Who I am . . .

I am a woman. I've been hurt and used and find a strength within me that I never imagined I could wield.  I've been touched without permission.  My body became what it has without permission and I had to learn to love it and found wonder in everything it's capable of.

I am mixed.

My mother is from Thailand and I have her exotic asian features.  I grew up with Thai food, but it's not what you would find in American Thai restaurants.  It's squatting on the kitchen floor eating fried fish and rice mixed and fed with fingers.  It's spicy and layered with flavor that most people can't handle because it comes with smells you can't stand.  My Dad is from Texas.  He grew up with cowboy boots and chili. My roots run deep in Louisiana politics, education that was fought for and slavery that came on a ship from Africa without willingness.  My Dad marched with Martin Luther King, Jr. and I own a heritage I will never need to experience because the way was paved in blood that runs through my veins.  We don't watch our heart beat but we know it does and it always has.

I am a daughter.

I have a Mom and Dad and Step-Dad.  They love and support me and guide me, even when I want to falter through life.

I have in-law parents that assure me I still belong to them.  But they have a son and the daughter I am believes they need to stop fighting for a marriage I no longer want and be the parents he needs because I get the impression I'm doing really well and he might not be.

I was a granddaughter, but I'm not anymore.

When you lose your parents you become an orphan, but losing my grandparents made me lose time.  I was lost in a void of grief for a while and I still get lost in memories of baking and snuggles and being loved beyond meaningless words.

I am a sister. 

I am a baby sister and an older sister.  I am a step-sister and sister in-law.  I am a sister by birth and a sister through adoption.  I have foster siblings that will always be close to my heart. I am talked to and talked at and loved bravely and defiantly.

I am a mom and giver of life.

I was an egg donor in 1999. I gave birth to my sons in 2001, 2003, and 2006.  I've given babies to other families as a gestational surrogate in 2008, 2010, and 2012. One egg donation cycle. Six pregnancies.  Seven IVF cycles.  Seven babies.  Five boys, two girls. Five families.  One uterus. One body.

I am a welfare mom. 

This is what it looks like. My ex was my full source of support and when he took that away and took me off of his medical insurance, I became a welfare mom. I'm not proud of it.  It's uncomfortable.  But it was necessary.  Even without child support, I have been able to take care of my kids but it comes from my family and social structures of support.  Thank you for your tax dollars.  I'm working now, but not yet as independent as I plan to be.

I am a friend. 

I'm not a good friend.  I don't track people down and insist on time together, but when we are together, I will give you all of my time and focus.   I will give you my honesty and clarity and hugs that are meant to hold you up and together.

I am literate. 

I read to escape and write to be present.  I write much more than I read lately.  I'm here.

I am brave. 

I will do what needs to be done, regardless of my fear or doubt.

I am married but I am not a wife.

I'm in marriage purgatory and it looks like separation but feels like I'm breaking out on my own and yet being pulled back by tar and grease and disgust.  It suffocates me in anger. I'm still his verbal punching bag but this morning I punched back.  I told him what was on my mind and felt empowered in so doing. I was also laughing on my way to work because of it.  The belly laughs were a workout.

I am cisgendered.  

I like boys.  I went through a curious phase in my early 20's, but I don't like kissing girls.  I'm learning that being female means I can do all of the things I needed my ex to do because what I do doesn't have breasts.  I do.  I wear dresses and jeans.  I take care of my family.  I can be a damsel in distress, but women are strong, and taught to strange ourselves into a state of being othered by society's warped standards.  We are taught to be victims because we are told we are the weaker sex, but historically, there are examples of women being the foundation of the home and the workplace and any other place we decide we want to be.  Being female shouldn't be an insult but it often is.

I am Christian.

I grew up in a Foursquare Church and that is where my pentecostal roots are buried.  I was baptized. I pray and go to church and sing worship songs.  I find that my beliefs haven't softened, but they've shifted.  I find ways to do what I see is right, and sometimes I do what is right for me. I don't see value in tearing down someone else for the sake of my religion. I love gay people.  I won't look down on them.  I love muslims.  I love atheists and Jews. I don't often proselytize.  If I can't sway you to want what I have when you see me, I won't try to embarrass others with my way of living by drawing attention to it.  I have specific wishes once I die that my funeral is not made into an alter call.  I used to be that person that was selling my joy to anyone interested.  Right now I'm enjoying the Grace that covers me where I fall short.  I may be jumping short in areas too.

I am a fighter. 

I know when to put up a fight and when to step back.  The goal of most fighters is to avoid an unnecessary fight.  It's not that I need to let others bully me, but I'm aware of my capabilities and I use my anger with intention and will try to avoid burning bridges when I'm in control.  I'm not always in control.

I am an autism mom. 

My ideals are constantly fractured and expanded by my amazing children and the spectrum they dance on.  It wasn't something I ever expected, but the greatest gifts in life rarely are.  They have grown and and learned and given me equal measure in growth and learning.  I'm a better person for what they've given me, and honored at the trust I see in their eyes.

I am a singer.  

I don't get paid to sing, but I sing at every opportunity and it pays me in happy emotions.

I am a blogger. 

I take willing readers on a ride through my heart and lend my glasses so you can see me intimately.  Into me see. I give but never ask to receive.  I can't decide if it's selfish or selfless.

I am a changeling. 

While I don't come from fairies, I was formed in a place far from where I was meant to be and I am ready to reign as Queen on my throne.  I just need a bit of growing and I'm still in transition.

Wild Hairs

When I was little, my hair was more like my Mom's.  Her Thai hair was mainly thick and straight and had a bounce if you did the right things at the right time.  She used to Dutch Braid it every day until she started cutting it really short and perming it.  My hair was thinner than hers but straight and a bit stringy and also good at showing everyone what a bad hair day looked like.  I would spend summers in the sun and the black would lighten a few shades to red and brown.  The heat of the day would gather in my hair, holding it like a fiery curtain of dark brown embers.  I took it for granted and as I got older, the kinky curls in my Dad's genes began to take over. Now it's generally curly.  I have to style it when it's wet or accept that I will have a massive cloud of big hair.  When I was younger I was teased by being called Chewbacca and later Lion Lady, but I liked that name. I'm learning to love my curls, and imagine being painted like a Botticelli angel. One day I'll be someone's muse. When I was little,  I was fascinated with the biblical story of Samson and Delilah.  It's amazing what you hear about the bible when you don't actually read it.  (I've since read it and can go into the bible lesson, but I doubt that's what you're here for.) I heard the story of a man who let a pretty girl cut his hair and take his strength.  Part of me wanted to be Delilah.  Seriously.

Delilah was so beautiful, sensual, amazing that this man would spend the night with her, tell her what would make him weak, see it happen the very next morning, then go right back to her for more.  "Gee babe, what would make you weak and average?  How can I make you less than you are?   . . . Is that all? Good night, love." Morning comes, and the exact thing he told her would make him weak has happened and she blames it on the Philistines.  And he believes her!

1. Tie him up with seven new bowstrings that haven't been dried.
2. Tie him up with brand new ropes that have never been used.
3. Weave the seven braids of his hair into the fabric on her loom.

So maybe he just wanted her to tie him up in some kind of fantasy role play, but he believes her when she blames it on Philistines and then eventually tells her the truth. Well, the third thing with his hair . . . I love having my hair touched and brushed.  I get that.  He then tells the truth that she needs to cut his hair and she shaves his head.  Surprise! She does what she's been doing, because she's going to try to make him weak like she had already tried three times before.  She has him captured, and he's blinded and she gets away with her shenanigans.  I won't say she's the original gold digger because she did it for money and it was like a job.  That's not what I wanted, but she had major allure, and I wanted that.

My hair is currently covering my upper back but it's not long enough to cover my boobs. I'm growing it out again.  I have part of it dyed purple but that happened in 2014 before it really became a thing.  I saw a woman in Target with a swath of blue hair and it wasn't in my face.  It was more like something that caught my attention as we were passing each other and I turned to get a better look.   I wanted that, but in green because it's my favorite color.  The hairdresser that did it convinced me green wouldn't be as amazing as purple.  Really, I thought about chlorinated blondes and that didn't sound terrific either, so it's been purple, but only the bottom layer at the nape of my neck and it's usually not noticed.

I've gone short.  Not pixie cut short, but I've bobbed it off.  My hair is full and curls and it tends to make me feel like a fluffy poodle in shorter lengths.  That feeling isn't a good one, yet I've done it over and over.  When I think about it, I avoid that in between phase where it's too short to put in a ponytail, but too long to be comfortable with it falling in my face and making me feel hot.

There's something so liberating about a haircut.  My world can be spinning out of control and a few moments in a hair salon can feel like control and that is a heady feeling.  I've had moments where I've considered having it all shaved off.  Actually, in the 7th grade I had an unsupervised evening where I started shaving my legs, and arms, and ended up shaving part of my head.  I wore scarves for a while.  It was bad.  I've learned my lesson and stick to bikini lines, armpits and legs.  I'm not the only one that sees the liberation in lobbing off hair.  Britney Spears did it.  If you don't remember, there's a story about it here. I hated her early music because I couldn't relate to it.  Give her too much to handle.  Let her fall apart a bit and take it back through sexual empowerment and I get and love her.

I don't have gray hair on my head.  I'm constantly looking for them though.  I'm old enough.  I'm willing and ready for it. I have had one or two but my ex pulled them out.  I didn't want him to.  I loved those strands.  They were faded into spun gold and they were mine and beautiful.  I plan to go gray and let it happen naturally.  I think the look of gray hair is dignified, but it's also really sexy to me.  I was 18 the first time I saw a doctor with salt and pepper hair and shocking blue eyes.  I remember thinking for the first time that a man could be beautiful.  I've known some fiercely beautiful women that let their hair naturally fade into hues of spun gold and shimmering silver and I want that.

I used to love boys with long hair.  I love running my fingers through silky strands because the pads of my fingers are really sensitive and I enjoy that sort of thing.  I've met enough men with those silky locks to now understand it's work to get it perfect and they rarely will allow me to touch it.  It then occurred to me, it's not the hair but the man it belongs to.  Finding beauty when it's right in front of me is a gift.

I like bald heads.  I'm learning that most men don't like going bald and found this article if you're curious about a perspective that isn't mine. I'm more likely going to be able to touch them.  I was talking to a man with a beautiful bald head yesterday.  Part of his hair still grows and he keeps it pretty closely cut. There was something about the change from new growth to smooth skin that I really wanted to touch.  Well, in fairness, all of him is attractive, but I had a moment of being stuck in sensory wonder and it felt really good.  Don't worry, I used self control.

Online dating is unique in the way where men expect to know and share more than you would ever disclose in person.  Again, hiding behind a keyboard affords bravery and shields you from social responsibility and common sense manners.  I met men that wanted to know what my private parts look like in terms of the hair down there.  That wasn't so disturbing. I know the ideals that porn suggests and I've seen it.  What I never expected were all of the men that shave their private regions.  I've always preferred the natural hairy look of a male body and that was just disturbing.  But then, it might just be me.

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.

My moments and emotions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Second Grunion Run

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

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

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

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

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

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

My First Grunion Run

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Distracted by a Memory

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

Your thrall was broken only by your words.

Why did you ever open that beautiful mouth of yours?

Writing For Release

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Allergy Warnings

My sons have allergies.  We've done the skin test which was pure torture on a four year old autistic child.  The rest of the tests were blood tests and both of my older kids reacted to almost everything that could be tested for.  Some allergies are more severe.  Kid2 reacts to peanuts on a blood test, but loves peanut butter and jelly uncrustables.  Give him soybean oil in his ranch, and he's going to puke.  He is also the kid that spent a summer getting familiar with bees.  He would open a soda can (when I used to buy soda) and set it on the porch and wait for bees.  He would then hold them and watch them.  His little hands were stung about 10 times in a week.  I keep baking soda in my medicine kit so I can make a paste of it with water for those stings. I keep an epipen or two in my purse. I had cat allergies as a kid.  I have a cat now.  She doesn't usually try to kill me, but somedays I curse her out for living.  I'll give her a bath and even though I try not to scare her, she is usually convinced I'm trying to drown her, and will fight me as viciously as she can. The battle scars from a cat battle are why I don't care when she wants to party all night.  She's fixed so I don't have to worry about her getting knocked up by some low life Tom Cat.

My latest allergy is wheat.  I was always a bread eater.  I love it warm and crusty and tender with softened butter or dipped in olive oil.  I love the taste of childhood found in a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or a grilled cheese sandwich with a little garlic salt.  I love almond croissants with the flaky dough and creamy granulated feel of the sweet almond paste inside. I was feeling constantly uncomfortable and I asked my doctor about food allergies.  She tested for celiac disease, which I don't have, but suggested I keep a food journal.  I did.

I wrote down what I ate and how I felt.  I just happened to go a few days on veggies, fruit and meat.  A few butter snap pretzels later and I felt like death was coming for me.  I'm talking diarrhea (I know you wanted to know that), dizziness, nausea, bloating, gas and gas pain.  I started avoiding wheat but wanted to test out the theory with a blueberry muffin and a few other innocent looking treats.

I loved Moscato d'Asti until I had a glass that made my face heat up.  Your booze shouldn't require a dose of Benadryl.  I don't react to margaritas at all.

Just before I graduated high school I had a recurring case of strep throat.  It would come and never really go away each month.  I was given erythromycin repeatedly until I had a reaction.  My chest felt tight and it was hard to breathe.  It only happened once, but why retest?

Allergies are interesting.  You could be fine with something for most of your life, then suddenly it wants to kill you.  People usually have a reaction to bug bites, but sometimes that reaction can get scary.  There are food and pollen allergies.  I've even read about an allergy to the protein in semen.

Mostly I've learned I'm allergic to drama.  I have a lunch date.  I'm just meeting an old friend but I would normally use the excuse to dress up.  Honestly, for a while I would dress up when I knew I was seeing the ex.  Today was a day where I'm meeting someone for lunch and I stopped by the ex to drop something off this morning.  It could have been the perfect excuse to wear something sexy and showcase my legs, but I didn't.  I have plans to hit the beach alone tonight, and my comfort was more important than the drama I would have invited.

Earthquake Country

Our schools practiced earthquake drills regularly.  We knew to drop below our desks, facing away from windows with our hands protecting our necks from projectile bits of shattered glass and eyes shut tightly.  We knew to look for sturdy support structures that would create pockets of safety.  Open spaces that are not below power lines are safety zones. We were versed in what is needed in an earthquake kit and had bags packed with snacks and comfort items to get us through a few days if that's how long it would take to be picked up by our families.  We knew to shut off gas lines and smell for leaks, but honestly I haven't done that. A thought: Imagine being the teacher that can't leave her students to find her child because teachers are unsung heroes in a school crisis.  Yikes.

The first earthquake I remember was around 7 in the morning when I was in elementary school in the mid to late 1980's.  I rode a school bus from East Hollywood to school in Brentwood and the driver stopped in the middle of the street near West Hollywood.  Residents came out of their homes and stood around us and I thought they were rocking our bus.  I had no idea what an earthquake felt like.  In the following days, aftershocks would remind me how small I was and that my big problems were not big or problems.  This thought would later be a source of peace as I find comfort in ocean waves for the same reason.

During the Northridge quake I was asleep.  I didn't stay asleep.  I was a high schooler sleeping in the attic of my Mom's 1901 Victorian styled home.  It has a wood frame that is flexible with cracking plaster where it is not.  Her house sits on a hilltop near Chavez Ravine and that earthquake sent waves of energy up the hill and into the house.  The shaking rolled through and up. I was terrified.  My mom heard my screaming in the absolute dark and feared that I was hanging out of the window by my hands as I often sat on the roof from the windows that opened to the front of the house.  Naturally a strong enough earthquake makes a power outage an expected accessory.  We sat in the dark and dozed off until the waves of aftershocks reminded us of our powerlessness.

Everything else has been a shake here and there with random destruction in it's wake.  It's not enough to make me leave the place that has always been home.

When the earth shakes, all you can do is seek safety and ride it out.  It's humbling.  It shifts your perspective.  It changes who you are and alters relationships in letting you see what the one you love is really made of.  How do they handle a crisis? Are they prepared? Will they take their fear and turn it into anger that is directed at you?

Last week I was chatting with a co-worker from another department.  He's tall enough with a great smile and he probably cares about his fitness slightly more than I do.  He's all kinds of beautiful with his bald head and warm tan and constant 5 o'clock shadow that would look lovely with my shade of lipstick smeared all over it.  But I work with him and I'm not revisiting those shenanigans. [Obsessive Observations of My Latest Crush Because He Was Hot (and so fun to watch) if you're curious.] This latest bit of eye candy isn't a native. He's from the northeastern tip of our country and can tell you about freezing winters and muggy summers.  We were chatting with another California native when he asked about earthquakes and how a native handles them.

We go with it.  We don't panic right away.  Not for the most part.  Some quakes are terrifying, but the shaking starts slow enough that you can tell when it's getting bigger.  You have time to decide if you should take cover and where to find your safety.  You have time to see if you can just look around from where you stand.  You look around at the ones who have never had the ground shake below them.  I may be amused but I wouldn't outright laugh.  That's a cruelty I can't stomach. I tend to look up to hanging lights and chandeliers once the shaking starts.  The swaying tells me it's a rumble from the earth and not a giant truck rolling by.  I will pay attention and try to determine what the shaking feels like.  Does it shake abruptly like it's a strike slip fault, or does it come in waves of energy that roll through the earth? The shaking isn't destructive, it's the man made parts that fail us.  Earthquakes are natural, just not normal, although the earth is normally always in motion.  Is it really any wonder that I wanted to be a rock doctor and study geology? It's not just metamorphic rocks that are sold as precious stones in jewelry stores. I keep fresh batteries in flashlights around the house.  I don't have tools next to the gas meter or water shut off, but I know where to find things if I smell gas or water is flowing out of a broken pipe.  There's a house shut off for water, but there's also one at street level.

The earth will move.  We will be shaken, but we will also be okay.  Somehow we'll learn from it and build safer structures because of the destruction we live through and learn from but mainly we will let the earth do what it will because we really don't have a choice.  Such is life.

My Playlists

I love music, but my tastes are beyond eclectic.  The last couple of days, I've been loving Mariah Carey's "O.O.C." because I have been out of control and I love the way it feels.  I've also been listening to Blink 182's "What's My Age Again," but in my head it's more like "what's your name again?" There are a lot of "sweeties" and "loves" lately.  It's a bit funny and totally sad.  My texting war with the ex last night was punctuated with texts from a few other men and it was a roller coaster until I decided I could "do not disturb" him.  Nice, right? I don't try to keep track of who I'm talking to like I used to.  Years ago dating was a game and I wanted to gather as many pawns as I could.  Now it's about finding the one I want to spend my time with and I almost hope they catch me because I'm playing a game I'm not interested in.  Really, I only respond to them for the most part.  When he's special I'll let him know I'm thinking of him.  Otherwise, my affections die off slowly.  I find men will go where the attention is and they'll seek it out elsewhere if they don't feel it.  And they call women shallow. I can date myself.  I have been.  I'm freaking awesome.  I just want to share my awesome, not my body. Not really.  I still listen to the DiVinyls song "I touch myself."  I was thinking about sex and the big "O." I can easily say that every time I've ever tried to give one to a man, he willingly and easily accepted it, whether or not it was reciprocated.  Amy Schumer gets it and she says, You're Entitled to Orgasm. (All of my gals and gays say, "love her - yas bitch.") Since my expectations are so low, I expect an amazing person to spend my time with.  His personality can make up for what I no longer expect, but he shouldn't expect it until he proves his awesome is in every ounce of him. (I can predict that tonight will require gelato.)

A fairly recent make out session happened when I was in an Adele mood.  I think it broke him because he was fairly sad when we parted ways. He may be too much of a sensitive type for me.

I indulge in peanut M&M's and Megan Trainor because that reminds me of Hollywood Sunsets and I love the feeling of those swoon worthy memories. Hotness overload, right?

Britney Spears, Katy Perry and Shakira bring out my inner vixen.  She winks at strangers with red painted lips and swaying hips while driving because that's how I get through traffic.

I was teaching my 9 year old pager codes because he'll need them for his cougar phase in a decade and a half if my online experience is any indication, but that usually comes with Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" because I need to be in Junior High again for that, but I skip the black nail polish.

When I'm in an agry at the ex mood, I put on Alanis Morissette and Taylor Swift.  Those moments morph into loud singing and the singing brings on the happy again.

I listen to Metallica, Blackstreet, Jars of Clay, Bonnie Raitt and the Judds, Eve and the Ruff Ryders when I think back to lovers past.  DJ Quick too, but those were dark days and I don't revisit them often.

When my writing is more technical and requires deeper thought to decipher it, I will listen to classical music.

My sad moments belong to Mariah Carey and Natalie Merchant.

When I'm in a dancing mood, it vacillates without reason toward Madonna, The Cure, Lady Gaga, and anything else that doesn't hold me hostage in lyrics.

And on days when I just want to get lost in memories and feelings, I shuffle it all and skip things here and there because my words are born in my feelings and the music coaches it out.

Pen Pals and Communicating for the Sake of it.

I had pen pals as a kid.  I picked out stationery and carefully wrote out each word, phrasing each thought carefully because writing in ink means I would often have to start over.  I would spritz a bit of my favorite perfume in the air and fan the letter in the mist so it was scented and keep fanning until the strength of the scent was less aggressive.  (I do the same thing when I put on perfume.  Spritz and walk into it because too much would make anyone sick.) I would send pictures and cute shaped confetti.  I haven't hand written a letter in a long while.  Email has taken over. Correction: Email, messaging, phone calls, texting and social networking have taken over.

I won't date military men, but received an email with many great questions from a soldier on deployment this morning.  It came after my thoughtful rejection.  I gave him a solid block of undivided attention in responding to his first email. I was upfront that I wouldn't date him, but I don't mind writing to him.  He's worth the carpal tunnel because I will always respect military men and have a soft spot for our military on deployment while I get to do whatever strikes me as amusing. His email reminded me of being a kid and teenager with the thought in my handwritten notes.  He had many well thought out questions that were designed to get to know me and many that were superficial but detailed in a way that felt genuine.  That's so hard to find online.  I still won't date him, but it was more about what I think or feel than when I might be free or some witless banter about looks and when am I available to meet for a date that might end in groping.  I'm only sharing three of his questions.  The rest are mine and I will enjoy them alone.

This first question made me question myself in a way that forced accountability for my choices: Are you a player or for real?

I'm not a player.  Not really.  I'm not in a dating relationship with any one person.  Not yet. I'm talking to several people.  The people I'm still talking to that I'm not really interested in were given a flat out rejection but were persistent enough that I don't mind chatting from time to time.  I remind them that I won't date them fairly often, but I also haven't blocked them and respond to my emails.  Actually, I respond to almost all of my emails.  I'm likely to respond, if only to say I only date men in my age range and city.  Otherwise I'll start chatting and keep it polite if disinterested, and eventually the conversation fizzles. I think some men crave rejection and like blatant disinterest. It was suggested I should just ignore people I'm not interested in and I may start doing that, but then I'm also having fun in exercising my right to say no.  Maybe I really am too nice.  At the same time, false hope is quite evil. I am looking for a long term monogamous relationship.  I'm also being picky because I'm trying to listen to my gut and the reactions I feel in my body.  I admit to ignoring some of those feelings while I sip on an Original New York Seltzer (because it's like drinking my childhood) but I'm not silencing them.

This question is about what I like about me and it wasn't him telling me what I should value based on his opinion: What's your best attribute?

I usually say my super power is in my love of writing.  If you ask about my personality, it's my optimism and ability to redirect my mood for the most part.  If you ask about my body, I'm likely to point out my legs.  I love my legs.  Or my ability to handle pain and disappointment.  I like what my strength looks like now that I've seen it.

This question was about an obvious desire to give me pretty things that would make me smile.  This was about my choice and I liked being asked: What color of roses do you like?

Fire and ice roses.  I love the dual tone roses that are blood red and white.  Or the ones that are pink and orange.  I like the tips of the petals in contrasting colors, but my favorite flower is the California Poppy.  I love a field of orange flowers that wake with the sun and close with the moon.

I'll respond to his email tonight.  There will be a day of doing what I must, a night of doing what pleases me, and in the end I'll write to my new pen pal.

Handwriting is a dying art.  I still write in cursive, but I also spent nearly 20 years scribbling out every thought in my mind when I was journaling.  My handwriting is messy and flows from cursive to printing to block letters.  It's full of my personality in the way it flows without rhyme or reason. Like me, my writing just is.  Don't question it, just go with it.

Love at the Start of Things

Late night musings.

I love the first hints of new life outdoors. Small animals are being born and it's probably a good time to visit the zoo.  Old plants are shooting out young buds of bright green leaves and the blossoms that have died away are starting as small fruits preparing for a summer and fall harvest.

I love the first week of school when kids are in school and I can walk into Target and breathe deeply along with the collective sighs of mothers everywhere that are basking in the first break in a long summer of arts, outings and too many playdates with the consequences of parenting you don't always agree with and without adult libations.

I love Mondays.  I spent many years looking at Friday as the start of my busy time.  It was kids coming home and excited about the weekend.  It was the start of the yelling and fighting and a house full of boys.  It was a weekend of being a short order cook running on too little sleep and breaking up too many fights.  Monday was mine and the time when I could recharge and reflect. Now Mondays after a kid free weekend mean my boys come home.  After so much silence, I'm excited to see them and hug them and surprise them with random tickles.  I love every other Friday for the same reason. But Mondays are special.

I loved being a student at the start of each quarter.  I loved the long line for my parking permit where I took the time to make new friends to complain about the line with, and picking out my textbooks in an empty bookstore the day before the quarter began.  I loved new pencils and pens and highlighters.  I loved index tabs and post it notes in every color being sold.  I enjoyed a good syllabus.  Most of them were a straightforward itinerary and list of expectations.  One was so full of humor that I still have it from some time before 2004.

I'm big on meeting new people.  I'm an ambivert with strong introvert leanings.  I like it when I push past my shyness into full comfort.  I can be intense and a bit too much at times, but I like that being shy is a choice at that point and new meetings and tender beginnings are the best time to see that.

I love a new book.  The start of a story in any format is always special, but I love the start of a new hardcover.  I love the smell, and the stiff binding.  I love the weight of it and the sound of pages clapping closed.  I love meeting new characters and paying attention to the differences in the tone of their voice.

I love blank pages because I'm not confined by what I've started and the story that hovers in my mind has the space to span widely across my heart, building and breaking in moments that are too large for quiet reflection.

I love it when I meet someone and as we talk I can see that they understand me.  It's not that they can see my point of view, but that there is a shared experience lived independently that binds us into a unique communal camaraderie. The experience helps us to articulate an open rapport, jumping past explanations and into expressions that go beyond what happened and open the door to the meaning we find in the paths we took through it all.

Shadows and Clarity

We can split our lives into before and after and it would still lack the meaning to make sense. What was before made sense for then.  It was right to do and be and exist in the spaces we occupied. That time of a language spoken without words and thoughts pouring out in hope into the distance between us was everything and all, but is nothing now.  What was then can't make sense now because none of it fits like it once did.  It just doesn't fit. I imagine him now in the spaces of the nothing we share. The vision of time and distance help me see where he was real and large and where he was small. So small and insecure. The shadows looming above him are my creation. The shadows are false armor and his strength was in my shadows of light.  I see where I imagined him as he stands alone and the ripples of memory wash around him, stripping my fake for his real. I was trying to save him when I should have saved myself from him.

This island is my home and the forgiveness that pardons me shines on my skin, warming the cold cavern that once burned with passion. Embers fight the darkness but refuse to burn out. The haze of memories taste of citrus tang, and spin under the light of the moon with blinding clarity.  All I see is what was real and the place he once claimed as home was full of my light and now he walks in shadows I don't care to see.

Sexy Fiction: The Rub

The day behind us was long and difficult.  I could hear it in his voice when I called to see if he was still in the mood for the dinner I had planned. The smell of the roast was just starting to waft out of the oven and would be ready about half an hour after his arrival. He walked in with his tie neatly rolled in his hand, and his worn brown leather messenger bag slung across his chest.  The top buttons of his dress shirt were undone and I could see the soft tangle of light hair peeking out below the slight adam's apple that shifted under his square jawline which was already covered in a 5 o'clock shadow. I nibbled his chin just below his left ear and relieved him of his bag. I pulled him to his favorite chair.  It's the overstuffed one that feels like a throne.  He reads in this chair.  He tells me about his day in this chair.  I sit him down and pull my bathrobe tighter around me before pouring his favorite single malt whiskey over a ball of ice in an old fashioned glass with his initials acid etched on the bottom. I love his sense of style. He looks so worn and I can see the weight of his day.  I kiss away the words that start because I won't continue his frustrations until we've melted the edge off a bit.

I place a towel at his feet and remove his loafers and trouser socks.  I fold the legs of his slacks up and push them the rest of the way past his calves to his knees. He cocks his head to the side and the sweet crinkle of laugh lines around his eyes tell me his mood was already improving. My bare feet padded softly on thick charcoal carpeting to the bathroom where I filled the vibrating foot spa with warm water and scented bath salts. Walking back to him, his smile pulled at the edges of his mouth, but not quite his eyes. Not fully.  He often wondered if he was doing enough to make me happy and if he should have been doing more.

I placed the spa before him, and he began to protest that he should be doing this for me.  I give him the look of promise that he is learning to anticipate and lifted and placed each foot in the vanilla scented warm water.  I plugged it in and walked away, dropping my bathrobe on the couch that had become my favorite spot to watch him. He loved it when I showed him that Victoria's Secret is that she is a man after his own heart.  I could see the reflection of the smile that has now reached his eyes in the mirror above the fireplace.

I returned to him with a shallow bowl filled with rough mounds of cool coconut oil, and a stiff brush.  I started scrubbing each tired foot with the brush.  Once the water began to cool, I took his feet out and dried them gently before each foot took a turn being rubbed with coconut oil. I started with the bottom of his feet, kneading them with the soft pads of my thumbs.  The oil softened and melted quickly from the heat of my hands and his feet.  His eyes closed and I flicked the arch of his foot with the tip of my tongue while holding it firmly and I enjoyed the shock that he tried to pull away in.

"Watch," comes out more as a pout than I intended.

The heat in his gaze maintained his silence and I took his second and longest toe into my mouth and watched his expression shift from contented joy to anticipation and excitement. His eyes were on me and I continued rubbing his feet, and ankles as I worked my way up his calves.  I loved his firm muscles and soft hair on my sensitive fingertips.  His body relaxed and when he started to look too relaxed, I used my mouth or hands to remind him of the sexual nature of our situation. It usually resulted in a groan that tried my self control.

As he nursed his drink, I started the important questions about his day.   I could feel his body relax as the stress began to fall away.  He told me about his latest acquisition and the challenges of combining the two entities into a cohesive new company.  I can see his excitement return to his features as he explained the unique skillsets of his teams and how they worked so well together.  He alternated between being in his excitement and looking to me to make sure he could continue because there's fear that he may bore me.  When we first met he wanted to talk about his accomplishments and I just wanted him to keep looking at me the way he did.  I could watch this man read nutritional values on a box of cereal and still be riveted. I smiled at his slight insecurities because he can't see how amazing he is to me and I liked it that way.

The smell of our dinner was strong enough that I knew it was done.  I stood up and slipped into my bathrobe so I could pull dinner out, and finished setting the table so the roast could rest.  I caught his expression in the mirror again, and saw shock and petulant disappointment. He's so cute when he's disappointed.

"Dinner," I remind him.

"But we were in the middle of things."

"Dinner before dessert," was thrown over my shoulder with a smile and a wink and his smile matched mine.

Fiction Fun: Running through Water, A Selkie Escape

She makes her way through weighted sand that is begging her to stop, holding onto her with each step. The water has beaten wet sand into submission as she treads woodenly in staccato steps. The song of night calls her name and she has no will of her own.  The cool waves crash at her feet, reaching icy fingers toward frozen toes. She's in the depths of a lost reserve and the song she hears howls a sad refrain that promises she'll forget. Slow steps lead to a cacophonous harmony of angry ocean churning until bitten ankles are numbed and the piercing pain gives way to  stiff movements. She's urged forward. A fresh sting of cold hits her thighs in a shocking protest of discomfort. She begins to run forward in a slow lift and fall as the water lifts her and pulls the sifting sand from under delicate feet.  Layers of clothes cling to her and pull her deeper until the water lifts her up then in deeper and she's pulled by the will of the waves. She makes it past the breakers where pinpricks of ice slow her breathing and a shooting star draws her attention away from the siren call that will silence the pain that echoes in her mind and she looks back at the shore where she sees him. He watches her go and longs to save her, but he's not enough.  She often told him that she couldn't be enough and in the moment before them, he was the one that couldn't find enough within him. The shroud of loss fell away and he could see that the well of life within him kept him from seeing where he was empty and she was filling his barren spaces.  Her life hid his death.  He calls her name but she can't hear him.  He can feel her forcing through the waves away from him because as her pulse slows to the chill of the night, he can feel his own heart slowing because she's taken it with her.  She has taken him and his powerlessness leaves him shattered on dry sand.

As she watches him there is a tingling throughout her body and the painful numbing becomes a warmth of freedom.  Her clothes burst free from her as the waves strip her body, but the cold is no longer painful.  She feels warmth burn through her body and her legs are suddenly light and strong. Silky hair halos around her head as she is taken under and she begins to breathe in the salty water. She feels peace and knows she is finally home.

Just when he felt it was her end, she shifted into her selkie form and swam away.

Closing The Book and Starting New Chapters

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

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

A Princess Poem

Another fall back Friday poem from before 2005. A Princess

I am a princess

I don’t hide it

Every one knows

Though they see me differently

That man,

Over there drowned in his

Hip-hop style

That street-talking-no-class-having boy

“What’s up?” he says

I smile

He sees me as some ghettofied Nubian Princess

My waiter

The waiter that has claimed me while I dine here

That dickies-wearing-gang-style boy

Attempting an honest living

He sees me as a puta

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

A puta

To some men, even princesses are putas

As the customer

I own him

As a princess

I pardon him

That girl

The one who can’t control her dirty looks

The one with the cheap perfume and

Butterfly wing eyelashes

The one who tries to cover her foul insides with that

Elaborate

Covering.  She tries

So hard and doesn’t know

That she too can be a princess

I smile her way

And I don’t care what she thinks

Of me

I know I am a princess

Glendale College Parking

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

It’s a dance, really

Driving in circles

Watching, coveting the person

Walking to their car

They tease you seductively

Knowing they’re being watched

Your pulse races

Foreplay

The car is moved

And it returns to the sea of other cars

Somewhere on the floor – in the backdrop of your mind

Before your spot is stolen

You plunge forward

Backing slowly

Then forward and in again

It’s become an art now

Easing the friction

Sliding in and out until

Your surroundings are

Equidistant with the slickness of space

You’re surrounded

Held almost

That spot is yours

You shift the gear into park position

And the hum of the engine is calm

It sits in it’s spot

Idle and content

You turn off the engine

And your car is at rest

You lock up and head off to class

And you forget – that space was raped

And will be again

Once you pull out

And are discarded

And forgotten

Free Hugs From a Hug Addict

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