How I Look and Cooking

I was having a moment of insecurity this morning.  I was wearing a dress, because I wanted to, but in my lounge, then rush out the door, I didn’t look in the mirror.  Most days I don’t really care, but as I was rubbing lotion into my dry legs, I just couldn’t.  In the parking lot at work, I went to the trunk of my car and pulled out my emergency pair of jeans and t-shirt.  I got dressed in the front seat of my car and had a moment of laughter because it reminded me of my entire adolescence. I’m wearing this and not sure how comfortable I am in it either.  I may go back out the car and change again.  I haven’t decided. The jeans are shorter than I like.  I like my denim to be Victorian and cover my ankles.  The shirt is a blue and white tie dye.  I loved the way it reminded me of decades past, but wearing it in public? Not so much. Especially when a quick glance in office lighting tells you what color my bra is.  I need to update my trunk wardrobe so I feel confident, in another wardrobe emergency.

The lesson here? If you wouldn’t love it every day, it shouldn’t be your emergency clothing.  How does that apply to cooking?

Lesson 1: If it’s not good enough on its own, it’s not good enough in emergencies or as a foundation.

In cooking, I might deglaze a pan after searing meat with a dry red wine.  Or if I’m making beef stew or marinating carne asada, I use beer. You don’t cook with something you wouldn’t drink.  Bad ingredients can only make a bad meal.  If you don’t want to drink your wine, don’t cook with it.  If I’m using beer that has gluten in it, it won’t be worth the taste if I’m begging for death because of an unhappy belly.

Lesson 2: Don’t over crowd your pan.

Cooking anything often requires the right temperature and the space for your heating surface to do the job.  We want space so a sear doesn’t become a sauté. We need space to give what’s cooking a moment to enjoy the heat.

In fashion to me, this means parts are covered while something else is exposed.  A long and conservative dress begs for strappy heels.  If I’m showing off my décolletage, I’m covering up my legs.  If my legs are being showcased, I’m wearing a high neckline.

Lesson 3: Only sausage needs to be stuffed.

Often when stuffing pork chops or chicken breasts, I will pound and beat out the meat I’m using so it’s thinner and keep the stuffing on the light side.  I use medium heat that has had time to get to the right temperature because I want it to cook all the way through without over drying the outside.  It means cooking takes more time, and I’m intentional with what I do. I won’t wear underwear that is meant to make me feel like a stuffed sausage so my body looks a certain way.  If I don’t do that to a spinach and cheese beef roulade, why would I do that to my body? Sausage is made for being stuffed into a tight skin.

Lesson 4: Creaming

When wearing makeup, you want to blend.  You want soufflé foundations to melt into your skin, but not be so thick it could melt right off.  You want shadows that dance so closely, you can’t tell where one shade ends and the next begins. Moisturizer is important. Healthy skin is more important when makeup skills like mine are at play. 

I bake my cheesecakes.  I get the cream cheese to room temperature, and I will beat in eggs, sugar and vanilla.  By the time I’m done, you can’t differentiate what is in it because it is all the same consistency and texture.  It bakes and requires patience to cool.  If you’ve ever been impatient in waiting for a hot cheesecake to cool, you understand how horrible that can be.  You want the same patience in blending foundation into your skin, going past your chin and along your neck.  Like cheesecake, that much make up on me is rare.

Lesson 5: Lumps

Honor your lumps!

In pancakes or cornbread, I will often sift the dry ingredients before adding them to the wet ingredients.  It’s a quick mix that just incorporates everything because overmixing won’t give you fluffy breads. Over mixing makes it dense and tough.

A woman’s body is made for lumpy bits. I hate wearing a belt, but when it matters, cinching my waist enhances my bustling and flatters my hips. My hair doesn’t look as great stick straight as it does with the natural bounce and body of a good wave or girly curls.

Lesson 6: The mystery you don’t want to know.

Sometimes you just don’t need to know what goes into it.  When I make tamales, I use Lard.  I use cleaned animal fat because that’s where the flavor is.  I use the unhealthy fat because that’s how I learned how to make tamales.

When I’m wearing clothes, you don’t need to see my bra.  There are really cute bralettes that are designed to be seen, but they don’t carry them in my size.  (Thank you for that endowment, Mom and Nanny.) When I wear a shirt, I want to be sure that my bra can’t be seen. There are amazing advances in lingerie that include strapless and convertible bras.  I own a couple of corsets but can’t wear them without help.  These are designed to be worn under clothes or alone, but that doesn’t mean I should wear them out.

Lesson 7: A time and a place for everything.

I have absolute moments of food joy.  I have been known to whip up a quick Hollandaise in the blender before work and bring the rest of my goodies with me to assemble an eggs benedict at my desk.  This is not the same meal I would ever take to the beach.  Beach food is often cut fresh fruit, crudités, chips and drinks.    Small, manageable, and not requiring cutlery.

You want your clothes to match your adventure.  I’m all for spontaneity, but bowling in a mini skirt is not nearly as fun as it sounds.  Walking along a jetty in stilettos can be real torture. Wear the clothes you need for your adventure.

Lesson 8: Get Creative

It's easy to get stuck in routine where the same outfit and accessories feel like home. Change it up. The beauty of not wearing a jumpsuit all the time is that your tops are not married to your bottoms. I don't often wear dresses or skirts to work because comfortable to me often looks like man spreading and it's not very lady like. 

In food, this means I was hugely surprised when I swapped vanilla for almond extract in my French Toast. Smoked Gouda and dates was a whim that became a staple. I used to love cheddar popcorn and chocolate and one day swapped the cheddar popcorn for spicy chips. It was good. 

Lesson 9: Be flexible

Sometimes I'll start with something but it might change.  I recently bought a pound of ground pork and the same amount of ground beef, but instead of making the meat loaf my kids weren't in the mood for, I made country fried steaks and used the ground meat for potsticker filling that used rice paper instead of wonton wrappers.  It made me happy.  It made the boys happy.

I don’t always care about fashion, but these things are in the back of my mind when I get dressed most days.  I ignore what my mood tells me to and stick to what feels right. And the bra being seen through my shirt . . . Yeah, I’m slapping that dress back on.

Street Harassment

Growing up female, street harassment is just something you live with.  I have a beautiful trans-gendered friend and she had a recent experience that isn't mine to share.  My first thought was to blow it off as what happens, but something she said on a late night stroll along the Santa Monica pier Saturday resonated tonight. We're so used to holding our secrets as close as we can.  We worry that it'll get out and be exposed.  We might get teased or attacked for what we do or think or feel.  We keep our secrets close and quiet, muffling all resonance in cloistered secrecy for our protection.  Being trans literally took all of her closely held secrets and put them outside of her body.  She chose to take all of her fears and put them before her, exposed and exposing the most beautiful and vulnerable parts of who she is for friends, family, and fearful haters alike.  I adore her for who she is and who she always shows up as to me. She's a radiant beauty and I admire her strength and courage, and she gives epic hugs. (We're not dating.  It's the boobs.  I don't do boobs.  Also, I really don't date younger people. There have been two exceptions. One has so much special in him I would have regretted passing up on our time together and I married the other.)

Street harassment is so pervasive that it's become an insignificant blip on the radar of my life because it's a secret of womanhood.  If I talk about it, I'll be criticized for my jaunts on the town alone.  If I talk about it, I'll be questioned for what I was wearing as if my Retro Vintage Ruby Woo lipstick is asking for anything other than to make my lips blood red. If we talk about it, it grows a face that looks like blame and we won't place the responsibility of the action on the shoulders of the aggressor.  He's a nameless child that means no harm.  We'll find help.  Even if he proves to be a rapist, his family loves and trusts that he'll make good choices if we give him another chance. If we say he is just having fun, and it's harmless, we ignore the many women that are so openly victimized by street harassment that they are afraid to go out alone. Street harassment tells the attacked person that she or he doesn't have a right to be outside of their home and enjoy freedoms that stray dogs do.  We never know when a comment might become an attack of aggression.  It's power and dominance. It wasn't long ago a woman was killed because she exercised her right to reject a man.  That is a reality that sits in our minds from the time we were little and told we needed a buddy system for our safety in public bathrooms. 

Street harassment doesn't even require a sexualized adult body.  My first experience was more than harassment, but it was my first exposure.  Literally.  I was in elementary school, possibly the 3rd or 4th grade.  I was allowed to walk to and from school as it was only a couple of blocks on a busy street.  A man pulled up next to me in a red car, asking for directions while stroking an erect and exposed penis.

Growing up, I got used to men catcalling me.  I hear lots of complaints about men asking women to smile, but I usually do smile and it has never been my problem.  I understand the frustration.  Being a woman on the street does not offer strangers entitlement to how I walk down the street, whether smiling, or angry, strutting, or trying my best to pretend I don't exist and can blend in with the cracks in the sidewalk.

More than once, I've noticed a camera phone pointed at me as I go about my day, walking, or shopping, or sitting with gelato at a bistro table. My nephew was shocked and pointed out he would attack a creeper taking pictures of him. This is my normal when I'm alone because we need to do better by our sons, nephews and brothers. 

I'm used to men smiling at me, and slowing down or pulling over as I walk and they drive.  I'm used to friendly smiles and creepy ones. I've watched men looking at me while using their hands to air stroke an imaginary phallus.  I'm used to everything from a sweet hello, to "I'd hit that." I never know what it'll be and I'm a little nervous to find out sometimes. Time has taught me to put on a brave face, smile and make eye contact.  It's less likely to turn ugly if you show kindness. Also, it's why I'm at Santa Monica Beach so often.  I prefer quieter beaches but the police presence is huge and comforting.

I get the power aspect of it.  I work out my own aggression when the windows are down and I see a beautiful man running, and I loudly say, "thank you," while quietly saying ,"for all you are doing for me right now." I've been called out on it and shamed enough that it's been a while and I felt true remorse for my actions. I don't do it in front of my boys, but I have done it and it was always about power.  Now it's about shame.

Firstborn

My firstborn completed his 15th lap around the sun this afternoon. He altered my body in ways I couldn't imagine. He was the first of 7 children to rest beneath my heart. He barreled through me, shifting my ideals of the person I was supposed to be because I chose to be who I wanted him to have as a mother.  It came with the backlash of being someone I wasn't and my hormones fluctuated, throwing me into one of the deepest depressions I have ever experienced.  It was called the baby blues, but there was a darkness that suffocated me and held me in oppression that was a vile mockery of sisterhood. He was born a little early and at 5 pounds, 5 ounces, he was tiny and his whole body fit along my forearm.  He needed constant contact and wanted to be held at all times.  I was on my own around the clock as my ex was working more than one job to support us.  He would often get home late in the afternoon and remind me to eat and shower because I would forget to eat.  My respite came in the form of a baby swing, but after I had learned to do everything with one hand while he rested along the other arm.  He was colicky and would cry most of the night and at 4 months old, I called my mom in tears, and thanked her for not killing me in my infancy.

By his first birthday, he was obsessed with the toilet.  He would climb in and sit in it, fully clothed.  It was wet and held him closely.  It was sensory.  He would defecate in a diaper, then explore the textures with his hands and mouth on clothes and walls.  He loved flushing things, and I learned how to uninstall a toilet, flip it upside down in a tub, flush water or a snake up the back way to dislodge puzzle pieces, cutlery, cars and trains and reinstall the same toilet.  I now keep a toilet auger and this year there's only been one spoon but it might have been Kid2's misadventure. (Two wax rings can be sandwiched if you can't find a double thick one and don't over tighten your screws because porcelain can't take that kind of pressure.)

I took him to a pediatrician with several letters added on after her name.  I placed my faith in her and believed her when she told me he would talk when he was ready.  I can't describe the rage and betrayal I felt when I believed her, and I was told he was on a spectrum that was a word I knew nothing about. She assured me he was fine, but there was a reason I felt like a failure and other mother's encouraged this notion.  Autism looks like a naughty child and a mother bent on spoiling her child.

I've watched him seek alignment for what I can never really appreciate but understand as Sensory Integration Dysfunction.  I've watched him try to make friends, only to be othered for an inability to understand the cruel social cues of children learning their limits and boundaries.  I've seen him try to make sense of where he belongs.

I've seen him make friendships and interact the way I did as a teenager, but his play is far more imaginative than the silly Sassy articles I would read to my best friend during long nights on the phone.

I've seen him shelter his brothers, and beat them mercilessly.  I've seen him stand up to me and call me out when I'm failing, because I've asked him to, and he trusts me enough to give me his honesty.  He's not just brave but courageous.

When their Dad was injured recently, my first born son had the presence of mind to call an ambulance, when the grown ups around them lost their heads.  When they were with their Dad this weekend, my son stood up to help his Dad in every way necessary. When the pressure became too much, he texted me for encouragement, and continued being the young man I am so very proud of.

He's a gamer.  He loves anime and has been working on his own drawings.  He encourages and supports his friends.  He looks after his brothers and calls me out to be better.  He makes me want to make yesterday's ceiling tomorrow's floor because it is a gift to watch him rise above every expectation put before him. He inspires me.  He is my bright light and brings me so much joy.  I'm so proud of the man he's growing into and only hope to honor who he is by who I consistently show up as.

He's my firstborn.

Family Day

For the first time ever, my Dad and Step-Dad sat together and talked. My Mom remarried in 1996.  It was typical of divorce and remarriage.  There was anger and pain and it wasn't a mutual uncoupling.  Mine wasn't at first either.  For so long, my parents wouldn't even look at each other if they were in the same room.  For so long, my Dad wouldn't enter a building with my Step-Dad.  Today was huge and amazing, and yet, I tried my best to not make it as big a deal as it was. My sister and brother in law reminded me of deep love and renewed hope without trying. I spent time with my brother in law, and really appreciated how enthusiastic he is about going to work full time now that their nest is empty.  He quietly gave so much of himself so my sister could finish medical school and so their boys could do what they needed in order to become more and do better.  I remember years ago hearing about him filling up her gas tank and getting her car washed.  I'm still shocked that men do that kind of thing.  (I can hear a guy friend 0f mine telling me to raise my expectations.) He's loved her at times when I was shocked at the anger that she could be capable of.  He has done all anyone could ask for and more and he's done it without asking for recognition and tonight I really appreciated all he's done for their family and wondered if I could one day find that.

My cousin was there with her longterm boyfriend and their kids. I've been skeptical about ever trusting a new man around my boys.  I have anxious moments of terror that I would introduce them to someone that might try to harm them.  But I see the two of them and their children from before they met, and there is hope.  They gave me hope.

There were moments with my sisters.  I told one how deeply she is loved to the point where I could see her discomfort.  I hope she understands how earth shattering my love for her is.  I went on about my love and appreciation for my family tribe to another sister and nephew.  I wouldn't be who I am without their reflections on my life and through my soul.

And then there were conversations:

My Mom (from Thailand) : Look at her eyes. She's had enough.

Me: We're Asian.

Mom: Oh, now you're Asian when it's convenient.

Brother: We need a rope for the piñata.

Me: I have one in the car. Don't ask why.

Sister: For all that hiking you do.

Me: Uh. Yyyeeeah.

Me: Do you wear foundation or powder?

Sister: Powder. Why, can you see it?

Me: No. Your skin just has this glowy perfection that isn't normal for my skin.

Mom: I can't finish this. Put it in a water bottle and I'll take it home. . . I can feel it in my face .

(Talking about that really great glass of red wine and the Asian flush. I get it from my Mom.)

It was a tilapia, oyster and shrimp Po Boy fish fry.

Sister: I want some steak. It's good for my low iron.

Me: You should look around for some kale. (Sister) has one of those healthy houses.

Younger Niece to her older sister: Everyone says I look like you.

Other niece: Not when you make that face. . . Stop looking at me. You're ugly.

Me: She looks just like you.

Niece: Not when she makes that face.

Me: You both look like I used to.

And silence.

Niece: (surprised) Your hair has been purple almost two years?!?!!

Me: Yeah.

Niece: I never noticed it. Not until we went to the beach (this summer).

Me: It's purple underneath where I can hide it when I'm a grown up and show it off when I want to be 12.

Sister: I can't finish this. It's dry. Want it?

Me: Sure. (Taking the cigar she lit.)

~Later~

Dad: You are not too old to be obedient. (Directly and indirectly trying to get me to put it out.)

~Later Still~

Stepdad: (Privately) Don't do that. Especially in front of your dad.

~Latest~

Mom: Why are you doing that?

Me: It came all the way from Costa Rica.

Brother: $9.50 American is like $27 there.

Me:And there's shipping. It rode on the plane with them and everything.

Via Text: Hey :) How's your weekend going?

A sad stream of small talk leading up to, "Can you send me a pic? . . . How tall are you?"

Me: You seem like a nice person. (Lies) I wrote you off a long time ago.  (Truth) I hope you have a great week. (Not being honest.)

Because starting a week off with a rejection feels amazeballs when he seems like a sleazeball.

Reliance Damaged

I spend a lot of my free time at Santa Monica pier. During a really dark period it was a place for me to come and find peace. Walking over crashing waves and the sound of laughter and happy screams while I bid adieu to a fading sun was how my faith was restored.  It is humbling to be surrounded by the ocean and under a star filled sky with the extremely affluent and the destitute. 

This week I had been coming to the pier to look for my favorite performer. Night after kid free night, I made the drive and parked my car. I walked quickly to find the elusive solitary guitarist. 

One night a few months ago he was singing a Lit song and I was singing with him and everything was right in that moment. There was joy that forced through the sadness I drove there with. 

Yesterday I decided on a Bloody Mary with a girlfriend. Our plans were postponed and I ended up at the pier, and when I didn't see him, I decided on having that drink alone. I got home safe and there was minimal drunk texting involved. (Plenty of morning after embarrassment though.) 

Today I found him. He was sitting and dejected. The depression around him was heavy. He opened up about his life and being burned out. He talked about his love life and his family. He took me behind the curtains of the image he shows the world. 

I encouraged him to do what was right for him. I told him about unconditional love not coming as an exchange or with expectations. I told him it's possible to love someone even if you're no longer in their life.  I told him about being the parent I want my kids to have. I spoke into his life the way I do when I care. It means there are no boundaries. It means I'm glad I was able to tell him how much his music meant to me. I said goodbye. I may never see him again and the moments of encouragement he offered without knowing will always be treasured. 

I don't think he'll know how much he gave me and I only gave him a few dollars from time to time, not knowing the weight of his existence because I only wanted what he was adding to mine. 

For now I will find another artist to appreciate. I will lean in to what is being sung and appreciate how carefully melodies weave into my darker places and renew hope. 

I'll watch people with puppies in their arms and I'll look from afar because puppy breath is addictive, like crack. 

I'll watch beautiful men watching their phones because they're too busy catching Pokemon to notice me. 

I'll talk to babies and live in the gratitude of knowing they are not mine. 

And I'll learn through moving forward that it doesn't do me any good to rely on any one person to be the balm of healing for my itchy parts. And I'll learn that not everything that itches should be scratched. 

Cravings

In 1998 or 1999 there was a boy.  It's always about a boy.  There's a phrase for boys like him now, but back then he was just Lenny.  He was the first of several boys that liked me less than I liked them and I was the puppy.  I couldn't drop my toy, and I was happy to lay on my back for belly rubs from anyone wanting to play with me.  Every time I saw him, his kisses had this taste that I couldn't place.  It wasn't quite beer or hard liquor.  It wasn't really cigarettes.  It was beer and cigarettes.  By the time I figured out what it was (because we never talked enough for me to ask him), I wanted the taste of that kiss more than I wanted him.  I started smoking and by the time I figured out how to inhale, not cough and enjoy the feeling of oxygen deprivation that felt like being light headed, it was an addiction. The few times I wanted to quit, I'd see a cessation commercial and it would remind me that I hadn't had a cigarette in a while.  I would wake up and smoke, go to bed and smoke, eat and smoke, exercise and smoke (I used to sweat willingly), have a cold with a nasty cough and sore throat and smoke. My kid sister would steal my cigarettes and snap them in half or run water over them.  She loved me.  I may have hurt her for that.  In early 2000, I would buy 3 packs of Marlboro cigarettes a day, with an occasional pack of Black and Milds, or Djarums if I was in the mood.  I was a friendly smoker, often sharing my smokes with anyone that would ask.  Cigarette for cigarette, I would smoke about 40 to 50 cigarettes a day, spending about $15 a day on cigarettes. When I quit it was for the idea of having a family and it was very close to cold turkey.  I quit smoking for my ex and the kids I saw in our future when I looked into his eyes.   Cheesy but true.

In the last few weeks I've started craving cigarettes.  It's crazy, because I haven't been a smoker for over a decade and a half (yes, I know my old is showing). There were rebellious times when I would buy a pack and sneak a smoke here and there when we'd fight and we were in our first apartment in North Hollywood.  It was always when I was angry at my ex and trying to gain a little control.  My actions tried to express that I'm a grown up and I can hide and smoke a cigarette because I'm a grown up.  Let's ignore the smell, and the taste. Let's pretend that pharmacies won't even sell cigarettes anymore because of how bad they are.

My sister and her husband and my other brother in law have cigars from time to time.  I've had two cigars in the last month or so.  I've also been burning incense at home. It's a place holder, because what I've been craving are clove cigarettes.

I don't want to be a smoker again.  It's the feelings around smoking that make a smoke break sound right.  I feel the familiar feeling of rejection and longing that feel like I did the whole time I was a smoker and only dated fuck boys (before there was a cute name for them). There are people that will smoke while at a bar on weekends only.  It's the same idea.  They are used to having a cigarette while sipping a cocktail and the two go together.

I'm not broken like I was when my marriage fell apart.  It's not like my crush on Mr. Hot and Visually Pleasing.  That was never going anywhere and I never fell into the trap of his scent and looking forward to spending time together with engaging conversations and sweet smiles. It's this feeling of "I really want this . . . It's not right . . . I need to let go . . . but why can't I stop obsessing."  I'm not just waiting.  I'm meeting and rejecting people like I did before I met my latest crush.  He's still a great guy. He's not like anyone I've dated before. I'm recognizing where I am and with him, I never offered complete transparency.  I didn't give him my full authenticity.  I might be slightly pickier than I was right before him and entirely selective compared to where I was as a smoker. I might enjoy turning down dates a little less than before. I've found my compassion through him. I'm working on being less intimidating but it's not easy when I keep thinking, "turn down for what?" Aside from the men in front of me being entertaining, I keep looking at the man behind me and I feel unease.  I crave what is not for me and that feeling makes me want a cigarette to go along with my dysfunction.

This feeling is so dangerous because it's so familiar.  It's easy to fall into patterns that feel the same as something else once did.  I notice what I couldn't see before and I'm trying my best to not fall into easy steps.  I'm embracing alone time, even if it feels lonely at times because the loneliness of being alone is far less painful than the loneliness of being with someone that isn't interested in an emotional connection.

Like all things, I know the feeling and the craving will peak and then pass.  It always does.

Right now I'm considering ways to keep my hands busy.  I may start crocheting a blanket or scarves.  I might try knitting again. I might not. I might start making jewelry (that I'll never wear because I prefer light weight pieces but always use natural and heavy stones because they're pretty). In the end, a cigarette, like a cigar, feels a lot worse than it looks.  I could taste the last one with every deep breath the next day.  I had to wash my favorite sweater to get stale smoke out of it.  The smell of burnt tobacco lingered on my hands and my sense of smell wasn't damaged enough to escape it at all.

This feeling will pass and I'll stop craving a cigarette, or a hug, or an easy smile and engaging conversations about everything but us.

Tweaking a memory from a year ago.

Her morning was marked by sipping tepid coffee, pacing herself alongside the bitterness easing through the brew. She drummed a beat on fingertips, mimicked by the swishing of an otherwise immobile cat's tail giving disdain in waves like the heat threatened to do while the morning cool burned away.  It only took a shift. It was like shifting weight from one leg to another. It was an adjustment, like carrying groceries in one hand but needing to switch hands to fish out a key to gain entrance to an earned respite. Her perspective shifted and like a cloak, this new idea removed the burden from her life and the weight of it's release eased through tension heavy shoulders. 

In the moment after the last gulp of her now bitter swill, she decided the weight of expectations was never her burden unless she wanted to carry it. 

An unbidden flood of memories rushed through her crumbling walls and hushed consternated queries of "what do I do with what I've been given?" the decay gave way to new life. Tendrils of growing vines lifted her to a place of green buds and delicate leaves. The words were emboldened with release and here she found peace and joy . . . With moments of earned laughter. Looking past the wall of judges is where she found grace. 

When she tried to look back, she saw she was no longer there and in that past, all that was left was her pity.

She was asked repeatedly to justify her choices until one day she noticed a beaten and battered bit of sludge at her feet. She lifted it carefully, and tried to dust it off and asked no one in particular, "Did someone leave this little fuck here? It can't be mine. I came with none and have none to give you."

A Night Meant to Happen

I'm often amazed at the way things fall into place.  Part of that is a willingness to look for serendipity.  Last night I was invited to an event with GenArt at Skybar at the Mondrian Hotel. I love what GenArt does.  They live out the active study of humanities by incubating emerging talent in film, art, music and fashion until they are ready to be launched and are able to fly on their own.  I love what they do. On my way to the hotel, I was struck by the beauty of the setting sun and the many shades painted in the clouds. I ended up in a turn lane and on Mulholland Drive instead of staying on Laurel Canyon.  The timing of what I saw and the spot I was able to pull into left me in perfect position for a breathtaking  view of the sunset.  There's something about the ability of clouds to hold so much magic.

It was a long day and at the end of it, I needed a nudge from a couple of friends to go to the event.  I wanted to go because I wanted to show up for my friend and steal a hug from her.  I wanted to enjoy grown up moments.  I wanted to enjoy the screening and be surrounded in the magic of the Hollywood I wanted to be part of in my early 20's but don't have the stamina for now.I wanted to shmooze with the fun crowd, although I never bothered to  fake a persona, as I'm more comfortable as myself.  I felt guilt about postponing my reunion with my boys who were back from 5 days with their Dad.  My niece was with them as she gets them after school, but I was asking for a few hours longer, and feeling guilt about it.

In the end, I did what I wanted to do, which was sit poolside. I accepted that the nudge I sought from friends wasn't permission or an opinion I was asking for as much as I needed them to soothe my guilt over the moment I wanted and felt selfish about.  I remembered that guilt is manufactured by me and a choice.  I knew my kids wouldn't care if I was home as long as they had quiet and food and for a few hours I could enjoy myself and come home energized.  I did.

At the event, I had the honor of meeting David who embodied everything a great mentsch should.  He was decent, authentic and straight up.  We talked for a couple of hours and there were waves of clarity from the perspective he helped me shift.  Our conversation started with how I know the owners of GenArt.  I told him about the MITT Basic class I took and how moved I was at my friend's steadfast belief in me.  She believed in me so much that she enrolled a friend of hers into the idea of putting down my deposit for the course.  She had no idea if I would go or pay her back, but she believed in me and it was a huge gift to me.  I get to take the Advanced class next week, and while I haven't met my goal, I'm believing it will all work out because things always do. David pointed out that showing up is catalyst enough.  He told me to show up and give of myself, but that even givers must be discriminating.  I need to know that I'm worthy, and give to those I find worthy.  He asked why I wouldn't assume others would want to help me.  He asked me to not base my expectations on what happened in my marriage.  We spoke openly about life.

David sipped his bourbon as I sipped a club soda with lime, and he looked me in the face and asked if I was prepared for his honesty.  I was.  I didn't even have to check my inner voice because in that moment I felt self love that was profound.  I felt his kindness reaching out to me in a way that was gentle and giving.  He gave me a word: Worthy.  He told me I needed to make it a mantra until I no longer need to remind myself that I am worthy.

He gave me a story about an unlicked cub.  A mother would have only so much energy for licking her many cubs that there is one that would get neglected.  I was in some ways an unlicked cub and I need to internalize that I am worthy.  Even if that is something I might have a hard time seeing.

As we continued talking I gave him a word that had been given to me by a really incredible woman.  Several months ago we were talking about my first crush since my ex and the looks we exchanged. I gave him a look of hunger when I didn't mean to.  He looked at me like ice cream on a cheat day.  Yet, there was distance and space that would never be breached. She told me he needed to work out his mishegas.  Of course, my second crush would follow the same patterns of wanting more, but not enough to want more and the same crazy back and forth happened until it didn't.  What struck me last night was that I missed the other part of what she told me.  We attract what we are or who needs what we have.  She pointed out that my giving nature would provide me with someone who needs me to take care of them and that I had enough on my plate.  What she was too kind to mention was that the mishegas I was seeing in him was a reflection of my own. Last night I realized that through my marriage and now as a woman who is not divorced and yet single, I am in my own state of mishegas.

For so long as a wife, I did what my version of someone else's expectations of me were.  I failed their expectations and mine.  Now I kinda do what feels right and I have a happier home because of it.  But there's the whole dating thing.  Legally I'm still married.  In every other sense I'm single.  I really like being single too.  I do so much that I enjoy and I've had enough bad dates recently to feel like I want to know my day won't be wasted with bad company.  If I do find myself entertaining the idea of a relationship, it's never with the natural progression of cohabitation. I don't want something that looks like living together and meeting families. David gave me sound advice, and I'm figuring out what it means to me.  He said the longest distance for a man to travel is the lean in to kiss a woman, and it doesn't take much to convince him not to lean in.  I've known my confidence can be intimidating, but hearing it in such a fatherly way really gave me enough pause to consider my more predatory moments.

As we talked I realized I was getting comfortable.  I've heard so many dreamers imagine being rich, but their life looks like it does every single day.  For a while, every ounce of thought and energy went into plans and goals, and I've gotten comfortable with doing a job I love to the point that I wasn't really looking at it to see if it's the right place for me in the long term.  I stopped dreaming and for a while I was just setting moderate goals.  As we talked about my career, he asked me to think of what I could do that would allow me to give, but also to give in a way that the people I give to would be able to give further.  That was a profound moment for me.  It's not enough to hand granola bars to homeless people camped out by freeways.  I need to give in such a way that those receiving would be able to make my gift grow.

There was so much that we talked about and so much of himself that he shared with me.  The night of being in the moment was a gift.  I didn't worry about my kids (they were taken care of by my niece).  I didn't worry about work.  As much as I love it, I'm not essential to my position and I don't need to prioritize it when I'm off.  That thought could be terrifying, but I take it as freedom. My love life was just as stunted and stalled before the night as after it.  As I left, I had a hard time remembering much of what was said, but the feeling he left me with was profound and resonated in hollow parts I didn't know were emptied.  I got home to a loving message from a friend based on a silly Instagram video I took on my lunch.  I went to bed not only content but happy.

Hollywoodland Kindness

The plan for today was to explore the Secret Stairs in Hollywood.  I had the PDF with instructions printed out and with me.  I grabbed two small water bottles after inhaling a banana on my way out the door.  I somehow ended up at Bronson Caves and was excited to head up to the Hollywood Sign from Camp Hollywoodland instead. This last minute change of heart is very typical of me and I always go with it.  It usually ends up in an amazing transformative lesson happening.  Or a really pretty view.  I think I got both today.

At the car, I didn't really plan to go all the way up to the sign.  It looked daunting the first time I heard about the trail when I was exploring Bronson Caves with a friend.  She made it seem entirely easy and doable because she's done it with a 3 year old on her back.  She's pretty amazing.  I should remind you, I'm not into exercise.  I like pretty things and will do the crazy and sometimes the stupid to see it.  After my trip to Sunken City in San Pedro and hiking to the water below it, a friend joked with me about seeing me on the news because I was one of those people willing to do stupid things because I wanted to see what it looked like.  He teased me in love.  There will always be love in this friendship.

As I was hiking up and ready to quit the first time, there was a family coming down, with children and a stroller.  They made it to the halfway point pushing a stroller and told me to at least shoot for that.  I made it my goal and it was easy.  By this point, I was almost done with my first bottle of water and I had left the second bottle in the car.  I sat on a bench.  The only bench on the hike, and caught my breath.  As I sat and thought about turning back, there were a couple of young women with their dog.  I let my pride get to me.  If a little dog could do it, why couldn't I, right?  I mean, I've driven down Sunset strip and I've seen enough of these little yappy things being carried in purses.  Why shouldn't I keep going if this little pooch had it in her?  The girls encouraged me.  They pointed out the last real incline and that the rest was relatively flat.  I was doing okay, aside from the heat.  I had just hiked Runyon Canyon the day before with far less water than I had today.  I was energized and had a great experience by the end.  I didn't consider the fact that I left a few hours later today, or that it was considerably hotter. And a bit further.  I just thought, if a dog can do it, and I feel good, why can't I?  Honestly, I held onto my empty bottle of water until I turned back because I hoped there was a fountain on the way somewhere. There wasn't.  I was getting closer to the water tower and that's when the lethargy started to set in.

As a mom, I'm used to pushing through exhaustion.  I'm used to going and going until I actually can stop and take a breather.  I was pushing myself.  When I got to the residential area before that last leg of the hike that takes you above the sign, I realized I could probably drive through the residential area and hike above the sign another time.  It was time to head back.  I sat and rested until I was cool and my heart wasn't racing.  I threw away my empty bottle and I started back.

As I was walking, only determination kept my pace up.  I was determined to get back to my car and that one bottle of water.  The thirst in my throat wasn't burning.  You read about vampires and burning throats, but I think that's just authors in need of heartburn relief.  There was a dry itch at the back of my throat.  My mouth felt hot and dry.  I'm usually fairly modest, but I became one of those women hiking in her yoga pants and sports bra today.  I never imagined the day I would hike without a shirt again.  The last time was 7 kids ago.  I was so hot I didn't care how visible my tattoo was. No one else cared either.  I started planning each rest stop as the next shady spot or rock ahead of me. I would rest until my heart stopped racing and my body cooled down.

As I walked, and stopped, I would pay attention to what I felt.  I would sit on a rock and lean forward and feel light headed.  As I walked, my hands started swelling to the point where I had to put my class ring on smaller fingers.  I had a hard time getting it off, and it's normally fairly loose.  (Dehydration was on the verge of getting scary.)

At one of my resting stops, three women asked me how to get to the Hollywood sign.  I started explaining and had to pause for a moment because words were hard to get out.  I excused myself and explained that I was in the mood to see something pretty but I really don't exercise and I didn't plan my water needs very well.  I was offered some water and empathy.  They got directions.  A swallowed mouthful later and I kept going.

At another resting stop, I saw a man running back down.  He ran past me on his way up and he was running past me again.  He stopped and asked if I was okay.  I must have looked terrible to break his stride, or he was just really a great guy.  I told him I was already more than half way down, but taking it slow.  He asked about my water.  I admitted I was a little dehydrated.  He offered his hydration pack, and I wasn't too proud to accept.  He apologized about the weird taste because he adds electrolytes but I wasn't in a complaining mood.  I was so grateful.  Immediately, I could feel a difference.  He walked with me a bit and asked if I wanted him to stay with me all the way down.  I insisted he keep going on his run, but I regret not getting his name.  He gave me one of his electrolyte powder packs and all I gave him was my gratitude.

I was almost at the bottom of the trail and remembered how excited I was at this point on the way up.  I saw a group coming and I didn't notice their backpacks.  I told them I hoped that they had more water than what was visible.  They said they did and I told them to have a great day, realizing I was mothering strangers.  One of the girls in the group ran back to me and handed me a bottle of water.  I was so thankful.  I got to my car and had the second bottle after adding some electrolyte powder to it.  Then I drove to Gelson's for coconut water and more water.

There was a lesson in my day.

I'm fairly used to being on my own.  Last night I was at a launch for a friend's company at Club Couture in Hollywood.  It was a red carpet event and I showed up alone.  I invited people, but didn't have any takers.  I was still comfortable going to the event without an escort.  I danced alone, and was asked to dance.  (A yes to a dance request does not mean I will be okay with you touching my butt, and no matter how beautiful you are, if you are with a date, don't waste your time on me because I don't share.)   Today was about learning that there is a community in human existence for a reason.

The kindness of strangers kept me going when I wanted to quit, and kept me hydrated.  It could have been bad.  It didn't escape me that there were rescue helicopters flying around, watching all of us for the silly folks like myself that didn't plan appropriately.

There is a reason there are buddy systems in hiking, and swimming and schools.  Buddies are amazing gifts. The short time I walked with the man that stopped his run for me felt better.  There is so much in the encouragement and companionship of someone else.

Research is brilliant.  I'm committed to preparing for hikes I've done before, and researching for new places I want to explore. I should have connected with that friend that has done the hike.  I should have checked out a map, and seen I could have made a short cut by driving through the residential neighborhood.  (I don't hike for exercise.  It's about seeing pretty things.) Going on a hike and making a really long detour yesterday was not brilliant.  Going on a hike I wasn't prepared for today could have been dangerous.

Planning is not overrated.  Even though my plans shifted, it would have been a great idea to shift with those plans, and make sure I had the provisions I needed.  My next hiking trip will include a backpack for water and coconut water. I may look for that electrolyte powder because it felt good.  It will include insect repellent.  I have bites. They suck.  And sunblock that was already in my car should have made it to my face and arms.  I am not red, and I won't peel, but my skin is hot to the touch and I'm sure my makeup is now too light for my skin tone and that is quite a bit of foundation and concealer to replace and not wear. It was nice to hike really close to Gelson's.  Once I got to the parking lot I dozed off in my parked but running car, sleeping off my exhaustion in air conditioning.

I really could have made it to the top if I had been more gentle on myself.  If my body wasn't trying to shut down on me, I could have made it.  I have sore muscles now and a slower walk.  I also have a new appreciation for walking through air conditioned museums with restaurants and available drinks everywhere.

My thought Saturday was I can do this without company and Sunday I learned how essential company can be.  And strangers are incredibly kind.

Love Is Not Blind

It's amazing what we will accept in the name of love, isn't it? I mean, there has to be a reason we will accept heartache and pain, loneliness and defiance from those that we love.  We cover their sins by saying we love someone or excuse their poor behavior when they never bothered to excuse it away.  Love isn't blind.  We're not blinded by an emotion we choose. I believe love is a choice.  Lust is more instinctive than love, and we can control lust.  We're not animals.  Rape culture tells us to dress differently and carry ourselves as if we are less so we don't attract men, but I believe we are in control of our lust.  There would be plenty of men in serious trouble if I acted on every single one of my lustful impulses.  My hike this morning put a few beautiful men in my path, with friends, and running.  Amazingly, I didn't assault them.  If acting on an impulse like lust is a choice, then acting on an impulse to care enough to love is also a choice.  You choose to look for the best parts of a person and hold within you an ember of hope that they will be able to step into all of the wonderful things you see in them.  People will fail you.  You see things they can't see and they fail your expectation because they don't hold themselves to the level you do.  It's so much easier to find the amazing in someone else than it is to find it in ourselves.

As a woman that has loved children and men and sisters and parents, I can see stubbornness and laziness.  I can see conditional love and selfishness.  I can see anger and aggression.  I can see people take advantage of kindness.  In love, we can see clearly.  We can also choose to cover them in our love and hope that they will do better.

Love isn't blind.  Love allows us to see our loved ones more clearly than they see themselves.  It allows us to look past their faults with intention and see the parts that aren't yet clear.  Love gives us the space to offer our best to cover their worst and defend the indefensible behaviors that others don't understand.

Love is clarity.  Love is hope.  Love is reaching beyond what is to cull what could possibly be. Love is crystal clear.  Love sees it all and hopes for the vision we hold to come through.

Hiking Runyon Canyon

 

One that is proudly inactive does not simply decide to hike Runyon Canyon.  Unless you're me, and committed to not over thinking anything.  Then I go for it.

I've lived in Los Angeles all of my life and I've recently decided that I can enjoy my city too.  So many people that live here came from elsewhere.  There are people that come and stay in hotels and pay an insane amount of money for the sunshine and beaches and I've spent long enough sleeping in and not going out to explore.

This morning I was up before the sun.  It was my usual morning of my body waking me up for no reason at all.  I looked at my phone, then thought, "I could catch the sunrise . . . go hiking . . . have coffee on the porch." The day was ahead of me because it was still dark outside and I was rested.  Somehow I got sucked into Facebook instead only to look up and discover the sky outside was lighter and the birds were chirping.  I could have tried sleep at that point.  I could have gotten up for housework.  Instead I threw on clothes and told my Waze app to get me to Runyon Canyon.

I parked closer to Vista and used that entrance.  I had my keys in one hand and my phone in the other and didn't bother with water, but decided stretching would be planning enough.  (I also stopped at every fountain for water and sat at every bench to appreciate the view.)  As I started walking with my music in my ears, I was singing.  On the way up, I saw this massive climb with people goat hopping and climbing up and thought maybe I could turn back at that point.  It looked intense.

I started focusing on each step I was taking or the views all around me.  I have never done the trail before, so I figured I would just follow the paved road.  Runyon Canyon Road leads to Mulholland Drive and I was about a third of the way there when I checked my map.  If you were there, I was the crazy woman laughing hysterically on my way back down and to the fork that took me to Fuller so I could complete the loop.

I'm focusing on the fact that the way you do anything is the way you do everything.

From the time I woke up, I sat with the idea for a while before I decided I would just do it.  I bought a sports bra a couple of years ago that is way too big for me now so  I wore a regular bra and found peace with the idea that I would bounce and it didn't bother me as much as I thought it would.  I didn't even think about it.  We do what we commit to do or we make excuses, but at the end of the morning, I hiked a trail I've wanted to check out for a while and didn't have anyone to get me out of bed for it but myself.

I remembered to stretch after watching someone else doing it.  I remembered my post workout stretch when I was sitting in the air conditioning in my car, and got up to stretch and it felt good.  Not gelato good, but good. Doing things properly has latent benefits.  Take the time to stretch and focus on your breathing and being present in the moment.  It feels better than you might imagine.

It was a morning of appreciating the present moment I was in.  I wasn't focused on the really steep climb I could see people struggling through.  I ended up in the opposite direction.  By the time I got there, I was coming down and not climbing up.  Instead of struggling, I was jogging and hopping and it was fun. I hit a crest and realised I was looking at the original ascent I was afraid of.  I made peace with the idea of sliding down on my butt if I had to.  I accepted that I might fall, and hoped I wouldn't end up with a face full of cacti needles because I have plans tonight and want to look cute.  By the time I got down, I didn't fall.  I was able to just enjoy the beautiful view.  I spent some time petting some stranger's dog and we both got lost in a few moments of watching dragonflies.  The dog's owner seemed a bit nervous about the dragon flies and I assured him they might land on you for a little insect porn, but they really don't harm people.

I saw lots of exhaustion and determination on faces, but my face offered a smile and a song.  By the end of the hike, I did more than I planned to. It was exciting and relying on my body felt amazing.  I was more capable than I expected I could be.  I was sweating and really appreciated the fact that I was too lazy to shower first. That post workout shower is a special gift.  I didn't plan, but the adventure made me laugh.  The steep climb looked far worse than it was because it was my descent.  I didn't bring water but I had just what I needed in water and rest stops. And it was a road travelled alone.  It's exactly how I'm living my everything.

Just Say It

I was having a conversation with a beautiful friend last night.  I was slightly envious of her perfect posture but appreciated her strawberry blonde hair, softly swept over her left shoulder.  She was telling me about her trip home and the family love she was surrounded with.  She told me about a camping trip that got rained out.  It reminded me of a trip to Green Valley Lake where the rain pelted the tent throughout the night and we cut our trip short, packing up in the rain, and then setting the tent up in our living room to air out over a pizza dinner which I preferred over the walking tacos or sauteed trout that was probably planned. Those are the best conversations, right? The ones that revive a memory or a thought of another time and place that feel like home and taste like warm honeyed milk.

We walked and talked and she danced around telling me about the love in her life.  I've known heartache.  She was expressing something I have known and have grown to appreciate. It's an effort to remember that the love I give is given and not bartered.  I have to remind myself that the amazing I see and praise isn't a chip I get to cash in at the end of the romance.  I told her that I loved her.  I do.  It's not difficult to admit, because I can say it and know there is truth in it.  Am I in love with her? No.  I couldn't see myself putting her above my needs because doing so would bring me joy.  I could do it, but it would be about generosity, not personal fulfillment.  I can say I love her.  I know that as special and wonderful and amazing as she is, I'm not in love with her.

The thing about saying you love something or someone is you should really just say it.  Think about what people proclaim their love for on a daily basis.

I love pizza!

I love tacos!

I love Fridays!

I love Saturday sleep ins!

I love rough porn star sex! (What, you've never heard this one? Try online dating. Or don't, might be the lesson.)

My loves? Beach sunsets, museums, food joy, but you know this and it's meaningless.  Without a person to love, things are meaningless.

Love was never meant to stay within you.  It feeds off of others and that's how it grows.  You can't force change through fear or domination but you can through love because that is what helps an ideal solidify through intention.  We're all world changers in our way.  Wouldn't you want to impact the world in a greater way? Do it through love. It's universal.

When you hold in your expression of love, does it feel good? Do you enjoy the wonder of what their reaction will do, or do you let your love sit within you, surrounded by the fear of a reaction.  Fear lies to us.  It tells us what the worst possible outcome is and we believe this without proof.  It tells us to forget what we know and run from what we can't see. It allows us to hide in stagnant waters that are unable to oxygenate and make us grow.  It allows us to die through emotional suicide.

When you hold love in and the situation changes but you kept those words to yourself, you have not only robbed the focus of your affection of the opportunity to be loved, but you've robbed yourself of that moment of expression.  You have placed the value of your emotions in the fear of someone else's interpretation without realizing that they don't count the way you do because you aren't willing to teach them.

I'm guilty of this. The last time I withheld that expression, it became a withheld confession.  I attached guilt to it. Not saying it was about my fear that it would frighten him.  It was about placing his needs of being superficial in our connection ahead of my need to get it out of myself.  I robbed him of the opportunity to prove me wrong or show me he is who he's always shown up to me as. I care more about how he might react than a missed eggy breakfast.  That's love.  With him, the words were meaningless to me when I could take the opportunity to express it through the action of doing what was contrary to who I am becoming.  Life is practice.  I'm not done yet.

How you do anything is really how you do everything.  I shoot from the heart.

The Cigar

I want the chocolate one. Make it two. Please cut the tip. He bags it and adds a pouch for humidity. Who knows if I'll smoke it? It's rebellion enough to buy the thing. I'm in my early 20's again, scratching at the void with longer nails to mask what I refuse to notice.

I walk familiar streets and along the pier, sitting and watching people watch their phones.

Rolled and rectangular with a hint of chocolate. Dark leaves neatly folded like fey clothes in the Seelie Courts.  It smells like rebellion. The taste of leaves feel dry and moist. I lick the end and feel closer to the earth and dark soil. It's almost sweet until I light it. I fake a habit I used to own, preferring to blow out an oral fixation and imagine dragon's breath out of a borrowed phallus I destroy in embers and flicked away ash. You would think I forgot how to smoke but it's work to not step into instinct from a three pack a day habit nearly two decades old.  I turn it slowly for an even burn, blowing more than puffing so I can keep away the light headed bliss that tells me I want to return to this escape. I'm at peace with how unattractive it is because I handle it like a boss.

The moon is full and tells me these phases come and go with the force to pull waves along a shore, crashing and eroding even solid rocks with constant force because the moon is greater than anything we have on earth. It's great because as big as the earth is, you can't ignore the size of a moon that orbits the earth while dancing around the sun. It does what it will as I watch in gratitude for it's beauty and it's lessons and the life it forces in partnership with the sun.

It's a clear night with dotted lights along the shore and winking at me from the sky. I find a moment of grace and it feels like peace with joy around the edges. The other cigar will be a gift to brighten someone else's day and I smile because I find happiness in my giving.

My Tiara

I have a tiara.  Let it sink in. 

I was in a silly mood when I bought it. It's cheaply made and entirely frivolous. But I have a tiara. 

There was a whole thought process behind it, but I have a tiara. I was never on any of the royal courts in high school. It wasn't my thing. Leadership Council, yes. Prom Princess, no. But I have a tiara.

The thought was about saddling up and paying bills. If I wear it when balancing my checkbook and paying bills, I can be the Queen that is handling the business of her Kingdom ... Queendom. I'm doing my duties and not getting bent over and robbed at the same time. 

This morning Kid3 was having a melt down. He had one when he went to bed last night and had one in the morning. I stepped outside to discover what happened to half a dozen eggs that disappeared and realized the kids were revolting. I put on that tiara and the extra dose of patience I needed fell softly around my shoulders. 

Queens don't lose their shit. 

I couldn't lose my shit. 

I caught my reflection in a mirror and started giggling. My son started giggling. There were hugs and tickles and silly laughter. And there's a tiara. 

Best $10 I've spent this week. 

Second Chances

I'm not a giver of second chances.  Not in romantic relationships.  Once upon a time I tried it. It was a guy that I was friends with first.  As friends, we shared so much of who we were. He even held my hand through a breakup with someone else.  As a couple, he wasn't the right fit, and trying a second time was for him.  There was a shift in the relationship. My friends were all guys.  I wanted him to have his time with his friends so I could hang with mine.  I didn't want him to meet my friends. He wanted my time apart to mean I stayed home to wait for his call.  He would call while I was with friends and I made fun of his attachment to me.  I didn't want to be with him and I was sad that I had to tell him this and he couldn't see that I turned into a mean person because I wasn't happy. For the record, I was also a coward that couldn't own up to what I wanted out of our relationship.  I just couldn't get back into the idea of "us" because I had accepted we would only be friends.  I was so immature that friendship with my ex meant he was my go to when I was looking for a punchline.  It didn't help that he liked me more than I liked him. As a couple, I tend to be intensely obsessive.  I want to know every detail about him and I want to enjoy his company.  I'm such a believer in the good of who he is, I give every opportunity and spend way too much time hoping he'll see my amazing and want to be with me just as much as I want to be with him. It never goes well, and by the end, he's pushed me so far from him I finally take the hint and wouldn't want him back.  I mean, typically.  In theory.  I couldn't tell you what my reaction would be tomorrow because I just don't know. Lately my relationships look different because I'm different.

Right now, I'm all about my alone time and company is great, but I have to be convinced that the person I'm talking to would improve on time I really like spending alone. The other day at work a woman asked if I'd like to join her group.  It was kind, but I declined.  As friendly as I can be, I prefer to sit alone, doodle, sing and be the happy pariah. In the past, I always jumped head first into romance, and I gave so much in relationships that by the time it was over, he was long gone and I was being that puppy that couldn't drop the toy.  Those feelings linger so long because I really love falling in love and I can appreciate the good, milking it for every racing heartbeat and fluttering butterfly moment.  I like the many things a relationship will make me feel.

Once I turn away, I'm done.  Once I accept the romance is over, we'll only be friends, if that, and that's all I want. It means I've stepped away to heal damage we caused.  It means I've opened up to the possibility of a new romance somewhere in the future.  It means I'm able to appreciate the good, and really examine the bad for once.  But I'm done.  I wasn't always nice about it. Once I was asked for a second chance and I told him I didn't have the Jesus juice he was looking for. He was calling me his "goddess" and I told him I'm not the one that gives second chances or mends broken hearts. (I keep telling you I'm not nice and as you can see, I have a tendency to be so wrong.) I used to change perfumes when I changed men.  It was a scent memory I was leaving behind. I'm not nearly as dramatic anymore. Now it's a moment to moment decision. Can the person in front of me improve on this moment, or can I handle this on my own? The guys that I walked away from recently weren't relationship kinda guys.  They were looking for something physical and I wasn't.  Then there were the two crushes I've had this year.  They were just that and entirely perfect in what they were. And sometimes a muse is just a muse. I don't know how I would react to a revisit from Mr. He's Hot and So Not Into Me, or my latest crush that was too kind to get a silly name for my objectification moments.

I'm starting to wonder about my stance.  I took a stand in my late teens and early 20's, but I've lived through so much during the marriage where I only dated my husband.  I recently had a moment where a memory from 18 years ago revived desiccated butterflies I thought were extinct.  How can a memory make my heart race and my stomach flip in a way that doesn't feel like heartburn? I related the moment to a friend and she suggested, "it's good to be excited and reconnect. It's been a long time, people are different.  It'll be like meeting someone new and different at the same time." I have to believe her.  She puts up with my horny teenage boy moments and laughs at the midlife sex drive of a celibate woman.

There was a boy. That many years ago I was just a girl. He was beautiful and intense. He was so driven and ambitious. I was immature.  I needed to go through my bad boy stage and work out my Daddy issues and he was smart enough to not get into my craziness. As intense as I can be, he was too intense for me.  This doesn't mean I need to find him and insist on a do-over.  Maybe one roll of quarters in my crazy arcade is enough for any boy.  The point is the memory of him shifted things just enough.  This may be one of those many revolutionary acts of starting over in the middle of your life. Like starting a new career, you get to revisit a romance with the perspective of someone who actually knows what they will and will no longer accept in relationships.

I'm still figuring out what I like and what I want and I'm not actually planning on giving up my "date myself nights." I treat myself really well and I'm really looking forward to my five kid free days this week.

Two of my sisters have grown up and reconnected with their first loves.  Each one of mine ended badly enough that my "what if's" were answered and never need revisiting. I've thought about every significant relationship I had before I got married and decided months ago that they weren't worth the data of an internet search.  It helps that I always had a thing for guys that my friends would always warn me about, and often dumped guys that were too nice.  It's a quality I like now but if I dumped them, I wasn't very nice about it and may have thrown words like, "little bitch" around.  I couldn't come back from that if I wanted to.  I learned those lessons and the memories are a strong enough repellent.

What about all of those versions of Mr. Almost, and Senators of Maybe Someday? I don't mean the men I politely said I'd meet for coffee even though I was more interested in watching clouds float through the sky.  I don't mean the ones I had  no interest in.  I mean the boys I really liked, and wanted to spend my free time with. I mean the ones that I looked forward to seeing. Could I revisit that? There's no one that I've held a torch for all of these years, but I was struck by a memory.  For the first time since high school, I'm wondering about the possibilities about a second chance at what I passed on the first time. I may be open to the idea of a second chance.  But I'm not sure I have an answer to that or that I could come up with an answer at the end of this post.

I would need that moment and that person to decide if it was worth the risk to revisit a memory. I would need to decide if my memories are sugar coated versions of reality or if life has made a mediocre painting less than it used to be. Maybe I'm over thinking my needs.  Maybe I just need some time alone with gelato.

When I Don't Say "I'm Sorry"

As a woman, it's easy to apologize for things we're not even responsible for. It's a gift of femininity when we are taught to not make waves and make others comfortable.  It's a gift without a receipt.  We can't take it back and we don't know what it's valued at, but we wouldn't mind taking it back to the store for something else. We apologize for someone's loss. We apologize when someone walks into us.  We apologize to the person we want to get around when they are standing in the middle of a grocery store aisle with their cart blocking both directions. Take the same person and stick them in a car that is slightly more dent proof than we are and you might get road rage. We give meaningless apologies for the space we take or step into.  I'm sorry for being too close to your pain to offer real comfort.  I'm sorry for the space I was taking when you forgot to look where you were going.

I'm sorry you didn't like what I did or felt or thought.  I'm consistently sorry for hurting others or making them uncomfortable.  When I'm not, I take a careful look at my motives and I'm often trying to be dominant in a powerless situation. The guilt is often a heavy burden I accept willingly.  What I try not to apologize for is the life I am trying to live.  The idea of holding back who I am for someone else's comfort hurts.  I wish it didn't, but that is what my scar tissue feels like.  It's pain when I am asked to be someone I don't want to be.  It hurts the most when I can see I'm trying to be less because the request comes from someone I want to mean more than I do. My apologies come with careful consideration and weigh heavier than they used to.

There are times when I don't say sorry.  There were times when I justified and defended my choices.  There were times when I made excuses but I didn't experience contrition.  Or I wouldn't admit to being apologetic.  Usually this happens when my shame is such a bright and heavy jacket that I throw out excuses and justifications to offset the weight of what I carry.

Other times I feel there isn't a fault in what happened.  It is what we've made it and I accept it for what it is and what it feels like and how it shapes itself around us.  A love of books . . . Shameless adoration . . . Fighting for what I believe in . . . These are things that aren't about shame but a willingness to stand in all I am capable of being and doing.  An apology says I'm willing to be less of who I am so you can be more and I'm not willing to do that.  Not anymore.  Not for anyone else.

I make mistakes all of the time.  I have doses of regret fall heavily when I don't expect it to. I hurt feelings and mine are hurt but I accept what lands as the cost of transparency because there is deep connection in letting others see and letting others in.  Connection feels good.

I tell my sons they can tell me how they feel, and it can include yelling as long as it's not an attempt to wound me.  They can tell me they're mad at me.  They can tell me they don't agree with me or they can point out when I am wrong.  Just this weekend I was freaking out a bit when looking for my keys.  I insisted the boys should help me find my keys that I lost . . . On my bed where I thought I had left them.  I told them they should laugh at me, and they did.  And I laughed with them because it was silly of me to freak out when I should have looked more diligently in the first place.

There are alternatives to "I'm sorry," and there are ways to submit without being submissive.  I feel it's about the balance of accepting you were wrong, finding out how to correct it, and moving on, without the burden of your guilt confining you into stagnation.

Pride Blanket

I pull it around me like a blanket made of stone. It's rough hematite scraping against my chest.

I'm holding it close to comfort me.

It's streaking red anger in bleeding emotions Pride promised to stop.

Feelings seep from a crevasse of loneliness but my Pride goes before me.

It's a bridge that leads me no where.

It covers the soft parts I left exposed as I stretched in hopeful longing.

In transparency, we grew cold when the sun we exposed was too bright, too weak.

I felt the burn once his heat was gone and the sting lingers long after night falls.

It covers the weakness and longing that sit around me in solitude.

It whispers the strong words we hide behind because the feelings were too new, too strong.

Pride tells me it was nothing and didn't matter.

Pride tells me it was a mess we stepped over and away from.

We're given a clean break in the world of the unknown.

Pride protected us from ourselves.

Pride tells me it's better to never know.

Pride prevented me from needing, loving and losing.

I wrap my Pride around me.

I pull it closer so you can't see I'm shivering in the cold of almost.

A Week

Sunday wakes slowly and stretches languidly before remembering the week ahead.  She runs around, picking up and preparing for the busy jaunt that will come quickly. She rests when she can because it's still her day off.  With kids. Is there such a thing? She'll contemplate that after she puts away the drill and adds anchors to her shopping list. She pulls cobwebs out of her hair after reorganizing the storage shed and re homes spiders (not black widows, they get a rubber mallet funeral) and beetles that land where they didn't belong.  She sips coffee throughout the day but it's always just a little too sweet.

Monday is all business.  She rises promptly and falls into routine like a drill sergeant.  The hot water of a morning shower forces her awake.  Her bark gets the boys up because it's time to face their week too.  She sends them off with a call for "good choices," and drives on to start a work week with eager excitement.  She loves what she does.  She walks in confidence to her desk, sending a sleeping computer into running order.  She cracks her own whip and smiles at naughty adventures she can still taste in fading memories. After her coffee, she'll hold a mug of hot tea in prayerful supplication.  She likes her green tea unsweetened, her black with cream, and everything else with raw sugar.

Tuesday knows she has to get up and get the boys out but she begs for 5 more minutes before she remembers they are her 5 minutes to take. She flows into the routines of the week, taking advantage of a street cleaning threat that hovers over the clock, knowing they'll get out before parking enforcement will make it to her block.  She passes the demand of responsibility onto the threat of a ticket because she wants to be forceful but rely on someone else's authority. She gets tired of being on her own when it comes to parenting the boys. She eases into routines that Monday started and she'll be thankful for that bore's easy organization because the reality of Tuesday's morning is the product of Monday evening and the boys shifting back into a school week is torture for all involved.  She loves the crunch of sugar snap peas and salted popcorn.  She likes a brisk walk to 7-Eleven for Green Apple or L'Orange Perrier and will enjoy the smiles she receives when doing it.

Wednesday is a hoppy rabbit with excitement for the evening.  The boys go back to their Dad and Wednesday has a taste for shenanigans.  She spends her day in dreams of the ocean and performers that wrap music around them with their goatees and easy to watch physiques.  Their smiles whisper of naughty adventure, and she understands the language they speak. She has tasty visions of the things she would do with a boy like that but she knows the rest of the week knows regret in the morning feels like spit warmed over and swallowed back down.  She is a randy whore that likes to look but has little interest in touching.  She feels the eyes of strangers and it feels like warmth and lowered inhibitions.  She goes home alone and sings love songs to herself.  That feels good.  Enough.  It feels good enough.  She likes an Apple Martini that tastes more like an Apple Blow Pop than something sour and foul.

Thursday is a teenager.  She wakes up alone and will go to sleep alone.  She'll make herself eggs for dinner one week and coq au vin the next.  It's not hard to convince her she deserves a night on the town and she will sometimes end up at a table for one where she will scribble in a notebook or laugh at her phone.  She likes a Scooby-Snack at a bar, but she will chase it with water because she has never met a hangover she could be friends with. She doesn't worry about who might be watching her because she is comfortable and doesn't really care.

Friday is a happy girl.  She loves waking up and heading to work and she'll find any excuse to stop at a store before she settles in for the last day of the work week. She is either planning a long weekend at home with the boys, or she's planning a night of debauchery.  She likes putting on something short and low cut, but the other girls always chime in and demand she dial it back a bit. She is someone's mom and she should try to be considerate of what that means, even if she is redefining what it means.  But maybe her butt isn't all that impressive and could be made into less of a main attraction. She'll sip a Cape Cod, but has a taste for a Bloody Mary from time to time as well.

Saturday makes an appearance throughout the week.  She insists on doodling in notebooks and sitting under trees on a lunch break.  She blows bubbles with a wand she keeps in her car for traffic.  She once made them stop for a cigar to relive their youth and she insisted the unfinished stogie was worth it but everyone else knows it wasn't. She's been known to serenade her boys, getting them used to the idea of someone singing to them directly.  She sings alone at work because it makes her happy but she might also be trying to convince the world she might be a little bat shit crazy. The idea of being offbeat amuses her. Every phrase is "shit" or "awesomesauce" because she doesn't do anything that would fall in between. There are no shades of gray when the world is so rosy colored.  She has a sweet tooth but no one else does.  The stash is for her but everyone else insists sugar snap peas are just as good as Peanut M&M's and Perrier is better than soda.  She's not buying it, but she adds all the cream to their coffee so it tastes like candy.  She has projects around the house that wait until it's a weekend at home with the boys, or she has a list of places she can't wait to explore. She's never idle and loves her own company, so anyone that wants to join her had better be damn special.  She doesn't put up with anyone that isn't. And she doesn't give second chances, but the rest of the week does. She accepts it but will slam a Purple Hooter Shot, their whiny complaints ignored on the rare occasions the week will allow a little inebriation.

15 Years Later For Me

If you are old enough to remember, you can never forget what you were doing when you found out about the attack on our country.  We aren't used to bombs going off around us, or planes being hijacked in protest.  We are not accustomed to areas we should avoid because there are IED's that were planted . . . Or once upon a time, bouncing betties never went off.  We aren't used to seeing child death from drowning in an attempt to escape the violence in a place that was home or toddlers still with shock and covered in blood and dust.  This is not our normal.  When it happens, we remember.  Details may get fuzzy.  Who hurt us or why they felt they needed to will burn into memories that are never met with understanding.  The indelible mark on us all is the way we felt because unless we're lucky enough to heal properly, this will be how we feel about this situation for the rest of our lives. I was on bedrest.  It was a year and 9 days since I said "I do" and I was 34 weeks along with my firstborn.  He wasn't gaining weight and his amniotic fluid levels were low, so I was in bed with him.  My husband was at work in Downtown L.A. as a security guard.  I've been asked, and I'll say it here, I married for love, not looks or money. I loved his company and our simple way of living.  I lived for our late night Walmart dates of household shopping and our fishing trips in Big Bear Lake. I would've followed him into homelessness if it meant waking up with him every morning.  I would've cared for his every physical need as long as he let me and I did until he stopped wanting me to. I couldn't imagine the years before us being anything but happy, and the ways our lives blended and solidified looked nothing like what I imagined.  I stopped dreaming and just took each day as it came.

The man I loved called me to ask if I had seen the news about  a plane in a building.  I turned on the news to a live feed and watched the second plane strike the second tower.  It was several moments of confusion for me because I was watching it live and it didn't occur to me that a plane flying into a building would be anything but an accident.  I couldn't understand how he could tell me to watch for something I was seeing live.  I didn't understand how someone could do that intentionally.

I remembered my short trip to New York in June 1997.  I had a boyfriend that missed his grandmother and high school friends.  I couldn't take care of myself as I was living with my mom, but I managed to take us to New York. We crashed Jerry and Nora's wedding (no clue who they were).  We went to Roosevelt Field Mall (so much like every other mall).  We went to Six Flags Great Adventure (which looked a lot like Six Flags Magic Mountain). We went to a restaurant owned by models (who barely eat and I don't remember if it was good), and we walked through Manhattan.  This is the only picture of me in New York I have.  Now if your boyfriend (on the right and shorter than me) is walking with you but doesn't want to walk with you that is a problem.  He dumped me right after the trip.  We'll always have that trip to San Pedro because in that moment, there was love. You can search "San Pedro" in my blog and see where I thought about this boy enough to include in a few posts.  The amazing thing about growth is that if I were to meet him for the first time today, what he taught me then wouldn't get him a first date now. I miss that purse though. I need to go back to New York one day.

New York was beautiful with its humidity and fast pace on the streets.  It was glittering lights and I would've loved to check out a play or visit the Statue of Liberty.  We rubbed the Charging Bull on Broadway and Morris and I imagined what it would've been like to be there in the winter with slush around my feet.  On the flight in, my boyfriend pointed out the twin towers and told me about the first attack in 1993 but I had no clue about the significance of the buildings until 4 years later when I was home and watching it.

I watched the news shift between New York, D.C. and Pennsylvania because none of us could understand why so much hate would take innocent lives.  I worried about my husband who had a duty to the building he worked in.  For weeks, we were still in complete panic that the next attack would hit closer to home, and he was in the heart of our financial district.  In the weeks following, his responsibilities included logistics around building safety.  He got an upgrade on his cameras and he made great use of them, zooming in on pretty ladies on the the street.  I was in bed.  Watching the news.

I couldn't stop watching.  I felt the fear begin to cripple me into worrying about my husband and what I would do without him.  (Well, that question was answered and I'm doing fine.)  I started to react to the situation in the way I saw my Dad reacting to life.  He's a war vet. He served in the Army and was there for the Tet Offensive in Viet Nam.  He sees a war torn America every day.  It's a pair of glasses he can't take off because PTSD won't allow the present to be just the present.

I had this growing life inside of me that would tap and kick and roll.  I had him under my ribs, and resting against my heart and there was so much life inside of me.  I had to step into the faith that there is more good than bad in the world.  Instead of focusing on the many broken bodies carried out, I began to focus on the many helping hands that gave selflessly and the stories from the plane that ended up in a field after so many stepped bravely in spite of fear to keep that plane from hitting its target.

There was and is so much hate brewing in our country.  Ignorance has cast anyone in a hijab as a vile creature of hate and bigotry has become entertainment and worse, a political vehicle.  It's disgusting.  I had the absolute privilege of carrying twin girls for a family of arabs that also practice Islam.  They showed me love and respect.  The father of the twins I carried wouldn't even enter my room without my husband in the room out of respect.  I was floored by the value they place on their women.  I don't agree with all they do, and I'm not trying to proselytize their faith.

I can simplify it by looking at my family.  I come from an international family.  By birth, my heritage is African American and Thai.  Through adoption and marriage, my family is also caucasian, Mexican, and Vietnamese.  If you want to trace heritage, I'm Mexican, Italian, French, Sephardic Jew, Choctaw Indian and a slew of other things that dilute blood from a slave ship from Africa.  I couldn't begin to tell you what is on my mother's side because I don't know.  My boys are Dutch, Irish and Jewish.  We're international.  Each of us is responsible for our own choices and we are a mix of good people you would trust with your wallet and people you might not trust (I hear my Kid3 steals from other people's houses when with his Dad but he doesn't have that problem when with me).

I can break it down in terms of food.  I love good food.  My food baby is well fed and my palate is frequently pleased.  Food joy can sound orgasmic. My international family means we have international foods at holiday gatherings.  Christmas will include a turkey and ham, but my sister and I have made loads of tamales and champurrado to go with her sangria.  What I've learned is that even if you come from Thailand and know how to cook Thai food, it might not taste good because not everyone can cook.  Your Italian aunt's spaghetti might be homemade but you might still prefer a jar of Barilla to her labor of love because she could burn water without supervision.

We can't judge a group of people on the actions of a handful of people that probably could have used more hugs than they got when growing up.  Bigotry and hate often look like fear.  Fear, like stress and guilt are within you and if you let it cripple you into bigotry, that's your own fault and can't be blamed on beliefs you are too afraid to try to understand or challenge.  Woman up, or man up, or tranny up.  Get that handled so you can do epic shit and look past what you didn't understand to be more than you see right now.

I didn't know anyone that was in one of those buildings that day until a couple of months ago, and she amazes me with her zeal for life.  She wasn't in the building when it was hit, but she was in the building that day and in the city at the time of the attack. Her children and her work are her passions and there is so much room for intentional engagement when I do see her.  I know a rescuer who was a fire fighter at the time and she's still tough as nails and likely suffers from what that dust did to her lungs. Both of these women are inspirations to me for getting through that as closely as they were and living a life that isn't a prison to that experience.  They live.  In all they do, they don't allow their strength and courage to die.   They are braver than anyone will ever give them credit for because it wasn't born for recognition but for survival.  It came in silence and is not something they put on but who they are. They are amazing and strong women in every sense of what being a woman means to me.

In 1994, September 11th was the day I was baptized.  It was a day to declare my belief in the religion I was raised in.

In 2001, September 11 was the day our country felt hate.  A war was started and my children don't know what it means to live in peace.  It was the starting point for many of us, and a mark in a long history for others.  It is the most significant entry in my son's history books that I can give a first hand experience of.

In 2012, September 11  was the day I made a trip to the hospital to visit 6 day old twins and marvel at the fact that they were still alive even though they were born at 29 weeks. It was the first time Baby A was allowed kangaroo care, and I held her against my chest so she could hear my heartbeat and borrow my warmth.

In 2015, September 11 was a day of hope for me.  I had encouragement from my son's principal because she saw me struggle through being a single mother and she knew what I needed to hear from her own walk through it.  I wish her the best in her new school. My family had just surprised me with groceries because I needed the help to feed my kids after their Dad left me.  That day showed me that I'm stronger than I thought I could be.

Today, it's a day of peace. I get to hear happy sounds as my sons interact with each other and I steal hugs throughout the day.  I'm sipping coffee and I'm writing where the only editor in my head sounds like my voice and not what someone else might say.  Today, September 11 is a day of personal freedom.

How I Show Up in Romantic Relationships

I've had 3 conversations in the last few days that have really forced me to look at my romantic history.  The conversation last night was with a really great guy. He's handsome and sweet.  He's known me since my teens and he's constantly calling me out to expect greater than I do.  He says, "How are you love?" and "Raise the bar, ma." Decades ago I was the confident flirt.  If this expression of him were to meet me then, I'd be in trouble because he is dangerously hot and his emotional intelligence of women is off the charts. He's capable of making someone very happy, but he would be settling.  He was shy and quiet when we were young.  I may have enjoyed him for that on more than one occasion. We talked about what we want in romance.  I'm not polyamorous but we talked about it.  It's about wanting a mental, emotional and physical connection with several people.  That would never work for me because I thrive in monogamous relationships. I like the idea that I'm on someone else's mind as much as he's on mine. I want to know that random things remind him of me and that he's on the street and something about the person in front of him makes him think of me.  I guarantee that happens for me when he's special.  When he's special, I don't have a poker face and I can't hide it.  It's written all over my face and it's in my body language. When he's special, I feel like who I am is bending around him into ways that make him a part of me. And yes, that scares me. I'm the type that gets a rush in doing the brave thing in spite of fear.  I would go with it.  I can press in without worrying about the future because there is amazing joy in the present.  But it scares me.

Yesterday I had a brief conversation about where I am in my dating life right now. I'm not seeing anyone and enjoying the many ways I get to date myself. I buy myself lingerie and flowers. I take myself to nice restaurants and museums. I catch beach sunsets and take long walks through beautiful parks. My dating history looks nothing like what I do for myself and if someone wants my attention, I have to first believe I'd have a better time with him than alone because my alone time is special to me. There aren't many people I would give up my free time for. There's an even smaller number of people I'd be willing to drive to and meet on their side of town. And if he wants to meet my boys, he'd have to be able to offer them more than my happiness. He has to be curious and intelligent and beautiful. . . So I date myself and my sex life is only in my dreams but that's okay too.

My reality is that I was sexualized at a young age. I had men make me uncomfortable with their desire before I even needed a training bra. By the time I was the same age as my first born, I was having regular sex with a boyfriend. Through high school I had a few relationships that lasted over  a year and a half and my in between times were about learning to flirt comfortably.  I may have a problem with shutting that off.  It's not on purpose.  Early college days meant many fleeting hookups.  Then I met the man I married. I had never had an innocent relationship that was just about making out.  There were innocent enough hookups but innocent relationships skipped me entirely.  My sexual history tells me the best encounters are the ones in meaningful relationships.  My last relationship isn't one I would want my children to model.  So I'm cautious.  I'm a chicken shit.  I'm happy in my celibacy.

When I was younger, I would find someone that was full of amazing and I would very easily look over their terrible qualities.  I was having a conversation with a co-worker and naming out things that were part of my marriage that I now see were not normal, but her reaction told me how far from acceptable it all was.  It's not okay to be jealous of platonic friendships to the point where I'd end them.  It's not okay to feel responsible for how others see the man I'm dating when his actions will speak for him.  It's not okay to feel bad about wanting to learn more and do better in life because of how that might reflect on someone else's ambition. I don't know how to be in a relationship that doesn't walk all over me.  But I'm learning.

I had many relationships where it was very clearly just sexual on his part.  He would let me know in direct and subtle ways that I wasn't the person he was pouring his soul into.  I would accept what he offered and hoped that I would grow on him. Like a fungus.  I was very big on settling for what I was being given. I was always in this perpetual state of hope that my love could flow through him and back to me, even if he consistently proved to me that it was just sex.

I'm learning.  It's changing.

I look at my history.  Today would have been an anniversary for my parents.  They've been divorced since I was still in high school and I have a high schooler now.  I saw their dysfunction and persistence as normal.  Mom yelled.  Dad ignored.  When my ex said he was leaving, I became them.  I was my Dad that first night in packing and separating our stuff at 3 am.  I was my Mom in saying, "go." I didn't need him.  Then I was me, in my crazy need to hold on and fix it because I saw my mom hold on and try to fix it for so long.  It was all I knew.  They had rare moments of affection that skeeved me out, but I was too young to remember if they were ever madly in love with each other.  As an adult, I can see the ways they still love and care for each other, even if they still refuse to talk to each other.

As Mom, I see my kids in their good and their bad.  I see more than anyone else, and I consistently choose to love them deeply, even if there are moments I don't like what they are doing.  I tell them they are consistent in who they are.  It's my ability to be patient that fluctuates and it's my fault if one day I lose my shit. This blog post was born from my need to step away and calm myself. As a mom and a daughter, love means I accept you as you are, without a need to change you because that would rob me of the gift of knowing you in your purest form and warmest light.  I want love to be about accepting the dark and the light and basking in all of the ways it feels to.

My latest goal is to love unconditionally.  Offering love isn't the same as being in love.  There's a difference.  I know it.  Lust and infatuation are very different from being in love and I'm aware of it too.  I'm a hugger.  I don't offer a hug unless I know I can hug the way that feels good.  If it's an arm or a side hug, I'd rather not bother.  If I feel I can hug you, I can offer transparency (in doses).  I can offer affection and build a person up with the amazing I see in them.  I'm going to let a person know when I randomly think of them because this is expressing love. When I get to the point that I know I would offer more than I have to give, that is a transition into being in love and that is where I step back.  I run away when it feels like my moods are dictated by how they make me feel.  That is what being in love feels like to me.  Otherwise I'm offering love without expecting a return. It feels good and in the offering I'm being selfish by not expecting an exchange or allowing myself to rely on them.