me that needs to give and offer and not expect anything in return.  He brings out selflessness in me, and it's not about my vulnerability.  It's not that he needs to catch or protect me.  I want him to continue to be who he is, and whether or not he can offer me anything more than a smile is irrelevant.

He's beautiful.  I think most would say he's cute or a looker, (I may or may not have shared a glimpse of a profile picture with a select handful of women and maybe a gay man) but that's just based on his face.  There's a whole package and the thought of it is often my happy place.  Like, Peter Pan better find Tink because I'm ready to fly now.  There is solid muscle that looks amazing in a t-shirt and jeans. He has a runner's body and the lines from his broad shoulders to his hips are what Greek sculptors were commissioned to master. I love the body hair that covers his arms and peeks out of his soft and faded t-shirts.  He's so active that his skin is always warm and slightly dewy. (Perks of a fast metabolism.) His hands are warm and calloused and rough and manly. His chest is perfect. My hands are soft and sensitive and there is so much pleasure in what my fingertips and palms have felt.  I love the way his muscles strain to stretch across his chest and the thin flesh over his sternum throbs with his pulse and his stomach is flat and firm and fun to touch.  There is so much peace in wrapping my arms around him and just fitting. His kisses are deep and passionate and I imagine his hip girdle could make angels cry.  I wouldn't know.

For the first time in my life, I've been alone with a guy and kissed him and we've started something doesn't mean he needs to finish it.  We've kept our clothes on at all times and there's a purity in it that is worth holding on to. Some people call that respect or taking it slow, but it's so alien and I totally dig it.  I'm used to manipulation and aggression and guilt to go further than I want to, but there isn't a rush and I love that feeling. I really just enjoy sitting with him and talking to him.

I'm not into the idea of sweating.  I will sweat.  I just don't enjoy it unless I'm walking somewhere to see something beautiful or pulling weeds.  Exercise that doesn't look like fun isn't something I do.  He's so committed to being active and eating well.  He's mindful of what he's eating at all times and it's a choice I admire.  It's a lifestyle for him and has been since at least his teens and it's beyond admirable.  I thought being gluten free was a pain for me, but to stay off of sugar for nearly 20 years puts him on a meta human level, right? Dr. Xavier around, anyone?

I think the greatest pleasure I feel from him is in that sapiosexual itch he scratches.  He's so smart, and curious, and creative.  I've had conversations with him where I was dumbstruck by the ideas and thoughts he explains and I did mention he's gorgeous, right? He once told me about reading Einstein's autobiography and a lot of that conversation is a blur because I was struck by how intelligent he is and the rest of it was my slack jawed glory.  I'm sure it was comic relief because I could feel how stiff my smile was.  I must have been amusing to watch. More than once I've been lost in watching him talk.  He writes, and draws, and composes music and as public as my writing is, his craft is so much more private. I write to get it out of me, but he has ambition I've never felt before. I try to write daily and exhaustion often wins, but he is so dedicated to his craft that he's doing something creative every single day.  I was honored in hearing his music and he kept trying to explain away what he felt was wrong, but I was just lost in his ability and the way his music made me feel.  It really is something amazing when sounds aren't processed with meanings in lyrics. For a moment I thought about linking to the many posts he's made an appearance in, but it's easy.  He's been the one that makes me smile and has been inspiring posts since I first saw his smile at the end of May. He's been my muse.

He likes to stick to his routines because his goals are bigger than instant gratification.  He down plays friendships and relationships, but when people are leaving his everyday life, he takes a moment to honor their friendship by being present and communicating the value he places in them with an offering of his time.  He's deeply introspective and polite, often brushing off the possibility that anyone could offend him because of the thick skin that all artists layer on as protection. I think his transparency is far more genuine than the personas most people affect. He carefully sticks to his diet and exercise because he wants the results he's working toward.  Aside from physically pushing himself, he takes really good care of himself.  He could use more sleep and he could be more gentle on himself, but then that would shift who he is. He's passionate about politics because he knows what is right and wants his ideals to influence society because as much as he sees himself as solitary, he's also passionately interested in the good he sees in the world and wants to make it better because he can't ignore the bad that is all around.

I've always been up front that I want someone that can hold a conversation and he has to be eye candy, but we're just friends and it's not that serious even if he is beautiful because beautiful is never enough. At the same time, this post almost didn't happen for fear of a reaction that would make him hide from me and I can't have that influence the freedom in my writing, right? In theory. 

Dating Advice

I don't have real dating advice.  I'm not sure how seriously I'm taking it.  It's company that feels better than being alone and that hasn't happened yet.  Actually, I spent the weekend taking Kid3 on dates, and even with his tantrums and meltdowns, he's a better date than most of what I found online.  And I paid! I'm still wading through the messiness and I'm just sharing gold nuggets from some of the men in my life that are not interested in me because they know me too well, or their orientation means we share an interest in the same men. I'm out of practice and very impulsive in some ways. The men in my life are straight shooters and when I'm comfortable, you'll get that from me too.  They love me.  They know me.  They don't want me. What am I looking for? So far he's monogamous, physically attractive, well groomed, intelligent, cultured, patient with children (he may be a gay man), and only has eyes for me.

You need someone on your level.

Yes! I'm well read, relatively sharp (how much sleep are we talking?) and I can take care of myself and my boys.  I'm generally happy and I don't need attention as much as I want it.  I'm looking for a match that I won't have to make up for.  Well, looking is a strong word that I keep using for the meandering I actually do.

Some things should only be admired from a distance.

But sometimes they are so pretty and shiny.  I want to touch and obsess and learn every detail.  Then I remind myself I'm not a puppy and I can put the toy down.  But I don't want to. Call it sweet.  It may be a touch stalkerish.

Don't date at work.

You can't shit where you eat.  (Crude, yes, but the exact way it was said to me.) I tend to look for someone doing just as well as I am, or better, and it's hard to shut my eyes when the men parade so innocently past me when they don't know I was looking through my lust colored lenses.

Set your rules and don't break them.

I had stiff rules when I was online dating.  No delivery drivers but that is more about me than anyone else. I have issues.  They end up here where I can be followed and shared and bookmarked. No one younger than me, but that one is flexible in relation to how much drool we're dealing with.  He has to be smart enough that I'm constantly in awe of his huge ideas and observations.  He has to look better than I do.  I'm looking for beautiful but I'm shallow.  I own it.

Don't lead anyone on.

I have this tendency to start flirting when I get comfortable.  That doesn't mean I'm into anyone outside of the reactions I get.  A simple lunch can mean much more to the man in front of me than it will ever mean to me.  I won't do it on purpose.  I go from purely polite and slightly indifferent to lioness on the prowl, looking for a chew toy. It's not good, but it's rarely intentional.

You're such a dude.  Not everyone you conquer needs to be femme.

Gender normative isn't a dirty word in the dating world.  I'm supposed to soften my ability to be dominant in my home and with my sexuality.  I had never seen the men I date as femme, but coming from a gay man, I have to believe there is truth in the way I portray them when I go into juicy detail.

Don't you know spooning leads to forking?

Flirting is never innocent.  Don't do it unless you mean it and are willing to follow through.  Craptastic because that is my way of being.

Walk away and let him come to you. Keep giving signals that you're interested but don't pursue.

This is too twisted.  I don't get it.  I haven't played this game in decades. I was interested and all over it, or not interested and polite with an edge.  I often ended a mean streak with, "I'm just messing with you."  I never said I was nice and the men I dated were never high on emotional intelligence or otherwise.

Baby steps, Ma.

When I am into someone I can get a bit carried away.  I'm not planning a wedding and moving in and puppies together. It's more like I'm free, let's go out. Some boys need to take it slower than that.

Forget to text him on some days. Send generic messages that don't show an interest in his life or that you're expecting conversation.

Have a great weekend! Enjoy your day! Happy 4th of July!

I'm here.  Think of me so we can keep playing this game that really secretly annoys me.

Poop already, because there are other people waiting for the pot.

(I think I was trying to go for being the Shit, but ended up as a toilet. Don't flush!)

You want owners, not the help. If he ain't the highest up on the totem you're not interested. This is no longer high school.

This should matter more because I'm frequently told to think ahead, but I'm not there yet.

A woman with ink is hardcore to a guy without ink. Honey, your level of pain is more than his.  He knows you're a freak and knowing that makes him wonder if he's sexually adequate.

I've given birth.  Many times. All of my ink is meaningful design that hurt less than a crowning child and the contractions that helped me kick 7 babies out.  It was easier than the angry uterus that had no problem with beating up an infant on the way out of my womb.

Where to go: church groups, book readings, events at parks, lounges, community service, the humane society needs volunteers.  Library, museum, coffee houses, cafe's.

For fun: the grocery store produce section.

"Hey, how ripe is that peach? I bet it's juicy."

"Are these melons ripe?"

"How do you pick your papayas?"

Do we really need to go there with bananas?  I think you get it.

Practice Like You Mean It

In 1993 I was in large military Drill Team.  I was actually the last or second to the last alternate and barely made it.  Practice was for a few hours after school and we wore uniforms for competition and spirit week.  It's all fun and games until you grow into old lady knees that suffered too many practices with forgotten knee pads. During practice, we were often exhausted and I was always so irritated by the coach, captain and co-captains that would stress that we had to practice like it was performance.  We had to practice like we meant it.  Going through the motions in rehearsal means you will go through the motions during performance.  Muscle memory takes over. Everything becomes automatic. You want your automatic to be amazing.

That lesson came back with laughter tonight.  I drive around with my windows up, music loud and singing.  I will also say "hi" to cute men, or "thank you" to one that is cute and exercising.  It's a public service, really. I say it loudly with windows up and it makes me laugh because they can't hear my catcalls.  Today I was doing the same as usual with the music slightly lowered because it was around dusk when the sky was blushing in farewell to a fading sun  and I wanted to feel the breeze of the evening air. There was a man running in the direction I was driving and I yelled my "thank you" like I meant it. He flinched with a faltering few steps and I realized how far my voice carries when windows aren't in my way.  I forgot the windows were down, and drove off in laughter.

Fiction: Huntress on the Prowl

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Los Angeles is Not a Desert

There's been a shift in my plans.  I'm more dutiful daughter than flowing stream, but you get the benefit of more words as a result as I sip instant coffee with instant creamer and follow it with Ovaltine because I'm at Mom's house and that tastes like my childhood. Los Angeles is not a desert.  Seriously.  It goes against everything I've ever been told, but I'm reading and learning because there's a boy who looks like a man and he said it's not and I'm researching a bit because he sparked my curiosity and I need to know now. Yes, he shifted my perspective, but we won't go into that because I work with him, can't have him and will only be able to daydream and objectify him. Technically we aren't even in the same department and he's not my supervisor and maybe he's too close for awkward later. I don't want to risk it going south. And I don't know that he'd be interested. I don't write about the people I actually go out with for the most part because reality is rarely as amazing as my imagination. And some guys are just special with memories that are mine. As long as I don't see him as a possibility, I don't mind objectifying him. 

Yes, this would be the same man that was on my mind when I wrote Earthquake Country and part of a conversation with him happened before I hit Santa Monica and met two other Los Angeles transplants that prompted me to write Native Californian before that.  Talking to him makes me want to write and it's a good thing.  I may also look for him in common areas, and that's a problem.  But it's my problem and I'm enjoying it.

Yesterday at the company barbecue we were talking about the endorphins that hit him after running about a mile and I was in my slack jawed glory, just trying to focus on his face and not the way his faded red t-shirt was hanging off of his pectorals making my mind drift to naughty places.  The conversation shifted to the Los Angeles mild weather versus East Coast hell.  After painting the picture of shoveling snow and layers of clothes contrasting against oppressive humidity and a need to shower more often than the commercial breaks in an hour long episode (and yes, I pictured that), he brought up the fact that we are not in a desert.  He mentioned a documentary and his curiosity was infectious as he managed to say it all without making me feel objectified. He was adorably expressive and nearly bounced with childlike excitement.  Maybe I'm exaggerating, but I loved what I was seeing.

It was sometime after he wasn't in front of me and I wasn't looking at the chest hair peeking out of his shirt, or the bright excitement over his ideas and sharing them or the way I wanted to . . . There's a point, and I will get back to it because we work together and he's off limits and that is the story I keep telling myself.

The American Association of Geographers has a long case built on the fact that we have more rainfall than a true desert making us semi-arid and we have groundwater that keeps us looking like LA and not Barstow in natural areas that are not funded by water wasters. (We can ignore the fact that they misspelled Los Feliz.) The fact that our water resources cannot support our population does not make the land a desert in the classic sense. We also grow much of the food for our nation in California, and aside from pretty lawns and luxurious bathing, what we put toward agriculture on a national scale requires more water than is natural to the land, but our climate is arid and mild enough to nurture most plants and vegetation.  I often ignore planting schedules on the backs of seed packets, because plants will usually sprout as long as they have water because our sunshine is good for that.

This article says we have a Mediterranean climate based on the Köppen system.  We certainly have a love of mediterranean food and I have a thing for the men. Sometimes.  It just depends. The point is we have great plants that thrive here and if you are wise enough to support a xeriscaped garden somewhere, these plants are made for home and know how to come back after a drought or fire or flood because that and the earthquakes are what Los Angeles is used to. I remember a geology class where my professor talked about plants that will only release seeds once the plant has burned. We usually get heavy rains and mudslides after fire season.

I won't go into articles that whine about bad propaganda because that just blames long forgotten individuals for an evolving classification system, because science changes as we see things differently and add information.  But yes, Mr. Adorably Curious was right.  We are not in a desert. His large brain has my attention. He shifted my perspective. This is what it feels like and it feels good. Imagine that.

Self Confidence and Online Dating

I spent many years as a stay at home mom.  My days were spent chasing babies, cleaning up messes and doing yard work.  The yard work made me happy.  I love fresh dirt under my nails and working up a sweat in pulling stubborn weeds. It was often done in bare feet or running shoes.  Mainly bare feet.  When I went back to work in January, I decided I wanted to wear heels, but it was hard on my calves and I had to work through some seriously solid comfort zone fears. I wasn't used to walking or standing in heels.  I used to be.  I could spend a night dancing in heels at one time.  I still miss my black Esprit Mary Jane pumps with a chunky heel. It was a long time ago.  Pushing Past My Comfort Zones To Reclaim Ownership of my self-imposed value system came with rewards, but the first few days it mainly came with serious calf cramps. I was talking to my regional manager about my shoe issues, and she said she never wants to lose her confidence in heels.  The word, "confidence" immediately shifted my perspective.  It shifted everything.  That was when I really saw that confidence is something you decide you are going to accept as part of your identity. When I was walking without confidence, I had this fear that my ankles would twist and I would teeter and fall.  When I realised it was about confidence, I started walking as if I knew I wouldn't fall because my confidence made the decision that I wouldn't.  The change in my stride made my calf pain go away.  I wasn't walking like I would fall and my muscles didn't have to compensate for my insecurities.

I'm building my confidence in my dating profile.  Funny story:  I set up my preferences based on my type, and someone I know ended up in the search that pops up when I open the app.  He's not my dating option, but he pops up, and I remember his smile and the real life person I know.  For some reason, the views and likes and messages I've gotten since yesterday are all compared to him and they all fall short.  I'm chatting when I'm I get an email or chat window, but they're already rejected based on the person I know in real life.  It's sad.  On the other hand, it was a moment of joy to realise that I'm no longer comparing everyone to my ex.

The app and website are boosting my confidence.  I don't have to go out and turn down polite interest, I can do it from my phone in my pj's while getting laundry done. And there's something that feels good knowing that in 24 hours, I've had over 150 men click through my profile.  The numbers may be average or sub par, but it's far more than I was getting while out and about. Some of them might have read my verbose ramblings and checked out the profile I've plastered with several vapid examples of vanity.  I like reading, "nice smile, " and that I'm a "striking eyed beautiful woman," even if the smiles he can screenshot are all he'll ever see.

Right now my confidence is looking for balance.  The person I was the last time I was dating was intimidating and aggressive.  She was also a bit of a slut. I'm at peace with that.  It isn't who I am now. I'm trying to dial it back a lot and this in between gray area is foreign and frightening.  Besides, I still feel that I am having a great lot of  Fun Dating Myself and I feel I am pretty phenomenal.

There's something to be said about online dating.  I like real life interactions where I don't really pay attention to cars, status, or even looks until a man has said something that makes me want to learn more about him.  In real life, I can feel the guilt when I start to become materialistic, but online it's expected and I'm eased into it without the real life person in front of me to remind me there is a person with genuine feelings before me. The online version has made me look at these men in a different way, and I'm not sure how I feel about it.  Realistically, I look at profile pictures and the first thought I have is, would I be willing to see this man naked and be attracted to what I see?  It happens in person within the first two minutes, but I can usually get past that.  Getting past my vanity and physical attraction is how many of my long term relationships were born. Online, he won't get a chance to make an impression.  I usually like conversations about interests and likes but online they become a blur.  I'm missing the expressions and cadence in a voice that makes me obsess like I did when I wrote That’s cute, and Getting Back on that Flirtation Bike.

Everyone's profile duplicates each other after a while. The profiles in my searches all have readers and outdoorsy types.  They like children and animals and water.  They want someone fit and attractive and happy.  And they all make insane amounts of money. The woman they are searching for needs to be driven and make him a first priority.  So many of men want to show women a great time, snuggle and travel the world. I'm just hoping to find someone that's already survived their midlife crisis, but I won't add that to my profile. They like motorcycles and fast cars, and I can't help but remember I'm not dent proof and will lose in a car fight and become a victim to their need for speed.

I find lots of really driven men that have worked so hard on a career that they missed the part about starting a family, or stayed in a relationship for longer than it was working.  I was in a marriage that I thought was working.  I get it.  I was putting our kids before my career and now I'm starting over, but on my terms.  I'm not the financial powerhouse I plan to be one day.  That confidence will grow once I start a career path that I'm designing, and not one that I'm trying to fit into, and once I find work I can be passionate about.

I can't help but see the lack of confidence on these profiles.  It's not always obvious, but it is often shy and insecure in the last line of an open invitation.  It's in the pictures of places they've been and their pets, children and cars, instead of a bright and wide smile.  It's hiding behind sunglasses as if they can't imagine anyone getting lost in their eyes.  It's in their disdain for a sales pitch they know is a sales pitch that they aren't fully confident of. I'm just as guilty, talking about the places I like to go and feeling like I may be padding a resume while I do it.  At the same time, I'm not advertising my blog and a full visual of what makes me who I am.

I am being honest though.  That is huge for me.  I'm not lying in my profile or in private messages.  I have no reason to because I'm not ashamed of who I am or what my life looks like right now.  I'm not even lying about my lack of gainful employment.  Go, me.

Look for Blessings and They Will Find You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why Confidence is More Than Body Image

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

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

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

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

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

My Apologies for Objectifying A Beautiful Man

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

Stress Induced Hospital Visits and a Hot Doctor as Treatment

My kids came home from their Dad's house on Monday.  Early Tuesday I started feeling mild chest pain, with leg cramps.  I had a feeling it was just stress. It seemed to get worse with every tantrum and meltdown I was forced to moderate.  At one point I almost called my husband to come get the kids so I could go to the hospital, but I decided against it because I didn't really want to give him anything to hold against me. He's already threatened me about the last two hours of respite I asked for.  And again, I wasn't sure it wasn't all just in my head.

He had kid1 text me they were on their way, and I started packing for a possible hospital stay.  I grabbed devices and chargers.  I threw in clean underwear, a hairbrush, toothbrush and toothpaste.  These are things I used to have him run and grab for me, but I wasn't even telling him.  And I haven't replaced him as my go to person yet, so I plan more closely than I used to.

He picked up kid3 and I got in my car.  I returned my niece's call that I missed while kid3 was on my phone.  He ignores people, and I could really learn from him, or start using him as an excuse.  I let her know what I was up to because it seemed responsible to let someone know where I was headed.  Then I spent almost 6 hours in the ER.

Having a history of pulmonary embolisms and current chest pain makes things move quickly, but you still have to wait for results to be read.  I had an EKG and bloodwork done.  Then there was a CT scan.  Then I waited. There was a lot of waiting as other patients were starting to wait on gurneys and wheelchairs in the halls, waiting for a room.  I'm not the only one willing to wait for the right time to make sure I'm not dancing with death.

My potassium was very low, but that happens when you forget to eat. I don't eat when I'm stressed, but I prefer that to eating everything I can see.  That happens when I'm depressed.  That's what caused the cramping that made me wonder if I had blood clots forming.  The rest was stress, so it really is all in my head. The chest pain felt just like it did when I had pulmonary embolisms.

The stress I'm feeling is so great that my body is trying to make me think I'm sick, or in mortal danger so that I'm forced to take care of myself.  I need to start imagining a baby duck again.  That visual was my focus when I was hospitalized for a month during my last surrogate pregnancy.  They are so adorable when they're learning to swim and so focused on swimming that the water slides off their backs, and they're persistent with the joys of learning.  I don't think about adult ducks.  They can be insanely aggressive and much more fearful.

I'm on Facebook more than I'd like to admit, but I don't ignore people when I get a ping.  I might wait a bit on responding to emails because most of it is junk mail or spammy forwards.  Last night a friend was asking about a sales pitch she wants me to attend.  I get the health benefits of what she's pushing.  I'm just having a hard time eating regular meals right now.  I'm not in a place to buy it, and I'm not interested in selling it either. I answered her questions because they weren't really about me.  I also got a message from a high school friend.  He's one of those football players I used to hang out with.  Always just a friend.  He knows how to make me smile, and in chatting with him, my chest pain went away.  I'm only sharing a small part of the conversation that happened after we were joking about running and how I want to do it, but he knows me well enough to know I really don't.

Him: Yeah i know...ur a princess.

Me:  Well, thank you.

Him:  I haven't forgotten! Lmao

Me:  I did. I forgot how to be royalty.

Him:  Well...time for u to get it back...

And this is one of the main reasons why I'll answer his pings in a heartbeat.  Great friends are great to keep around.  He's one of the few that checks on me without needing anything in return.  I appreciate that.

The doctor was beautiful.  He had yellowish brown hair that was probably a dark gold in the sun, he kept it fairly long and as I saw him throughout the night, it was in various stages of being combed neatly, and falling wildly over his ears, like running his hands through it was soothing a stressful day.  His hair looked soft, and I wanted to sample a feel.  He was tall and clearly took his workouts seriously.  He had soft brown eyes and a slight Italian accent to match his name.  And yes, I did repeat his name a few times. There's something so sensual about Italian names. I didn't even look to see if there was a wedding band.  I don't plan to go back or ever see his smile again.  At the end of the night, this handsome man that crafts miracles for a living looked me in the eyes and told me to take better care of myself and stay away from caffeine.  That was the best medicine.

I stopped at the grocery store for bananas, avocados, coconut water and dinner.  Potassium is happening because leg cramps suck. I walked around a bit before deciding that yes, hard salami and havarti are acceptable for dinner.  Salami for dinner is a perk for being a grown up without kids for the night or a husband to cook for.

 

Massive Ass Expansion or Exercise?

It's occurred to me that I can't keep making 3 egg omelets with soft cheeses and mushrooms for breakfast and not start seriously exercising.  It's a little crazy. I may have to look for that yoga mat and make peace with sweat.  I might even teach the kids that my jump rope is more than a weapon to subdue a younger brother.

I used to exercise.   I had an old dance teacher who taught out of her home.  I learned ballet, tap dance, jazz, and even a few Hawaiian dances from her. I loved her wrinkled and gnarled arthritic hands that would hold graceful poses as she waltzed around the studio with us.  She had a cat that loved to mark my jean jacket every single class session.

I ran around the neighborhood with the boys where we'd throw a football around in a game of Pickle, or we played kickball in the church parking lot where more than once I had to climb onto the church roof to retrieve a ball.  I tried being a skater and stopped shortly after mastering an ollie, because I realized I didn't love the fear of my horrible balance.  I rode bikes around the block and we found the steepest hills to challenge death.  An elderly neighbor gave me an old bike out of his garage with U-Shaped handlebars and a banana boat seat.  His wife used to make us rhubarb pies. My Dad replaced that bike with a 10 speed when I wanted a stunt bike.

I was in gymnastics with a coach that told me I was too tall and my girl hips were too large. I tried so hard to continue working with bloodied and torn blisters on my hands that looked like eyes when I matched the lines on my palms into a smile. I loved the uneven bars, but they didn't like me.

My 8th grade year I was in regular P.E.classes and frequently had (uninvited) teen boy hands slap my butt.   I had an inept electricity teacher who showed me how to use a drill press, but couldn't keep his male students from touching my body. Assault in the early 1990's looked a lot like boys being boys according to faculty and administration. I would eventually write "Jane Doe's Butt" (using my actual, but currently redacted name) on my P.E. t-shirt over my rear in an attempt to own the daily assault. Shortly after that it stopped, and now I can see it was just an act of aggression.

I was on a swim team at the beginning of puberty.  It was a mixed team and I was bear crawling around the pool in a bathing suit with pubescent teen boys right behind me.  It pushed me out of the pool in a way that makes me still avoid chlorinated waters.

I was in drill team and running a mile daily. My knees suffer from practicing knee drops from a standing position, whether or not I remembered to bring my knee pads to school. Being able to drop into the splits and jumping into Russian splits in the air was one of my many selling points, I'm sure.

After my one year of drill team I fell back into general physical education where I did the stretches everyone else did, which did nothing for me.  I ended up pulling a muscle running laps without stretching enough.

In karate, I did 300 crunches a day.  I would spar with a tall blonde god who is now covered in ink with a bald head and working to protect celebrities all over the world.  Trust me, he's great at guarding a body. I didn't mind when he would take me down, but it's okay that we were only ever friends. Memories of crushes without heartbreaks are my favorite memories.

There is something about the evolving body of motherhood that is miraculous and disgusting.  My firstborn was slightly underdone.  His first days as a preemie in the NICU meant I spent his first 4 months trying to get him to latch on.  I was determined to breastfeed, and my badassery wouldn't accept his wailing rejection as my final answer. Nursing meant sweat, and leaking milk, and smells that I hope to one day forget because my body shouldn't smell like that. Childbirth, in all its wonder is a leaky endeavor and it's those memories that make me hate sweating, though I love fresh sweat on a healthy man. Clean sweat is such an aphrodisiac.  Try it.  You'll like it.  Everybody's doing it.

My current exercise isn't exercise to sweat and be healthy.  I like to pull weeds after rainfall.  Tap roots pull out with satisfaction.  I will build and destroy and rebuild in projects around the house.  I enjoy long walks that push past a stitch in my side and give my feet blisters.  Some might call that hiking. I was planning a beach trip this weekend so I can duke it out with ocean waves, but it might be a bit cool for that. I need the point of exercise to be doing something or going somewhere, and it has to be gentle on my knees that are short on cartilage.  I was 5'6" in my teens. I may have already started shrinking. I just can't see myself working a machine while watching television. It feels pointless and depressing.

It's amazing how much I love my cooking when I spent years making breakfast for my family, skipping most meals myself. My husband hated boxed meals and his mother's cupboard surprise, so I was always challenging myself in the kitchen.  Tonight we're having shepherd's pie and this is a meal where I sneak in rutabaga and turnips, parsnips and carrots and they all look like potato cubes, except the carrots and I feel like it's a mom win. They might be catching on because those bits don't taste like potatoes. I would stay up late and nosh on junky processed foods while reading a book or watching something on television.  In laziness, I would doctor a can of some sort of chunky Campbell's soup with shredded sharp cheddar and french fried onions. It was the hours when my family slept that my respite began and I couldn't indulge in that respite if I was asleep, so I stayed up and consumed foods that disguised the feelings I chose to chew down. Right now I'm often not hungry, so when I am, I make it special. It's like being a teenager again, except I'm excited about fending for myself.

My current eating habits are different. I don't think I'm eating in depression as much as having an epicurean indulgence.  I'm very much into whatever feels good right now. At the same time, I love it that I'm about the size I was around the year 2000. The idea of exercise keeps playing with me and I'm not sure if or when it will happen, but I keep having thoughts of visiting a friend at the Crossfit in Eagle Rock because he makes it look so inviting. But realistically, as was just pointed out to me, a crossfitter will always love their body more than me. I'm okay with that too.

Dating Apps or Why I Would Rather Meet You In Person than Online

 

Dating apps have been suggested.  I finally downloaded one and I even set up a profile which is a new thing for me.  I've never gone that far. I linked it to my Facebook, but I'm not committed to the idea of meeting someone online or through an app.  I still have ideas of going to a bar and having someone brave enough to introduce himself do so. I may need to go to more bars since I've gone to two this year and both times were with co-workers.  And I don't drink often, so maybe another venue . . . Either way, the apps with horrible pictures and occupations don't tell me anything I need to know.  I don't know how expressive they are when a thought is fighting to get past teeth and tongue.  I don't know if my pulse would race.  All the app tells me are the two very last things I would ever base a relationship on:  looks and occupation. My dress, wedding, honeymoon and rings were all under $500, combined. I'm that hopeless romantic that finds my home is wherever I've placed my heart and the practical aspects of survival can always be worked out.

I'm likely to fall in love with a body after I've spent at least a conversation with the person it belongs to.  I need my mind stroked with what makes him who he is.  I like to people watch and so much is found in body language and the sensory aspects of human interactions. I love to watch a man with kids.  You can see his patience, and how engaged he is.  If he doesn't have time for the leadership kids require, I'm not likely to want to follow him.  I love watching babies learn new things.  You can see the wonder light up their whole face.  That same open expression is what makes me love watching a man, deep in thought or debating the next phrase out of his mouth.  I love wondering what was on his mind and what he really needed to stop himself from saying.  It can keep me up at night, without complaint. I'm not a fan of a good poker face.  I love to watch a man interact with other people.  How does he treat the server filling his cup? How does he treat the people that can't offer him anything other than a smile?  That matters and can look a lot like sexy feels.  One of my favorites on Instagram is HOTDUDESREADING.  I love a good book and to see a guy reading is such a thrill.  Especially if he looks like they do on that Instagram account. These are the things that give me that lovely spark that starts in my lower belly and consumes every possible thought thereafter.  I love the reactions on a guy that I'm flirting with.  I like it when he's a little shy and doesn't know how to react when I've just given him a mental undressing. I prefer that to the guys that do it right back with aggression.  (I can't justify my double standards, so don't bother asking.)  You don't feel all of that in browsing through an app.

My taste in looks varies.  Most of the time it doesn't matter.  It's always a bonus to have a firm hip girdle or defined abs.  I like a man who can pick me up and make me feel weightless, but I can find a feature or two I adore, and love goggles blind me to the rest. (I know some of you have seen the men I've dated.  It's okay to laugh right now.) I have overlooked personal hygiene, but again, I can see a bonus and add apple points accordingly.  If my mind is on fire then the rest falls into place.  I've loved men with salt and pepper hair and striking blue eyes (during my teens when I had a thing for older men, but it's still hotness).  I've dated heavy men, and men so skinny I wanted to feed them, and felt I could tackle them in a gridiron scrimmage. We won't detail my adventures in sacking that quarterback. I've dated boys whose parents were Mexican, Armenian,  Guatemalan, Bolivian, Filipino, German, El Salvadorean, and then there were the ones I never even bothered to ask.  I won't say I'm equal opportunity, but I don't discriminate either. Michael Jackson said it best when he sang, "it don't matter if you're Black or White." Been there too.

You can't find what I like to look for in an app, and I'm not feeling so lonely that I need to find something immediately.  I think sexual attraction can be decided in the first two minutes of seeing a person, but where I'm at emotionally means I expect more. I'm a patient person and I'm an optimistic person.  I can wait until it's right and browsing through an app in bed doesn't feel right.  I think my old might be showing, but I'm not about to tuck it back in.

A Day in the Life: Single Mom Duties

I rushed to my son's school to pick him up on a shortened day. His parent conference was an arbitrary day where his teacher could fit me in.  I asked if she had an earlier appointment and she fit me in immediately.  She tries so hard for order, but teachers rarely get parents that show up on time, or show up at all when work and other kids come before a report we see on a card.  But I wanted to meet with her so she could tell me he's missed too much school and been tardy far too often because the numbers in black and white with a legend in the corner couldn't be clear enough.  I remind her of the day in dress and heels I carried him over my shoulder from the car onto campus and left him with the principal, later calling in tears on my way to work to see how much he hated me. My knees hated me for days after that. He's doing well in spite of his absences and still has time to improve.  We're starting separate homework packets because separate homes weren't enough.  The line between responsibility tears him in two, but he accepts it with a smile because this insanity is his insanity and it's somehow acceptable. We head home and the fight for his homework begins.  He wants my phone. "Can't find a pencil." Now in need of a sharpener.  "This is too hard.  We haven't done the work that she told you we did." But it says review and I know he's capable when I tell him I'm struggling and I need him to show me. "What are you doing?" As I'm writing thank you's to lovers in my past. "I'm writing a zombie story," because he knows it's entirely a possibility and more exciting than therapy writing. He needs my full focus to get me to give him answers he works really hard to not figure out. I continue writing and he slowly figures it out.

But his brothers will be home in 10 minutes and the three of them will start fighting over the two computers. Miraculously, he gets it done and has minutes to spare before the brothers get home.  Once home, they fight, as predicted because they each want time on the computer immediately.  It's the preferred routine and there's a system to their chaos when they can predict what will happen. Kid1 tries to pry kid2 from the chair, then sees the food and starts with bribery.  The computer battle is won and their after school hungers are sated.  Mom's cherry macarons decided the battle. Kid2 takes his clothes off because there are tags that scratch, and really, he's had clothes on all day and it should be enough.  He sits and strokes his boy parts through his clothes and I remind him we can see him and his restless hands stop but he takes the tablet into the bedroom where I won't hear his videos as easily.

"Hey kids, it's a soup day.  Chicken vegetable okay?" Yeses and sures and "I would like that, Mom." I start boiling a chicken with loose skin and too much blood. My stomach is roiling from the stresses I ignore.  I run a bath and heat eases pain in my old lady knees.  I yell to kid3, "want a bath tonight? Now's the time if you do."  Followed by, "no mom, I'm busy mom .  . . I'll shower later."

Chicken is cooked and cooled and I'm burning fingertips, tearing the bird apart.  "Are you sure you want soup? I still have time to make something different." Kid1 wants soup.  Kid2 thinks he can get past celery and cooked carrots. He'll eat it raw, but cooked carrots and celery have a texture my sensory sensitive autistic children can't always handle.  Kid3 loves mommy's soup. He can't wait for mommy's soup.

Soup is served and only Mom and Kid1 will eat it.  Kid2 wants bread and only bread.  Kid3 isn't hungry.

It's time for showers and bed, and I start with kid2 who wants to avoid his shower just a little longer because he's watching a video.  I check the video and it's on pornhub and I have to explain that it's inappropriate and gives a wrong idea of real sex. Good sex.  Sex that isn't violence based and I have to pry my eyes away from the sex scenes that held my sex starved mind because it's a video where it looks like orgasms are being given which is different entirely from solo play. I'm so tired of solo play.

Kid2 in the shower, then kid3.  He wants that bath - once offered and rejected and he will cry until I give in but I don't give in to his bath. Instead I soap him up in the shower.  And it's a battle I've lost that his Dad always wins.  I tell myself he just needed the cry that he cries every time he comes home. He doesn't need to control me too, that's just a side effect - a latent benefit and then I can't see the manifest benefit.  I can't see the antecedent to the behavior that I just rewarded and I'm the one with the consequence.  He's out of the shower and dripping wet and insists on climbing into bed, dripping wet because that's what Dad does. It's okay with Dad.  He's okay with Dad. And he's hungry now and refuses the soup that burned my fingers and I'm headed out to the deep freezer in the laundry room to get him a Hot Pocket that he eats halfway through before falling asleep.

Kid1 in the shower with a smirk and a grunt.  I ask too much of him but I ask and he does what I want, if slower than I want and the night has wound down and we're done.  The pressure builds in my head and I go over it again because I can't see where we went from smiles and hugs and mutual claims to have missed each other to the mess this night dissolved into.  I can't see where it shifted and my mind races through it again and again.

I don't drink.  I won't cry.  I will see the crap for what it was and hug them in their sleep because they are so well behaved then.  I will say prayers for their peace and obedience as I tuck them in. And I will have Butter Pecan gelato because I don't drink even if I really want to right now.

A Profusion of Gratitude to the Men in My Life

When you face a maelstrom in life, it’s easy to look for signs of safety and reach out in an attempt to find an anchor.  The winds die down.  The torrential rains are reduced to water dripping from branches and leaves. Trees have gathered what they could, and what remains will trickle down to enrich the soil at thirsty roots. Plants are so self serving. Birds chirp in triumph over the nests that weathered the storm and pigeons coo over their eggs that survived the onslaught in motherese sounds of comfort. The clouds lose their gray anger and lift into fluffier whites that couldn't possibly release another onslaught.  At least until they lower and darken, covering the land in shadow once more.  So begins a new flood on dry land not ready to take what the heavens choose to give. But in the eye of the storm it is calm enough to see the other side coming, and calm enough to brace for what you know you can still make it through because you've been there and will find yourself there again.

If I look hard enough, I can see the same in my emotional life.  I'm looking for an anchor and it's wrapped in the covering of a heartbroken past that keeps throwing old flames at me.  I understand it.  The pain of a broken heart is the same, no matter who does the breaking, it's my heart and I have to do the mending.  This would be the main reason I'm not yet dating.  I'm not a problem to fix and I'm not ready to publish another issue when this one has yet to be edited.  And yes, at times I say it just to convince myself.

It's funny how the universe decides to contribute.  My youngest has a sweatshirt with diamonds that reminds me of one special guy.  The very next week he tells me the he has a new after school teacher with the same first name as another man I loved.  I'll see the name of a studio that reminds me of a name I've been trying to forget or in the course of my last job, I'd see lots of names that reminded me of this feeling that I've been walking through.  I'd be in full focus of my task at hand, and suddenly get sucker punched by a name with significance and pain. Or worse, it'll remind me of a secret rendezvous that was so sweet the longing is worse. I love the random bumper stickers from home towns not my own that put me in the place I was driving to escape from. I hear so much about the benefits of gratitude, I thought it might be worth a few words in redirecting my thought patterns.

Thank you for opening doors for me.  Clearly I'm capable, but it was still nice and appreciated.

Thank you for noticing my hair cut.  It's not a huge deal that I cut it, but it's huge that you would notice.

Thank you for noticing that I like my coffee creamy and sweet and that my tea depends on my mood entirely.

Thank you for listening to my drama and not trying to fix it, nudging me and guiding me until my lightbulb flashes in understanding and not taking the credit we both know you deserved.

Thank you for dropping your defenses long enough to let me see how badly you wanted more and then putting them back up so it wasn't uncomfortable.

Thank you for picking up after a party and taking the trash out for me. Hosting in my youth makes me hate doing it now, so thanks for being okay with me coming to you instead and letting me help where I can.

Thank you for surprising me with a dress that was a little too tight. It told me you thought of me as smaller than I am, and I loved your sense of style.

Thank you for surprising me with jewelry.  I didn't always wear it, but I always loved it.

Thank you for offering to whisk me away to a place I've never been to make new memories to crowd out the old ones.

Thank you for listening to me sing without making it a performance, and joining in because you saw how happy I was and you wanted to be part of that.

Thank you for not being threatened by the thoughts I needed to bounce off of you.

Thank you for letting me run my fingers through your hair even if it looked messy afterward.  I have a thing for really large brains with lots of wrinkles of knowledge.  I'm only part zombie after a long night and it soothes me.  (I needed the laugh and something I could read aloud to the kid next to me doing homework.) Honestly, there's something soothing about soft hair and the trust given when touching it.

Thank you for wanting constant contact, whether holding hands or an open palm on my lower back or holding onto my hip so I'm that much closer to you.  It might make walking awkward, but I loved it.

Thank you for insisting I lay with my head on your lap while you watched t.v. and I dozed off with you stroking my hair.

Thank you for not laughing when I eat Cheetos with chopsticks so I can avoid cheesy fingers.

Thank you for respecting my answer when I say I'm not ready to date.  I appreciate that you understand I might change my mind and are willing to wait for what you want to hear.  When that hunger is awakened, I assure you, my impulse control will go for a walk, and you will know in the looks I steal because your body will understand the hunger in my gaze. And I'm sure you can understand that you may never be the one.

Thank you for buying gifts even when I say it's not necessary, and even if it's a chocolate bar because you understand that eating chocolate gives me food joy, and you want to see my joy and hear the silly and sometimes sexual sounds that come with it.

Thank you for understanding that my "no" means I'm withholding from myself too and not giving me a hard time about rubbing one out on your own.  I appreciate that one more than I can explain.

Thank you for the calf rub that didn't come with a price or expectation.

Thank you for running a bath, then insisting I step into it.

Thank you for the moments we had, and not making promises you never intended to keep.

Thank you for that random post it note in my textbook.  I saw it right when my high started falling and I wondered if the night before was real.  It was real and it is still an awesome memory.

Thank you for cooking for me and inviting me to give you a hand.  I loved bumping into you and our messy hands and washing them together.  To this day, I find something so luxurious about washing hands in warm water. Thank you for that.

Thank you for seeing me as I am, and not as you thought I should be.

Thank you for letting me be in the moment where everything so beautiful around me put a pause in your day long enough for me to get a fix that would last as long as I can remember it.

Thank you for sharing my first with me. What ever firsts they were and as slowly as they needed to happen.

Thank you for letting me trust you with the restaurant and letting me be picky about what was on my plate.

Thank you for making things a game, and rewarding me in your silly laughter.

Thank you for driving so I could watch you in my creeptackular way, leaving indelible memories long after our goodbyes. I'll never forget the sun hitting your hair and filtering the brown into spun gold.  I was so excited that my first gray hair looked like yours did that day.

Thank you for believing in me when I couldn't see past my immediate failures.

Thank you for taking care of me when I was drunk and giving me your self control when I couldn't find mine.

Thank you for the flowers and that each arrangement was unique and worth drying. Thank you for remembering I don't like baby's breath and that they were for monthly anniversaries, holidays, and just because and never as an apology.

Thank you for never buying forgiveness from me.

Thank you for your gentle leadership and being amazing to children.

Thank you for your protective nature, even if I don't need it.  I like it.

Thank you for being the man I needed you to be.

How My First Crush in 16 Years Is All About Me

It's so easy to blow off the idea of a crush or crushing on someone because crushes are what I identified with as a teenager.  After marriage and kids and work and keeping a home running and the art of adulting, it seems insignificant. It's something I can't imagine having time for.  Actually, I can.  I have.  It was fun. And yes, I lost time in my lack of concentration because his presence made my mind go blank far too often.  I have been in the middle of something and when work doesn't get done, I prove I don't have time for it. Crushing something takes a whole and perfect object and adds pressure to the point that something fundamental is released and changed and the modification can not be undone.  If you crush a grape - a very specific grape for wine making and not table grapes - you release it's juices and let it ferment.  The decaying of the grape, with special enzymes and time are what make a wine.  It's a process that has to be completed or it's unusable. Let it go for too long and alter the conditions required and the wine becomes vinegar which has a unique purpose, but I wouldn't ever advise sipping it. I tried it for a little while and even if it's diluted apple cider vinegar, it's just not worth it. It's the same with a friendship that crushes it's existence into something more.  How do you go back? I don't know that you can.

I think the process of living is in itself a form of a crush.  We go through experiences mired in trials that transform us and going back is impossible sometimes.

I've had lots of crushes in my life.  My first three or four long term relationships were guys that grew on me until I was obsessed and determined to make their kisses mine.  I tend to be a nice person that takes more than she deserves and gives more than she probably should.  Call it my lack of boundaries, or an inability to decide I deserve more than they are capable of giving me. It always started with physical attraction and then I got lost in what their favorite everything is, without really paying attention to me and loving myself first and best. My infatuation crushed who I was and wanted to be.

I didn't have a crush on my husband.  At first I was insulted that he didn't call me when I gave him my number.  On our first date, I was surprised that we had a conversation and he wasn't trying to see how far I'd let him go.  At some point the rightness of him settled around me. With him, I just knew. There were no butterflies, just a new feeling that we were aligned with destiny. I wanted to be with him all of the time and the love blossomed and filled my entire being.  Fifteen years is a long time to be wrong, so I want to believe we stayed together long enough to create and gain what we were meant to. I was content in our lives but the understanding of my joy lately tells me I was there too long and he saved us from existing and released me into living.  I'm not surviving.  I'm thriving.  He taught me to speak up for myself and helped me stop my boozing and smoking and promiscuous ways. He healed my brokenness and rewrote my Daddy issues.  I can always thank him for making me better, but I also believe we stopped making each other grow, and started piling burdens on each other instead of nurturing each other in love, grace, patience and understanding.  Without that laundry list, it was just laundry and undefined comfort in expected routines.

I love my current crush for it's frivolity.  I love the excitement and butterflies.  I love picking out then changing outfits a few times each morning instead of rolling out of bed and throwing on whatever isn't stained too badly.  I like the way my ear picks up on his voice and I have a silly smile on my face whenever he looks my way.  Today, very loudly throughout the office, he mentioned that I'm always smiling.  A friend in the know giggled and laughed with me and if my skin wasn't such a warm chocolate, you may have seen me blush but I felt the heat flush through my chest up to the roots of my hair.

The crushing in my infatuation was the slow walk over the last vestiges of commitment toward my husband.  In the liminal spaces of longing looks, I've given myself permission to look for another man's face and I've started longing to hear someone else's voice and it is not about betrayal or pain, but a birthing of pleasures in a new life and with a new freedom.  He isn't just a person I find extremely attractive.  He is my first crush in over 16 years. He symbolizes the first steps of determination from a future I didn't want and was terrified of.  I took that step after denying that possibility for so long and I find it's a meadow filled with California poppies and a blanket and I can lay as long as I want to, looking at the wispy clouds and feeling the warmth of the sun as it kisses my sorrows into oblivion and hope is restored for a future I can finally see myself in. The clouds part and gather to give shade in tandem with warm winds and it's amazing.

There was a crushing and I know I can never go back.  It's not about my crush. It's not about starting or finishing something with him. It's not even about my husband. My crush is about me and I don't want to uncrush this grape.  It can't be restored. The process has been started and the enzymes were added.  Given enough time, this wine will be full bodied and fruity and pair well with dessert.  Second helping please.  With brie and fig preserves please. Okay, and maybe a naked crossfit body, please.

Hotness and Eye Candy Men

On my way to work this morning I actually slowed down while driving to watch a man jog.  He was fit, and glistened in the morning light blazing over Hollywood at 8:30.  The golden sunshine is not a myth.  He wasn't my type at all, but I appreciated the curve of his muscles and the bounce of his pectorals and he ran toward me and I followed him in my rear view mirror.  The sweat of his labor didn't make me hot and bothered, but I did appreciate what he was doing for me.  It was decadently naughty and delicious and I loved that it slowed my commute for just a moment. I'm falling into a full appreciation of the human male form.  I feel less afraid about getting caught looking at someone else, and I'm starting to understand my personal needs for connection on a mental and emotional level that helps me regulate the lustful instinct to reach out and start playing. I have dreams at night that are sexual in nature, but by day my mind is still figuring out what I like after all of this time.  A decade and a half of tunnel vision is a long time to not entertain the idea that there could be something that looks, smells and feels different.  Different looks good.  I have no idea what it will smell or feel like.

Man Flesh and This Fledgling Shameless Cougar

I'm having a morning of just appreciating the male shape.  I love the sleek lines of a well tailored suit that let me see how many hours a man might spend in the gym.  I love broad shoulders and narrow waistlines.  I laugh a little when I see a man in shorts that clearly skips leg day, but spends more time than needed on his chest.  My office overlooks a swimming pool and in the summer I expect to look over and witness an actual Hollywood sausage fest.  Think of that what you will.

I remember the days when I was dating and without fail, all of the hot guys that were all wrong for me were also all driving stick shift cars that wore their time and dedication in their wax job.  I would never be loved in that way by them.  Every moth needs to try that flame out at least once or twice before deciding it's not worth getting burned.

My husband wasn't like that.  He was shy and flirtatious.  It was a cute oxymoron.  I wore my usual confidence.  Dating was no longer about finding a soul mate.  I wanted dinner and attention.  The dating game was boring and pointless.  I was losing faith in finding anything meaningful because I felt like the legs and breasts (pre-childbirth) were all people saw when they looked at me, and it made dating a game of power and dominance.  I wanted to conquer rather than become a sad conquest.

It didn't matter to me what my husband looked like at the time we started flirting.  I would walk into the pool hall where I hung out with my friends, and he was their security guard.  I would walk in with a short dress with barely enough room for me in it, and he would say he needed to pat me down.  It was silly and I didn't think much of it.  He later told me he thought I was a man.  One night I wasn't drinking and headed over to the bar.  I leaned over and said, "I'll have a Coke, and he's buying."  He nodded his approval and told me," It'll cost your number."  I saved a dollar.  His drinks were free.  I wrote it on a matchbook.  He didn't call me.  A week later I was on a date at the same place and asked him why he never called me.  He said he thought the number was a fake.  I still have that matchbook.

There was something about our parallel histories that very nearly intertwined.  I knew on our first date that he would be the man I would marry.  The day we got married I remember feeling disbelief that it was happening.  I was filled with fear and defiance and I wondered if I actually felt love, or if I should have given it more time.  In the months when passion faded into a peaceful co-existence, I realized that he loved me more than I loved him and it felt safe to love him.  In that safety I began to give him every ounce of my heart.  I began to find parts of his body that I could love and worship.  I still love the dip in his lower back and the hollow where his hip meets his thigh.  It's those soft curves of his body that I loved to kiss.  His soft parts matched mine.

I gave him all of me.  I was rude to friendly smiles and cut off the friends that kept telling me I was out of his league.  I stopped talking to friends that thought our flirty friendship was okay and never allowed a crush to develop on anyone else.  There was a night or two in our first 5 years of marriage where I revisited those friends.  A guy I was once infatuated with was there.  I was never more than an available body to him. I appreciated that look of desire he shot me, but would walk away feeling awed that he would respect my marriage in trying to hide it. My husband would later have an online affair.  He would meet a different woman from his online life at a comedy club, then joke to me that I had a better body than hers and that saved him from cheating on me.  He would more recently have a special friend replace me and not understand why I don't want her around my kids.

This is my new mood, and I can deal with it.  Can you?

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