My Youth as an Exhibitionist with a Thing For Druggies and Gang Bangers

I was listening to Lady Gaga go on about paper gangsters while I was making cherry macarons.  I've piped them and they're resting right now so they will hopefully have lovely feet and not crack as they bake.  That's when I realized I that I may have hinted at my boundary pushing and horrible adolescent choices, but I never detailed much.  There is a lot I could go into but I'll try to limit it to the days when I was hanging out with the neighborhood boys. We moved to the Echo Park/Elysian Park area right next to Dodger Stadium when I was a freshman.  It was still Junior High then.  I was in Drill Team and Leadership.  I was done with swimming, gymnastics and ballet by then.  Mom believes busy kids stay out of trouble. At this point I still didn't get boys.  I had a few crushes and a few silly letter exchanges but getting it together enough to become a couple was beyond me.  My first boyfriend wanted to be my boyfriend but to him that meant kissing and I wasn't interested.  He was cute and tall but I was good with friendship.He had a Kid haircut as in Kid n Play because life imitated art in movies and it was a thing in the early 90's.  My second boyfriend kept saying hello and asking me about my interests and I had no idea why he wanted to talk to me. I finally got it one day after school when he introduced himself to my Dad and my Dad suddenly didn't like him.  It clicked and I wanted what he was offering. He was a big boy with silky hair in a mushroom cut that I loved to run my fingers through. He played basketball while I was in drill team.  He wanted me to watch his practice, so his friends could see me watching him practice, but I didn't care that he couldn't make the layup.  I just didn't care.  But he liked me, and it was important to him. We talked marriage and kids but this was before my parents started fostering.  After about a year, my parents thought our relationship was too serious, so they thought they'd put a stop to it.  For them, it meant they couldn't tell what we did in school, and at home my Dad encouraged me to hang out with the neighbors, under his supervision. We were together through most of Freshman year, into the middle of junior year.

The neighbors were all about the same age as I was. Dad saw them hanging out and getting into trouble and his time as a probation officer made him feel like he needed to run an intervention. He taught us to play chess.  We'd sit on the front porch and play for hours.  There were 5 boys that came over every day.  Sometimes they'd come over and I could see the paint on their lips from the tagging they'd just done which was usually followed by huffing paint. (A tagger's spray can tips are more important than the paint being used.  They remove tips from cans and will blow the paint out so they can be used with other cans.)  To huff paint, they'd spray paint into a plastic grocery store bag and hold it over their nose and mouth and breathe deeply.  The lack of oxygen and near death must've felt better than whatever they did when they weren't playing chess with me in the early hours of sunset after Drill Team practice. I wasn't a morning person then, so I'd have to get ready for the next day and they'd leave.  My routine was to take a shower, walk to my bedroom in a towel, and change there.  It took a while to realize they'd leave and climb on the roof next door to watch me change after my shower in my bedroom.  One night I got applause.  I didn't start closing my curtains right away either, but eventually I did. It took a few days.  Eventually I transferred to high school and our puppy love died in a pregnancy scare he had with someone else.

I threw myself into play production and theater arts. We once danced on the steps of City Hall.  It was the day of my senior prom and one of my favorite memories.  I sang "I dreamed a dream" from Les Miserable and I was so confident.  I was also in karate and super busy.  I had the boyfriend I eventually took to New York. He was older by a couple of years. I could see a very long future with him and every once in awhile we talked marriage.  You do that after the first year and a half sometimes.  My parents became foster parents at this time, and I saw but ignored the mean streak in him.  He was a bit of a bully.  Never to me, but at the end of the day, a bully is still a bully. I didn't want kids then and we were having fun.  Sex with him wasn't a destination, but a fun ride.  Don't get me wrong, he was never able to make me do more than fake it, but he had me laughing and it was playful. This was the time my parents were divorcing and mom was remarrying and I came home late one night. My step Dad came out to investigate the noises and wandered out in his underwear in front of the boyfriend I was sneaking into my room.  I had a tantrum large enough that I moved into the garage the next day. When that relationship ended I had already started college and that was when I started rebelling in a huge way.  Someone really should have warned me that getting my kicks as a minor was probably a safer choice.  But I did it as an adult because I had no idea how to deal with my broken heart. Of the group of us that played chess together, I was the only one that didn't drop out of high school and I didn't do drugs. I was the only one in college.

The boy next door was a skater and a tagger and a walking pharmaceutical.  Naturally I would love him hardest.  Love poems.  Endless love poems were written for this boy.  Seriously.  I had it bad. It is so hard to love someone with a drug addiction. I saw he was amazing, and I watched him try to destroy that in his weakness and inability to cope with life and the sins of a selfish mother.  He was athletic and an artist.  He was black and German but didn't know his dad as more than a name. He lived next door with his grandmother and his mom would visit some weekends to praise me, and demean him.  She had no idea that I was beginning to spiral and her son was holding my hand and leading the way.  He had so much darkness and invariably scribbled it out in red ink.  I loved his sinewy body and the long lean lines that would wrap around me so tightly.  I loved his six pack and happy trail, but mainly I liked how he could lift me up and put me where he wanted to. Upper body strength was hot.  He had light skin and freckles that dotted his cheeks. His last name was tattooed on his chest and I would trace it for hours with my fingertips and he never lost patience with that.  I remember the first time he came over and he was high.  He was on mushrooms.  He was always on something.  He smoked cigarettes and beer was breakfast, but he was often on speed or smoking primos.  Mushrooms and acid tabs were a treat of rarity. He was a drug addict but in my brokenness  I couldn't see past the fact that he used to steal for his ex girlfriend, but he wouldn't steal for me.  He manipulated a couple of girls he was stringing along to be able to take me out and I somehow saw that as a compliment. I saw it as all he was capable of and somehow that was enough. He showed me that you can't cut crack on a coffee table because it'll shoot off and fly off the table.  He used a mirrored tray I used for perfume bottles and a razor blade. He taught me how to roll the zigzag paper with pot and crack.  I tried rolling it once, then left it to him because I couldn't make it pretty and I didn't want to lick it to seal it. I didn't even want it around me but I wanted them around me.  Crack changes the smell from dry and musty to slightly sweet, but the high was more of a depression.  I'll never forget that smell.  It's acrid memory still burns regret through me. All three would smoke them and I'd sip on a beer and watch them with a cigarette in hand. The drugs made them paranoid and depressed and I'll never understand that.   I was never into smoking more than cigarettes myself.  I'm a bit of a control freak and don't like being high, so even when it was all around me, I never got more than a contact high. They liked to hot box the garage bathroom. I stayed out of their way in the other room, and even farther away when they smoked primos.

The two brothers next door got high with him.   Their mother was so sweet to me. I think she thought I was a good influence on her boys because I was still leaving for school every day.  She would cook posole or caldo de pollo or tamales and she'd stand on her back steps and offer me "un ratito" because she never felt like I ate enough.  Cigarettes and beer and cold Tommy's for breakfast were normal.  Most weekends were spent clubbing and Tommy's was always where I ended my night. The 38 year old me would've offered that 20 year old me a burger or two also. We all hung out in my skater boyfriend's car when we weren't in my garage. I remember bumping the older brother's thigh with mine in the back seat and I'd swear there was an electric charge that warmed my whole body.  I sat on my hands so I wouldn't start reaching.  My boyfriend was sitting right in front of me, but I was hyper aware of the heat threatening to burn me sitting right next to me. He used to invite me to his baseball games and I remember the first time he kissed me.  He made me feel like his lack of restraint was my fault and he did it in a way that felt good. I wanted to kiss him. Both of us felt bad because of my ex, and the fact that my best friend had just dumped him but in the end, I was selfish and still refusing to deal with the boy that saw me through my high school graduation. My fling with him cost me a friendship that took years to rekindle with diminished flames.

The two brothers were in a neighborhood gang. I was never interested in joining their gang, and I wouldn't get a tattoo or sleep with everyone in the gang or get jumped in, so I couldn't really hang out with them, but the younger brother was always willing to have me walk with him to the neighborhood on Bixel Street where he would sell crack, storing it in his mouth along his gums and his bottom lip.  It took a while to realize I made him look less suspicious.  He's now a manager at a restaurant. For a few weeks I let them store an AK-47 under my bed.  A little while after I gave it back and they sold it, swat teams raided their house based on a tip from the boy next door.  This was after we had broken up and I was messing around with the older brother so I will always wonder if I may have been responsible.

It was a crazy time for me.  I liked that they were so crazy I didn't have to be and it never occurred to me how crazy stupid I was being. There is a very specific reason why healing from my marriage is so important to me, and you've just read it.

Obsessive Observations of My Latest Crush Because He Was Hot (and so fun to watch)

February 24, 2016 I have a secret crush with too much impossibility to do more than look, knowing nothing will ever come of it.  It's enough to look and daydream without the pain of jealousy or putting myself out there.  Just a "hello" keeps me going.  Every once in awhile he gives me a look like I'm a bowl of ice cream and it's his cheat day and those looks might be in my head, but I love them.  When I met him he told me I looked like I'm in my mid twenties.  That compliment keeps me going. I spent the night trying to convince myself that you don't date people when you  are married and I did so out loud.  He separated the same month I did.  The way he said he was dating, with his petulant slouch and that look of not being broken . . . It has made the prospect so much more appealing than it was.  The daydreams in my head, and looking around for him at the office keep me going.  I like the little drops of attention because as much as I love myself, I can also admit I'm starved and in a desert of longing and lust.

February 25, 2016

Mr. Hot (and fun to look at) hasn't been looking at me.  Somehow I am not crushed and I know there will be a moment alone in the hallway or elevator lobby or even the kitchen where my gaze won't be averted and his voice will lower and he'll greet me and of course I will again obsess like I'm twelve. The 12 year old me has been a theme for this day.  Maybe 14.  She actually understood what was hot about a butt.

February 26, 2016

I saw Mr. Hot (and busy and please toss me a bone) a few times today.  A couple of times he very specifically averted his gaze from me.  He regularly walks past my desk with his face focused only on his phone and the path he walks is so beaten he doesn't need to look up as the rest of the office parts around him and flows back in his wake.  He walked within inches of me and I could have been a ghost as he was on his way to greet one of our Regional Managers for her birthday.  I would have joined in but wheat in my belly feels like food poisoning and there was fried chicken, dredged then fried potato wedges, and red velvet cake.  At one point as he strolled back to his corner office there was a direct look at my face and a friendly hello as he strolled past my desk.  Someone ask for hot melted butter? That was me today.

As I watched him not watch me, I wondered if his ignoring me is intentional.  I wondered if he knows how he strokes my puppy belly that craves his attention and he knows playing hard to get makes me obsess that much more. Or maybe he carefully metes out the attention he gives to everyone because I can honestly say he really is a nice person to everyone that works with him.  I wondered if maybe he's not as confident as he looks.  Maybe it takes real effort to focus on what he's going to say and do as he heads to the group he's about to join.  I thought about his subdued laugh, and tried to imagine him in high school.  I imagine he wasn't one of the popular jocks.  There's a slight self consciousness in his laugh and he has a focus that wouldn't exactly get him invited to parties.  It's a different game in college, naturally, but I think part of him includes the kid that learned to navigate where he didn't just fit in.  And he's really smart.  Smart kids rarely have time or social skills for cliques.  In talking about his son, he had a gentleness . . . a sensitivity that was sweet and heart melting. I then had to derail those thoughts because the point of this crush is he's a non person and it's only a physical attraction. It's supposed to be safe in that it won't go anywhere. That's the beauty of a one sided infatuation.

Toward the end of the day I was multitasking.  I had two tasks on different screens and databases I was working in, and the girls I sit with were discussing camping in tents and RV's.  I was on top of it all and pretty proud of my flexing brain power when he walked into the kitchen.  The kitchen is right next to my desk.  I'd seen his back and profile all day.  I'd seen his head and shoulders above the walls of our cubicles, but glancing over while multitasking I was gifted with a  full frontal view and didn't at any point today imagine how he would look from that direction in a soft and worn t-shirt.  I love the lines of his chest in a dress shirt, but in that t-shirt I could see the contrast of the soft material against his solid muscles. I was surprised at how graphic my thoughts became in what I wanted to do in that moment. I once heard a coworker tell me that yoga pants were God's gift to men.  I finally understand that.  Every thought in my mind disappeared and I realized Crossfit is God's gift to me. At that point my mind went blank.  There was no thought outside of how much I wanted to touch him and after a minute or two of realizing I had lost all train of thought, I lost it.  I couldn't help it.  I erupted into a fit of giggles and decided to just enjoy the moment of becoming a ball of lust and hormones. It took a while for me to calm down and focus, but I got through the day and that moment when I glanced into the kitchen will get me through the weekend.

Copied from Comfort Zones, dated February 26, 2016

I had a moment where my super busy crush opened a door for me and remarked at how much taller I looked today.  He didn't follow it with a comment about it being too tall or say anything negative, but he did notice.  In my mind I might have thought that I was still at the perfect height to kiss him but in reality I just said it was the shoes. And there goes that puppy with the belly rubs again.  If you're picturing a puppy piddling all over the place, dial it back a bit.  Not that much, but close.   It's nice to know that I've grown enough to not fall into easy patterns of behavior because I know I deserve better and I have no need to lower my standards for that puppy dog feeling. Besides, I get normal doses from my crush. He just has no clue.  I hope.  I can be pretty transparent.

February 27, 2016

He had this confidence when talking to the many people that worked for him.  He would practically run around the office, always in a hurry to be on top of everything.  His face was often fixed to his phone or he was on a call, pacing the paths around the office that lead along my desk.  His amused laugh was my favorite. It was subdued and lit up his eyes.

February 29, 2016

I've gotten a few random body language compliments from the man of my sexy day dreams and I find myself looking forward to those interactions because the man giving those Scooby snacks is easy on the eyes.  He could actually be a serial killer but I wouldn't know it because I'm more concerned with his beautiful packaging.  I do love that packaging though.

March 2, 2016

Of course leaving this job means I'll miss spying on Mr. Hot (and busy being in charge).  He was out yesterday and when he came in this afternoon and I heard his voice, my mind was drawn to him and all hope of remembering what I was in the middle of was gone. There wasn't a hello and that's okay. I'm torn right now.  On one hand, every excuse I gave myself to never intentionally flirt with him is gone.  I'm not going to be working with him.  At the same time, I wonder if it was divine intervention that would remove me from a huge mistake that I really wanted to make.  I still want to make it. This was my very first crush since I met my husband in 2000 because I was a faithful wife.  This was a combination of butterflies in my stomach and the raging ideas of a horny teenaged boy.  I don't know his moods and much about his personality but I seem to have a fine tuned ear for his voice, and I love the way he looks in a suit. Or jeans.  Or a t-shirt worn into softness and nearly threadbare.  If anything, daydreaming about him has helped me let go of the man who quit on me almost a year ago.  Does that make him my rebound and I can skip all of that sordid messiness?

March 2, 2016, post script

For a while I kept fantasizing what I would say to Mr. Hot (and doesn't wear an undershirt and I love that) if we ever got stuck in the elevator.  Today we ended up in the same elevator after work for the first time.  My mind was in overdrive as I kept thinking of the naughty ride in my head, but we were a party of three that turned into too many in the end.  The ride was uneventful, except for the looks of unspoken thoughts exchanged. It felt like there was a lot to be said between us, but we couldn't speak with our audience. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but I will hold on to that. It's mine and it is also pretty epic.

Revisiting an obsession . . .

March 4, 2016

My short lived fear of looking for validation in relationships was eased when I realized that even with Mr. He's Hot (and I'm bothered), I was still at least trying to be professional.  And even then, it was a physical longing that I only allowed in his direction and mainly in my head. I really tried to keep my thoughts pure because anything that wasn't would make me giggle because being a 12 year old can be fun.

Sometime after March 4, 2016

In the last week or so when he was a short walk from me, there was one day that he ran several meetings, back to back.  I walked past the conference room and I could see it was an important meeting.  It wasn't in something I saw in the people listening to him but in his posture.  I spent a few weeks watching him so closely that this was different. He had the same command of the room as usual.  He didn't have the look of boredom, or rapt attention like I've seen many times.  He has an expressive face and his passion for what he does is often on it. It was a look of weariness, and a look of determination.  I could tell from the random looks in my direction that he was doing the best he could to get through his day and it wasn't something he enjoyed.  (I enjoyed him being in a place I could easily justify walking past.)  I could see a look I've had on my face when I was so busy being something for everyone else that I forgot to eat or take care of my needs.  The look on his face told me tough decisions were made and whether or not they were all his decisions, he was taking responsibility for them, and the weight of it was on his shoulders in a way that he was trying to protect those he was talking to.

There was an unforgettable look on his face the last time I saw him.  It was a hesitancy and a shy smile.  It was a moment of seeing uncertainty which I had rarely seen on him. It was almost like the final goodbye I had been preparing for was sudden and unfortunate to him.  It was a moment where I tried to memorize his smile, and the way his left eye squints a bit. I tried to memorize his laugh lines and slight dimples. His was a jawline I wanted to touch many times and being a hugger, it was a sad moment to know that was my last chance and I didn't have the boldness to take it.  I had spent a few days trying to convince myself that leaving was the best thing for me, and the rest of the elevator ride, and sitting in my car before heading home, I was suddenly so unsure of that and dreaded never seeing him again but it was tempered by the thought that the last time I saw him was almost a private show. At the end of the day, he's so much greater in my head than any of our interactions could justify.

Have A Drink With Me, part 1

Kneeling before the Porcelain Goddess, I purged my last offering three years ago this past January. It felt like I should have known better and I really had suffered enough bar hopping to end up on cold tile with bad knees at my age. Normally I'd sip slowly until my cold drink warmed my skin. At that point I would switch to soda until I felt cold again. Really, there is no need to make excuses for bad behavior when drinking.  For most people, that is the only point.  For me, drinking in the last decade and a half has been about control and skating the line without crossing it. Before dinner was served, I was praising the goddess for allowing me to purge quietly and alone, holding my own hair back.  I slipped back down to the party at some point, and felt so much better slipping into anonymity during the speeches and awards. I am not against drinking.  I can sip champagne in celebration and will toast with the crowd, but then I prefer a drink without alcohol.   At the end of the day, at the end of the trauma, at the end of disappointment, I'm not a drinker.  Not anymore. There is something about mothering that requires you to be immediately available without being constantly present. Children need the space to be creative and make mistakes and explore boundaries, but they also need you close enough to rescue them. To me, this has meant being sober.  I've had enough random emergency room trips to expect a need to be able to drive someone to the ER at any given moment.  It has usually resulted in me being the designated driver because I refuse to model drinking and driving as ever being an option.

Most of my relationships included a double standard where I was with someone that wanted me to drink, but I could never find the line to not cross.  How much is enough to be relaxed and fun without being too drunk and an embarrassment? It was easier to stop trying.  If I had a do over it would be my trip to New York.  My ex boyfriend had spent a few years there and I wanted to take him back for his birthday.  We spent an evening at a wedding where the melon cocktail tasted just like honeydew melon.  I couldn't get enough. It was a great night, except when we tried to go to a club I was drunk and passed out in the back seat of the car and everyone's night was cut short because of me.  He dumped me a couple of weeks later,  handing me a small cactus plant and a line about seeing one that was almost as tall as he was (he was not taller than me) and hoping our friendship would see the plant grow to that size.  One night I was so drunk on Tanqueray and apple juice that the ground felt like it was moving and I couldn't find it because it was much lower than it should have been.  The next morning I gave the cactus my roundhouse kick and destroyed it before sweeping it into the trash. He didn't love it when I was drunk until we were no longer a couple and I would call him.  Then he loved coming over. I remember drunk writing him a letter and I wrote, "F you and the horse you rode in on . . . you killed my joke because you drive a Mustang." Clearly, drinking didn't help my writing. Eventually I asked him if he got off on the emotional damage he left behind and he stopped coming around.

When I wasn't in a relationship, drinking was always destructive and the bad choices were disguised as fun inebriation.  When I was underage, we knew the liquor stores in Echo Park where a store owner would ask for ID, but not actually check it.  Or we had a 40 oz. of beer for the homeless person willing to buy our case of long necks. I was going to raves all over Los Angeles where we brought our own bottles of Everclear and Tequila, but could buy beer from a keg and "happy balloons" from a nitrous oxide tank. I got older and my first bar was the 35er in Pasadena.  I would later become a regular at the Short Stop.  It was a cop bar at the time and I felt there was safety there.  More than once I'd pass out in a booth next to the DJ.  Once, as I was waking up, he leaned over and asked, "are your tits real? You gotta know they are perfect." That was the last time I got drunk there. Before that I met a bartender for the Barney's Beanery in Beverly Hills at the Short Stop. She bought me a shooter of Coralejo tequila to sip with my beer and then she disappeared on me when I passed out, but I had her number written on my body.  I would later meet her at work where she plied me with free drink after free drink, trying to recreate the melon cocktail I'd had in New York. I don't know how I drove home through rush hour traffic. One Christmas I drove from Covina to Hollywood on vodka shots and ended up at the Good Luck Bar at Sunset and Hollywood.  Another time, I remember waking up one morning and seeing how badly I had parked my car.  I didn't remember getting home.

A friend's big brother liked to give me special attention whenever we hung out. My friend would leave the room and his brother would steal moments to see how far we could go before we had an audience. I didn't mind when we were sober and I was willing but it was always his initiation. It was a game and I was still into much older men. At these times we never went too far. One night he surprised me by stopping by with way too much Long Island Iced Tea.  The room was spinning out of control and I couldn't stand up on my own. That was the night he took things further than I wanted to go.  I was too drunk to consent and this was before the campaigns that would have called it date rape.  He stopped after it was clear my "no" wasn't going to become a "yes." I never drank around him again. Truthfully, he wasn't interested in being around me after that either.

Being a wife and mother squeezed out the alcohol.  I'm a cheap date and can't handle my liquor now but that's okay.  I can still get into all kinds of shenanigans while completely sober.  All I need's a dash of anger and a cheering section.  Or a partner in crime. Tomorrow night I'm meeting friends at a bar and I have every intention of sipping Shirley Temples.  Or if drinks are had, there will be dinner because I want to be able to safely drive myself home. I'm very fortunate that I didn't kill anyone in the couple of years that I was spiraling and binge drinking on weekends. It's a miracle that I didn't get in any accidents while intoxicated. So, I'm not a drinker, but I don't mind when others drink.

Owning Up to Falling Apart

My moment of truth showed up just before 5 tonight. Foraging for sustenance landed me in strawberry shortcake ice cream. The dawning realization that it was all that had passed my lips other than my toothbrush this morning was clear evidence that I'm not doing well and patterns of brokenness are emerging.  Searching for protein, I also poached an egg.  In breaking the yolk and scooping bland warmth into me without bothering to pick a lemon from the yard to whip up Hollandaise, it was the comfort I was seeking and I saw that in my food choices.  I looked around at the wreckage of a neglected home and found myself surrounded in the hollow ache of last year when my husband left.  I'm not that person anymore because now I can see my phenomenal coming out of every smile.  It's time to give her a hug, acknowledge her pain, and help her up. I am determined to break these patterns but first I needed to acknowledge that as beautiful as my time at my job was . . . as giving as it was and as much as I learned, there is the sudden loss of income and identity.

This morning I had the first IEP recessed because I wasn't pleased with the inadequate job the psychologist did in her report.  Calls will be made.  Responsibilities will be taken and where heads should roll, they'll find there's grace because my life is full enough without a bone to pick. The other IEP was successfully closed and signed and I have a copy to send to Regional Center. There was a moment when the school district rep and one of the teachers were alone in the room with me.  They marvelled at how I do it all. I'm an autism mom.  We slay dragons.  We sometimes have to dig deep, but we can do the amazing and impossible. We talked about my kid's early development and speech delays. We talked about sensory issues, and my kid running head first into the door, only to slam the back of his head against the floor.  We talked about poopy painting and tasting.  I don't miss those days.

These meetings were always my job but with the separation, the husband is now involved in every meeting and decision in any way he can do it without being around me.  During the meeting he joined by phone conference.  It was the first time in a long while we heard each other's voices and we did our best to not acknowledge that.  I felt mild annoyance, from time to time, but a lot of what I felt was gone. He was in some ways just another random voice and not the man I wanted to love or maim. That's where I first saw my healing today.

I stopped at the Gamble House in Pasadena because it is beautiful and the grounds make me smile.  One day I may take that tour inside, but on most days, I prefer to check out the pond and watch the fish.  It was a time of quiet reflection.

Throughout the day I saw other people as I ran errands and it occurred to me I wasn't attention whoring or flirting with anyone that looked at me.  Part of me has always been afraid that I would start looking for validation in other people, but today I realized I'm going to be okay in that way.  I've always been not so private.  I was the girl in school that would get on stage in front of peers and sing. And dance. And act.  I even had a wardrobe malfunction with an errant nipple in a really tight Elizabethan dress that presented my breasts as a shelf that I could rest things on. Being a senior in high school that inadvertently shows her nipple off to way too many people at once was not easy to live down.  Although, I didn't get any complaints either.  Go figure.

I still haven't cleaned up my house.  Dirty laundry is piled and there are dishes around.   I'm not seeing it as being lazy but a form of depression that is creeping up on me. Honestly I don't feel like doing it, but I'm making the choice to deal with it before bedtime, and I'm also making a choice to make myself a steak dinner because food is good and I can't start unintentionally starving myself. I like my curves and the clothes that fit me now.  I'm still waiting to hear about an interview from my agency, and perhaps tonight will see an updated Monster resume in the making, but I'm coping by looking at my situation. I'm coping by not ignoring it, even if that is my first instinct and laying in bed in all my bloggy glory feels better.

Today's lessons: The feelings for the husband are easing into a comfortable place.  I'm not attention whoring all over my neighborhood, just my blogs.  Feeling sad is okay and I am still healing.  I should pay y'all in therapy fees but instead I give you words and angst.  Lots of angst all around.

The Education of a Reluctant Student

I liked leaving high school more than I liked being in it.  I graduated with honors because it was never hard.  I was in theater arts and play production.  I hung out with football players and I was fairly popular.  Years later I would see people that remembered me and I couldn't place them. It was an empty existence.  It was so empty that when I left school, I didn't have contact information for most of the people I looked forward to seeing in class, because I never looked for them when I was home.  Facebook has rekindled many friendships, but I'm the same person, so hanging out offline is a major accomplishment if I ever do it. I started in college because my parents wanted me there. They had dreams for me and taught me going to college after high school was like brushing your teeth.  It's not optional. It's what you do.

I was rebellious though.  I was afraid of the SAT test and refused to take it.  I went straight to Glendale Community College instead.  Actually, in the fall of 1996 my Dad went there, registered for my classes and bought my books that first semester.  I started registering, buying books funded by my parents, dropping classes and getting cash back.  I did this for years and they never stopped believing in me or supporting me. By 2004 I wanted to get through it.  I picked up the college catalog and my transcripts, and started marking off classes to see if I had taken enough to get an AA.  I had taken enough for my Certificate in Communications and a few classes later in 2005 I got my AA in General Education Transfer Studies.  I think it was a blanket term for those of us that loved taking classes but still couldn't declare a major because indecision was a skill in Junior College but  I was excited to transfer.

I transferred into Cal State L.A. as a Geology major. I had taken a few classes and did really well in them. I loved the science. I used to daydream about camping along an active volcano, donning a heat suit and scaling the inside for measurements.  It may sound crazy but I really wanted to be a volcanologist.  I've always had a love of minerals and crystals.  Eventually I thought earthquakes would be a safer, more mom like job. I was struggling though.  My professors were amazing, but college level algebra was kicking my butt.  I got through it, but my reality set in.  I was already Mom to two autistic sons, and a third was on the way.  I would get home from class, and if the nausea of cooking didn't leave me dry heaving, I was exhausted from growing a human and studying didn't happen.  I couldn't go on field trips where we would spend a few days studying the earth because I couldn't leave my family behind. Geology is the study of the earth and I couldn't do that from our apartment in North Hollywood. I ended up taking a break for a few years and in that time, I made peace with math not being my superpower.  Every time I thought about the chemistry, calculus and physics required (all math), I would put it off another year.

Finishing school became important to me again.  I had kids and I wanted to be the example they deserved. Coming to terms with my math deficiency was hard, but I did it. I decided what I loved was reading and writing.  My love of reading started when I was 9 or 10.  My oldest sister used to read grocery store novels and I would pick up anything she put down, warping my sense of love and romance for the rest of my life.  Don't buy into the lace and heavy sighs.  It's a formula and just as damaging to relationships as porn.

I applied to the college when enrollment was high and was accepted in 5 quarters which was the fall of  2010. At the time, I didn't know I would be in my third trimester with my second surrogacy. If I didn't enroll, I might have had to wait another year to go back.  I figured I would try 8 units, and if anything I could get an incomplete.  I didn't realize how much I would love it though.  In September I greeted both professors right after class and explained I was determined to get through their classes, but I let them know I was due in October and I had no idea how it would work out.  One professor didn't notice how knocked up I was.  She was a great professor and loved to geek out on the British novels with their sighs and carriage rides and hints at naughtiness.  The other professor knew I was about to go into labor from my waddle. He was a grandfather and very kind.  I missed two class sessions. It was my fifth birth and while I was able to get around, childbirth makes you leak.  Everywhere.  Staying home for a week was a prudent decision.  In the end I earned a B and a C+.

The next quarter I was encouraged to apply for scholarships.  I didn't have the grades for it with my earlier years of not caring, and I banged out an essay in 20 minutes. I wrote about being a mom and wife while being a student.  I wrote about being expected to take care of house and home and school was treated like it was my hobby and I didn't feel supported at home.  I ended up earning six scholarships in 2 years.  One was a fellowship that was inadvertently given to me. It seemed odd that an undergrad would receive a fellowship.  I talked to the office handling that. They gave me the correct scholarship, but let me keep the fellowship for my honesty.  Apply for everything.  The worst answer you can get won't affect anything but will give you practice in writing an essay. The best answer is free money and the prestige of Honor's Convocations.

My most memorable Convocation happened during my last surrogacy.  It was a gnarly pregnancy because twins were hard for me to carry.  The hormones made my heart race. The morning sickness was off the charts.  I was on and off bed rest so often that I ended up taking a year off of school.  That was emotionally hard.  After giving birth in the middle of a quarter I couldn't understand why I couldn't handle going to class while still at the start and middle of a pregnancy.  I went back for the Convocation.  Of course they had us stand in line for too long to make an entrance.  I was overheating and dehydrated. I ended up feeling weak and faint and puking in the middle of it.  I think I even nailed the poor woman in front of me.  For the second ceremony for the College of Arts and letters I was feeling better until I ended up sitting next to a woman that was wearing way too much perfume. It was a night of memories that make me laugh now.  For my very last Convocation, I couldn't find anyone willing to go with me and I skipped it, but the department mailed my certificate to me.

Here's a hint, natural body scents on a clean body can smell amazing. Perfumes and colognes should compliment your natural scent and be used so sparingly that others are encouraged to get close enough to smell them.  That was a public service announcement and my free little nugget.  It's pure gold so take it and love it like your own. I used to wear Red Jeans by Versace and I love most women's scents by Givenchy, but I typically only wear deodorant. 

I can understand Chaucer and explicate Shakespeare, but my love of minerals and nature keep me grounded.  I love jewelry stores for the research, but one day I want to go on a rock hounding trip. I would love to dig up a vug and find my own treasures.  I don't know if I'd polish them.  Honestly I'd be happy finding quartz.  One day I might start back in school to retake some math classes and raise my GPA.  I always thought I'd go back to school.  I don't know if it will be law school or if I'd go back and attempt that Rock Doctor goal.  Suddenly single has so much potential that I nearly gave up on.

Today I have Mom duties.  My first born is now 14 and has his first invitation to his IEP.  It's his triennial so it's a big one. My second child has an amendment IEP.  I never did housework last night, so that is one of my goals this afternoon, but perhaps after a nap.  Stress had me up at 4 and by 5:30 I decided to stay up. Stress also has me breaking out all over the place like a teenager. If I have teenage skin, I should have teenage boobs too, right?  I'll contact my temp agency and hope she's moved mountains and if she hasn't, I'll start submitting resumes again.  I'm waiting until after my nap because job hunting is emotionally draining. After this last job, the bar was raised significantly and I don't know that I could settle as easily as I was trying to before.  Tomorrow morning I plan to walk along the LA River because it's here and it is full of amazing and just enough trash to feel like the LA I grew up in.

A Fond Farewell in Hollywood

Today was an epic farewell to a time of personal growth and transition and to the office with people that didn't even know they helped me through it.  I have a feeling what was picked up and examined today will stay in my mind in a very happy place for a long time. The picture was tonight's sunset from the office I loved for two months.  The city is covered in a blanket of fog.  I remember the 1980's, so I won't call it smog.  There is a difference.  The ocean isn't visible and it looked like layers of thickness that increased to the west where the cooler ocean air can hold the moisture in low lying clouds of ice crystals.  Farther inland where it is warmer, the crystals melt into humidity and that is your meteorology lesson.  Thank the teacher later.

Above the darkness you can see the pink and yellow clouds that were still kissing the sun's rays.  It reminded me of right now in my life.  I'm funemployed until my next assignment.  The optimist in me sees something happening next week. It's in the pink and gold above the darkness.  Realistically, I won't breathe in relief until I have landed a job because this single Mom has 3 kids to raise and they depend on me.  That's what's right in front of me. If I keep my eyes above the darkness, I can bathe in the colors and feel the warmth.  I'm keeping my head up and something amazing is right around the corner.  It always is.

For tonight there is joy and peace and butterflies still buzzing in my belly.  For tonight there's Hulu and some housework.  I was heading to the beach for a drive along the coast to clear my head, but I had crazy butterflies in my belly, the look on his face in my mind and the naughtiness in my head still warming my skin and I went on autopilot and ended up at home, driving a little too fast and hugging the curves where I found them because my happiness was overflowing.

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.

Saying Goodbye To An Epic Couple of Months

I was off of work, but sat at the desk that I probably should have claimed when I first started.  The sun filtered through the haze that settled over Hollywood all day.  The pale pink sky didn't quite reach the red and flaming cotton candy look.  It was muted and ethereal, unlike clear evenings that can't hold the colors painted by a fading sun. I started my goodbyes today.  There were some people that I wanted to say goodbye to in person.  There were others I emailed.  One of the girls that started the day I did gave me a candle and probably has no idea how close to tears I was at her generosity and warm heart. It hits me in waves that ebb in hope and flow around me in moments of panic.  There could always be something better. The biggest loss in the job I'm leaving is the visual joy I have had.  The views of Los Angeles from the heart of Hollywood were the best views I've ever had from a job. I think I'll miss them the most.  I loved watching the water fountains in the courtyards around our building.  This past week I've seen sunbathers lounging around pools and stood in the window, feeling the heat of the southern California sun, touching me as I stood in sweet adoration.  The sun was starting to set in the west and it was an overcast day when I started writing.  The haze of cloud cover over Hollywood must have been a respite for the workers bustling around the Cinerama dome red carpet as they prepared for a premier that I really didn't care about.  I had spent yesterday and today slowly removing the pictures and pieces of paper that identified my desk as mine. I had post its and notes. My favorite was from something I scribbled that I saw online.  It reminded me of my husband and said, "I understand the spark is gone and I'm ready for the next step. Let me charge my stun gun." Not a direct quote, but that was the spirit of it.  I had my name spelled out in cardstock to help others remember me.

I'm not angry about the job ending but I am sad.  The company was an answer to prayers, but I believe there are more answers waiting for me.  It put me in a different place than I was and in ways I couldn't imagine.  I found myself in a job I loved and was eager to go to.  I have only had that experience once before and I'm sure one day I'll be matched with a company that will offer more of a challenge and less repetition. I loved the challenge here at first, but I could see the monotony start to take its toll in ounces of boredom that would tip my hand toward chocolate and excuses to watch the skyline, with several surreptitious glances toward his office. Because it's his office and he's usually in there doing office work things. In fairness, I was there for a specific task and I did only what I was meant to.

At this job I've started wearing dresses and heels and putting on make up and taking care of my hair.  I owe that to a woman who is also preparing to depart into the unknown with a dream, a vision, and bravery.  She was the feminine image I wanted to emulate.  Today I wore a low cut dress for the ego boost. I was feeling emotionally bottomed out and wanted to be looked at.  The men I didn't work with had no problem admiring my dress.  The men I work with avoided looking at me or specifically saw only my eyes.  Perhaps it was too low cut.  Last night I fought my sheets most of the night until I woke at 3 and couldn't shut off the worries running through my mind until 5.  Then my inner clock goes off at 6 every morning, so I'm running on too little sleep and lots of peanut M&M's.

At the end of the day I'm a temp with an agency.  Working temporarily and moving on to the next assignment is the nature of what I do. At the risk of gross cultural appropriation, part of me would like to think of myself as a gypsy.  There's a lot of bad in it, but I only see the mysterious seductress that stays for a while until the next job comes along.

Fighting Like a Girl and Pulling Punches

Fists are raised. Her right hand is balled next to her chin and her left hovers in front of her mouth and nose. A slight tuck of thumbs and a swallow of bile burns her throat, but she has a face to wear. The determination in her gaze hides the fear that is urging her fight into a flight, but she steels her resolve and plants her feet, bending her knees slightly so they don't lock on her when it's time to move.  He doesn't realize he tells her his next move as he steps before he reaches for her shirt. His cologne met her before she saw him and this close the assault on her nose is enough to make her flinch. She's been here before and she knows that she has learned the next move like a dance based on muscle memory.  She drops her chin and shoulder in a hook aimed at his ribs stepping in and on her right side below the left side of the rib cage he exposed in his attack. With a quick draw back of her stinging right hand, she lifts up his slightly slackened left arm with her left forearm, moving closer and following through with the force of her right elbow and forearm, twisting her back for a second hit with the back of her elbow, catching his ribs again. As he's bent in pain she takes a second to snap a left cross at his cheek and feels positive his stubble stung her more than her bony hand could have hurt him.  He was taller than her but he didn't have her solid frame.  He probably didn't look past her jeans and stilettos.  He takes a moment to fight the pain, and step back.  His fury builds but that moment was all she needed and she runs off, slapping the pavement in bare feet as her shoes lay abandoned on the street and her purse is still miraculously strapped across her body. Wouldn't it be amazing if we could all just defend ourselves? My first fist fight was me getting punched in the stomach because I teased a boy about his teddy bear on the school bus and insisted on touching it even after he said it would get my butt kicked.  I had the wind knocked out of me but the shock was most painful.  I remember walking home and the anger fell from my face in silent tears and shame.

In middle school I had more enemies than I knew what to do with.  I think it started as jealousy, but I was so not aware of anything related to my looks that I didn't know what to feel other than fear.  I was the last to leave the classroom after each period because I was afraid of getting jumped.  My looks were always given as you see them.  I still can't work with a curling iron and frequently see men in drag that deserve my girl card and breasts more than I do.  (Perks of not being afraid of a beautiful man is they will sometimes help you with makeup tips.) I will rarely spend more than $20 on any one item of clothing or accessories.  My designer purses are all gifts.  I'm loved.  Envy me. That same love showed up for me one day after school. I finally told my family what I was so afraid of.  The next day my sisters came to pick me up from school after drill team practice. They sent me to the car and went up to the drill team room where some of my biggest fans were.  I have no idea what was said or done.  I just know I was told to take a vacation for the rest of the semester.  The problems went away and there was talk about my sisters stepping out of line as the adults that came to my rescue when my teachers and administrators didn't.

Growing up I saw my Mom rage at my Dad, then pick up the pieces of their life and do what she could to take care of us and any other person who needed help. She's the most giving person I know.  There is something inside of her that she's given to me that has the ability to cut down the strongest tower.  For her, it is the ability to get up and do what survivors do.  For me, it's an ability to frame ideas that seek out the vulnerabilities that can be used to undermine a situation and tilt things in my favor. She has this fight that is full of strength and determination, but as a kid, it always came out as the phrase, "grab and twist."

I'll just leave that there a minute.

My Dad marched with Martin Luther King Jr.  He served in the Army during the TET Offensive in Viet Nam. Naturally, I grew up around his post traumatic stress and with a healthy dose of patriotism and respect for our vets. I know not to wake him abruptly because his fists rise before he does.  He's not a fan of fireworks and he taught me that time doesn't heal all wounds.  Work and perfect love do. You can't ignore or drown out your pain.  He never fought with Mom. She would rage, and he would stand quietly.  He didn't want to fight with her, and she needed a reaction.  Any reaction was better than feeling ignored.  It also taught me to work around a shaky temperament and I can dance on eggshells if I need to. That dance came in handy as a wife.

We learn a lot from our family of origin and sometimes we have to unlearn what we know.

I wasn't always an advocate.  For most of my youth I was self centered and obsessed with a good story and personal time. Fighting for someone else wasn't my thing because I didn't care if it didn't involve me, until it did involve me. When I had kids, and learned about autism is when I learned about  a good fight.

When we first married, we lived in the garage at my Mom's house.  It was converted and my project home.  I was learning plumbing basics and I was so proud of putting the trap in under the sink all by myself.  That was the first toilet I installed and it will be there forever because when I tiled the bathroom floor, I didn't know I was supposed to remove the toilet first.  It's grouted to the floor and it doesn't leak.  But a new toilet would require a new floor as well. Live and learn. When we moved into our first apartment it was perfect for our family of three.  When we were about to become a family of 5, it was time to move.  I expected part of our deposit back.  They tried to charge us a few thousand above that.  I looked into renter's rights.  I took them to small claims court and I won.

Later we moved and I started pseudo managing a property for my Mom.  She wanted a tenant evicted and I started and finished it.  In hindsight, I may have missed a few steps, but at the end of the day they moved out and it's not my fault they didn't search for loop holes. They would've found them. Now Mom gives and takes the responsibility from time to time, but I'm okay with that too. I usually have quite enough on my plate.

My kids have always been in public schools.  I was grateful that the free assessments set us on a path with Regional Center and the school district that started services and therapies we needed.  My kids didn't come with instructions.  Most people figure it out as they go and I'm in that boat, rocking and upchucking over the side and on the deck with the next person still finding those sea legs and just as annoyed that there is only one Head on deck and it's busy. It built up over years, but their behaviors were adjusted and worked around in the classroom to the point where we saw it as behavior that needed adjustments, and not the emotional neglect that my kids were suffering.  I was always involved.  I sat through classes.  I still know the voices of all of the principals and vice principals that have overseen my kids. At the end of the day, becoming a teenager is hard enough without sensory dysfunction and below average social and communication skills.  My son was taken from school by ambulance and put on a 72 hour 5150 hold.  Our constant vigilance at his side and his calm when with us got him released early.  He still had to endure being at that school for another 6 months until we were able to get him an emotional disturbance diagnosis and placement in a nonpublic school for autistic kids.  I had to write letters, follow up respectfully, document and keep on top of things. I've had to make calls to different departments and regions to see where I could rattle a few chains.  A couple of years later and my second child went through the same process.  A short while after that I would fight for compensatory hours and a refund of therapy co-payments and win with the help of an attorney that the district paid for me.

I'm also an In Home Support Services provider for my kids.  They have needs outside the scope of typical parenthood and the state recognizes this by  paying me and sending me W-2 forms at the end of the year.  My kids would need me to do what I do anyway so when the union started taking dues I had a problem with it.   It took a few months, phone calls, and even and affidavit but I got a check from them too.

I think the hardest fight is the one in which you decide early on that you don't want to give it your all.  It's when you pause to think about the repercussions instead of doing what you know comes next, instead of worrying about consequences you won't face.  It's when you decide to be gentle in your attack, setting yourself up for defeat, and knowing the road you are on is the high one. It's hard when people think they have you beat, but don't realize you haven't taken off your kid gloves and have been pulling punches because part of you still cares enough to want to protect them.

Hating Motherhood While Being In Love with Mothering Children

I can't tell you what kind of a mother I wanted to be because before I met my husband I didn't want to be one. My high school years included my parents and their journey as foster parents. I saw kids in foster care with more trauma in their lives than I have the right to imagine. Witnessing so much pain coming out as anger, hate and tantrums was really strong birth control. I saw that having kids wasn't all dress up and play time. I saw enough to know I wanted no part in that. It added to a messy soup of my trauma from the sudden (to me) destruction of my family. I saw my parents not talk for years and still live together and I couldn't understand what would change our functional dysfunction into not working and why my Mom would divorce my Dad. I get it now. As much as I love my Dad, and I do, I couldn't imagine ever feeling I wanted a husband like the one he modeled. I can see that same pattern in my own marriage now. I can see where I adopted my Dad's stoic indifference as my Mom railed out her frustrations and I would take my anger out on dishes and silence. I think of the ouroboros snake rather than irony. Irony alludes to humor and I see none when I look at my kids. A few hours ago I could hear my middle son rehearsing a made up conversation with his Dad and trying to make sense of what he has to work with now that most of his memories are impossible to see in the current changes in our family. Healing is a lot to ask for and I'm looking at it as an adjustment we'll all make. When I was pregnant with my firstborn, I was in a liminal space that was so beautiful I didn't want to see what was before it or what would come after it. I generally felt fine and infrequent bouts of morning sickness were distractions of novelty. I enjoyed the changes in my body and I remember we laughed as we explored the faint stretch marks that trailed across my belly as we marked week by week of his pregnancy. Even when I was bedridden toward the end and he wasn't growing steadily enough, I was in my own haven of life bearing. I was busy counting his taps and tapping him back. September 11th hit our nation in an attempt to strike fear in every home, and I was so focused on my husband's safety in downtown Los Angeles, that I didn't think far enough into the world to see that I would be sharing my child with it 15 days after the towers fell. It was a terrifying few weeks but early on I made a choice to not live in fear. A life of fear is hardly a life worth living.

Once he was born, I had to reconcile who I was with who I thought I should be. When I met my husband I was hanging out at pool halls, drinking with the guys and smoking 3 packs of cigarettes a day with a few cigars now and then. I was decidedly everything a mother shouldn't be. It took a while to discover there were a few things I could enjoy and things I wanted to let go of, but mainly I learned I couldn't blame my kids for my choice to have them, or hold them responsible for my choice to give up a few things for them. Joint custody has given me the space to be the mom they deserve when they're here, and the free spirit I crave to be can stay out of the house as often as I have been.

I remember his first birthday rolling around and I had the perfect outfit chosen for his party. I had no idea he was autistic then and how strong his sensory integration dysfunction was. I had a bad habit of taking him out of the tub and getting him dressed and then going back to drain the bathwater. It was after he was dressed that he climbed back into the water. I was so frustrated and angry and my upset only upset him into vomiting on himself. I already had my mother in law calling because we were running late and I was overwhelmed because he was climbing in the tub when I was telling her we were on our way.

I had our second child and his behaviors were almost the same as his big brother's. The differences were mild enough that I thought it was a personality variance. They were born 18 months apart and it wasn't until the older one was 4 that I asked for an assessment with the school district. We had an assessment and IEP on the same day and that afternoon we learned what autism is and that both of our sons had it. I remember right after the diagnosis I was at Kaiser and still pushing two kids in a double stroller. I was in a pediatrician's office and the boys were sick and being themselves. The doctor looked at me and said, "you poor woman. We have medication for this. You don't have to live like this." I sobbed into my hands at that moment while she stood uncomfortably, but quietly, affording me a rare moment to fall apart. After researching options I would later decide that the risks outweighed the benefits and I chose to medicate myself before medicating my kids unless they got to a point where they felt they were overwhelmed. Typically they're happy in their world, and it's others that are perplexed by their behavior.

With my youngest son's pregnancy I had the well meaning and quite invasive questions about my judgement in choosing to have a third child when we already had two with autism. It was during his pregnancy that I realized having children is a complete act of faith. With the stresses of a new child on a tight one parent income, I didn't always see the support I needed and I had to dig deep. I was very weak at times, even asking my OB doctor about late term abortions, which I had never believed in before. I realized having children is an act of faith in your partner and your commitment to a long lasting relationship that would see your children into adulthood. It's a physical expression of faith in a world that includes teachers, babysitters, family and friends that will all see and at times be alone with your child and it's faith that your child will live in safety with a protection that you can not see. It's faith that what has happened the first two times won't happen again and the blessings will outweigh the sacrifices. It's faith that I will be faithful in raising boys who will become men that will contribute to the world in a meaningful way and that my relationship with them will nurture men who will want to be the fathers and husbands their family deserves, rather than the one they might want to be as I find it a task of intention to push past my selfishness as a parent. I hope to one day nurture a servant's heart (as I'm still looking for it) and a spirit of generosity in them (that one I see when they ask if we can feed homeless people when we stop for fast food). I admit that the extended family, as a whole, only sighed in relief when the youngest was tested and found to not be on the spectrum. At that point our oldest offered to teach him how to be autistic. The baby has been hospitalized twice in his young life. The first time was for a near drowning. I didn't realize our firstborn had filled the tub to play with his toy Lego boat while he was home alone with their Dad or that the baby could climb into the tub at 8 months. My then nonverbal middle son (about 4 years old) saved his brother's life. The second hospitalization happened when he fell off the top bunk of their bunk bed. He was hospitalized for a few days for that concussion. I expect he will do great things in life. You don't survive trauma like that without having an indelible mark of destiny on your future.

My sons were born in 2001, 2003, and 2006. The following years saw surrogate journeys end in 2008, 2010 and 2012. I really loved being pregnant. Being a surrogate had more than monetary benefits. I was able to just enjoy the life growing inside of me. I went to my appointments with a cheering section that was there to celebrate and worry with me. Through my agency I was able to meet people I never would have encountered otherwise. I learned enough about fertility to understand the gift I had been given with irregular cycles and miracles on my side. After the first surrogate birth while my legs were still up in the air and I was in the glow of joy coming from the parents I had just gifted, I already knew I wanted to do it again. The last pregnancy was high risk. Being born is difficult enough. Usually we're all happy to see a wrinkled invalid that looks like it spent a few days being beaten up by a uterus. With each pregnancy, my body just seemed to know exactly how to shift and grow to accommodate the newest child. With the twins, my body had been through it five times before and decided it was at the right dimensions to start labor at 29 weeks. I was hospitalized to keep them in. I won't insult anyone's intelligence. There were extremely miserable moments. I held it together for the most part but it was difficult. It made me appreciate my kids when I couldn't see them every single day and just be with them. I felt like my choice to be a surrogate removed my freedom to complain. The agency and my couple were great about helping my husband at home, but I was so lonely during that time. I had this fear that I had to do everything perfectly or risk killing someone else's babies. That is a huge burden and in my hormone flooded state, I couldn't see how unreasonable I was being to myself. When they were born I would visit daily, then every few days to bring breast milk. When they left the hospital I felt relief and nausea. As amazing as my journeys were, I wasn't interested in another surrogacy and the agency wasn't interested in another high risk pregnancy.

In October 2014 my birth control pills gave me pulmonary embolisms. There's plenty of warnings in the fine print that comes with every pill pack. There's something about the level of hormones that triggers blood clot formation. I felt extreme cramps in my legs one night after walking a few miles that day. Later I had mild chest pain. It wasn't a big deal, except I typically didn't feel my chest, let alone pain from breathing. The doctor checking on me wasn't that concerned at first. He started with blood work that looked a little curious and followed up with an MRI. When he had the scan results he changed his posture and attitude from one that made it clear I was a hypochondriac to one where he sat down next to me and started looking me in the eye. I got it. It was serious. They couldn't release me or death would be their liability. I didn't really get how bad it was until the nurse hooked me up to the heart monitors and walked alongside me as I was rolled through the hospital to the cardiac intensive care unit. The nurses couldn't believe how casually I accepted the fact that sudden movements could dislodge a clot and I could have a heart attack or stroke. She was quite serious when she asked me to move slowly and freaked out when I wasn't moving slowly enough. I was hospitalized for a few days and on blood thinners for months and if I ever get pregnant, I would have to be on blood thinners and then reverse the medication for childbirth to prevent bleeding out. At the same time I can never go on birth control pills again. Hormones. When I start dating, there are many reasons a random test drive wouldn't be worth it. I still don't believe in abortion.

Believe it or not I'm more relaxed as a mom than I deserve to be. I wasn't at first. I've left kid parties early and never again spoken to mothers whose children treated mine badly. I've hovered in playgrounds as a barrier between my kids and anyone that would look at mine differently. It's not just playgrounds. There was one day at an In and Out in Laughlin a few years back when my son was being himself. A woman commented about his behavior and I apologized. After she watched us for a while she approached our table to apologize because she didn't know "there was something wrong with him." Clearly she missed the part where there was nothing wrong with his hearing. She left and I then had to apologize to my son for the ignorance of others. Now I will often try to let them sort out their own fights until I feel they absolutely need me involved. At least with each other. With strangers I'm still a fierce Momma Bear and I will cut you. Tonight kid1 had kid2 in a choke hold and kid3 was crying from kid2 punching him in the stomach. That required the Momster. Otherwise I listen until it can no longer be ignored. Usually if no one is dead, dying or has broken bones I'm good. I get cautious when I hear crying but it's that specific tone of crying that says there is pain or fear. That cry doesn't change from infancy. Mom radar is fine tuned for it and we have an ability to ignore most other noises, being hyper-aware when it becomes too quiet for innocent shenanigans.

We've had several conversations about all sorts of things. I write to find peace but I'm also a blabber. Usually this happens when we're in the car. They can't run away. I control the radio and there's no eye contact. We've talked about autism and what it means to our family. We've talked about divorce. We've talked about depression and suicide. We've discussed homosexuality. They know they'll always be loved and accepted no matter who they love. And yes, I talked to them about wet dreams and changing bodies, and individually I've had to talk to one about masturbation. This conversation happened in a closed bedroom. The first wet dream conversation was about 4 years ago. My oldest was 10. I wanted them to know it's a normal part of growing up. They don't have to say a word, just put soiled laundry where it goes and don't be afraid. I suppose moms with daughters have to have the period talk so their kids don't think they're dying. Lately my son's masturbation has been a problem because of his transparency. He's not great at hiding it and I'm not sure he even tries to. I told him private time with private parts should be private. I didn't want to body shame him when he's already othered from his contemporaries. I also suggested lotion might curtail injuries. It's not comfortable, but I know he has no problem talking to me and he felt relief after the conversation was over because in the end, it wasn't that bad.

I forget to take something out for dinner on many nights. Two to three loads of laundry a day will keep me from falling behind, but it doesn't save me from that special sweater that needs me to stay up a couple of hours on a Sunday night because they need it for school Monday morning. I do what I can without losing my calm and some things require them to compromise because I won't. Housework is not my friend when there are a million other things I need to do but on weekends when they're with me and I have nothing to do but listen to their sounds, it's relaxing to get a good scrubbing in. I realize they will talk like sailors if they think I can't hear them and my police patrols won't teach them to be the kind of adults I hope to raise. Homework frustrates me because I want to just give the answers. That was part of why teaching wasn't my calling.

I'm a mom. I'm a daughter and sister too. At the end of the day, I'm still trying to figure out who I am, but I know that the woman in the mirror is gorgeous and loved by the woman looking at her.

I'm Sharing My Coping Skills

It's unfortunate that life seldom flows in ways that are consistent and expected.  Those who marry would never divorce.  Parents would never bury their children. Dreams and plans would never be deferred or denied and disappointments would not be part of the human experience. But then we'd also never understand the peace and joy that come from knowing what their absence really looks like. I wasn't always a coping kinda gal.  There were a few times in my life when I decided quitting made more sense, or that I needed help because I couldn't do it on my own.  I'm really glad that I'm not a superstar at everything I do.  Failure can be an amazing blessing.  Depression has been a life time companion since the 7th grade.  Don't get me wrong, I was a bit of a loner long before then, but I think of the 7th grade as the starting point because that was when puberty hit, and those grown up hormones destroyed what ever illusion of normalcy I had going.

Hormones made my body change.  Long before that, I remember walking home from school one day and I must have been in about the third grade when a guy in a red car pulled up to me to ask for directions. I don't think my parents allowed me to walk to and from school before then.  I lived in East Hollywood in the 80's and early 90's and I was walking down Virgil near the city property on Santa Monica. I saw my first penis that day.  I didn't realize I should feel fear when the driver pulled over and asked me questions while his pants were unzipped and he had his penis in his hand.  I was confused about what he was doing and had no idea where he wanted to go. I think I was most concerned about not knowing where he wanted to go.  When I was 10 years old, a neighbor in his teens put his hand on my ankle and started moving up.  I didn't know what to do and stopped him at the the middle of my thigh.  There were plenty of other stories about my youth being perverted and my personal space invaded but by Grace alone I can say it stopped at physical violence and I feel without being physically beaten my emotional scars are harder to see but are getting easier to heal. Puberty made me much more obvious to men and the hormones made me feel like I wasn't loved on top of that. Rejecting advances is a skill I learned early on, but that brokenness that wanted acceptance made that a bag of confusion that I still have collecting dust in my closet somewhere. I pick it up from time to time and start to unpack things, but then I shove it deeper than it was.  It's on my to do list and will probably be worked out in a blog post one day. Usually when I'm feeling low, I start exposing flesh in skimpier than normal clothes. That's me regressing. My first real attempt at suicide happened in the 7th grade with a bottle and a half of over the counter pain medication.

I was hospitalized.  My stomach was pumped and I'll never forget the neon green bile that made it's way out of me through the tube that was shoved up my nose.  Ice water was supposed to numb my throat, but it didn't.  I was in intensive care next to an anorexic infant and when her mother discovered why I was there, the curtain around them closed so she could hold her contempt without having to see me. My great grandfather died and I was alone in a hospital bed while most of the family went to Texas for his funeral.  My oldest sister stayed behind and checked on me from time to time. I was in the hospital bed when I got my third period.  It took a few more to realize PMS was real and genuinely going to mess with me as long as I am fertile. It's one of the reasons I loved being pregnant.

Years later there was another attempt or two but nothing quite as serious or dangerous as that first time, and the last attempt was before my second decade.  In hindsight I wasn't quite as motivated to end my life as I was to end that feeling.  Time and experience has taught me that those feelings are cyclical and will pass. It helps to not dwell on the low points, but to change my focus. It helps to curtail the low before it bottoms out, and it hurts to not let other burdens add pressure when I'm already feeling like Atlas with my world on my shoulders. When I'm good, I'm really good.  When I'm low, I'm doing everything I can think of to get better.  I try to find something positive or stick to something physical.  Angry sex used to be my go to. Now I pull weeds.

I gave my firstborn life, and he gave me the baby blues.  I finally sought help when he was about 4 months old.  I remember crying on the phone with my mom and thanking her for not killing me in my infancy.  That was when I realized it wasn't normal. Therapy helped.  Talking to someone that didn't expect me to do it all and do it well was enough.

There was one point when I was on medication a few years back.  I had been dealing with funeral arrangements and cleaning out a hoarder nightmare without the support I needed. It was my father in law's brother and at his request but against my husband's wishes.  It was also at a time when my second child was transitioning from his public school to a nonpublic school because his emotional needs weren't being met and his depression and suicide attempts were hard on me too.  Going off of the meds was difficult.  I was often dizzy and started having irrational panic attacks when my youngest wanted to snuggle with me.  I was glad when things settled into normalcy which is still a constantly shifting landscape. If I can help it I will never go on anti-depressants again.

Last year my marriage ended.  I'm still married, but it's over.  Neither of us has filed but that just speaks of our stubbornness. He decided we were done and it was almost a year before I decided I liked his decision and while I continue to forgive him, I no longer want him back.  I told my doctor in the beginning and she asked if I wanted to go back on meds.  I was quick to say no.  I started seeing a therapist.  I realized I had given her enough of my deductible when she was telling me I was inspiring her.  I already had the skills I needed to get through that phase and I thought she might have been taking notes.

I was setting goals.  I was reading books on finance because it was an area of my life I needed control over.  I started setting 18 month plans and long term goals because Suze Orman and Sheryl Sandberg give great advice.  I learned about Leaning In and it showed me where to focus my energies.

I made improvements to my home.  I created a space that I wanted to be in, putting my degrees in frames and on the walls, along with the kid's certificates and awards.  I didn't for so long because for  long time my husband only had his high school diploma, certificate of baptism, and a picture with other security guards from and old job.  I didn't want to make him feel bad. I was doing the things around the house I had always wanted to do, but I was no longer waiting for someone to do things for me.  When the kids are gone, I'm not in a hurry to get home, but once I am home, I love being in the quiet.

I started buying things I had wanted for myself without waiting for someone to buy them for me.  I love Pandora charms and fresh flowers.  I didn't realize how much I love fresh cut flowers until recently.  He didn't buy them often, and sometimes not at all. I'm still not a fan of baby's breath, but flowers cut in their prime and set on my table for a private show have made that something I now do for myself, along with regular hair cuts and nail appointments. Some things require planning and saving, but I am no longer waiting for something that might not happen and hoping it might be able to happen without planning for it to.

I apply sensory techniques I learned for my autistic sons.  I have a plastic bin filled with playground sand that I stick my feet in on some mornings while sipping coffee on my front porch.  Just an hour ago I was walking on bubble wrap in my bare feet. I keep Play Doh cups in my desk at work and work the dough with my left hand while clicking my mouse with my right.  I have a small bottle of bubbles in my car.  When I get stuck in traffic I blow bubbles.  It is silly.  Other grown ups giggle at me or smile.  I sometimes smile or wink back. Slow intentional breaths required for blowing bubbles also triggers the parasympathetic response. The breathing helps slow down my heart rate and lower my blood pressure.  Most commutes to work include loud music that I sing and dance to in my seat.

This is how I cope when life throws me a curve ball and I've just finished a manicure with wet nails. This is how I face the lemons I was handed and make a gluten free lemon curd tart with spiced whipped cream and stretch what's left into lemonade.

Searching For My Happy Places

Over the last few months I had been part of a few Facebook groups and Christian ministries.  One of the many lessons and gifts they gave me is PIES.  I have PIES days and they make me happy. It's when I focus on myself, and the acronym is about the ways in which we care for ourselves. I was standing for my marriage.  I was a firm believer that what God had joined together, no man, including my husband and myself could put asunder.  I was praying for a reconciliation and trying to be a submissive wife, even though he stopped being my husband. I still believe who I am and how I choose to behave has nothing to do with anyone but me. I was willing to forgive anything he did.  If he could do it, I could forgive it.  I can still forgive him.  Forgiveness is a gift to myself.  Taking him back is no longer something I'm interested in, because it's something I would have done for him, not me. He doesn't want that and I'm learning to accept that I expected too much for him and it's time to fully appreciate that even his very best will never be at a level I deserve, and I don't need to compensate for his deficits when I can be alone and do exceedingly well for myself. I'm starting to see whatever path I'm on as a path where God is leading me, and taking care of me, because with all of the scary bits and uncertainty, I have been okay.  I'm certain I will be okay.

P is for something physical.  It could be a work out but usually it's more like getting a pedicure or my eyebrows waxed. This weekend might include a hair cut. These are things that would usually happen once a year before and now I have a regular lady I look for at the nail salon.  Her license names her Thuy but I call her Anna.  That is her choice.

I is for something Intellectual.  It's about learning or growing mentally.  I have never had a problem with that because I've always loved learning and reading.

E is about doing something to make you emotionally happy.  I've found ways to boost my emotions but it's usually entwined with something intellectual.  This was facing my credit report without guilt or shame and taking on the responsibility of contacting companies to make payment arrangements and clear my name.  The fruit of that came in January when my 1989 Ford Contour quit and my usual plan B's were all unable to support my needs.  I went to a dealership with a smile and a prayer and drove away in my 2016 Toyota Camry.  Realistically it's a lease with an option to buy and a horrible deal, but I like it for what it is and already plan to trade it in next year.  It felt amazing to put my CSULA Alumni license frame on it.  My plates came on my birthday and that was my gift to me.  The day my husband moved out of our home, I pulled out the bathroom sink and vanity and I replaced it myself.  He moved on a Friday and I couldn't use it until Saturday because of all of the leaks, but figuring it out made me happy.  I also swap out my own outlets but needed to call in reinforcements because a 1920's bungalow with knob and tubing electrical ghosts had new wiring which is old wiring and I couldn't see all of the piggy back connections. When in doubt, hire help. The times in the past where I had to remove the toilet to flip it and flush out stuck toys and puzzle pieces used to make me so angry because I didn't want to have to do it myself but I couldn't wait for my husband to get off of work. Now I know I'll have to get it done and it feels good that I can. Changing my exterior light bulbs and facing my fear of heights while on the phone with my sister felt amazing. I get an emotional boost in slapping on a new coat of paint and putting up shelves where I've always wanted them.  I swapped bedrooms with the kids and mounted two televisions one night and that made me happy.  I will soon pick colors and paint my bedroom and I'll have paint under my nails and in my hair and probably in my favorite clothes because I'm not a planner and I probably won't bother to change clothes first.

S is about doing something spiritual.  I pray.  I read my bible.  I listen to worship songs, but the last few days it's been Megan Trainor and Taylor Swift.  They say a lot of what I need to hear right now.

The butterflies go back to this theme of crushing the chrysalis.  Butterflies have also been my happy place . . . seeing butterflies in the unexpected places.  It's getting a skirt from a family member that was thinking of me and it was covered in butterflies.  It's seeing one land on a flower in my yard and watching it lift up into the air with a graceful shift and fall of beautiful wings on warm winds from the Santa Ana and kissed by freesia and honeysuckle.  There are times when I'm home alone and my skin is exposed and tracing the lines of my butterfly tattoo brings me peace and for a while I can just enjoy how great it feels to be me, and in my skin and in the moment when I get to define who I am and nothing else is capable of defining me. For my birthday my mom gave me a silver and natural stone ring from Thailand and pointed out the hearts. They are actually butterflies. The ring is huge and not typical of the daintier rings I prefer but I love it.

It's been nearly two weeks since I took off my wedding band.  It's the longest I've had it in a jewelry box in over 15 years.  Even when my belly filled with life and my fingers were too swollen to wear a ring, I kept it close to my heart on a necklace. I can still see the faint line of memory my finger holds.  When I'm lost in thought, the sensitive pad of my thumb traces the faint callus where even years of that skin to ring connection couldn't ease the friction of such a foreign symbol of unity.  We're no longer united and it seems silly to keep it on.  For the first time taking the ring off wasn't about my husband but about giving myself permission to be gentle to myself and remove the guilt in allowing another person to make me smile.  It was placed on my hand with ceremonial significance and the weight of the decision to never look outside of each other, but came off alone on a quiet Sunday with our kids in a different room from me and now sits in my jewelry box.  It's been through births and deaths. It's seen our love and our fiercest arguments, but now it sits alone, dented and deformed as my finger slowly heals from it's wear.

Pushing Past My Comfort Zones To Reclaim Ownership

There is a beautiful woman I work with that has encouraged me to push past my comfort zones.  She is blonde and petite and if you ever want to know where the good in humanity has gone, spend a few moments with her and she will fill your cup.  She always wears pretty dresses and killer heels.  One day she challenged me to wear a dress.  I did. I decided to keep going. I've decided there are great rewards in pushing past my comfort zone. Dresses aren't really my thing. Not now, but they are slowly making a come back. It's not really in my comfort zone. There's a back story and I have time if you do.

I used wear dresses and short skirts all of the time.  I once wore a short skirt when I worked at the VA Hospital and my supervisor noticed I kept trying to pull it down.  In her classic no-nonsense way, she pointed out that I knew how short it was when I put it on, and she was right.  I knew how short my skirts were.  I knew how high my heels were.  I knew how low cut my tops were or how high I had to reach to expose the skin on my stomach. I knew what looks would encourage a guy and what would intimidate and excite him. I may have really enjoyed working with veterans for personal ulterior motives. I used every ounce of who I was for the attention I craved.  I was like a puppy waiting on her back for a belly rub.

On my birthday right before Valentine's weekend I wore my Home Depot dress to work.  It's a white dress that hugs my curves and lets you know I have boobs. I wear it at Home Depot when I'm feeling low and it lifts me up by the time I leave.  I had a rough birthday this year so I wore it to work and it delivered for me all day. A special gift was a look I received. It was fleeting, but in that moment I felt like I was dessert on a cheat day and I wanted to be tasted.

Being a wife and mother changed a lot of that.  I became aware of what I looked like and it was suddenly covered in shame.  A mother's breasts were for food.  My legs were only for my husband's enjoyment.  Only he should imagine my legs wrapped around him. I covered up my body as it grew from a size 14 to 18 in the first few months we were together.  At my heaviest I was in a 20.  Right now I'm in a 14W. 7 kids later and I'm happy to take the W. I changed my appearance because of the weight gain, but also because of the guilt feeling that I should only be eye candy to my husband. This shame goes beyond him.  I had a problem with high heels before I met him.  With the men I dated before my husband, there was only one that liked how tall I was.  At 5 feet, 6 inches the guys I dated felt I was perfect in flats, but too tall in heels.  My boyfriends ranged from 5'8" to 6'4" and after the 7th grade I stopped caring about how tall someone else was.  Today I wore 5 1/2 inch heels.  I realized how tall I am only matters when I'm about to kiss someone and these lips aren't kissing anyone right now.  Besides, a guy that could dip a girl into a kiss without making her feel like she might be dropped has super powers and should really use that power for good.  How crazy that something like my height would make me acceptable or not, and it had nothing to do with how short the guys I dated were.  Their height didn't matter to me, but mine did to them. My sister loves me and loves shoes. It was a pair she had given me.  I have 14 pairs of heels from her and I've now worn two out in public.  I plan to work them all in at some point. At that height, they aren't really heels anymore. They're hooker shoes.  I looked at myself in the mirror and I loved how my butt and legs looked.  Never mind the lessons from Naomi Wolf and Betty Friedan.  I didn't care that it put my posterior in a ready position. I approved of it and that was healing.  Tomorrow is casual Friday and there will be no heels.  I didn't fall, but my toes didn't like me much by the end of the day.  They're better now.  I had a moment where my super busy crush opened a door for me and remarked at how much taller I looked today.  He didn't follow it with a comment about it being too tall or say anything negative, but he did notice.  In my mind I might have thought that I was still at the perfect height to kiss him but in reality I just said it was the shoes. And there goes that puppy with the belly rubs again.  If you're picturing a puppy piddling all over the place, dial it back a bit.  Not that much, but close.

I went to a 1920's theme wedding about 5 years ago.  I bought a tube of Ruby Woo lipstick from Mac.  It is really red.  It's matte.  I wore it for the wedding but then never put it on again because I felt like it made me look slutty.  I now wear it almost daily.  There's something about it that makes me want to pucker up in the mirror.  I was told more than once by more than one man that lipstick made me unkissable, because they didn't agree with wearing my shade of color.  It should be enough that my wanting a kiss would be worth the sacrifice. Again, I'm not kissing anyone, so it doesn't really matter.

Dresses are making a normal rotation in my wardrobe.  I'm still most comfortable in jeans, bare feet and t-shirts, but I'm liking the feel of a skirt and the look of my posture in heels.  I can't slouch or I risk tottering into a face plant. I like my bare feet on the ground, but I don't want my face there. I'll always enjoy being in nature and just enjoying the sounds.  I like waking up to the sounds of water falling and flowing, birds chirping and the rhythms of peaceful slumber next to me. It's just nice to know that the girl who used to hit the clubs in Hollywood every weekend is still around.  I may have even considered hitting a bar and seeing what happens for long enough to remember I'm not a drinker.  I went to my holiday party at work and had several Shirley Temples with a lime wedge to look like a grown up, but I was sober.  I still had an amazing night.  It's nice to know that I've grown enough to not fall into easy patterns of behavior because I know I deserve better and I have no need to lower my standards for that puppy dog feeling. Besides, I get normal doses from my crush. He just has no clue.  I hope.  I can be pretty transparent.

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.

How Writing Is Healing My Broken Places

  I'm writing again.  It's not good.  I will be the first to admit that.  But words are coming.  For months I associated reading and writing with destroying a marriage.  I couldn't do it.  I'm learning that when you make a choice, the feelings will follow.  I decided to start blogging.

I plan to read this weekend. I plan to get through at least one novel.  Maybe two.  Not Mommy Porn.  I'm not feeling 50 Shades of Mommy issues and domestic violence. I used to love paranormal young adult books.  They are full of angst and not a lot of sex.  Literary sex feels too unrealistic to let me get lost in it.  Maybe true life has me jaded.  I'm okay with that.  It might be Twilight again.  I love making fun of Bella for being too stupid to live.  I might see Edward's jealousy and abusive tones in a new light.  Maybe watching her sleep at night will be a little less creepy.  Then again Vampire Academy has it all and Rose makes me feel empowered. I'm excited.

I had to take a moment to remind myself that there has been too much good in my life to feel that I needed my husband more than I wanted him.  I had to really examine the difference between needs and wants.  It's okay that my wants have changed.  I'm human.  We evolve.  Maybe it's a Pavlovian response. Kick me enough times and I'll stop coming back for more.

I reminded myself that I was a surrogate mother.  I carried my own children, but then carried two singleton boys, and a set of twin girls, totaling 7 babies in 6 pregnancies.  The second child was born in my first quarter as an English major.  I took 8 units starting in September.  I had a human come out of me in October.  In December I got my passing grades.  The last pregnancy included a hospital stay for a month, with a week spent upside down in the Trendelenburg position.  I helped three families grow.  I carried both Jewish and Muslim children and grew as a person because of their parents and the relationships that helped me see beyond what I thought to learn so much more than I thought I knew. I earned six scholarships in two years based on essays and in spite of my GPA.  I took care of the house, kids, husband, and went to school, raising a GPA I spent my adolescence trying to lower. I might not have been great at it all, but I got through it all. That B.A. hanging on my wall feels like proof that I'm a Bad Ass. I have that advocating super gene that mutates and grows in all parents that have kids with special needs.  Press hard enough and we can prove to be dragon slayers. I fought a property management company, a worker's union and a school district and won.  The proof was in the checks they sent to me. I had pulmonary embolisms, drove myself to the hospital and survived.  I've had an amazing dose of grace and favor in the last year and supernatural strength to hold my anger back from bitterness.  It's all balance and positivity.

I'm writing.  I will read.  Maybe one day I'll spend some time with Foucault again.  I will be gentle with myself and accept attention and flirtations with an ounce of seriousness and just enjoy that I'm not the only one that sees how fabulous I am.  I am going to fully enjoy having a crush that has no possibility of a future.  I give myself that permission even though I am still married. I had a day of walking past him in his neatly cut suit and hoping I would catch him looking at me.  He was. It felt great.  At one point we made eye contact while I was making a last push to finish my work and I was a hot mess. I kept running my hands through my hair. I hoped it would make him wonder if that's how I would look after fooling around with me and not that I looked like a mess.  Either way, I'm healing.

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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