When There Are No Words

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

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

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

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

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

Control Freaking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being a Woman

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

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

What does it mean to be a transgendered woman?

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

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

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

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

Yikes.  I'm that person.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pregnancy memories.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gay Bar and Hookah Lounge Shenanigans

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Handle With Care

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

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

Loneliness is not what being fragile is about.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, to recap . . .

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

I feel like a failure and it feels bad.

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

I'm fragile.

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

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

Cut Flowers

Broken stride halted by solitary beauty

She was standing in a crowd so quietly unassuming

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

There was strength in her posing

and tenderness in her velvet feel

Coloring delicately solely for me

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

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

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

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

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

Her only need in this limited life to make me smile

Would You Rather. . ?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Look

There's so much in his look. A glance

A moment

A millenia

Captivated by a smile and imprisoned in his eyes.

I'm caressed

Undressed

Set ablaze and released

His searing stare guts and cleans me out

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

Brotherly Love

My boys are boys.  They fight and yell and curse each other out.  They are affectionate and loving and sensitive and tender.  They protect each other but they are also terrifyingly violent with each other. They're boys and they're brothers and all three are my sons. Kid1 was a surprise that came with joy and excitement.  Every time I puked while pregnant, I laughed.  It didn't happen often, but really warm gatorade would make anyone vomit, and I just learned to steer clear of whole milk, but 2% was just fine.  I celebrated the stretch marks that were his permanent gift to my body.  I was altered by him in so many ways from the girl that lived for attention in short dresses and only worried about making sure I had my three packs of cigarettes a day and enough boys in rotation throughout the week to buy me drinks.  A week before his first birthday, I found out we were having Kid2.

During my second pregnancy, I would place Kid1's hand on my belly to feel Kid2 move and kick.  I'd also pick out pictures in magazines or point at the television anytime I saw a pregnant woman.  I would point at the belly we saw, then mine and say,"baby." When he was 18 months old we went to the hospital and in my hospital bag was a toy packed for Kid1 from Kid2 because he needed a toy to keep him busy while he was too little to be played with.  When we came home, Kid1 was taught that Kid2 was his baby and we all had to be gentle with him and care for him.

With Kid3, we had a 3 year gap, but the older two were taught the same way.  Earlier this year I heard Kid2 (at 13 years old) tell Kid3 (9), "you were created so I could love you." In that moment I knew they would be okay.

With my first surrogate pregnancy, I didn't mention much at all.  I kept the kicks and wiggles to myself and just enjoyed what it felt like to have life so fully inside of me.  The hospital stay was odd for them, but I came home to them filled with hormones that directed my happy bonding compulsions at them.  It was the same with the second surrogate pregnancy, but with the third, they were older and Kid1 was upset that the girls I carried wouldn't be ours.  He likes babies and would like a sister.  I'm not looking to start that kind of adventure but that might be one of the perks of divorce.  He has a Dad that might.

Tonight, there was fighting and playing.  And more fighting and name calling.  I finally got them to stop.  I explained that I love them all and it hurts me when they say things like that about each other.  I explained that they never hear me say bad things about their Dad because I know it would hurt them.  I explained that the same hurt they would feel is the same hurt I feel whenever they say things like, "are you on team pussy now?" (I admire their creativity.) It took about 3 reminders but they were better about treating each other with love.

There was singing today.  My boys sang with me, as we belted it out to Lady Gaga.  They laughed and explored with oobleck (cornstarch and water and super fun). They played Minecraft together and helped each other scoop boba into their glasses for homemade Thai iced tea.  These brothers are everything to me and through their experience, I am unlearning a lifetime of what I thought it was to be a man.  They are sweet and sensitive.  They are caring and compassionate.  They love children and are willing to step beyond what they see and tap into their beliefs and how those beliefs inform their choices.  They remind me that motherhood is amazing.

These Hands

These hands have dug in fresh soil and planted tiny seeds.  They have watered thirsty seedlings, weakened by the sun and pulled weeds determined to steal their care.  They have scrubbed bare feet that wiggled in freshly turned soil and crusted in dry earth and chipped nail polish. These hands have snipped fresh herbs from the garden because there is magic in them.  They picked out ingredients in the grocery store.  They've washed and chopped and seasoned to taste . . . They've crafted a meal laced with love and a little booze.  My sons ate their food in silent tribute without a moment to savor the flavors these hands carefully balanced.

These hands have prepared needles and plunged them deep in flesh during seven IVF cycles to bring life to families I don't see anymore.  They have carefully measured and filled hormones in oil and given self administered scar tissue and knots under flesh that wasn't prepared to house the medications that forced a life where there wasn't one.

These hands have cradled a growing womb, caressing and loving children that were loved profoundly from the moment their existence was known.  They have tapped back at kicking limbs and pushed back on rolling turns as a growing child sought comfort in confined spaces.

These hands have changed diapers that painted on canvases of infant backs and ruined onesies with mustard consistency.  They have caught vomit before the projectile ruined furniture. They have burped babies that couldn't do it on their own with a spit up payment of spoiled milk.  They have spoon fed baby food and fought exploring tongues that pushed their food out instead of helping them swallow it down.  These hands have cooled burning flesh in cooled bath water while being covered in the smell of sickness breathed out by weak children like dragon's fire.

These hands have held children close to my heart, in unconditional love and loving abandon.  They have rocked them to sleep and brushed their hair with gentle back scratches.  They have held open books as voices were changed between characters.  They have held little hands and taught them how to knead dough that's baked into the sweet aromas of yeast and sugar.  They have taken pictures of children singing and laughing and learning through exploration.  They have felt the soft and tender flesh of a newborn.

These hands have written love letters and careful explications.  They have used pen and pencil, keyboards, and crayons to tell the secrets of my heart.  They have erased and backspaced and scrapped the old to make room for something new.  They have filled out applications and completed documentation because autism moms have to paper tiger through life.

These hands have held other hands.  They have found solace in connection and traced the lines of faces meant to be memorized visually, and tactilely.  They have rested on firm chests with racing hearts.  They have tickled and teased through hair and on dampened skin, sticky with the wonders of a life in motion.  They have felt the sensations of pleasure I've known in the touch of another and they have granted sensory joy in careful exploration.

These hands can use a hammer and drill.  They have dug holes and laid new plumbing. They have repaired electrical outlets. They have replaced vanities and changed tires.  They have picked up dead animals and nurtured small ones to health.  They have scrubbed floors on hands and knees and washed dishes that no one ever notices.  They scrub toilets and bathtubs and take the trash out.  They carry large bags of dog food and cat food and bottled water because I don't trust my pipes.

These hands have been manicured and cared for.  They have been dried out by frequent washing in scalding water.  They have been massaged and neglected.  They have known callouses from the uneven bars in gymnastics, and weights, and garden tools with yard work and bare hands.  My knuckles have known the sting of flesh punched off of bony fingers.  They have healed into hardened scabs that eventually lost all memory of their trauma.  They have soothed me when stressed by picking at scabs or with bitten nails, and picked at cuticles.  These hands are sensitive.  These hands are mine.

Living in the Moment

Being in the moment is something I intentionally work for.  It shouldn't be work, but it often is.  I can tell when I'm not in the moment because time is never doing what I want it to.  If time seems to slow to a crawl, I'm living in the past.  I'm looking at what was and trying to remember it presently and boredom and apathy settle in and around me.  When time is flying and I don't have enough of it, I'm living in the future.  I have too many things to do and too little time to accomplish my goals.  It's not enough time to read or write or tackle my latest project.  I have some deadline that hovers and obscures this moment right now.  I worry about some imagined deficit and have a hard time remembering that I usually have exactly what I need and it falls into my lap at precisely the moment I need it to. I had a brief conversation this afternoon and the statement I heard was a simple reflection about the difficulty of living in the present.  My response was about my daily goal to live in the moment and "BE."  I try to be and do epic shit daily.  It's a happy place to find yourself in.

Once I started heading home, I really had to think about what that means, because as I was driving home, I wasn't in the moment. I wasn't present in traffic.  I wasn't aware of the car I was in or the music on the radio.  My thoughts were on the back patio at work with my favorite sweater holding me and the muted heat of the sun barely caressing bare flesh.  I was observing soccer players in the nearby park and appreciating the beauty of the mountains and superficial conversation with company I always enjoy.

I started to wonder what being in the moment is really about.  Is it actually a subjective concept?  I mean, I was at home, with a dog begging for belly rubs and a cat hoping for a canned meal treat and my mind was reliving and exploring what happened an hour prior.  Was that my moment though? I was physically with my dog and cat, and my kids were gaming loudly inside, but the moment I held onto was being lived again in my head.  I was able to savor and hold the memory and I didn't rush through it.  I didn't feel it slipping by too slowly.  I was present in the moment of a memory and that memory was a moment of peace and joy.

In the last few days I've been flirting here and there.  It's been silly banter or lingering looks and I can appreciate it for a moment, but any longer and I look away.  I'm really not interested.  I'm playing with online dating but I'm not taking it too seriously.  It's really become an audition to see if there might be someone beautiful enough to give up my alone time but I know the answer before I even swipe.  I even let my cat swipe for a while in an effort to be that lonely cat lady.  True story.  I recognize it as a moment with a stranger that highlights other moments I've had in recent months, and those moments are too tempting to fall into with tender affection and slow observation.  In those moments, I'm in the past, but that past still brings a bright joy to the present and those moments are my present moments because of the joy assigned to them.

It's not a moment in the past where I am lost to a dream that I'm trying to change.  I didn't carry expectations that became resentments.  It's not a future I want to create.  It's a moment in the past that still shades my present in rosy tones and floral scents.  It's stepping back into a moment that makes the present moment beautiful and hopeful.  The moment can be subjective.  Right now could be right this day, or right this month, and I imagine it can be the beauty of a good year.  It's a moment.  It's now.  Now can last as long as we allow it to.

And I'm still wondering how long right now is supposed to last.

Love Bombs

It feels amazing when a love bomb is dropped all over you.  It shatters the inner dialogue that claims you are not enough, or worthy, or that you need to be more than you see in the mirror. You are seen intimately.  The call of your heart is heard and held and it resonates with meanings that are understood. You are given such a pure vision of how you present yourself that there is no denying that you are a beautiful being, full of light and possibility.  You are validated and shown that there is value in who you are as you are, without further expectation of who you should be based on a value system you are never expected to understand.  Love bombs are epic. I love your capacity to love.

I love your ability to see beauty through the ashes.

I acknowledge your pain and validate your anguish.

I love watching you dance and hearing you sing.

I love your excitement over good food.

I love your spontaneity.

I love your caregiving nature and servant's heart.

I appreciate your generosity.

I see you as beautiful and feel your power and authority over your life.

I acknowledge your accountability.

I appreciate your vulnerability.

I admire your ability to internalize criticisms as a catalyst for intentional change.

You amaze me.

Yesterday I was committed to being gentle with myself.  Still fractured from behavior I'm not proud of, I was seen and given a couple of objective views of the situation.  I was given an explosion of unconditional love. I was given love in my weakness and in behavior I regretted.

I love bombed all over myself. It was a Thursday night and while I usually take Thursdays as a day to feel small near the ocean, I used it as a date night for myself.  Usually that's a weekend thing.  I'm very comfortable with sitting at a table alone in a crowded restaurant, on any night, but usually Wednesday or Thursdays are about feeling small because I need that perspective often.  I took my time walking through stores and picking up items that interested me. I was intentional with my epicurean endeavors. I treated myself to dinner and walked through a bookstore, enjoying the weight and smell of the books I picked up.  I later went home and stared longingly and lovingly at myself in a mirror. I left hand written notes to myself and left them in places where I would find them later because I will need the reminder of my awesome later.  I tend to forget.

I realized that I am so in tune with the desires of my heart and no one can love me as deeply as I do. I took a selfie to remember how great that felt. Tonight, with my sons home, I'm committed to being silly.  I'm committed to laughing at myself and really appreciating what this feels like.  The love explosion all over myself is what is driving my night and my focus this weekend is to teach my boys that same appreciation.

There will be silliness and shenanigans.

Excuse me

He said excuse me as I was walking by.  Shoulder to shoulder and our bodies shifted toward each other. 

There's something amazing about a smile that lingers and fades into intensity. 

His was a gaze filled with passionate promise. 

I forgot everything. 

Everything that should have mattered melted at his smile. 

I remembered the hint of a feeling that stirs from a lifetime ago because I was looking from past to future, held only by a smile in our moment. 

I remembered everything and that moment held the promise of a million tomorrows. 

Then I looked away briefly. 

And the moment was gone. 

Unreleased Offenses

Last night my really nasty side came out and it was messy and ugly and all over someone so sweet, that it really was a violation on my part.  I was in a place that was so uncomfortable that in noticing where I was, I noticed what I was doing, and the guilt and shame are still all over me.  This is about releasing offenses so I don't arm myself with them to injure another person. There are some things in life that feel huge and out of control and I find ways in which to feel like I have some control because that makes it easier for me to accept and navigate messy feelings.  When I was a surrogate, it was my control over my contracts and records that helped the out of control areas.  I agreed to everything in the contracts, so when IVF cycles and hormones made me feel crazy, I had something concrete to focus on.  There is so much that intended parents have to release in terms of pride and trust and I wanted to reciprocate that in having them choose obstetric doctors.  When my ex left, he took all of my contracts because of some imagined support battle in the divorce that hasn't happened.  In that moment when all of my records and photocopied checks were gone, I felt powerless and violated.  I felt like the signatures that held so much trust and hope were taken from me.  I have to release that.

In the last year I have gotten several text messages from my ex that looked like screenshots of our conversations that he was sending to someone else.  Very likely he was sharing my worst side with the woman that replaced me in his life.  What it felt like was a huge betrayal of trust, and it was done repeatedly.  It's still done, but I've gotten to a place where I ignore it because there is nothing I can do about it.  It's a violation, but I'm powerless and so I release the idea that I should have power over it.

Yesterday we were together to go over child support.  I was in a room full of people that were forced to share a room with their ex-lovers.  It was tense and comforting all at once. We started discussing our incomes and it became clear to me that I take a lot better care of myself than he did.  He noticed the ways in which I was doing well, and I thanked him for reading my blog.  He insisted people from the church family we shared will send him text messages to show him what I'm up to.  I stepped over that betrayal in that moment. I appreciated the fact that I have no idea of what he's up to unless our sons complain about something, and I was grateful that I no longer feel the need to spy on him.  I'm usually busy being happy with the epic things that fall in my path.

When the calculations were made, the child support payments he would have had to make were so small I decided to let it go.  In that moment I felt peace and saw it as extending grace.  I looked out the window and could see the building I worked at in January.  I remembered a few happy encounters in the kitchen with a slow smile and amazing pectorals and the view that so much peace was found in.  I asked if the attorney could see the ocean from there and he said he could on some days and it was a moment of respite from the tension of the morning.  I was smiling.  I glanced over and saw my ex had angled his phone and was recording me.  I smiled and said hello to his camera, and I was amused for a while.  It's not the first time I've been an unaware subject for someone's private viewing and I'm sure it won't be a last time.  I have caught enough camera phones directed at me that it doesn't bother me for the most part. This age of smartphones brings out the particularly creepy.  I didn't feel violated by this at first.

I was on my way to work and singing happily and even caught the food truck at lunch for my usual breakfast (2 eggs over medium, bacon, avocado and tomatoes, with cheese sometimes).  It was a good moment.  As the day wore on, Facebook reminded me it was 16 years to the day that he proposed to me.  My internal harpie started reminding me of the ways I was promised growing old together.  I started thinking about our trust and how utterly it was destroyed.  It was so much emotion, I couldn't keep it off of my face, and people I work with noticed.  I felt so violated in the picture or video that was taken of me.  I became a sideshow of someone else's design and the peace I felt was taken and mocked.

After work I saw a smile. It was beautiful and carefree.  It followed me home and I later used the beauty of that smile to reflect on my pain and sorrow and it became a source of frustration and highlighted a rare lonely moment.  I wanted to hurt the beautiful thing I saw and when I realized what I was doing and why, the guilt and shame tortured me through sleep and disquieted dreams.  This morning I've been searching for self compassion because there's not much more to offer outside of an apology to make up for what I did.

Old patterns emerge when I'm feeling especially low and I've had it suggested enough recently that the idea of getting lost in someone else's happy trail made me consider online dating again.  I'm not sure how fully I'm jumping into this. I went over my dating tips and the dating tips from my friends, and it doesn't sound as amazing a distraction anymore. I'm releasing these offenses and broken agreements that keep suckerpunching me at random times.  I will find grace when I'm not expecting it and look for beauty because I always find it.  But there should definitely be some shenanigans tonight.  There will be stretching out of my comfort zone.  There may even be another dress involved.

My Self Loving Journey

I had a conversation with a desk mate today that keeps echoing and resounding softly every few hours.  It won't give me space, and that usually means I have thoughts to explore.  We talked about my walk again. She laughs every time she sees me walk, and she calls it a model walk while I counter with, "it's a mom walk."  She sees it's different and worth a conversation.  Another co-worker started following me to videotape it, but stopped because I walk too quickly. It's transportation but it wasn't always. Over a year and 3o pounds ago, I was the abandoned wife that had given birth to seven babies.  I was afraid to smile at men because I was afraid of my ex's jealousy that I explored first in this post. I didn't spend time out with friends, because the rare moments of solitude I had were selfishly spent alone because I needed the rare spaces I had. When he left without warning, I was shocked and my self worth plummeted with the life we created together.  I didn't have a job, not really.  I was working part time, without benefits and I hated what I was doing. At one point I quit my job for one that fell through completely. I didn't have close relationships because it was hard to build them in the isolation I lived in.  Within days my ex had a new special friend he was sharing his secrets with.  She would take his phone to text me the many ways I failed as a wife and mom and woman and person, and since she didn't know me, it was clear that she was only repeating what my husband had told her.  It's a miracle that I didn't fall into one of my deep depressions and the reigning emotion I fought was rage. I'm sure you could imagine why I was angry.

I relied heavily on faith. I woke up in the middle of the night and fell asleep with a prayer on my lips.  I woke and prayed. I was determined to be a wife, even if my husband refused to be my husband.  In January I had an encounter that shifted things just enough.  There was a man.  It's always about a boy and those posts were all tagged "crush watch." It's almost a hobby to fall into careful observations and entertain myself but it's only happened here with an apology here, and my latest crush here (sans apology) since 2000.

He introduced himself to me a couple of times in our first encounter, and I had the distinct impression I was attractive to him. Naturally, I freaked out.  I went into the script that kept me faithfully waiting all of those months.  I told him that I was still married and not dating because of all of the things I believe marriage to be.  I did all I could to scare him away in that first meeting.  Over weeks he would become my first crush in 16 years through opening doors and appreciative smiles.  I started this blog right when I accepted that I liked looking at him and men in general. I still think of him fondly, but it was more about the shift he gave my perspective and the first few blog posts on this blog inspired by the way he made me feel (February and March in the archives).  Since then, I've remembered what it was like to have several people let you know you are attractive in the span of a week.  I've regained my confidence in walking up to a complete stranger and letting him know how beautiful he is.  Beautiful doesn't mean I want to keep him.

I still believe marriage to be a choice to commit to one person for as long as you both live.  I still feel that you make a choice every day to be a spouse, and the feelings always follow.  I feel you give it 110% daily because unconditional love means you aren't expecting anything as a barter, and you're not holding back with expectations of something to lose. As for my marriage, I have accepted that without my permission it ended when my husband decided he was done, and almost a year later I accepted his decision with a choice of my own.  I decided I had taken enough abuse and it was time to offer myself the love I kept trying to extend to him in forgiveness.  I stopped offering forgiveness as love for him and offered it as love for myself.

The point is I felt so low.  I felt ugly and believed I was based on what I was told.  On my birthday I stepped out of my car in the heart of Hollywood after a night of crying. I had just decided my marriage was over because both of us had walked away.  I decided he had taken the last free shot at me because I was done being his doormat begging him to walk on me and wipe his feet on me.  A woman stopped me on my way to work and told me I looked put together.  I cried on the spot and she held me.  A complete stranger allowed me to fall apart and then held me up.  I was shattered.  There was something in her offering that was prompted by the grace she saw in my walk.

The walk was one I had in my early 20's.  It was confidence.  It was feeling each step in the sway of my hips.  It was trusting my body and knowing I didn't have to watch for my step.  It was a head held high, and walking with my arms swaying because when you are happy, opposition is your friend.  My strut was gone during my marriage because I didn't want to encourage others to look at me.  It slowly came back and it was one of the first ways I began to remind myself that I love myself.  That, and dancing in front of a bedroom mirror.  You don't do that?

There's a current-ish crush.  It's more fun distraction than anything.  I haven't offered my unmasked self to him, even in friendship. My love and devotion is reserved for me and my sons.  I'm learning from Stephanie Kwong about self love this week and what she has said is inspiring my latest doodles and some of the thoughts running through my mind.

She explained that loving yourself includes: self acceptance, self forgiveness, self respect, self trust, self receiving, self compassion, self permission, self appreciation, and self celebration.  I mainly walk in confidence, spoil myself with pedicures, take myself out and go hard on selfies.  There's lots to be learned.

I started writing down what I love about myself, but again her questions really gave me perspective.  I love my sons unconditionally, but do I love myself unconditionally? Do I give myself conditions, or do I love myself in spite of my ugly side?  Can I name my ugly side, or do I pretend it doesn't exist? Can I give others my whole self? Do I only allow others to see and love the mask I offer, or can I give others complete authenticity? Can I love myself the way I want to, in all the messy ways?

Can I love myself when I'm being stubborn and not releasing what isn't meant for me?

Can I love myself in sweats and without make up on the second day of my period with zits that I've picked into scabs?

Can I love myself when I feel like I'm being selfish and withholding from my kids? I will always feel like I need to give my kids more than I have for myself, but can I see the value in giving in to my desires as well?

Can I love myself through guilt and shame? I had a friend point out that the difference between me and everyone else is that we all think the same thoughts, but I feel bad when I'm thinking unkind things, even if I won't give voice to these thoughts. This makes me a nice person. Can I love the fact that I have a hard time being mean?

I'm committed to move like I love myself. I'm committed to act like I love myself. I'm committed to speak like I love myself. I'm committed to eat like I love myself.

I shared this with my Facebook family the other day. . .

I'm in a committed relationship with gelato.

I'm into Italians lately, but this one is special because I'm willing to splurge on it. I make sure it's comfortable in the freezer. I take it out and it shows me a good time. . . A really good time with sounds that would make you blush. Our moments are special and I'm quite smitten. There's no room for ice cream or frozen yogurt in my life. We're exclusive.

Can I one day offer my love to another person in transparency and trust? (Today is too much to ask.) Can I be as open in person as I aim to be in my writing?

Keeping Company

I've gotten really comfortable with being a loner.  I like the freedom of going where I want and staying as long as I care to.  I eat what sounds good and it's a very spontaneous existence.  I really don't enjoy dating lately because of the predation I feel.  It's amazing when you hang out with people that don't want to have sex with you.  Or maybe they secretly do, but you feel they care about what you think about something too.  This weekend I've been intentional with trying to involve others in my free time. Friday after work,  I had a call I regret taking from the ex.  Rather than just sit and calm myself, I explained what had taken place to a friend.  I didn't need him to fix it, but I also didn't sugar coat it.  His discomfort made me laugh.  It was a full belly laugh that reminded me that I'm fine, and being yelled at and listening to my son cry in the background is our version of normal and on Monday my kids will be in my arms and we will be okay.  It was a 20 minute set back that before would have lasted the weekend.

I left and headed toward the Grove where I spent time with a woman I admire and adore.  She's intuitive and empathic and so deeply understanding of human behavior.  She's an actress and fans that might recognize her is an occupational hazard, but she's so much that person you can just hang out with because there is such a strong sense of peace around her.  She's all Hollywood, but in the sense that she doesn't feel like a transplant that gets jaded from a dream she hoped she could mimic.  She's built her own ideals of what making it should be and what it looks like to her tells her she's living the dream and happily awake through it.  The first time I met her was shared here, and since then, she has shown up in my life in meaningful ways, right when I need her to. We talked about boys, and sex.  She encouraged me about my career and we talked babies.  I left her feeling like I could do the next big thing and I could ask for help in doing it.  I didn't realize how big of a problem asking for help is.  It's pride.  It's insecurity.  It's something I'm taking notice of.  It's part of my skirting around a relationship, but that whole thing is also about knowing how picky I want to be and the fact that I kinda enjoy saying no.  I love telling strangers that they're beautiful without any intentions of furthering that conversation. It's a position based in fear and insecurity, and she made me take notice in the most loving way possible.

Saturday morning I was interviewed.  When my ex left and took the boy's bunk beds to his new place, I was sharing a full size bed with Kid3, and Kid1 and Kid2 were sharing the queen size bed I shared with my ex.  It was one of the first times I was threatened with a call to Child Protective Services because teenaged boys shouldn't have to share a bed. None of us liked the situation, but we got through it because abundance sometimes lands in our laps. Through the help of my pastor and the Dream Center church, we were given new beds (but Kid3 still likes to sleep next to me) and dressers, and a dining table and chairs.  It was all free from Ikea with a team of volunteers that came in with smiles and hugs and prayer and encouragement.  They brought it in.  They put it all together.  They took out the trash.  They prayed for my family and left.  I was called a few weeks ago and asked if I would be willing to be interviewed.  I agreed because what else could I do to show my gratitude?  And I'm a ham.  So much of the conversation reinforced the encouragement I got from my friend the night before.

Saturday afternoon I was with a transgendered woman I adore.  I have friendships with gay people, and transgendered women that dress the part far better than I do, but this is the first woman I've met that committed to surgery and hormones.  I'm so inspired by this woman. We walked through Echo Park Rising and sampled Whiskey, while talking about boys and girls and relationships. We talked about what it was like to be both a man and a woman.  I learned so much from her. We walked through a bookstore in a first time experience that really felt great.  We sampled Wild Turkey and both preferred the Honey to the stronger one with the number attached.  We shared coffee and now share a deeper friendship.  She had other things to do and I took a short stroll through Echo Park before heading home.

I didn't know my cousin is in my state until she checked in on Facebook, so I headed out to pick her up for bowling and connection.  She's a college student, but I was the one wearing my college sweatshirt. We talked boys and relationships.  (You'll notice the theme because I'm boy crazy.) I told her that I'm too old to date men my age because they're having their midlife crisis and looking for a younger woman to help them feel young.  And I told her I don't date younger men because that's creepy.  I just enjoy the beautiful ones and have no problem calling it like I see it. We talked about the greatest parts of being single and school.  She insisted I'm not old enough to complain about my geezer body, but then I pointed out I could be her mother. That's when I realized I really enjoy saying that.  I enjoy pointing out that I'm old enough to be someone's mother when they are hitting on me and I'm giving them a hard pass.  I like it when people think I'm younger than I am.  It feels good.  Black Lights on blue polish makes me happy too.

When I left her, she asked me to text her when I get home. It's the thing you do when you love someone.  You want to know they made it home safely.  I drop a person off, and I wait in my car until they are safely inside.  I had a friend do the same thing after dinner last week.  She wanted to know when I got home safely.  My Dad does the same thing.  Are you home? Let me know when you get home.  Frankly, I'm not comfortable with this.  This request brings out my rebellion, and I always give it time, then lie that I got home, and often find myself at the beach or in a store to shop.  I did it again last night. I'm rebellious about it, and it makes me lie, and last night I realized I do it and it's not okay.  I spent so long in a marriage where I felt I was supposed to be home, and I was.  I would go to the grocery store and around an hour into my trip, I would get a call or text to see how I was doing because the time said I was supposed to be home by then.  I'm intentionally staying out late in rebellion because I'm a grown up and shouldn't be told what to do.  (I'm taking notice of this and yes, I do sound like a 12 year old.) My rebellion looked like driving to the Vons on PCH and Sunset for sushi, soda and a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup dessert, because the divorcee diet looks like crap and soda that made me think of Butterbeer and Harry Potter.

This morning I have museum plans.  I sent out a few last minute invites but I'm content with going alone. They are flexible museum plans because I have puttering around the house plans too and lounging around the house naked plans before the kids get home tomorrow.  I'm enjoying the sounds of trickling water in my pond, a plane flying, the ticking of a clock, birdsong, the rumble of a truck on my street, my dog whining (she's a little bitch), and the sound of keys flying on my keyboard.   I'm enjoying the silence that feels like solid pressure because I won't have it tomorrow night.

Stretching Past My Grungies

I'm a firm believer that things happen in the time and order that they are meant to. There is a process to life and at times when chaos makes me want to control every outcome I am learning that I need to fully trust the process. Each lesson in life has a meaning meant to unfold and stretch who we are into who we will become.  We are prepared for what will come. I've written briefly about a personal development seminar I attended called "Basic" and taught by Mastery in Transformational Training. It was perspective shifting in the best possible way.

Hugs

I've always been a hugger.  I believe hugs are meant to hold us up and hold us together. I've also believed that if you don't feel comfortable hugging someone, then don't because there is such a thing as a bad hug.  What the class taught me was to see each person as a unique and beautiful person, independent of what I might be able to receive from them.

Relationships

The class had some exercises that focused on parent child relationships.  During one exercise, I was so moved by how open the men in the group were.  There was transparency and vulnerability.  It was beautiful and powerful and I found myself weeping with the emotion I was witnessing and swept away in.  I left the class and finally saw my mother with clarity, and love and appreciation.  I gave her a hug that explained the intricacies weighing and moving in my heart when I saw her.  It was powerful.

Choice and Interpretation

The class taught me how to shift my focus in terms of the past.  We're given disappointments and broken agreements in life.  This class helped me see that a shift in my interpretation could help me adjust my focus and find that I don't need to fugue through sorrows when I can learn and grow through them.

My Perspective Shift

I left the class with a determination to eventually take the next class.  This next class is the Advanced class.  My ideal was to take the class in September because my kids would be in school and it would fill my 5 day kid free weekend.  It was what was in my head.  I've been watching the community online and I've been so encouraged by the continual growth I've been honored to witness.

Life is full of surprises and I'm still guilty of poor planning.  I anticipated the class but forgot about a family vacation and back to school shopping.  When I was meeting with one of my really great friends last night, we talked about the ways the Advanced class would stretch me and make me uncomfortable.  I told her how I needed to wait until I was ready and she told me what I often say to people thinking about having kids

There is never a perfect time and things will always come up, but life is amazing in the way things will always fall into place.

This friend knows details about my separation I don't often share.  She knows how hard it was when my ex first left and I was struggling for groceries.  I didn't ask for help but it always showed up right when I needed it.  I understand the value of receiving a gift, but have always had a hard time with asking for help.

We looked at dates farther out and they would fall on weekends when I have my kids.  This September class is the one I was committed to and she helped me see it is the only real option, but to get there, I needed to ask for help.  I promised I would start a Go Fund Me by Tomorrow night but I chose to do it before bed.  It wasn't easy for me, but if you would like to support, or just read more of my words, you can find it here.

If you would like to check out the class (and I highly recommend it), check them out here.

You Deserve Your Interpretation of Your Own Life

Thank you Diego Perez

What is this concept about?

This nugget is golden and I want to carefully unpack it. We're conditioned to feel we deserve something.  It starts as soon as we're old enough to choose our behavior.  We're told we need to earn play time, or a desired toy or activity.  We're told in love we deserve better treatment.  We deserve the love we've been offering for ourselves.  We deserve to be treated the way we've treated someone else, even if that means we're acting like deplorable human beings and it's what we deserve because of it. I'm arguing that we're not victims to the life we get to live.

What does it mean to deserve something?

Dictionary.com will tell you that the word deserve originates in Middle English.  Actually, I just told you, but feel free to fact check me.  I'm not talking Tolkien's middle, but more Chaucer.  It's English that doesn't sound like English because that's how old it is.  It's English that still blends other languages into it. It's a really old concept that says what you get in life is determined by what you have done to earn it.  You have to find a way to qualify or have a claim because of something you have done.  This means that you are given what you earned, and it takes the accountability of your choice away from you.  Deserving something is still part of who I am but I'm working on that.  Right now I love Meghan Trainor's new album and one of my favorite songs is all about announcing, "I deserve better."

People will always try to tell you who they think you are.  You don't have to believe what they say.  I recommend rejecting what doesn't come from your own intuition, including this suggestion.

Deserving love

When I tell you that I want to love unconditionally, and I spell it out here and detail it in my posts about mothering, it's because love is a gift and shouldn't cost the person we give it to.  I don't barter my love for affection or attention.  When I give my love it's free.  I give it no matter what I'm getting in return because I see value and have a desire to build and call out what I see until it is greater than it was.

Deserving mistreatment

Internal dialogues can be insidious.  Sometimes guilt can weigh on us and make a bad day look like something we've earned.  That perception takes away our choice and when choice is stripped, we lose control of our reactions.  It becomes cyclical and repeats.  We teach our reactions and adaptability to our children and they thrive or falter because of what we show them.

Deserving our lot in life.

When my kids were first diagnosed with autism I started to really question what we deserved.  Did I deserve what they have to deal with (I'm not always proud of my thoughts, and this was one of those moments)? Did they deserve what they had to go through? People with platitudes would suggest that God only gives special kids to special parents.  I call bull on that one.  All special needs parents are just like other parents.  Sometimes we do really well with adapting.  Other times we don't.  It's a choice and my choice is one I can stand by on most days.  The choice is to be better to my kids than I want to be.  It's not about deserving something.  It's about deciding it doesn't matter why this is in our family. It's about deciding how I can help my kids navigate our world.  I didn't get lost in what I expected and my perspective shifted.  It was a good shift.

Reactions and Interpretation

We're all in charge of our reactions and interpretation, but so often people are ruled by stress over what they wanted to happen and disappointment controls our ability to move forward.  Stress isn't even quantifiable.  It's real, but it's manufactured by us to torture us into stagnation.  People are always feeling major and minor effects of the stress they feel, but stress is entirely a choice you don't have to choose if you shift your interpretation and redirect your reaction.

When we live in the past, time drags on and we can't see what is right now or ahead of us. When we live in the future, there isn't enough time. There is too much to get done and again, we lose the gift that is the present.

When my husband of 15 years quit on me, I didn't react well.  It was bad.  It was ugly.  I was a living and breathing open wound, bleeding everywhere.  It was hard to live through and hard for others to watch.  A year and some months later I haven't jumped into a relationship but I have enjoyed a couple of crushes that reminded me how awesome infatuation could be.  They showed me what a really great guy might look like. They reminded me of the fun of seeing only the good in a person, ignoring the bad and glossing over the rest. My latest crush deciding to take himself out of our equation could have been devastating.  It wasn't.  It was fun.  It was exciting.  I needed to see what he showed me and hopefully he needed to experience what I offered.  There's still friendship.  I'm getting in touch with my geeky side that is entirely awkward and clumsy when it comes to him lately, but I'm enjoying that for what I've chosen to make it.

I didn't deserve to get dumped.  And I was, by everyone's standards.  Twice.

I get to be an autism mom. I got to be a stay at home mom.  Now I get to work at a job I love doing.

I got to be married for 15 contented years where I loved and was loved for the majority of it.  Now I get to fall in love again, and as many times as I'm comfortable with.  I got to sleep next to someone and care about his needs, and now I get to put my needs first, and look at all of the pretty men I see, without worrying about my actions hurting someone else.  (I have a special appreciation for watching men run.  It's beauty.  It's inspiration.  It's a public service and I'm so happy when I see a man in full stride.  It's my bliss at times and I have no shame about it. It's right up there with Crossfit and entirely yummy.) I got to love deeply.

I get to restructure my priorities.  I get to really connect to what brings my life meaning and it's a beautiful life I get to lead.  I get to do epic shit on a daily basis.

I get to be reminded that I really am beautiful by the many men that have tried to entertain me, and I get to pass on them because I get to choose who I want to spend my free time with.  And lately it's me, and people that don't want sex from me.

Nice, right?

There's a cost to the life we get to lead and it's not the price set by someone else's standards.

Taking Me Out

I'm still having fun dating myself.  Last night I went to the Broad Museum because I had tickets I reserved and sat on for close to a month.  It was Thursday so a free night at the Museum of Contemporary Art was next.  I drove to Philippe's for dinner, but wasn't actually hungry yet and walked to Olvera Street which closes a lot earlier than I remember and Union Station which really is beautiful when you aren't in a hurry.  I walked back to Philippe's in the dark and really appreciated Santa Monica for their police presence and the safety I feel there.

In line behind a group of three, their third wheel was beautiful.  He was tall and had one of those smiles that I would draw if that was my skill set, but as you can see, it really isn't.  He dropped a pencil and didn't notice it, but I handed it to him and nearly melted at his smile when he said thank you and told me it was his lucky pencil.  In that moment, I could see myself getting to know him better, but then thought about the amazing night I had just lived through, and decided that no, it's a hard pass.  In fact, I knew then that I was going to pass on everyone.

In the last couple of months, a really great friend pointed out how shamelessly my flirting looked a lot like teasing to a high school boy.  He remembered his interest and I never really thought about it.  I thought it was just him and he was being silly because our conversations are still a little flirtatious.  Sometimes.  Rarely.  And then there was a second memory from another man, and it was confirmation that I couldn't ignore.  I flirted and teased in high school, but this was out in front of everyone and never on a one to one basis.

The latest one remembered me as never shy, happy and full of laughter.  He remembered my smile.  I felt bad, having had to really look at his face and our mutual friends to place him.  I didn't remember him.  But there was something flattering about his memory, even if he really didn't know about my depressed moods, and loner tendencies.  The idea of reconnecting seemed fun . . . Once I got passed the fleeting idea that I may or may not have been someone's 20 year old jizz rag mistress.  I liked the idea of him wanting to show me a good time and cook for me.  But I also like knowing that whatever I choose to do alone or with friends, my juice is always worth the squeeze.

Last night was a great night.  Wednesday was also pretty epic.  I went to the beach after work.  I watched a seal family frolic in the ocean from the pier.  I enjoyed a meal alone, next to a table with two gorgeous men who were complete pigs, but fun to watch.  I walked to the promenade and ran into the same two men, shared a little about each other and I moved on.  Then I walked the Promenade, had a chocolate scented cigar (do they make dessert cigars?) because I needed the reminder of why I quit smoking all of those years ago, and I sang out loud on my way to my car.  Still got the same stares.  I even got smiles, and no one approached the crazy person singing to herself, so it was a win all around. It was a really great night.  In fact, I spoil myself with the good times I have alone.

I'm still not dating online.  That was a massively disappointing lesson I needed to learn.  This doesn't mean I don't get asked out.  He has to be beautiful and smart.  I need to feel like he would make my alone time a gift I would offer rather than a sacrifice on my part.  I'm not dating people.  I'm dating myself.  I love dating myself.

I eat like I love myself.  I don't diet.  I eat what looks good and I savor each moment with my food.  I buy myself jewelry.  I enjoy eating alone with a book, or journal, or my phone.  I love walking through museums and stopping at what calls out to me, because a lot of it makes no sense and I won't linger.  When I want to brighten my day, I'll buy myself flowers and I know I don't like baby's breath, so it's never included in my bouquets. I love being alone.  I don't want someone to take me out because I'm so great at showing myself a good time and there's a chance going out would make me feel like my time was squandered.