It's Enough

Half shrouded in shadow and mist this shy moon shimmers on the rippling waves it pulls in gravitational servitude. My fractured memories are stripped and reshaped with a loving balm of forgiveness. Raw emotions and eyes roughened with tears are the only mark left on this moment and somehow it's enough. I am enough.

Life Matters

I see the pain masked as anger online and there is overwhelming sadness.  It's the rage that comes out and the blind prejudice that allows people I love and admire to forget that someone's child was involved in their stereotypes.  We're losing parents, children, siblings, relatives and friends.  There's no justification, but there is plenty of pain. I won't tell you how to grieve because there is honor in recognizing our collective loss.  Hate doesn't serve as much as hinder your ability to create the change you want to see. I had a consultation with an attorney once and I was asked if the situation I was seeing him about was racially motivated.  It wasn't.  It was just a case of someone needing to see that they did something wrong. There's blissful ignorance in being raised where and when I was.  I couldn't see race unless it was right in front of me.  I heard about the KKK being in Glendale and San Diego, but I didn't see it growing up.  There was racial tension  but it wasn't black and white in my youth. I once visited a courthouse in Texas where two water fountains still stood.  The label for who could use it was long gone, but the condition of the fountains made it plain to see which was once only for colored.  My Dad could tell you about the fear he grew up in and specific people lost to racial hate as he was growing up.  We were all kids perpetuating someone else's hate.  Well, we were all kids.  I straddle too many identities to claim ownership of a racial bias and be proud of it.  I try to be open to diversity because it's who I am.

For a while after the latest major shooting when the police were a constant presence in my son's school, I would intentionally take my son to the officers and make sure he saw me say, "thank you for your service."  Anyone in uniform close enough to appreciate gets a moment of my time, and firefighters get my gratitude for the firehouse that saved Kid3 from a near drowning and I do this no matter who is with me or watching. My boys have seen me buy the coffee the officers behind me ordered in the Starbuck's drive-thru.  I hope to teach my kids that it's best to follow the rules and guidelines that keep them away from the focus of police, but that in an emergency, they are the ones we turn to.  In peace, they are the ones that used to hand out baseball cards and stickers.  They ran the drug intervention program that encouraged us to D.A.R.E. to say No to Drugs.

Yes, there are stereotypes and it would appear that these people have become targets.  A critical eye would show you that there have been other people abused but rather than looking black, they look like people with mental illness and drug dependencies.  You can't see it because we've been gaslighted by the media.  They cover what they want us to see because sensationalized news brings in viewers that will spike marketing revenue.  It's all senseless tragedy, but there is value in the way we are shown what they want us to see and they know how to monetize it. That's why most reporters would make great fantasy material if you need more than a one-handed read for satisfaction.

My children were surprised that they are black too.  One summer of sunbathing and Kid3 was shocked that Kid2 looked black.  His Dad pointed to me and it suddenly clicked but my kids were all awestruck by the idea that they are black because I am. Their Dad is Irish and Dutch and his family name is the name of the River that Shakespeare was born on.  My family is also mixed.  My mother is from the countryside in Thailand.  My Dad has a heritage that dilutes his African blood into Mexico and Ireland with Choctaw Indian tribes and Sephardic Jewish traditions and was born in Houston.  His skin looks black but when my Grandmother passed, she looked caucasian from spending so much time out of the sun.  As a surrogate I gave birth to Muslim arab girls with fair skin and dark hair, a British American blue eyed and blonde haired boy and a sandy haired, fair skinned Jew.  I am mother and daughter and friend to so many nations that I can't see this problem as entirely racial.

It's about power and fear and the fact that policemen were made of murderers. The power we bestow is not a pressure that everyone is meant to be burdened by.  Ben Parker once told his nephew that "with great power comes great responsibility." I believe that. (It may or may not be a Spider Man reference.)It's not in the guns we give but the expectations we have. We expect our officers to put their lives in danger and to rescue us in times when our worlds are collapsing.  They are expected to be hero and therapist and defender.  They see the vilest capabilities of humanity and are expected to remain level headed because we expect more from them than we would from ourselves.  I can't justify the terrible loss that our nation suffers with every unfortunate and senseless loss of life, but I will not vilify every single human being that chooses duty beyond my capabilities and comprehension.  It's not every officer.  It's not race as much as power and the ability to dominate another human being while facing real and irrational fears.

I live in the United States.  We're not used to people being beheaded or street bombs killing large groups.  While we have soldiers serving outside of our country, we are shielded from the realities of war and the scars that live underneath the surface for our soldiers.  Every single one matters because this is not our normal.  This is not acceptable.

Black lives matter.  So do female lives, and gay lives.  So do the lives of the mentally disabled and the lives of the people that end up on a dangerous street without street knowledge.  Your neighbor's lives matter. The kids that could use intervention instead of your fear . . . their lives also matter.  Police and military lives matter.  Homeless lives matter.  Life matters.

It's not enough to march and yell and intimidate others to get our point across.  Change starts in the individual and the learning by example we give our children.  Learn to love what you don't understand and the fear and hate will have nowhere to go.

Gaslighting

I'm not a therapist qualified to explain gaslighting other than the dialogues that I've reexamined in my own life in the past year and a half.  A great starting place is here. A better than I care to write explanation comes from here where I borrowed:

The term “gaslighting” comes from the 1944 film, ‘Gaslight,’ where a young woman named Paula falls madly in love with her suitor, Gregory. After an intense romance that led to marriage, Gregory begins to display pathological narcissistic behavior, leading to Paula’s insanity. In one scene, Gregory tampers with the gas light in the attic, causing the house lights to dim. When Paula mentions hearing footsteps in the attic and the lights dimming, Gregory tells her it’s completely her imagination, making Paula question her judgment. Gaslighting is now the widely used term for when a narcissist truly messes with your head.

My friends didn't approve.  They wanted someone handsome and smart and someone that treated me well and I couldn't see that he wasn't all of this.  I had love in my eyes and I couldn't see.  I had to protect him from their jokes and their mean because I wanted him to be okay and they wouldn't have let me keep him.

There was a time when my opinions were met with defiance.  I saw it was yes and he insisted it was no.  I said it was this way and he thought my eyes were tired, I couldn't see in the lighting we had.  It was no and it was always no, but I saw yes and said it was no to stop fighting. I hate fighting and I'd rather be wrong.

Seasons shifted and friends melted away.  He didn't like who I was with her and she was crass and loud and didn't like how he treated me, but this was normal, right?  Choosing the one that kisses you and letting go of your friends that know you and see the energy shift in you that came from him is what you do when your love is all consuming. This is what it looks like when you feel love . . . Right?

I wanted a night out with friends and we were meeting at a bar, but he insisted he should drive me and wait outside the bar with our kids in the family van until I was done.  I was being selfish and he was trying to protect me from myself.  It wasn't control because he was so upset about having to do it. Even if I didn't want him to.  That's normal, right? It's what a caring husband is supposed to do, isn't it?

Friends told me he was flirting but he was always a flirt.  He got it from his grandfather and I should accept that because that's who he was.  He once got in a fist fight with a complete stranger outside of our apartment building because he got a smile that seemed to say I was doing what he was.  I was covered in puke and running after baby needs and at a loss because I had no idea how to be a mom, but he thought I had energy or desire for anyone other than him because I was so tired, too tired to look at him.  Or anyone.

I started to shift around him afraid of his anger or worse, his sadness. My actions made him happy or sad. I made him do things and say things so I behaved in his way as best I could, chafing at what was right because I felt it was wrong. I stopped questioning if it was right because it didn't matter anymore.

I had errands to run . . . Target and groceries and he was home with kids, but an hour was enough and at that point he would text me for my location and when would I be home because he needed a break to run and go play and be with friends and I needed to be home with the kids because my time to run errands was a freedom he couldn't afford.

I would lose myself in a book or two or three in a day.  I would escape in another world so I wouldn't have to see what was in mine.  I would write until he would look for my words and use them against me.  He took the part of me that felt safety and freedom in crafting worlds of fiction and he made me feel that being a bookish broad took my marriage from me.

Last week was:

"For the record, I really  fucking hate you."

" . . . pussy that reflects badly on you is the open gape between your crusty thighs. I hope you catch something from all the whoring around you do and die so I can be rid of your skanky ass once and for all! Try not to knee yourself in the saggy tits!"

Joke's on him, I have no sex.

"Not the good Christian abandoned wife you pretended to be . . . Glad people finally get to see your true colors."

Yes.  I'm finally writing!

It's been a year of this including text messages from his "special friend." They both think I'm physically unattractive and a bad mother. It's been a dialogue I have no control over and a trust that is so broken that my need to control is fueled by this underlying fear and I'm faced with my inability to take risks.

My internal dialogue is I'm a single mom to autistic kids and that is a bag of rotten tomatoes no one will seriously want to invest in.  If he does, I worry he wants to victimize my kids.  So there is space and distance. And fear and I'm not looking for serious relationship material.  I can't have that right now.  It's not allowed and I won't allow it.

But there has been space.  There has been enough distance to see that my life and who I am has nothing to do with what he told me.  The shades of his lies still color my view and I will always wonder if I'm seen the way he saw me.  I will be insecure until I remember I don't have to be. It creeps out in new conversations and I look like there is a compliment I'm trying to find, but it's really a moment of forgetting who I am.

Single Mom to Boys

Waking up to a full house with small fry snuggles and the pop of a toy gun means I stumble out of bed with sore muscles from too much walking to amuse ourselves and prepare to short order cook through breakfast.  Country fried potatoes, with ham, with no ham, and less ham, Mom.  One wants eggs, the other says no, the third thinks I'm crazy for asking what I should remember.  French toast and syrup but why are there eggs? No, not that, anything but French toast with eggs in it. My child is antsy and skates through the house.  My care is still in bed and I mumble about pads.  He throws an empty beer can down the steps into the back yard and I tell him to go put it where it belongs.  I didn't mention he should take off the skates because I thought self-preservation would tell him for me.  He descends and toward the bottom he falls and he's landed on his stomach, crying but not moving as I'm covered in soapy suds.  Water is turned off and my hands are wiped on my sleep shirt as I run to his side unconcerned about how exposed I might be or the neighbor that said he wants to see what I'm showing.  I help him up and get the skates off but force him to walk up the steps as much as he can.  I need to see if he is physically able or if a broken bone won't allow such movement because it's a knee that was injured and scraped and brings tears.

In the kitchen he's passed my test and I reach down and lift him and cradle him to my chest.  The mom that claims no upper body strength . . . The woman that is too old to carry her 9 year old.  I carry him to the couch and set the pillows up to elevate the source of his pain, and head to the kitchen for a bag of frozen corn because sensory integration dysfunction is what we've called the destruction of all of the gel ice packs I no longer buy.  "Mom, I'm thirsty and hungry."  He didn't want my short ordered breakfast but he wants food and he wants me to get it because Mom's attention makes the pain go away.   He settles on leftover tri-tip for breakfast and I hope this morning isn't counted in the Mom of the year award nominations.  

I'm running around to pick up dishes and laundry and scrub around the toilet where aim was more like point and shoot and adjust pillows and refill drinks and sit long enough to be noticed and asked for a snack and then get rewarded in hugs and exposed cheeks that I cover in kisses.

I want to go to Mom's house for food and love and it's a day where I need my Mommy.  The kids are entertained by technology and have no interest in going.  "We'll only be there a little while." And I get a sulk and sadness and dejection.  I remember it's his holiday too and he's old enough to be home alone.  I leave him for a short run and we head to grandma's house long enough to show off my latest tattoo and tell the family I finally shot back at the ex who hates me and wishes me dead.  I'm growing in ways they can applaud and I'm given hugs and healing.

We're home and they're hungry because they couldn't possibly eat from the table loaded with fresh fruits, vegetables, barbecue ribs, chicken and thai foods at Grandma's house.  That would be too easy.  I'm home and step into the slow progression of my knife chopping through pounds of spuds for homemade mashed potatoes and the dredging of cubed steaks in flour and buttermilk and flour again, careful that they don't see it's gluten free for me, or they might not eat it.  I use too much sausage in my country gravy and know at least half of it will end up in the trash because Kid1 doesn't like gravy. Kid3 wants to watch the neighbors with their fireworks while I'm frying up dinner and I say no.  He screams and cries and slams doors and hides underneath bunk beds.  And I say no.  He rallies and reasons and screams in fits and I start singing just as loudly Cosette, then Eponine's lines in a Heart Full of Love, because performance holds the rage that is simmering because I've had enough.  The song ends and I offer another no, but he thinks his rage might win me over because he can't see past the calm I force.  He says no, and I remind him of the videos on Instagram that prove he doesn't know how close is too close to fire and that he didn't see the wisdom in taking off his skates before descending a flight of stairs.  He goes off to cry and I know I've hurt his feelings.  I care.

I give it time for him to cry and for myself to calm the rage before I find and apologize to him.  He rages through his hurt and blame, and I accept that he needs to explain his feelings.  Kid2 comes in to tell me how much he hates summer school and that I am a horrible parent for making him go to boring summer school because he hates learning and exercise and I ask him to leave the room so that I can cry.  I know this trick is dirty, but I needed the moment to not be yelled at.  I fake a cry that is a slow whimper of defeat while I watch animal videos on Facebook and try not to laugh and Kid3 climbs out from under the bed to wrap his little arms around me.  I open my arms and shield my tear free face from him and hold and kiss him and he apologizes for the anger he gave me.

Morning comes and Kid2 reminds me he doesn't want to go to summer school. He stomps and slams doors and yells that he doesn't want to go and I know I can't have a day where I have to go to the school and calm him down, so he is allowed to go to Grandma's house and Kid1 flips me off because he wants me to be a firm parent with Kid2.  A couple of hours later he's asking for minutes to be added to his phone and I give them to him because I had already offered the day before.

It's Wednesday.  I'm grateful for work and grateful that it's Dad's turn.  I'm aware of the guilt I have.  The guilt that they have to house hop when they don't like it.  Guilt that they have two houses of not enough because two houses are struggling on a single income and they are stuck in the middle.  I know the rage I quiet when facing the ocean and watching a sunset and feel I am their ocean and the abyss needs to house their rage in a safe place.

They Come First

The beauty is in its simplicity. I try to be the mom my boys deserve. That means I do what I would have wanted my mom to do. I try to instill in them what I have had to learn for myself.

I get one shot.

Either they will love me and no other woman can be me, or they'll hate me and want better, but I can always make a choice that will tilt the odds and the gamble is for fewer therapy hours because of my choices.

They come first.

Amusement Parks

Every summer when I was a kid was spent at amusement parks.  We went to Six Flags Magic Mountain the most and Knott's Berry Farm came in second.  There's sweet nostalgia in the biting smell of chlorinated water, the burn of heated oil frying funnel cakes, and the clank and roar of a roller coaster loaded with excitement. We would go in groups and make sure we were able to ride together, asking strangers to ride ahead of us. We were in large groups, playing hothands or slide in line as we would laugh and gossip and talk about cute boys.  Sometimes we would split off to ride different rides, and meet up for lunch at a designated spot and time.  It was an endless day of rides, plotting our day in a progression across the park, acre by acre, ride by ride, greasy treat followed by too much sugar.  And water rides.  The water rides were a morning, noon and night treat because in the morning and at night the lines were short, and at midday, we talked and got sunburns and didn't mind waiting two hours for a ride that lasted less than five minutes.

"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed." - Carl Jung

I was given about $40 and I had to really consider if food was more important than an airbrushed shirt.  All day in line with a cute boy and hand holding was different from back in the real world where we had friends that watched closer and had opinions.  I still remember a ride on Free Fall at Magic Mountain with a cute boy holding my hand and giving it a squeeze right when we dropped and for the first time really yelling on a ride because I generally smile and enjoy the drops and turns. He was flipping his baseball cap on and off his head with the visor and his hair was slicked back like a helmet. His name was Manny.  He changed the experience that day. 

"She was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment with which to appear before the world."—Kate Chopin, "The Awakening"

Yesterday I took kid3 to Knott's Berry Farm.  His older brothers were at Anime Expo with their Dad so we had a mother and son date weekend. Age has done some wicked things to my body and things feel different.  They look different.  There was a determination to make the day one where my son could just be a kid.  It happened on our way into the park when I was telling him that my last trip was before I had kids when I went with my Dad.  Knott's honors our Veterans with free admission around Veteran's Day.  My son wanted to go then so it wouldn't cost me.  It was then that I realized he was so concerned about having enough that I wasn't allowing him to be a child.  He was worried about money. Before we set foot inside the park, I looked him in the eye and said the only thing he needed to worry about is how much fun he could have, and keeping me from puking.  He kept having moments of making a request, and then covering it up by saying he was just kidding.  I spent the day telling him that his thoughts, opinions and desires are important, and he doesn't have to be kidding, but any requests that had to be denied came with a reason that even he could validate.  If at anytime he had to go to the bathroom, was hungry or thirsty or wanted to see or do something, it was up to him.  There were limits, such as climbing on railings, but I wanted to stress how important his childlike innocence is to me.  Figuring out being a single mom is stressful and I didn't see until that moment how much it was weighing on him as well.

"I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become." - Carl Jung

My stomach was different when I was younger.  It was stronger.  I was able to ride anything and shake it off to ride the next big coaster by the time we got through the long line. I loved the loops and riding backward. Now I don't.  Now the loops and spirals make me want to vomit.  Don't get me wrong, I've never been able to stomach a Merry-Go-Round.  I get dizzy.  But rides that twist and spin tend to make me want to vomit now so I avoid most rides that are not wooden coasters.

"Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people." -Carl  Jung

There were many rides where I stood in line with my son and waited with him, only to step through and wait for him to ride alone.  Or I asked if others would ride with him.  It wouldn't have been fun for either of us if I got sick and we had to sit the whole day.  I know my limits. Mind you, only a few weeks ago, I got car sick in someone else's car.  (It might have just been a bad date and a reaction to him.) Wooden roller coasters are made for steep climbs and tremendous drops.  I love the weave back and forth. While Ghostrider made me burp like it was a Beerfest, I didn't want to hurl.  I was smiling throughout the ride.

At one point there was a family behind us complaining about the long wait. My child started to grumble.  I pulled my son into a hug and told him the long wait wouldn't get any shorter if we started complaining and it just means more time to hang out and give him my full attention. Then we started tickling each other. 

"Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate." - Carl Jung

My son loves terrifying rides.  He feels fear and excitement and will talk about being afraid, but he's also very determined to ride in spite of his fear.  This is bravery and I am so proud of him.  At one point his determination made a grown woman suck it up and go on a ride she almost backed out of. 

Throughout the day, I was declining rides because of a fear of being sick.  It's a solid concern considering how consistently I get sick, but still, I kept chickening out.  The times I did get on rides, I laughed and screamed in joyful exhilaration while my son rode next to me with terror etched in his 9 year old features.  At the end of the ride, he was happy and excited and wanted to ride again while I was happy during the ride, and sick afterward.  I'm not sure what it means yet, but it means something, right?

"Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes." -Carl  Jung

Dating Advice

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

You need someone on your level.

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

Some things should only be admired from a distance.

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

Don't date at work.

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

Set your rules and don't break them.

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

Don't lead anyone on.

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

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

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

Don't you know spooning leads to forking?

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

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

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

Baby steps, Ma.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For fun: the grocery store produce section.

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

"Are these melons ripe?"

"How do you pick your papayas?"

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

Who I am . . .

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

I am mixed.

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

I am a daughter.

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

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

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

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

I am a sister. 

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

I am a mom and giver of life.

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

I am a welfare mom. 

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

I am a friend. 

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

I am literate. 

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

I am brave. 

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

I am married but I am not a wife.

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

I am cisgendered.  

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

I am Christian.

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

I am a fighter. 

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

I am an autism mom. 

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

I am a singer.  

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

I am a blogger. 

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

I am a changeling. 

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

Wild Hairs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Practice Like You Mean It

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

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

Fiction: Huntress on the Prowl

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Open Wounds

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

tang of salted copper pennies

Bite of flesh digging deeper in rage lust vengeance

I want to feel what I need to inflict

Anger angst apathetic vices

you are full of fire and cold embering flames

expired heat and disgust replaced desire

Wrath lashes through dull warm beer haze

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

Washing hands clean

scalding boil of lye and fat

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

leaving gone and still going

And I call your name one last time

Pussy

Unringing the Bell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Siri Call

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

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

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

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

My moments and emotions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's My Age Again?

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

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

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

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

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

Shenanigans, Debauchery and a Desire Review

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

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

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

It was looking at it all and still feeling emptiness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anxious Moments

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

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

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

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

Making Inferences

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

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

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

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

My Second Grunion Run

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

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

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

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

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

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