Silly Boys Online and the Men I'm Raising

It's Tuesday and my last night with the boys until Monday night.  I was going back and forth about what to do when I picked them up but finalized my decision when I picked them up and they grilled me about an absentee ballot I cast a weekend or two ago. I can't control an outcome, but I can decide on my reaction and interpretation.  I decided we were eating out and away from news. This choice looked like traffic after a long day at work.  Kid1 didn't want to go at first, but loved the food so much he wanted to keep the bag we brought our leftovers in so he could tell his friends to try it out.  Kid2 was mellow and happy because he's the adventurous one that loves new tastes.  He'll eat fresh water eel and experiment with sushi. Our next adventure for him is Indian food because he tasted curry in a dip and loved it.  Kid3 was so full of energy from his day and he wanted to excitedly tell me about every moment of it.  He was loud and exuberant.  He made sure I caught and could repeat details.  After the ups and stresses of a full shift, the internet being down for a bit at work, sorting out documents by hand and the highs of random texts that made me smile all day, I was exhausted, but I gave him 110% of what I had for him, digging deep so he didn't feel my deficits.  We got our food and Kid1 and Kid2 were in a silent slurping heaven, with muttered gratitude between bites. Kid3 was immediately nauseous with the smells of Japanese food that doesn't look like sushi.  We all ate a bit faster so he could get home and later complain he's starving.

When my only job was to raise a family as mom, I did all of the cooking at home from scratch.  I seared and simmered over the stove, running to the laundry room to swap loads of clothes or bang through a sink of dishes, breaking my nails that weren't bitten down to the quick.  Help looked like the times we ate out.  We piled into the car and headed to a restaurant I usually didn't like so we could sit quietly, lost in the places our devices allowed us to escape to. Single parenthood means we've made some life style changes and family meals in restaurants took a major hit.

Tonight we went to a restaurant that a friend of mine manages.  He was off, but I wanted to check out what his Kingdom looked like.  He is the boss in way that would be so hot to me if he wasn't gay and therefore not into me. (How into me a man is has a lot to do with my attraction.)  I love that we have the same taste in men and plenty to talk about when we share eye candy moments. He has dark hair and beautiful eyes with the most alluring lilt to his voice.  He's beautiful. He gives the greatest hugs and one day he'll make some man really happy.  And maybe I'm a bit biased towards a man that has fed me more than once.

As we were sitting I watched my boys interact.  I watched their excitement.  I honored a wish to not take pictures of them.  They were discussing politics with phrases they borrowed, but concepts they tied together themselves.  Kid3 believed we could get Kid1 to vote illegally just to contribute their beliefs. It was a moment where I sat in awe of the growing they've done over the last year.  I am so proud of my boys.  I made them with my body!

At that moment . . . at the peak of my happy momma feelings I got a text from a man I had forgotten about.  I don't think I was ever fully into him.  I would have blocked him a lot sooner if I wasn't so amused by his texts.  I directed him to this blog and told him to call me if I didn't scare him away.  He never did call me.

The laughs keep coming from this one and I did finally block him. I'm usually nicer to men in general but there is nothing about him I would want to protect and I'm not always nice.

I wouldn't call myself a male hater.  I love men. I love the way they look and smell.  I love their strength.  I love the way they think in the direct lines of logic.  I love the way they see things the way I can't.  Ultimately I would love to find a man who I believe in and would be willing to submit to.  It wouldn't be out of fear but out of respect. He wanted to be the Alpha Male, but he was far from my ideal and he didn't get it in the texts I ignored or the kindness I offered in scaring him away with my authenticity here.  I knew it would make him walk.  He's not the droid (or man) I'm looking for.  I never entertained the idea of him meeting my boys and I was never interested in giving up my alone time for him.

My laughter died down and my boys asked what was funny.  I didn't explain that he suggested I might want to call him after insulting me when I wasn't making any effort to be on his radar to begin with. Instead I told them there was a silly boy that thought their mom was dumb or that he meant enough to hurt my feelings.  He just didn't have that power.

I realized that we were in a perfect space as a family.  As mom, I'm raising men to be proud of.  (Still working on those times when Kid3 rage quits.) Apart, I'm sure their Dad is doing better than he ever did as my spouse and I can relax in the knowledge that we're doing right by them.  I don't have to worry about them when I don't have custody.

As far as dating, setting that bar really high and raising it with each solid man that I meet, whether or not he's the one for me, is the right choice.  I was having a moment in the last few days, wondering if maybe the bar is too high.  I got my answer yesterday, and no, it's not too high.  I could probably even raise it to match the man that's been making me smile like a blushing idiot all day. (I don't intimidate him.) Deciding on what I want and knowing when I'm not looking at it feels powerful. I don't feel powerful in a dominant aggressive way, but in the way where I get to control my life, unmoved by insignificance.  I don't have to believe someone else's value of me because I know who I'm showing up as to myself and to the only boys that really matter to me - the ones that are part of me and grew strong right under my heart.

I think about who I was a handful of years ago.  This boy might have hurt my feelings back then.  I've never met him in person and we never had much to discuss through text.  He read enough of my blog to feel threatened enough to do more than just fade away.  It broke whatever false kindness he thought was enough for me to offer something he wasn't even worthy enough to look at.  Call it ego.  I know my worth.  Once upon a time, I might have valued his opinion with only a glimpse of my personality through my words, and it might have mattered more than my desires for my life.  That's insane to me now.  I like that it's so crazy because this life I get to lead is that important to me.

This is the Monday of Your Life

I was driving Kid2 to school this morning, and I asked him if he was excited.  He gave me the usual "what the hell?" look that teenagers are supposed to perfect.  I laughed.  Then I looked at him and said, "really?"  And I explained what I'm so happy to share with you.  Right now. A friend once pointed out that we get two lives, and the second begins the moment we realize we only get one.  This is your Monday.  No one else gets to wake up in your body, (unless you are having a frisky morning) and no one else gets to live your day.  This is you in all of the amazing ways you get to exist.

Fight for your bliss.  Look for your joy.  Live every moment as if it matters because this is your life and you are the only one that gets to live it.

Make good choices you can be proud of.

Do the epic and live in the sublime.

Breathe in the gift of your existence and with every moment, know you have a unique contribution to offer.  Figure out what you are meant to do and who you are meant to be.  Then do it.  You are your only motivation and your only roadblock.  Own your better and embrace your worse.

Gift yourself to the world at large.  Be.  In this moment as you read the words in my heart, be aware that this moment is yours.  This epic existence is yours to set your own standards, disregarding everyone else's.  They don't even get to experience your heartburn, so don't give them a smile that hurts because it's inauthentic.

It's the Monday of your life, because this is life and there are no practice days in your existence.  We are abundantly gifted with days to do more, be better, and give all you have, knowing that cup comes with free refills.

You can live in expectation that one day you won't be living, or you can live in the intention that this isn't that day and so it doesn't matter.

Rewards of Showing Up

  I get to show up for friends and it means I see something I wouldn't have ordinarily been exposed to on my own.  This has meant trying an amazing Albondigas soup at La Velvet Margarita Cantina and celebrating a birthday.  It means attending a company launch party at Couture Nightclub and seeing that I can be comfortable walking into the unknown, unaccompanied, and fiercely confident if vastly over dressed. I have had too much laughter to not snort watching the Unsupervised Sketch Show at Bar Lubitsch.  I have been able to show up for movie screenings at the Mondrian hotel on Sunset Strip where I've sat with great friends, deepening friendships and connections. I bought a book and got it signed by the author while being inspired by a teacher of creative writing.  She's awesome.  Find her at That Kind of Light. Her book inspired this post.

This week, I got to show up for a friend yesterday at the Artists and Fleas event yesterday in the Arts District in Downtown LA.  It's a fun farmer's market, shopping space that had vegan deodorant,  body oils, and cold process soap.  They had jewelry and candles with crystals embedded in them.  I was also at the Shop to Give event hosted at the CTRL Collective in Playa Vista Thursday. That space alone was worth the visit.  I know it's a work space, but it was like visiting a fun museum with open work spaces.

It might appear to be a sacrifice on my part . . .  taking time out to drive across town to say hello, but it's really been terrific for me and maybe a bit selfish. My latest reward looks like this . . .

This amazing and beautiful friend of mine that I first mentioned here, took a huge risk and this box is my reward. She quit a stable job to launch her baby into being, and it looks like the pictures throughout this post.  I love the cards with the wealth of history and lore they provide. As a lover of words, I can say that the writing speaks to me and says lovely things.  The kits are designed as a starting point to show you how to pamper yourself, while making it clear that body scrubs and self care is far more tangible than beauty industries would make you believe. The materials were all carefully chosen and perfectly compiled in a box that is a treat in itself.  I don't need the pretty box, but it's worth keeping.  Really, I would love to know where she finds her salt, because the crystals are smaller, gentler and they feel like they hold moisture to them in the way they move and clump.

I believe the sugar might be raw sugar, but again it's special.  My laptop really didn't appreciate my curiosity though and I cleaned it without photographs because I can't let this moment of excitement get away from me.

I made a mixture today.  It was my first, and it felt so great.  I didn't mix the entire contents of each carefully labeled bag and container, because I like the idea of concocting what I need as I plan to use it.  I get my chemistry ya-yas out and it's a tailor made expresion each time. You don't have to be jealous.  Get your own at Mystic Dirt.

I get to show up for friends.  I arrive with a smile and receive a hug.  I give them my words of hope and support.  I give them my belief in who they are and empower them with all of the hope and belief I get from their dreams being chased.

The biggest reward of showing up for friends is the part where I'm really showing up for myself. I'm not sitting at home waiting for an opportunity to invite me out, but seeing what my friends are doing and showing up for them.  I get to see interesting venues, and try new foods.  (Today's snack of a curry lime almond dip came from Artists and Fleas.) I get to see friends and have deep conversations or share belly laughs.  I get to reminisce and create new moments that become treasured memories.  My selfies become group shots when I'm not too busy being in the moment to remember to capture them.

Yesterday I showed up for a friend's annual barbecue.  I left Kid2 with my Mom because he begged not to go.  I sat with a friend in conversation and felt so welcomed by his friends.  I got to experience what I was calling magic and learned was babaganoush.  I joined in a relay race that had me riding a tricycle through an obstacle course.  It's been more than 3 decades since I've been on one and my partner and I placed 2nd.  It was epic fun and I only regret not having proof of the shenanigans.  There was a moment where I felt guilt that I wasn't just doing what my son wanted (staying home), but we discussed it and came to an agreement.  I got to go for a while. He got to choose who he would prefer to watch him.  We agreed that this way we are both doing what was best for both of us, and today, he got a full day to be at home and in his gaming cave of solitude.

This latest box of fun has had me in a place of rest and self care.  I've had a great week and a better weekend but the time to care for myself and rest was needed and playing doesn't feel like wasted time that should be spent doing something else.  This box of fun has been about learning and mixing and smelling and exfoliating.  It's a beauty care package that reminds me to slow down intentionally while my Kid2 is happily gaming and spending the day as an only child while Kid1 enjoys his Dad and Kid3 has had a weekend with grandma and cousins.  I have been recharged and I'm ready to Paper Tiger my way through everything I've been putting off all week.

This ability to show up means for the first time since I became a Mom, I'm no longer a martyr to my family's needs.  I'm no longer staying home because of a need to always put others first. I'm standing for my wants and desires and trusting others to care for my children and showing my boys that it's okay to do what is important to me.  It's become important to me that we work as a family to stand for each other in what is important to us as individuals to show each other that this is where we place our value as a family. I'm no longer a short order cook on Saturday mornings while I skip breakfast.  We do what is best for our family as a whole and that means independence and the belief that we each matter, no matter who we are.  Our values are assigned by our love for each other and this love levels the field of importance.

Show up.  So much good happens when you show up for friends and when you show up for yourself through prioritizing what you want to do, alongside what we do because it's our duty and cost to the life we get to live. Live epicly!

High School Reunion

I'm more committed to my Facebook account than I am to most of my relationships.  I check out my Facebook feed throughout the day.  My Instagram and Wordpress accounts are allowed to post to Facebook and I don't even question why no one else asks Facebook to post to them.  Or maybe I just won't explore Facebook's commodification of my ability to use them to remain emotionally stunted. I use their messenger.  I use it to follow along in the lives of my friends without actually having to bother taking the time to be part of their lives. Shame on me and I get to notice, and change that.

I went to a high school that is only 4.5 miles from my house.  I've walked farther than that on a great museum day.  The thing is, most of my graduating class that I have "friended" (because making up words works when you become the social equivalent to coffee) is also fairly local.

My latest stretch is to show up.  I have met some amazing people this year that are dreaming big and offering me the opportunity to be present for them.  I get to show up and it means I'm not hiding in solitude, pretending to be friends because I can see what you're doing online without actually talking to you or pretending you might matter.  I mean, at the end of the day, these people are part of me.  There was something in my life that they experienced with me, which is why we are connected on social media (for the most part). They sat in the same classes with me.  They knew me and saw in me things I couldn't see (because introspection isn't easy when you are too busy looking for similarities so you aren't othered, not realizing it's what's within you that makes you so alike). They didn't see what I kept carefully hidden in shame of who I am.

The reunion was a success.  The group of us meant to reunite showed up.  There will be other gatherings. In the brokenness that has shown up in other areas of my life, I stepped back and allowed others to plan the reunion, only planning to show up for the game, if that.  I wasn't committed to what became an amazing night of reminiscence.  The girl that got me into and out of so much mischief asked me to be her date, and when I spent more than a few seconds debating if I should go, I decided I should go.  I'm becoming much more impulsive.  If a thought takes up more than a few moments of my time, I have been deciding on the, "oh what the fuck, do whatever it takes" mantra, and so far it's serving me well.

In not being an active participant, some friends were left out of the invitations.  It wasn't on purpose.  Actually, when I first heard about the planning, I was still in the trenches of family life and that life looked a lot like what I expected the rest of my life to look like. The idea of being around old friends and the way I felt I had to fit myself around my ex's needs in that situation were stressful.

*You may or not notice that I have no problem expressing my thoughts and ideas and perspective, but the way I felt when fitting myself around his needs is something I have yet to be able to express.  I am still stretching slowly in expressing my feelings but that only comes through relationships which I'm fantastic at avoiding. Didn't notice? You should practice studying the words left unsaid.  It can be illuminating. And that is my next real area of growth . . . sharing my feelings (even if they are messy and not always nice).

When my ex said he was done with the marriage, I was often openly bleeding.  I was posting exactly what I thought and felt and what was happening on my Facebook wall.  Life as I knew it was shifting and it wasn't just the person but the expectations of what my life was going to look like were taken from me and I couldn't make sense of it. It was ugly and messy and in hindsight not a strong or proud moment.  I unfriended a lot of people because I didn't want everyone to see it.  I unfriended people I wasn't super close to.  I unfriended his family.  I unfriended the people planning the reunion.  About a month ago, I friended a woman that reminded me it's been 20 years and she told me about the reunion.  I was added to a group, reconnected with friends, and then kept it superficial, not bothering to see who was included in the group and which of my friends were left out.  She didn't actually go, but remembered the douche ex I had in high school.  I didn't want to be remembered for being his ex.  I can't be remembered for that because who we were has nothing to do with who I am, right?

I got to show up.

I arrived on time, which means I was early for the rest of the group.  I'm really used to walking in alone and being comfortable in my skin.  I was someone's date, so I took the time to explore the gardens at Yamashiro before their era ends (in 2 weeks). I met her at valet and we walked inside, with a moment for a selfie.  She's beautiful but more private than I am, so I'm not sharing her face on my blog. As others came in, there were hugs and moments of, "you kinda look familiar." Because of Facebook, I also greeted spouses I don't actually know with so much more familiarity than was warranted.  (Yay creeptackular me!) Then of course there were moments when I was in a room with complete strangers because I was just as self involved in high school as I can be now.  How I do anything is how I do everything, but I get to take notice and grow from that.

True to who I am . . .

I'm still me.  When I walked inside the restaurant with my friend we stopped at the bathroom where I noticed the way the water poured out from the faucets.  I stood in the vent blowing cool perfumed air over me with eyes closed, feeling the wonder of the moment and what I was being invited into.  I watched the beautiful koi in the ponds and streams around the restaurant.  I enjoyed the sound of my shoes walking across the floor.  When I realized the time later, I ran outside to catch an amazing view of the sunset.  I then went back in to grab company because it was too beautiful to not share.  I had moments where I stood at the large windows as the skies grew darker and buildings and homes all over the city slowly lit up.  I wasn't giving all of me to the moment we shared, but living each moment for the gift to myself that it was.  It was a sensory nirvana.

The nostalgia feels . . .

There was a moment on a bench where I sat with a friend and we talked about ex boyfriends.  We talked about how much better our lives are without them.  I told her how after my separation, I did enough cyber stalking to see what my ex's were up to, but decided early on they weren't worth reaching out to.  We had moments of connection that probably excluded people that were never as close to us as we were to each other.

On the way to the football game, she was in the car ahead of me.  We were talking by phone.  I have plenty of moments where I will say, "hi" or "thank you for what you are doing for me on your run" or simply, "you're beautiful" while my window is up and the radio is on and I'm at no risk of actually being noticed.  Last night while we talked on the phone, I rolled my window down and said, "hi" to the man in the car next to me.  I said, "sorry but you have a terrific smile."  He complimented my smile and drove up a bit, ending the conversation.  I laughed.  My friend laughed.  In that moment, I was 20 years younger.  In that moment, I had the audacity to flirt shamelessly again and it was epic.  It was me standing  on the wings and strength of our friendship.  It was remembering that with her, I could do anything. Being isolated in my car reminded me that I can do anything.

The homecoming game . . .

My kid brother is on the football team. He was benched for an injured clavicle but he was there.  And I was there with the men that were once boys on that team when it was my school and the women I sat with were once cheerleaders and the drill team.  We critiqued these kids for getting away with the things we never could have on these teams.  The football players scored higher.  The cheerleaders would have been out performed based on the leadership we had in our youth alone.  The dance team was certainly a highlight of the half time show. This morning I learned that their leadership is the direct result of a foundation and a student that learned under one of my classmates.  We're amazing and talented at any age.

The end of the night . . .

I'm mom, so even though I shared two thirds of the planned night with people I haven't seen in 20 years, I was happy to head to my Mom's house and pick up my son.  My kid brother didn't want a ride home, and I get it.  He had a food baby to feed with his friends.

I went home feeling like I wanted to deepen these connections and renew these friendships.  These people had shared experiences and memories with me.  There's a built in connection and camaraderie that I can connect with and grow from. We shared similar shock and outrage to see kids walking around holding a live chicken at the game.  We remembered the field being more dirt than grass, and too dark to play night games.  I remembered that I used to love watching live football games. It wasn't so alien and I wasn't lost on the basics.  That was fun.  (We won't talk stats and predictions.)  I walked to my car with a coffee mug, and in awe of the moment I watched a couple of friends buy a tie from our alma mater, and tie it on with expertise.  Another friend reached for a parting hug while holding his sleeping daughter in his arms and wearing his 20 year old letterman jacket.  His fatherhood just about melted me.

To see these people as adults . .  . Strong, fierce, beautiful people with families and responsibilities and this beautiful light that looks like strong hugs and a searching look to see that I really am right in front of them and doing well . . . It was an affirmation of the life I get to live and love in.  There's glorious freedom here.

It was a great night to be me. Even if you are pseudo connected on social media, there is nothing as moving as showing up for your friends and being connected by experience through time.  And it's never too late to step in closer and reach in deeper.  So much opens up to you and all you have to do is show up.  You get to show up and things happen as they're supposed to!  I have some showing up I get to do today.  You should find ways in which to show up too.

Symbolism and Interpretation

I'm starting with a picture of my (dry) hand and three rings.  The one turned is one that never leaves my hand.  It's my college ring.  In high school I was so determined to finish college that I told my Mom not to waste money on a high school class ring.  It took 17 years but I finished school with the bare minimum that was acceptable to me.  I have my BA and one day when my nest is empty, I'm shooting for law school.

I spoke into a friend's life many years ago.  I stood for her when she wanted to quit high school.  I don't even remember what I said, but for her it was everything.  She's the most badass warrior dragon slayer I know.  She's a medical professional when she was once ready to skip her senior year of high school. She has stood for me in some of the deepest valleys I have been in throughout the decades we've known each other.  She showed up to speak to the darkness she saw that I couldn't.  She showed up with a Christmas tree.  She's standing for me yet again.

I wasn't planning on going to my high school reunion tonight.  It's been 20 years, but I didn't value the time and connection over the daily needs of my family, but she stood for me and told me my ticket was paid for and her stance for me . . . Her unfailing belief in me made me realize not going was about not stepping into relationship and when I do that, I'm the only one accountable.  When I see this woman, I see my past.  I see my present and she helps me see my future. That's what badass warrior dragon slayer best friends are for, right?

The rings . . . When I found these two small rings, there was a Reiki instructor selling her hand made jewelry and doing chakra readings.  I asked about the rings, and the infinity ring is about eternal love.  The arrow is a nod to her Sioux heritage.  I'm Choctaw in the way where I know it's in my veins . . . I'm just not connected enough to my heritage to know how.  But these are symbols and meanings are assigned.

Self love isn't a surface affection. You don't love just who you are inside. It's not the light as beauty and the dark as an absence of it. You love all of yourself as a whole. Broken or not, we are made of a whole and we deserve to love all of who we are. 

I love the idea of infinity.  I will always show up for myself, doing what matters to me, because I'm no longer a martyr to motherhood or marriage.  I get to fight for every moment of my existence like it matters because I do.  I have a few things going on this weekend.  Childcare isn't an issue because my support systems are remarkable.  I asked the kids if they wanted the extra time with their Dad because giving them options offers them control and while only one is staying with his Dad this weekend, I'm getting a sitter or taking them with me because I'm worthy of doing what will make me happy.

The arrow spoke to me differently than the original explanation. I've seen enough memes and pictures from Pinterest to remember that an arrow is always pulled back before it's launched.  I saw it and it reminded me that I've been launched.  I haven't landed yet, but I'm free and flying.  I often hear things like, "you have a great smile," or "there is so much love in you that it's shining and beautiful."  I never heard these things when I was being a wife.  It was a reality check a few months ago and I had another reminder yesterday.

I showed up last night.  A friend and my angel had a soft launch for her product line.  I didn't tell her I'd be there.  I surprised her.  The look on her face and her hug said all I needed to know.  I showed up and the symbolism in being present showed her that she mattered, while the look on her face told me I was loved.

The argument wasn't important, but I yesterday I heard the words that would have before told me that I'm a bad writer.  My followers and hits tell me I have enough people that want to read my words that this might not be a valid argument.  I was called a bad mother.  I've had enough professionals in my home and life tell me otherwise.  I was given the words that once wounded me so deeply: that is why I left you.  I hesitated for a moment because I remembered the way that used to feel and in that moment I felt freedom.  There was a disconnect between the past and the present.  I found no point in offering gratitude for what was meant to harm me, but I felt launched and free.  I'm grateful that the life I struggled through was taken from me because I feel a freedom I can't hide.

In this life, I get to look for meanings where life used to be mundane.  I get to drop by the ocean any time I need to be refreshed and renewed.  I get to experience the sublime and see each moment as a gift to be kept or shared as I choose because it's mine.

This isn't a new concept, but it's an extension of who I have always been.  These symbols are less painful or permanent than these or this one. At the end of the day, we see something, hold it closely or run from it entirely, and we get to assign or alter it's meanings. 

Warrior Dragon Slayer

In the last several Bumble right swipes, I decided it’s not enough to be tall and beautiful and smart. I want a warrior dragon slayer.  I’m a warrior dragon slayer, so why not expect to find someone just as powerful and intense? Yes, I prefer tall men.  I’m flexible enough to know I might find a man that could change my mind.

I have a thing for beautiful men, but I’m more sapiosexual and given the right connection, I can find something attractive in just about anyone.  I just prefer to be shallow.

I want deep conversations.  If I can delve as deeply in writing to the internet through this blog, I can imagine how much deeper I could go in communing with another person.  I crave that connection.

I was texting a man . . . a beautiful man.  It was a conversation that could have become more than words.  The cost wasn’t a value that I could appreciate.  As juicy as he was, his juice wasn’t worth my squeeze. He looks a lot like he could be a warrior dragon slayer but he’s not mine.  Imagining what we would fit like made it clear to me what I’m after.  I’m choosing to iron it out.  I welcome feedback.  I can be intimidating and maybe I’m asking for too much. I’m still going to ask for it.

I’ve had issues with my kid’s schools yesterday that I got to handle today.  This past weekend a friend of mine asked, “how are you holding up?” That’s what friends ask.  I’m a warrior dragon slayer.  I don’t hold up, and I can’t hang in there.  I handle it.  I fight like a girl.

Last night and today I have had two conversations with grownups at my son’s schools that irritated me in apologies to the point where I responded with, “it’s done.  What are your assurances that this will not happen again in the future?” It was rude of me.  I cut them off.  But it’s where I am.  I won’t sit in their victimhood of a situation they are accountable for, but had no control over.  I’m a forward moving force.

It was and still is a Mom morning between what I get paid for.  I don’t need help but the idea of being supported appeals to me.  I was responding to a text this morning and I’m sharing my edited side because I was shooting off a quick misspelled missive. I’m expanding on the rest of what I said because I’m not ashamed of what is in my heart and on my mind. I like him enough to offer a certain level of protection through his privacy.  Yeah.  I like him, but it’s not enough.

You want a powerful woman that can put you in your place and challenge you.  You want my strength and my courage, but you’re asking me to ignore my needs and that means I won’t be coming from the place of power you find attractive.  I need a warrior dragon slayer. 

A warrior dragon slayer is fierce and dominant.

I don’t expect him to pick a fight at every opportunity.  Any trained fighter knows true strength comes when we know what we are capable of, and still choose to dissolve unnecessary fights. It’s part of discipline.  You know you can lay a man out, but you feel the responsibility not to.  At the same time, I know that by his side, I walk in safety.  Confronted with another man’s interest, he doesn’t sulk in a corner or react in anger.  He knows I can state that I’m spoken for and he’ll stand quietly as I handle myself, willing to step in at any moment.  He’s confident that I wouldn’t offer my time to him unless I wanted to. He can pull me into a kiss that makes me weak and I won’t have to worry about falling.  He can carry me when I can’t stand.  Not just physically, but emotionally.  He’s my safe refuge.

A warrior dragon slayer can be open in vulnerability.

I can cry before him and he feels there is safety in crying in front of me because I am his strength and vulnerability is a shared expression of trust.  He is secure whether I’m ready to express how I feel or not, and I feel safe in pouring my darkness, my insecurities and doubts into him.  I know I won’t break him with my burdens and he knows I have it covered, but sharing the details is enough and he doesn’t need to take what I carry, but he’s willing to.

A warrior dragon slayer is faithful.

He defines himself through a warrior’s loyalty and it’s defined by his sense of duty.  I never feel like he’s looking at me as his discount prostitute, only created to satisfy his needs.  He understands that I don’t need him but want him and my desire is a gift.  He sees there are other options but repeatedly chooses me, just as I would choose him.

A warrior dragon slayer is a leader.

It’s not enough to lead through fear or intimidation.  A leader inspires his team to reach their fullest potential, exceeding their limits because he’s capable of seeing the heights of their abilities beyond their vision of themselves.  As much as I lean on his guidance, he relies on my support, growing forward and together in the ways that are world changing.  Every moment and breath in our existence matters because we are not following someone else’s path, but slashing through the jungle on our own. He sees that we're a team and he can't use me to get ahead because he's only as far as we can get together.

A warrior dragon slayer knows how to interpret what I don’t say.

He’s in tune with me, willing to decipher what I don’t say.  He’s willing to learn what he doesn’t know.  He can stand in silence and I know he’s proud of me because of his quiet strength and the way he looks at me. He’ll have the desire to take care of me, but refrain from doing anything that would crush my wings and freedom because his need to take care of me isn’t greater than my need to take care of myself.

A warrior dragon slayer can take care of himself.

Figuring out life was hard when I first had to do it on my own.  It’s still a struggle and I did it with support from my family.  I’m a single mom that brings home the bacon, cooks it, cleans up after it and still manages to take really great care of myself.  I hold it together when my kids need me and when I get to go to their schools to show them that their mother is a badass warrior dragon slayer.  I support my family and friends within my capacity and the man I claim as mine has to be willing to see life exists outside of himself. My warrior dragon slayer will be able to take care of himself and my addition to his life won’t be work.  He won’t be work.

That’s not too much to ask, right?

Living in Intention and Outside of Expectation

I had a small emergency with my kids today.  They're fine but for about 40 minutes I was freaking out.  Human error happened.  In reality, I'm sure my boys were happy with the way things unfolded. I'm fairly certain they were oblivious to what I was experiencing. My expectation failed to meet reality because I relied on past experiences to determine future outcomes.  When my response is to react (which looked like yelling at slow drivers with my windows rolled up, making calls and snapping in anger today), I (usually) try to remind myself that I get to choose my interpretation of a situation.  Life is neutral and any good or bad experience of it is an emotion assigned by me.  I mentioned the concept of intention vs. expectation briefly here. Now I'm explaining what it means to live in intention and outside of expectation.

Unconditional Love

In some ways I started the concept in writing about unconditional love and what it means to me.  It comes without expectations and leaves without disappointment.  It's not bartered affections, expecting emotional repayment.  To borrow a line from my favorite poem, it's knowing kisses aren't contracts and presents aren't promises. It's offering love in the ways you express it, knowing you will be happy if it's not returned, and even if it's rejected.

Expectations

Expectations can drive us mad.  My day included two separate conversations with friends that have reached a space in their relationships where they get to shift their expectations of the lives they envisioned. Break ups are hard because it's not just the person we part with, but the expectations we've often assigned to their existence in our lives.  When we start to invite them into our private spaces, and include them in our present and future lives, we are building a future that is connected. We are seeing our lives as a reflection of their lives.  We speak love and life into each other and our echoes resound in the darker places of who we have become, shifting us into better people, empowered by the love we've been given. We grow what we have into something much bigger and often outside of ourselves.  How easy is it to build up the person we love, in ways that we often neglect to love ourselves?

When we flip a light switch, we expect the room to be illuminated by the bulb that is feeding off the the electricity we just closed the circuit to.  We water a plant, and give it sunlight and we expect it to grow.  When it doesn't flourish, something is wrong and we look for fertilizers and check the soil ph and moisture levels.  We offer attention, affection and vulnerability and we often expect it returned.  We hold back until it looks like there's reciprocity.  We imagine a future and feel like it might be love but we withhold those words until it's safe to release them.  We expect a return on investments.

People are changeable.  We change our minds.  Priorities shift.  I went to bed earlier this week excited about a date, and woke up this morning thinking I'd prefer to spend my free time alone than with this particular man.  I expect to have a good time at every opportunity and I woke up knowing my intention remains the same, but the expectation that I would find that with him would be a failure on my part.

Intentions

When I focus on intentions, I'm focusing on my goal and what I would like, but I don't hang my expectations on it.

It's where I can openly love someone unconditionally, without the expectation that my love would need to be returned or my affection exchanged for something of value.

It's where I imagine receiving a back rub without a foreplay label or expected tip might be.  I've never experienced it and I'm not sure what it would look like.

As far as writing these blog posts, my intention is to write something every day.  I don't expect that I will get it done every day and I'm pleasantly surprised when I do. Often it looks like a post started later at night, with heavy lids falling and fluttering through words that come out with eyes closed, and meanings shifting into lucid dreams.  I'll hit "Publish" and drift off to sleep, only to edit the same post throughout the next day, forgetting what I wrote within a week.

It's expecting to grow old with the person you find and hang your hopes on without giving them permission to change who they are to you.  It's deciding your fate is tied to them, ignoring the fact that you can untangle the most complex knots.

It's a first date that looks like a second would be promising without considering the other person hasn't even put her purse down and her keys are still in her hand . . . Is blind intention and expecting a bit much. No. 

Putting it Together

It's a pleasure we rarely afford ourselves to live in the moment.  We grow up with emotionally detached parents and unavailable lovers mimic what we crave.  When we're able to step outside of what's expected, we are able to reach out to the best of our ability into ways that will help us grow. We give of ourselves in vulnerability and when we do it without a cost attached, we're often surprised by genuine reciprocity. It's about being in the moment, without the rushed pace of living in the future or the sluggish sorrow of reflecting on the memory of yesterday.  Be.  Be flexible.  The plans we plot can shift in an instant, and we can't survive by trying to stitch back tattered shreds of a broken promise and fading memories.

Naughty Fiction Because I'm Not Handing Out Halloween Candy.

The fall leaves in shades of decay blew haphazardly around her as she stood wrapped in a bulky sweater that was almost a bathrobe.  The bright sun warmed her skin, but was unable to scorch her flesh like it would have just months before.  She could feel the weight of lust calling for her and it settled low in her belly with a twist and groan she couldn’t control.  The need burned in her veins and she couldn’t wait any longer.  Shoulders squared and settling into her posture of power, she stepped forward into the authority of the task she was born to fulfill. She walked into the coffee shop and the smell of coffee with the thick sounds of burdened metal, heavy, hissing . . . frothing milk couldn’t mask the immediate attention she felt from every person in the small shop with old faded wood and bright blue Fiestaware decor.  The smell of the shop masked the smells of the rose oil, fresh marjoram and basil that made her smell like she spent all day in the garden.

She saw him before he saw her.  He was sitting alone with a mug of tea in his hands and a day weary slouch that spoke of stress, disappointment and anxieties crashing solidly over and through him.  His phone was face down next to him, like he didn’t want to know who would need him, but was too obligated to his duties to disregard his electronic leash entirely.  She could see he just ran a race and came out the winner, unaware of what he was running for.  There was little value in his accomplishments.

She stood in line to order her coffee.  Walking slowly, to see him watching her, she stood at the island and added cream and sugar.  He was still watching her with sidelong glances so she made her way to his table and stood before him.  He looked up at her, mouth slightly agape, not understanding why she would be right in front of him when there were several empty chairs at lonely tables.

“Do you mind if I join you? There’s something about your face that feels like home and this city feels so . . . “

“Isolating,” he finished.

She ran a hand through her loose auburn curls and said, “yeah, and big.  I feel small and sometimes it helps to be next to a solid person instead of isolated in the glass screen of my phone.”

His eyes and a nod gave her permission and she pulled her chair out, settling in and closer to him than the chair originally sat. They enjoyed the silence and she made a show of blowing on her huge mug of coffee that looked like it could have been a small bowl of soup and sipped carefully while he assessed her.  She could see his energy rebirthed in the power of her gaze.  He was no longer slouching in defeat, but sitting up and thinking of the best way to ask her out.  It wasn’t like business.  In his office, he is an embodiment of control.  He commands it and it’s surrendered easily.  This little kitten just wandered over and he was worried about pushing her.

“I’m Charlie,” he said as he leaned toward her.

“The pleasure is mine, Charles.” It was a confession uttered into her cup and it couldn’t mask her blush.  That delicious color in her cheeks conjured darker images for poor Charlie and She could sense it. He began to smile stupidly, unaware of the sorrow it brought her.

She rested her mug on the table and curled her right leg under her as she began to flip and twist her hair into a messy bun, feeling his gaze appreciate the press and stretch of her blouse against her breasts.  She waited until he was looking at her face, and smiled at him before saying, “I’m Brielle.  How cold is your tea?”

“It’s a bit icy.  You’re perceptive,” he said.  He hadn’t even noticed it had gotten cold on him until just before she stood before him.

“My coffee is too hot, and I really don’t need the caffeine.  Were you busy? I wouldn’t mind hanging out and not sipping this over-roasted brew while we do it.”

He looked at her, realizing he didn’t have to ask her out.  He finally saw that she had chosen him.  He looked at her petite frame and long legs and knew she would follow him to his place.  Without a word, he reached for her hand and paused long enough to feel how small it was in his hand before leading her down the street to his house.

Once inside, Brielle slowly removed her sweater and let it fall to the floor.  She could see the look on his face shift from an excited little boy, to anticipatory fear.  She could feel his emotions flooding through him and he was about to lose his nerve.

“So tell me about what you do when you aren’t sitting in coffee shops, smiling at lonely girls,” she asked.  Carefully, she unwound her hair from the bun it was in and set her hair free over her shoulders.

“I’m in finance. Acquisitions,” he shrugged his shoulders and she licked her lips.

“So you play with important things and you take what you want.  Sounds fun.  I can get into that idea,” she said.  She could see his uncertainty shift with the talk of his work and she pressed on. “I bet you’re the one in charge too, aren’t you?  I could see you telling people what to do.  I could see people eager to please you.” Not here, she thought. “Does it ever get old? Do you ever want to give up that control?” And just as quickly, he was lost in her gaze, not knowing he was losing to her power.

In the moment of his hesitation, she stepped toward him in a kiss of exploration that slowly took more than he gave. His balance shifted and he began to sway in her arms. She wrapped herself around him and her right hand slipped up to run curious fingers through his hair, only to grab a fistful, snapping his head back and exposing his neck for a gentle nip of grazing teeth. Her left hand lightly scratched his shirt in a hungry grasp so she could feel the muscles of his chest. She was grateful for the hair she felt because she couldn't understand the concept of manscaping. She wanted to see his skin and feel the hair all over his body. He was glorious in his response to her.

He stupidly forced her hand to his rising reaction and she stepped back, washing him in the cold of the room without her touching his skin.

"Sorry love, this isn't your board room.  You get to pay for your naughtiness here. Hands and knees. I want you to show me you know how to be the dog you are."

He watched her in silent obedience as she kicked off her boots, and slowly unzipped her jeans. She removed her shirt, slowly. . . Button by button, exposing the satin bodysuit she wore underneath.

"Don't look at me. You don't have permission. Not until I make you my bitch."  She rested a bare foot between his shoulder blades and the action was met with his sharp intake of breath. She felt powerful.

"This is so hot. I can't believe-"

"Shut up, Charles. No one asked and I really don't care."

She kneeled behind him and mounted his body like a dominant dog, and thrusted him solidly against herself, holding him by the hips. At his moan of acquiescence, she slapped his butt, grabbing a handful before a second slap and stood up.  She told him to strip to nothing. He obeyed quickly, nervously.

In his nakedness, she pulled him in for a deeper kiss, unleashing the power of a famished succubus, draining him with each kiss, mounting his body and riding him . . . leaving bite marks and kissing bruises into his flesh before leaving him desiccated and frail, but happy.

Happy Halloween.

Saving Space and a Place Called Home

I was on a journey through home yesterday, if that makes sense.  I am an Angeleno.  I was born at Cedars when they first moved from the blue Scientology building near Kaiser and Children's Hospital in East Hollywood.  I've lived here my whole life with all of my addresses in Los Angeles County.  I've always just lived here in the shadows of existence I let others define. I went to bars my friends wanted to go to, or the ones close to home when I was alone, never making space for the opportunities I wanted to create.  I would go to restaurants chosen for me, and I have an amazing knack for finding something on the menu I can enjoy . . . Even if I really hate Island's or In-N-Out (I know, sacrilege but I'm over it, you should get there too). Those were my ex's favorite restaurants and we were there most family and date nights.  Sucked to be me. It's part of being Kid4 for 17 years before becoming Kid4 of 12 plus the siblings that married into our clan making us a sibling force of 16, not including ex spouses (no, mine doesn't count).  I can go with the flow because I'm not a special snowflake that has to have her way.  This looks like existence and is hardly living.  I've taken notice.  I get this and I get to change it. I can own my voice and be heard in a room full of din beyond my creation because I'm more powerful than I've even given myself credence to be.

My day started at the Grand Park art walk.  It was all of Grand Park with Dia de los Muertos artwork throughout.  If you're curious, you can check out my Instagram.  (This will be here later if you get lost in my vapid selfie moments.) The museums, theaters and music centers were free and offering free performances and swaggy junk that will make once functional fabric into landfill fodder.  I then walked to the Artist and Fleas LA meetup where I found Ms. Mary Abolfazli and took home her book which whispered words to me sweetly, only to explode into these words today.  (We'll get there.)  I drove to the Last Bookstore, then walked to the Bradbury Building, Grand Central Market and then stopped at Howard Griffin Gallery before finishing my day off in Santa Monica on the pier and at a short play.  It was a really great day to be me, but if you haven't noticed, most days are.

Back to this gem of a book.  Mary's book asked some questions and it's only fair to share the pages that spoke the loudest for this post.  I'm certain it will be read and re-read and more will come of it because the best books . . . the honest books . . . offer that gift and keep giving it in renewed messages and new ones that you didn't notice the first time. What is most incredible, is that she teaches her craft.  She teaches creative writing and you can learn from her by checking out her website.  You can also search "That Kind of Light" and save it in your browser.  Make repeat visits.  Tell her I sent you.

What is home? I used to think home was where my heart was.  Home was in the man I chose to bind my future to.  When he left, it wasn't just the man that was gone, but the future and the goals and plans I created for myself because I was so solidly bound to him.  My life was a space created and saved for him.  He wanted to draw and I was looking for art supplies and keeping the baby occupied to leave him alone.  He wanted to get into paintball and I was home every weekend alone while he played, being passive and aggressive about my abandonment in teasing jabs at his bruises after kissing him goodbye that morning.  He wanted to go deep sea fishing every weekend, coming home with fish and the smells of ocean, rotting sea creatures, oiled burlap and sunblock. I would have to wash his clothes separately to not be tainted by the smell of loneliness.  He got into rap music and would call to say he was too drunk to drive home and I would be home alone, knowing there were strippers at the house with him because that was the culture they cultivated. His music became offensive to me as a wife and I couldn't be offended as a wife because the fame was his dream, so I said I couldn't allow our sons to listen to his music as their mother.  He became a Christian rapper but the abandonment was the same.  He was taking on leadership roles in our church and I wanted him to take over more than financial leadership for us at home. I was home alone with our kids, making space for his dreams, not realizing I could have been creating my own.

College wasn't a dream.  It was my survival.  I needed space that was my own and had nothing to do with anyone but myself.  I needed something sacred and untouched that was mine, and it looked like school.  When my life was released and only mine, I had to redefine what my dreams and goals were and it's a constantly renewing process.  It looks like eating foods I love and exploring where my curiosity takes me.  It looks like sitting on a pier long after the cloud cover blocks out the moon and all I see is darkness because in this expansive void I am small and everything is bigger than me and because I am breathing and present, I am just as monumental.

Home is no longer a person.  It's not the home I come to each night.  It used to be home was where I laid my head, but that was because of the men in my life . . . in my home . . . the one I chose and the children we shared. It was the soft sounds of rest and the peace I felt in my home because we were together.  But on days when I am home alone, I've discovered home to be the place where I am resting in the authority of my choices.  It's where I can be content in the feel of my skin and the infinite possibilities of my freedom.  It's the taste of a good meal and the beauty of a sunset or a fluttering butterfly that catches my eye.  It's birds in flight and the wonder on a child's face.  Last night I was walking down the street with a friend and a child passing in the opposite direction reached out to hold my hand and that was home. Home is where I choose to make it and it's no longer in a person or a vision I can't see.  It's not just within me but all around me and bigger than I need to contain.  

What does it mean to live life if we become syncopated routines of existence?  We do our daily tasks and assign to them the meaning we think they should hold, based on another's rubric.  At the end of your life, will you be happy with the pretty things  you own or have authority over, knowing you didn't impact anyone's life because you failed to impact your own? I don't want the perfect body if I have to eat food I don't like.  I don't want the swanky office if I don't get to do what makes me happy.  I don't want the clean house if it means we can't be playful and carefree in it. Play can become passion if you let it, and to do what doesn't excite me means I've allowed the cost of my existence to dictate my capacity for joy.  Never again. Not while I'm cognizant of my capabilities . . . not while I can imagine the possibilities.

Being burdened by the past of my existence is a choice.  I can see what I've done.  I take notice of what I am capable of doing and make the changes necessary.  Those that only see me by my past have no reason to usher me into my future so I have stopped holding them and it's liberating. 

My gift for today is to remain present.  I get to live in this moment and enjoy the sounds of nature (because I live on a quiet street on a hillside), while getting lost in haunting melodies that I've just discovered on Spotify.  I get to make space to be home and alone and see that it's a place of peace because I am a place of peace.  It follows me and is not confined to a person or the walls around me.  I get to be an expansive presence in my own life.  It's a gift.  I'm a certified treasure.

Oceans and Waves

It's been a gnarly week.  I left work early on Monday.  Exactly 2 years after my pulmonary embolisms, I was having chest pain that felt like I was eating wheat, but I wasn't eating wheat.  Part of me knew it was probably tummy troubles, but because of the tight chest and childhood asthma making a comeback lately, I thought the prudent thing would be to check it out.  I hadn't eaten wheat at all in the last few days.  My chest felt painfully tight for at least 15 minutes straight and puking until there was nothing left didn't help.  Apologies to whomever had to listen from the stall next to me at work. An ER visit with tests, a blog post and a nap later and I went home to tackle mom duties. Indigestion from stress and I was ready for more.  

Hindsight is always crystal clear.  I had 2 and a half cups of coffee with enough coffee grounds in it to pretend it was tea and I was doing a divination reading.  It's probably what upset my stomach although I haven't had any other heartburn symptoms until tonight.  Even then, my wet burps weren't painful.  It was a demanding week with the boys.  They are consistently themselves, but my ability to handle it was shifting and I was short on reserves.  Today I had three people push my buttons in a way where I reached out to a friend in an effort to not lose my shit.  I smothered my anger in chocolate and headed to the beach after work.

There's something so healing about the sound of waves crashing and it was a beautiful night to stand over the ocean.  I haven't actually been in the ocean in years, but I imagined what that used to feel like and the memory shifted my perspective for just long enough.  I should paint the picture.

When I got to the beach, the sun had already dipped beneath the horizon and the inky blue of night was splashed across the sky with the pink and gold of a light that can't be dimmed even after the sun makes way for the moon and stars. The clouds were drifting far above, and I knew the rain that started falling in Burbank would wait for my recharge in Santa Monica.

I walked along the pier and got to the end where anglers were using huge amounts of bait for the small mackerel they were catching.  Lower atmospheric pressure meant the ocean was swelling in anticipation for the storm and the water reached further up the pilings to the pier I stood on.  I stood over the water that crested in small translucent blue green waves.  The water was fairly clear and even at night with the lighted bobbers being used by hopeful anglers, I could see down several feet into the water.  The water rose and fell gently, with hardly a gust of wind.

I took the time to swipe left and right, because online dating is something a friend does and he makes it look not so scary.  We even swiped right on each other so he could see what vibe I'm sending out when a man asks me to visit him in his home but I've never met him before, and a second asks me to meet him in his home for a massage an hour and a half after a "hello."  He couldn't see anything other than how deep my need for conversation is.  I lightened the mood a bit, but the offers remained the same.

I took my time leaving the pier, meandering from side to side while walking east, appreciating the sound of water, and people, and Pokemon players.  I stopped and stood for a while to admire the waves that were cresting, then crashing into foam and a rushing gallop of waves running along the surface of the ocean.  Here I could see clouds of sand churning and dancing, making clear waters murky. I walked further toward land and as the waves crashed violently, further out, spent waves weren't consistently able to reach the same places.

I thought of those summers as a child when I would go out far enough into the ocean that I had to tread water because I couldn't stand.  I remember the feel of water so deep that I could curl my body up into the fetal position and just float on the waves, bobbing buoyantly on the surface.  Or I could hold my breath and go further toward the shore and the waves that were cresting would force my movement.  I could relax my body enough to be tossed into somersaults.  These waves would run toward the shore in shallow rushing foam, pushing me forward toward land.  On the shore, every 7th wave would reach far up the sand, but the other waves couldn't go as far.

When you first arrive at the shore and you start walking in.  The icy cold of the water first gives you pause at your ankles and again at your thighs.  Your body keeps telling you to stop .  The further you go, the more the waves fight you until you see the big ones coming and you can just dive below them and come up without being pushed away.

It was a moment where I realized I could stick my head up above the water and I could see where I was and what was coming my way in life.  The waves and the force of them is consistent.  That doesn't change.  What changes is the depth of the water, and the point at which the ground interferes with the cycle of the waves. Where I am shifts with who I choose to be. You fight to stand and move forward and then it gets easier and you see where life will move you.  Your body acclimates to the temperature and the force of nature becomes a balm as the waters wash away concerns of life, giving way to the feel of existence in ways that are foreign and call back to the time in utero when we were warm and safe and held. You dance away and laugh at the waves that try to reach you but you know where you stand and they are always out of reach. 

The farther in the ocean we are, we are carried.  We are pushed and held and oblivious to the distance we've slowly moved up north with the will of the ocean. We don't even see what's happening because we're so involved in being carried and guided by the waves - by our circumstance. The ability to stand changes the closer to land I get and the more firmly I plant my feet, the more violently the waves will push me, and crash over me.  The sand will shift away and suck me deeper into the muck and sludge.  But I don't have to stay where I am and life won't allow such obstinance.

Tonight I stood above the ocean and figuratively raised my head above the water to see where I was, deciding I'm not in the crash zone anymore. I'm in deep water, but every once in awhile, I find myself in the crash zone, being pushed out far enough to realize the waves that once overpowered me are still unable to reach as far as they once did and I'm diving deep without much effort lately.  Sometimes the waves are bigger than I am, but I haven't left the beach and that means I'm still trying.  And sometimes that's enough.  

What's with my Motivation?

I was blocked last night.  I totally deserved it and it made me laugh.  The moment passed and the reality of what I did hit me at lunch today.  Last night my Tuesday night sitter quit on me.  I was dealing with ex texts in the afternoon. I had a costume to help with and pumpkins to carve and I just wanted to get off of my feet. I was mothering my boys all morning and running late, so I picked up my lunch and my hangry moment pointed out that I cared more about feeding myself then I cared about getting blocked by a man I was kinda into. He was beautiful and tall and smart.  He was a feminist.  It didn’t make me ignore the parts I didn’t like.  I just felt like I didn’t have to see him enough for those parts to bother me.  We were chatting for about a week and I asked him out only to get a delayed acceptance.  It wasn’t a no, but a not now and it irritated me.

I’m very used to having men eager for my attention and when his busy life meant dinner with me would be on hold (when clearly people eat dinner every day), I had a tantrum.  I’m not the type to yell or fight.  My ex used to joke around with his friends that I am not a black woman because I don’t feed the rage that most women (in general) fight with.  I’m too calculating for that. My initial tantrum was a teasing nudge. The full-blown tantrum was to set my inner psycho free in all the terrifying ways.

Really, he asked for time.  If I were advising a friend, I would say to continue flirting with and dating others (advice given and taken).  I don’t get exclusive unless it’s something we’re mutually committing to, but flirting and giving up my kid free time are two very different levels of amazing to be reached. I would have said to give him space.  Forget to text for a few days.  Make him wait on your response a bit.  Let him see that his response was read but answer it hours or days later, and not immediately.  But I ignored my advice.

It’s not the first time either.

The first time was when my last crush became more work than fun.  He was uncomfortable with my open adoration.  I liked how uncomfortable it made him when I looked into his eyes like I might actually see someone who was worth my time.  It’s rare and I treat that as the gift that it is. If you’re special to me, you’ll know it because so few men are.  The day that I was bored of the push and pull, I remember writing a blog post that was solely focused on the amazing I saw in him, leaving out the bits that I’m not sharing here either.  I did it to push and nudge him and it was too much for him.  I was looking for a reaction and I loved the reaction because I couldn’t continue caring for him.  I mean, I care, I just couldn’t see myself falling in world shattering love with him. I had reached a plateau and it was going downhill.

My standard is high.  He has to be capable of treating me better than I treat me.  He has to be a warrior dragon slayer because I am and he has to be able to handle the tough parts that I hold.  I never saw myself being able to pour my darkness into him because I never imagined he could hold it.  He was beautiful, and smart.  He was creative and driven.  But it wasn’t enough, so I pushed and nudged until he walked away.  I think I was hoping there was enough grit for a reaction from him, but he reserved that for others. It was like he couldn’t trust me with his demons any more than I could trust him with mine. I hear he’s happy with someone else now, and that really does make me happy.  I wish him all the best, and can appreciate that I was amused.  I grew.  He was never the one for me.

The man from last night was never going to be the one either.  I might have considered a few months of frolicking fun, but beyond that . . . I couldn’t see him ever meeting my boys.  It was a lot to ask me to wait on a dinner when I needed that visceral gut reaction that I can’t get through a device.

The way I pushed them away was similar.  I found men that couldn’t accept the amazing I saw in them because they probably couldn’t see it in themselves.  When you can't see your amazing, someone else's view will only feel bad and be rejected. I can't shape their ego that rejects what I see and it becomes bigger and more terrifying than they could dream of. I was offering a kid free night to sit and enjoy company because he must be amazing for that alone, but he has to have so much more for something deeper that I just couldn’t see in either man.  I handed them the ways I was intrigued and amazed and threw out scary words like “I could fall in love,” not actually committed to that idea myself.  And I waited.  And I watched.  And my intensity burned them and they stepped away, both admitting it was “too much.”  I walked away in laughter, probably giving the impression that I was shattered. I enjoyed their rejection and there's something wrong in that.

The bigger question is why would I do something like that?  Why would I be so attracted to men that were visibly less confident than I am? Why would I push them away with affirmations of their beauty only to enjoy their rejection because I wasn’t transparent enough to say to them that I could see they weren’t reaching the bar I set above them and they probably weren’t interested in it anyway, and we could be friends.  What is it about me that wants to kick their legs out from under them when they aren’t able to meet my expectations.  That is the part that bothers me most.

At the end of the day, I’m taking a hard look at my motives.  I’m seeing the why and the how and I don’t love what I see, but I can love myself despite it.  It’s like wanting to hurt something because it’s cute.  It’s a psychological phenomenon that I play out in the men I am kinda but not entirely into.  It’s my way of balancing their good with my aggression in a way that distances myself and won’t really hurt them.  Okay the guy from last night probably thinks I’m going to stalk him now, and I can’t stop laughing at that, but it wasn’t meant to traumatize him.

I think it's the parts I see in them that reflect what I used to see in me.  I was insecure as a wife.  I didn't love myself.  I didn't look for my reflection in random mirrors.  I didn't believe I hold all of the amazing that is me.  My oldest had this moment a few years back.  He had just transitioned to a school for autistic children and in the beginning, he was being a bully to the other children that were lower functioning.  He had been bullied by neurotypical kids at his previous school and when he moved, he saw in them what he was teased for and in a repeated cycle, continued the abuse as an abuser empowering the victim within in a way that was broken and hurting others.  I'm hurting others as a temporary salve.  It's wrong and I need to stop it.

I’m intense.  I’m empathic.  I’m a bit of an old soul.  And I love that about me.  It was incredible to see so many articles I could identify with filtering through my Facebook newsfeed today.  It’s like the universe is pointing at the ways I was dodging a bullet I didn’t even know was coming by reaffirming the ways I am a powerhouse that needs grit in a man that can polish my rough bits.

He needs to be tall and beautiful (because I’m shallow).  He needs to be smart (for when I’m intense). He must be a warrior that can take my dark because I have large doses of dark daily and most men aren’t asked to hold it because I don’t think they’re capable.  That says more than it should about the men I’ve dated or the one I married.

You're Overthinking it, Love

Me: I hope you aren't drowning in my dark.  It can be a bit heavy if you aren't me.

Him: Yes.  Stay in the light.  It's warm.

Me: I get the impression you can handle it, but don't let me overburden you.

Him: What does that mean?

Me: You have a strength about you but it's not a strength that you can put on like a jacket.  It's who you are and it was born through survival.  It's easy to lean on you and borrow what you have.

Him: Wow.  You're not wrong, but how did you get all of that?

Me: We hung out and talked for like 20 minutes in my car.  You were there.

I overthink things.  It's a default setting for me.  For years that skill was put to use in advocating as an autism mom.  My Mom had a few wars to wage and my research superpowers were called to action.  As a student and mom and wife, I was able to do it without sleep and not always remembering to feed myself with a kindergartner on my back, asking me how to spell things. Now it's about people and interactions and I can't shut it off.

It's funny sometimes that I can see what I'm doing and call it out in others, but it's hard to stop.  A couple of weeks ago I was at La Velvet Margarita Cantina in Hollywood with friends, having fun playing wing woman to the men with me.

I gave one friend advice that got him affection from his girlfriend:

Me: buy a rose. Call her up. Tell her this rose was handed to you by the guy walking around and selling them. It wasn't until you touched the petals that you missed her because they reminded you of her skin. Then ask if you can drop it off.

Him: you're good.

Me: yeah . . . When you see her, make the rose an extension of your fingertips along her cheek. She needs to feel what reminded you of her.

For my other friend, I kept offering my friendly "hello" to random women and nudging my friend in their direction.  He'd chat and come back for a debriefing, and I kept telling him, "stop overthinking it, love."

That same night there was an Andy.  Walking past him, I called out, "You're beautiful."  We had a couple of separate moments where the conversation started, and I walked away, but I have fun rejecting men and I was looking for an excuse to let him go.  I wasn't lying.  He was beautiful, but that is never enough. His rejection came in his passivity.  He let me initiate each interaction and I was okay letting him go because I wasn't interested enough to accept the mixed signals he was sending.  I watched his body language and the way he had moments of turning out toward me and moments of turning his back to me.  I noticed way too much about what he was doing to appreciate the short conversations we had.  I was over thinking it.

I'm really great at over thinking things.  I'm exceptionally talented at over complicating the simplest things.

Today I'm working on bold authenticity because it's easier to hide in something false.  I'm working on accepting that life's events are neutral and I can guide my response by defining my interpretation.  I'm living in intention and outside of expectations.  (This should be a post one day, but don't hold me to it.) I'm working on being present in the moment, because it's not a super power right now. I'm working on self love because when old patterns emerge, I can no longer ignore them and beating myself up over them is my default.  I get to see what I'm doing and what my motives are and face them so I'm no longer controlled by them.  And I get to release the need to over think things by addressing them boldly, no matter what that may look like.

Pulmonary Embolisms

Two years ago I was just getting used to eliminating wheat from my diet. I was prediabetic and eliminating sugar, but starting to walk more. My car was dead. I was working part time and taking the train to get to work, calling it exercise. The mini storage I worked at was 8 1/2 acres and it was inventory day so I was walking to every space to make sure the locks matched our records.  That night I woke up with horrible leg cramps. I figured I just needed more potassium and planned for bananas and avocados from the store the next day. I rubbed out the cramps and went to bed without even waking the ex. 

The next morning I had mild chest pain. It wasn't bad. Every so often it caught my attention and I'd rub that spot without even realizing it. I was also working as a driver for my ex, so I ran to Costco for him to pick up the cookies for resale. I delivered an order. I was going to do a second one when I felt like I should get my annoying little pains checked out. You aren't supposed to feel your chest. 

I drove to the emergency room and walked myself in. I mentioned chest pain but I probably didn't look like I felt it. I have a high pain threshold and have had a few natural childbirths, even with back labor. I'm a badass. 

At first the doctor didn't look at me. He ordered tests and walked away. He'd tell me a result and order more tests, then walk away. After the cat scan he came back and sat next to the bed. He looked me in the eyes and that's when I knew it was serious. 

I had pulmonary embolisms and they covered my entire left lung with a few clots on my right. I was sent up to the cardiac floor with someone to push my bed and a nurse to make sure I didn't die on the way up. My birth control pills, or the hormones in them gave me blood clots. 

Getting into my bed seemed to stress everyone out because I moved too quickly. The danger of a blood clot dislodging and finding a home in my brain or heart means I could have had a heart attack or stroke and died within seconds. I wasn't too worried because at least I wasn't doing jumping jacks. 

The fear of the situation never really settled in me. I had spent a month hospitalized with the twins two years before and I was used to the hum of machines, the squeak of nursing clogs on linoleum, the nurses that would shift between urgency and calm . . . Smiles and detachment. 

I didn't realize this was an anniversary (because I'm not that morbid) until Facebook reminded me (because they have no memory filter) and it looked like: 

Conversations with nurses:

Me: I'm sensitive to wheat. 

Nursing assistant: here's a white roll. It's not wheat. 

RN: I need to clock out for a break and I'll be right back for your history. 

Me: you don't have to cut into your lunch for me. I'll stay up. 

RN: it's just a break and we work through those. 

Me: maybe that's why they forgot to connect me to the heparin IV in the ER. 

Me: can you move the IV? It's pinching my hand. 

RN: that's considered invasive. It's not something I can just do. 

Me: come on, I haven't started the Coumadin yet. Apparently I'm really great at clotting. 

RN: are you a smoker?

Me: I smoked 2 packs a day about 14 years ago. Actually, I bought 2 packs a day. I usually shared my cancer sticks. Worst investment ever. 

RN: do you have an advance directive?

Me: no, but I've thought about it. (I start to explain) 

RN: no! Wait! I can't discuss it with you. 

Getting blood draws and vitals every couple of hours with bad hospital food is not pleasant. At the same time, I get to have a nice view and lounge with no bra or pants. No pants!!!

After being in the cardiac intensive care unit for a few days and gradually being permitted out of bed, I started walking laps around the unit. I was on blood thinners for a few months. I can never again go on hormonal birth control because the risk is too great that I'll have blood clots again and any future pregnancy would be on blood thinners and high risk. I won't say all birth control pills will kill you. I'm just lucky enough to have a body that doesn't like me to live too wildly because then I wouldn't have a story to tell. 

Birth control pills and exercise tried to kill me. Because of this experience, I get everything that's abnormal checked out immediately. It feels like I'm a hypochondriac but when I think of my kids, it's worth a few hours in an ER where I get to meet doctors (that are never my type) and ask:

"Are you here to save my life? I'll be your damsel in distress."

"I hope you don't rush through every single one of my vital signs."

"The nurse took my temperature but I'm sure it's gone up since you came in."

"Do you do this sort of thing with all of your patients, or am I just a lucky girl."

"I know it's the nurse's job, but I'd be happy to let you stick me."

SO TOTALLY KIDDING. 

Humor is important in a hospital. You go in healthy and they poke and prod you with long wait times. You go in dying or think you could be dying and that generally sucks too. 

You go often enough and you learn the lingo and know a heparin lock is coming. You prepare to be exposed and touched and pleasantly surprised when exam gloves hold warmth. You ask for heated blankets and nap when you can. You know that your nurses are your lifeline because your doctors won't really have time to talk. 

You notice patterns in how busy it is. Monday's are crowded with people that wait all weekend for a doctor's note unless it's cold or raining because people prefer staying home, and hot weather brings pregnant ladies kickstarting labor with dehydration. Honestly, I'd rather be boring and healthy. 

This week I will celebrate my life. I'll take myself out for a really great meal. I'll buy myself flowers and pick out lingerie. I'll take a candle lit bubble bath and appreciate the last two years that saw near death, a broken marriage and the opportunity to fall in love with myself again. . . The opportunity to fall in love with someone new. 

Micro Midlife Crisis

When I was younger, my dream was to have enough disposable income to have someone else clean up after me.  That's as far as I got. When I started college, it was about doing what my parents wanted me to do.  I didn't want to go.  My mom wanted to send me to Thailand for the summer and I refused.  (It was about a boy and not my smartest move.) I had no idea what I wanted to do.  I was one of those students that kept taking electives, hoping it would point me in a direction.  It pointed me in many directions and nothing was really calling to me.  (In hindsight, taking your core requirements will do the same and keep you from wasting time.) I ended up taking classes on and off for so long that by the time I got my BA, the kids starting in the fall were born the year I graduated high school.  My 20 year reunion is in less than 2 weeks. When I became a wife and mom, my goal was to be really good at that and put my family ahead of myself. I wanted to support my ex. Unwinding after work was his right, even though I was exhausted with an infant. He wanted to disappear for a weekend of paintball, then it was deep sea fishing and eventually his rap concerts and I stayed home with our kids. It never occurred to me to have a night with the girls. When I finally did get "me time," it was time spent running household errands alone. (I know how to party.)

I got a call earlier this evening from a friend having a freak out moment that I'm really familiar with.  He was bothered that so much of his identity is tied to his relationship with his kids and the people in his life and he realized he didn't do anything that was just for himself.  He was so involved in the success of those around him that he forgot to sort out his goals and line up his accomplishments.

My first freakout like that happened in my early 20's.  I was a mom, wife, sister, daughter, and had no idea who I was anymore.  I lost touch with the girl that loved shooting pool, smoking cigarettes, drinking with friends, beach days, and hiking to Sturtevant Falls from Chantry Flats.  Even when I was doing those things I was unsure of what I loved, and what I was doing because it's what my friends were doing. I could handle being home alone but not being out alone. 

In early marriage and motherhood, it was so easy for me to get caught up in being who I thought I was supposed to be.  This person took care of the house and did it with a smile.  I looked at motherhood as something that didn't fit what I grew up with.  My mom went to work, then came home for snuggles.  I didn't feel like I was missing anything. My Dad stayed home with me or both parents worked alternating graveyard shifts so one of them was always available.

As a new mom, I tried to follow what my ex had as an example growing up because he loved his mom and I wanted to be like her.  It's hard to fit an ideal that was never yours and that was colored by the fantasies of a little boy that may not have a clear understanding of the realities of motherhood from the perspective of a mother.  Her input (innocent as it was) always made it seem like I was failing.  I just couldn't do it the way she did.  It nearly broke me.  I sometimes joke that I will do my best to ruin every relationship my kids ever get into by being amazing now, but really, I only hope they find someone to love them like I do.  I hope to never make a woman or man feel like they are lacking because of the ideal of what I view as my daily shortcomings.  Yes, I have boys, but we live with the expectation that gay or straight, I will always love my kids.

When I looked at my life and realized it wasn't what I wanted my life to look like, I tried to work within what I was capable of to transform my life.  I started small.  I got curious about subjects and would spend hours reading about topics that interested me.  It started with bees and gardening, jewelry making, cross stitch, crochet, scrapbooking, and for a while I started making soap with fat and lye.  Eventually having lye in the house was way too scary because I had small kids.  I still have my soap molds, and have happy thoughts about getting to the "trace" stage and may pick it back up one day.  (You'll just have to look up soapmaking.)  This helped for a little while.

Eventually, I went back to school. I needed to finish.  When I went back it wasn't about my parents.  Finishing school became my goal.  I wanted my degree.  I wanted to earn that class ring.  I never got my high school ring because I always expected to go to college. When I decided to go back, I remembered how much I loved being in the classroom.  I loved the discourse and the moments when one person would make a profound observation that would shift my perspective into a new interpretation.  I loved that feeling.  A man that can shift my perspective with a sentence is one of the first things I look for in dating, and why I often spend my kid free weekends alone.  (Reaching the bar I set is a really tall order but he has to be smart.) My education is the one thing that was all mine, and could never be taken from me.

I had another moment of awakening earlier this year.  I wrote about it here. I had been doing things the way I was taught for so long that it became my expectation. When I had the freedom to do it my way, it took a while to realize I could. That realization felt like freedom.

My big midlife crisis happened when my ex had his moment of realizing his life didn't look the way he wanted it to.  When he left, I was lost.  I could handle the things I was already handling.  I had the bills in my name.  I had been the handy person around the house, or I knew who to call.  I knew how to exist in the ways I needed to.  What I didn't know was what I wanted my life to look like.  I didn't know what my life should be now that I was only obligated to my boys and myself.  It was scary because I had to figure out what I like to do in my free time now that shared custody means I have so much of it.  I'm still figuring it out. I was recently asked what I like to do, and I listed my usual field trips, but I'm still searching and I hope I never stop searching.  

I was listening to house music again for the first time in decades on Friday.  It felt like urgency.  I couldn't stop dancing in my seat and it probably looked like I had to pee.  It probably made me feel like I had to pee.  But it was amazing in the memories it brought up of raves and dance crews (shout out to the Kinky Dolls . . . anyone?), being known and handed drinks when I entered a party . . . Yeah, and then there were some things that don't need reminiscing.  The music was a reminder of a time I had forgotten in the dark alleys of motherhood martyrdom.  

I spent so long being a wife and mom.  I was a student, then I graduated, and I had decided my kids couldn't become orphans to the stacks, so my next goal of law school will happen once my nest is empty.  I had fluid ideas of what I wanted to do on our next camping trip or what my next job might eventually look like.  I had to start figuring out where my happy places were.

I started bullet journaling.  I really should get back to it.  You can look up bullet journals online and there are many amazing variations.  It's about finding one that works for you.  Mine ended up in a three ring binder with different sections for my goals. I had a daily "to do" list. I had a calendar.  I had long term goals and 18 month plans.  I had a list of books to read and movies to see.  I had financial plans and outlined the way I wanted to shape my existence.

The daily to do list was a list that was marked in some way each day.  It wasn't enough to write a list that got crossed off.  I had a box next to each item and I would mark those boxes as in progress, completed, rescheduled (with a date), and cancelled (with a really good reason for being cancelled). I was accountable to myself to work toward my goals every single day.  Right now I have a cork board with my long term goals listed.  The bullet journal had deadlines. My white board has short term plans for me and the boys.  But the bullet part is what was driving me to do more each day.  To get back into it, I would need time to daydream.  I need to visualize what I want my life to look like.

It won't be solitary.  I can do solitary, but I'm ready for partnership.  I'm ready to support and be supported.  I won't fear what was and color the future with it.  I'm sure I'll find him because I'm open to looking in a way that I wasn't a couple of months ago.

It will include road trips and local adventures. I've never been to San Francisco or Catalina Island.  I want to explore and be a tourist.

It will include my boys, but there will be things that are just about me and maybe friends or a special someone because motherhood doesn't mean I need to be a martyr. (If I say it enough I'll believe it and the guilt will fall away.)

It will include mountain sunrises and streams and beaches at sunset.

When my friend called tonight, I was excited.  There is so much power and possibility in realizing that your life doesn't look the way you want it to.  There is so much potential in that realization because not everyone can see the disconnect.  He arrived at a place where he can slay dragons and rescue princesses.  He gets to be his knight in shining armor with Prince Charming hair and damsel in distress and that is the greatest gift he could give himself. I'm excited to see what his life will look like in the next few weeks.  More than that, I'm excited about the ways I get to start my planning and plotting again.

A midlife crisis isn't the end.  In my marriage, it was the end that opened up an amazing start. It's a place to embark on your next phase of amazing.  It might suck in this moment, but this moment tells you where you've been and which direction you get to lead in.  You get to lead your life!

Have you ever had a dream you let go of? What's stopping you from picking it back up? 

2016 Presidential Election Soapboxing

Warning, this is a really long post and this is your only trigger warning because my life doesn't give warnings and I usually don't either.  When I was little my parents would leave us at home (my eldest sister is a decade older than me and would kid sit us), go for a short walk and come back with stickers on their clothes that said, "I  voted."  It was kind of cute to see them leave the house, hand in hand to go vote together.  It was once a fantasy of mine to do that with my husband.  It never happened.  The one time we did vote together, the kids sat with one of us in the car and we took turns.  My parents did this when we lived in East Hollywood.  I was little and their unhappy moments were far from divorce worthy.

In middle school, I ran for office and won.  It was a popularity contest.  I had a couple of friends that didn't like my opponent and they wanted me to run against her because they thought I would win. I did.  I wasn't qualified.  I didn't even know what my job would be.  I wanted it because my friends thought it would be cool and I wanted to be cool for them.  I ran for it.  I won.  In the end, my opponent should have won.  She's currently still amazingly beautiful, smart and successful.  I'd vote for her on anything she chose to run for.  I lost touch with the people I ran for.  I don't even remember their names or who they were, but I still have a Facebook friendship with the woman I ran against. She was my Drill Team Captain and for a time was one of my best friends. Don't do what they did. The person that should hold office should be most qualified. 

Years later I would turn 18 and get to vote for Bill Clinton.  That was a big deal because I liked him enough to say that I wanted him to lead the country for a second term.  He may not have been a man I would want in my life, but in spite of his moral shortcomings, he did right by our country.

I didn't always make voting a priority.  As a stay at home mom, I was often sleep walking while covered in kid vomit.  Getting out to vote was just another thing to add to my list and it wasn't a moment of pride or joy.  As a couple, the only time we voted together was for Obama's first term.  We didn't vote for his second term.  The last time I meant to vote, I had work duties and mom duties and there wasn't enough time in my day. As shameful as that is, it really just speaks to my mindset about life in general.  This election, I'm voting tonight by absentee ballot, so nothing can come in the way of my civic duty and the voting joy I feel right now.  It wasn't a priority for my ex either.  His sample ballot arrived at my house a few days ago.

This election matters.  All of them do, but this one has elicited a visceral response so strong that I am choosing to not remain silent.  Normally I keep quiet.  I feel that so many people have fought for the right to vote that it's not my place to influence individual decisions.  It's also backlash from the times my Dad handed me his Sample Ballot that he filled out for me.  I won't say that Hillary Clinton speaks for me on all issues, but that's because she isn't me.  And no, I wouldn't want to be her.  She is a better person than me for walking through her husband's infidelity, taking him back and owning responsibility for his actions so she can command the office that she's worked so hard for.  Her vision more closely aligns with mine than Trump's does.  Even if my Dad believes she is the Antichrist. Seriously. Trump . . . Well, he's a special snowflake and I want to address his stance on certain things and how they apply to my experience of the laps I've taken around the sun.

I actually listened to one of his speeches in its entirety a few months ago, and I could see his allure to others.  The last time I tried to listen, I couldn't stop laughing.  That's a problem because I know better.  You can't get angry or make fun of the ignorant, but you can pity them. He's a bigot that isn't aware that he's racist.  He appeals to those that see Hillary Clinton as far from religiously grounded because she believes a woman has a right to control her reproductive decisions.  He appeals to the Veterans that have fought for our country, though he does it in a placating, superficial way.

It's not enough to say Donald Trump is sexist because there are enough people doing that for us.  Here's one.  I'm not even going to go into all of the issues.  It seems unnecessary . . .  overkill.  What can I say?  He makes it easy.

My Body

My Mom had three daughters and miscarried twin boys sometime before me.  I gave her varicose veins and thyroid problems. She was done and I don't blame her.  She's since expanded her family through adoption. When I was born, she wanted to have her tubes tied.  My Dad didn't consent and the doctor wouldn't perform the procedure.  My Mom wasn't able to make a medical decision about her own body because it was 1978.  I'll never understand what makes a man think he has some form of entitlement over a woman's body.  Even if he is my Dad.

Today, I watched a friend's video where she spoke about the 8 boys that cornered her and put their hands all over her body.  I'm starting to think that is some sort of rite of passage.  In the 8th grade, I had to walk to a quieter section of campus to get to my electricity electives class. I appreciated the class, and have used what I learned to swap out outlets in my home. I was the only girl in the class, and on a daily basis, boys would slap my ass, or grab my body, uninvited, as if I was theirs to own and touch.  I complained to the teacher.  In a perfect example of male ineptitude, he shrugged his shoulders and told me, "boys will be boys."  I wrote, "Yessie's butt" on the bottom of my gym shirt, covering my butt in an attempt to own my body (no irony intended) and adopted the attitude that owning what they were doing to me was what I wanted, taking away their power and the allure of a sexual assault.  Saying I wanted what they were doing was what made it stop. Sexual aggression isn't about arousal, but about power. I complained to teachers and faculty and it wasn't until the end of the semester that I changed classes.  The boys were never punished.

I have serious "What the fuck?" moments when I think about the fact that there's a man running for president that thinks it's okay to grab a woman . . . To demean her because he has some sort of right and authority over the way she looks . . . And people want to award this behavior because they are afraid of a woman that is great at being a politician in the way we would expect any man to be.  I have friends that think this is okay.  Seriously.  Line up her offenses and see where men in her position have gone wrong and you'll see she's vilified because of her gender, and not held to the same standard because she is lacking a penis. For Trump to get away with his admitted behavior after how I and many others treated Bill Cosby shows me that race is still a huge issue for our masses.

I grew up being told to never travel alone, or go to bathrooms alone because it's safer to travel in numbers because being a woman means we should always be in fear because we are always vulnerable.  I learned that when I'm catcalled or approached on the street, it's less likely to turn scary if I smile and give the attention they're after. It has shadowed my interactions.  I often tell men that I think they're beautiful, but that usually doesn't mean I want them.  It's a way to own unsolicited assessments of my looks.  If I do it back, it's not invading my sense of self with what I'm interpreted as.

I'm used to a friendly hello,

being whistled at,

catcalled,

asked why I'm not smiling,

having a tongue stuck out at me suggestively,

having my ass slapped when walking in close spaces with groups of men,

walking the long way to avoid quiet streets,

thinking of personal safety when planning a night, or day,

letting someone know where I'm going and who I'm with when on a date,

telling someone when I'm heading home because I might not make it home,

not trusting a drink if I didn't see it poured,

being followed down the street, 

not drinking enough to relax if I'm not with people I know or trust,

unsolicited dick pics when online dating.

With my boys, I hope to raise them in such a way that they know they are responsible for the sexual culture they live in.  We all affect each other.  We're all responsible. 

We don't need to elect a president that normalizes sexual aggression as locker room banter.  I know too many really great men that respect women and themselves too much to act on an impulse.  I don't attack the cute men running past me.  And I don't expect a medal for my self control either.

Digging deeper, I considered a late term abortion with my youngest child.  I was deeply depressed.  It wasn't the depression where you tell people you want to kill yourself.  It wasn't a cry for help.  Many late nights were spent sitting on the floor with a handful of pills next to the bed where my ex and our older two were sleeping and preparing to kill myself without a note.  I was crying silently and scribbling in a journal. It was in those moments that my son would kick me and remind me that he was there and wanted to live.

I grew up in a Christian household.  I personally view life as starting from the moment the sperm meets the egg. There are so many things that can stop that from happening and anything I can do to help it along should be done.  How amazing to step into the face of a miracle and take part in it.  I've always felt this way, but for a time, I couldn't see how I could be what I needed to be.  Being born is the most difficult thing any human could ever do.  Everything after that and your body naturally fights to survive.  Anything after that comes to the negotiation of our choices from moment to moment.

My family couldn't understand why I would have a third child when I had two with autism already and couldn't afford the children we had.  I couldn't get emotional support from my ex. I kept pushing back survey ultrasounds so I could schedule them where he could find out the sex with me until my doctor said I would miss the window of time to get the clearest picture of my son's health.  I can't tell you how many times I cried in my obstetrician's office, going over the literature for an abortion because I couldn't see a way out of the loneliness of being a single parent while with my ex.  I stuck it out for the kid that kept kicking me when I was down.  He is the reason why I'm hyper aware of how I'm doing now.  I will never slip into that kind of sorrow again without seeking help.  But I almost aborted him.  I didn't.  I got to snuggle with him all morning.

I made choices with my body.  I wasn't just pregnant.  My body changed before I knew the seven children I carried were part of me.  I had tender breasts, a constant need to run to the bathroom with a full bladder, heartburn and exhaustion.  I cried because I was happy or sad or because I didn't know how I felt. I was sensitive to smells and was constantly working my abdominal muscles by dry heaving. I avoided pain meds, coffee, alcohol, rare meats, deli foods, chocolate, green tea and any other thing that could harm each child I carried.  My body shifted and grew.  I learned what stress incontinence is.  I pushed a person out of my body, leaving slackened muscles and stretch marks in their wake.  A pregnant woman isn't just pregnant.  She is a bringer of life and sacrifice.  I chose this for myself, but it's ridiculous to believe I have the right to make that choice for any other human.  It's insane to think a man would be able to make this decision for women he has never met.

Who I am

I come from an international family.  Right now, my Thai/Burmese mom is in Thailand with my caucasian/Okie step-dad.  My Dad is a mixed concoction of African American.  My siblings through adoption are Vietnamese, Mexican and African American.  It's not enough to say we are okay with other races because we're Facebook friends, or we've been together at work or a barbecue.

Gandhi once said, "If you really wish to overcome your pain, find a young [Muslim] boy, just as young as your son . . . whose parents have been killed by Hindu mobs. Bring up that boy like you would your own son, but bring him up in the Muslim faith to which he was born. Only then will you find that you can heal your pain, your anger, and your longing for retribution."

Profound, right?

It's not enough to claim connection in superficiality.  We must learn to appreciate other cultures from their perspective and not your interpretation of their experience from the distance that we're accustomed to.  

I'm a native from L.A.  It's normal to live next to a neighbor for several months but never notice him until you start dating people and you notice him because you start looking at others as potential dates. You realize that the guy next door showers at the same time most evenings and after his first noticed shower, a nice neighbor might suggest he should invest in curtains.  (No, I'm not a nice neighbor.) 

A long time ago we were called a country that was a melting pot, and then we became a bouillabaisse.  I have no idea what we are now, but I know without the unique amazing attributes we carry as individuals, we'd be lacking so much as a whole.  (And it's not just my obsession with white boys that have no idea how amazing they are or globally sourced food joy.)

When Trump says something offensive, like making all Muslims responsible for the actions of a few . . .  I could name some of the things my ex did, compare them to Trump and clump all men into a category, but that would rob me of the fan girl moments I've had with my latest really tall glass of water.  I would be robbing myself of some amazing fantasies and epic geek outs. My post the other day was ignited from comments Trump has made about "the blacks" or calling himself "a negotiator like you guys."  He doesn't see how his diction distances himself from the black and Jewish community or anyone else that he can't see as a contemporary. I don't need to hammer out all of his shortcomings in this arena either.  You can go here for a fun little snippet. There are so many more links I could share with you, but I get to vote tonight, and it's not just for the next President of the United States.  I have other issues I get to learn about.

Yes! Opportunities

My life is rarely predictable.  It’s not supposed to be, is it? Would that be great use of my adaptability or optimism? Not likely.  I go with the changes.  I can’t predict or control what happens, but I can certainly shift my perspective and choose my direction and that guides my reaction so that it’s less of a visceral reaction and more of an intentional response. Lately things have been coming up, and my first response is typically to say, “chet!”  It’s not a “shit” moment.  It’s a failure to curse.  It’s so messed up that my response isn’t even fully formed in vulgarity and missing the mark allows me to grasp the situation for the opportunity it is.

I spent many years as a stay at home mom.  I didn’t love it.  I did it because I didn’t want someone else to have my children’s earliest attachments.  I didn’t want to miss those first milestones.  I loved early morning snuggles and nursing my babies on demand.  They were learning just as much from me as they were teaching me.

Shared custody is the biggest possible “chet!” moment.  I can’t control who is around my boys.  I can’t control the fact that decisions that were once solely mine are now shared and dragged out longer than I’d like.  I can’t control what they eat or how they’re treated when they aren’t in front of me.

I was never a true helicopter parent.  I watch from farther away . . . Sometimes mothering means you get to keep an eye out for your littles when you can’t trust the other littles.  It always means your eagle eyes are on the lookout for predators. My mom supported me in anything I wanted to do.  She still does.  Swimming, dance, gymnastics, acting . . . She paid for classes and when I wanted to quit, she accepted that too.  I tried to follow this.

I’m also an autism mom, so I had a whole set of duties that are unique to my family.  It’s easy to get carried away into doing everything, but my kids teach me that they need the space to fly or I’ll just crush their wings.

It looks like I’m a homebody every other weekend.  There’s housework, and home cooked meals.  During the week, I get to rely on the support of my team.  I have a team of family and a caregiver that steps in and they overlap where I need them to so I can bring home the bacon, then cook it later.  I can’t be a badass without them.

The reality of my reliance is there are moments when I get to let go of control.  It was hard at first.  I remember that first court hearing when I made a huge list of demands.  It included parenting classes and financial responsibility.  I had it lined up that everything I wanted was important or I would try to take away the boys.  I had no intention of that.  I just didn’t want the new girlfriend in my arena.  The kid’s schools were my home turf.  I had friends and teachers that have been there for years and I couldn’t handle having this woman at the school.  At the end of the day, we came to an agreement that had his loophole built into it.  I got to learn to let it go, and from that moment, everything I couldn’t control about my kids became secondary.

I even adopted a motto:

It’s not my shit.  It didn’t come out of my ass.  I don’t have to clean it up.

Last night and all day, situations came up and I took these “chet” moments and turned them into “Yes!” opportunities.  My day didn’t crash.  My kids are being cared for.  I’ll get an earful later, but I get to give hugs and they will be listened to.  I get to listen to them complain about a long day. I may be handing out foot or shoulder rubs.  I miss doing that sometimes and the boys love it. But I get to shift in a way where these pop up situations don’t destroy my day.  I get to rise to the challenge, make the calls that matter and accept that the small details don’t matter.  I get to accept in these incremental moments that I can’t control anything but the way I respond.

A favorite visual of mine is a baby duck.  Don’t think of a momma duck.  (Those bitches be cray cray.) Think of a baby duck that is so focused on learning to swim, they don’t even notice the water rolling off their backs.

Dehumanizing Rhetoric

What we internalize often comes out in unguarded moments.  When attacked or attacking, there is little thought and much instinctive regurgitation of whatever vitriol we've allowed to brew and become part of who we are.  In moments when we are driven by a feeling and less thought, what comes out is what is already inside.  I'm not writing about a reaction that is less thoughtful response and more instinct.  I'm writing about the intentional distance used to negate a deeper connection we might otherwise reach.  This is about creating negative and superficial spaces. I've been good at dehumanizing men and distancing them for my needs but I'm adaptable and I'm shifting.

Boys

Most of the men I've dated are referred to as boys.  It's not about them, but me.  I realized it when I was talking about someone I saw as a man for the first time.  He was more than a decade younger than me.  I entertained the idea of dating him long enough to decide I couldn't be a cougar, but I was talking about him as a man.  I dated men older than him and they were all boys, but this (younger than me) man was someone I saw as a man.

I started dating in May and in the embrace of my shallow frivolity  they were all beautiful.  They all have been able to take care of themselves.  They were all easily physically stronger than I am. They've all been old enough to buy their own booze and vote on election day.  They are grown men, but I called them all boys.

If he's a boy, I can distance myself from the idea of a serious commitment, which I did.  I only considered a serious relationship a few weeks ago but it wasn't with anyone in particular. I couldn't imagine anything more than meaningless dates.  Recently I imagined waking up next to someone, and stumbling into the kitchen to worship steaming cups of coffee together.  I had a moment of picturing meal prep together.  I was chopping through vegetables while he was hovering over the stove and we kept bumping into each other with laughter between us, then helping each other wash our hands in warm sudsy water.  I imagined hiking together and spending time at the beach together for a sunset.  I imagined the crackle and smell of a beach side fire.  I imagined doing all of the things that make me happy alone, but I imagined having company and help.  That was a big deal for me.

After that day, I started referring to men as men because I don't need to negate the idea of a future anymore.  I can see it and I can almost feel it.

The Ex

I spent a really long time living with, creating little people with and loving one person.  I was a faithful wife, so when I fell in love with him in 2000, I thought that was it.  It was a huge deal to have a crush in January of this year because it was the first one since I met the man I once promised my forever to.  We're still legally married, and yet, I call him "the ex."  He's not even my ex.  He doesn't get a name or a description here.  At first it was about fear.  My marriage falling apart could have destroyed me and for a while I couldn't see survival outside of existing for my kids.  I had to get through each day for them.  I started living for me at some point and I love my life now.  I love who I am now.

I started calling him the Ex as a buffer of protection.  He'll stay "the Ex" for the sake of his privacy on my blog, but in interactions with others I call him by name.  I no longer fear what he can do.

This doesn't mean there's space for love.  That died a long time ago. I pity him and the distance in diction is no longer necessary.  It's like standing tall to tell you I'm a woman.  It's who I am and I don't need to announce it because it's in everything I do. I don't love him.  I don't fear him.  He's the father of my kids and I can accept that they are thriving in both homes.  I can easily move on with my life because of that.

Fear

I choose to come from a place that isn't based in fear.  There's effort involved.  When what we are looking at is unknown, in fear we act out aggressively.  We attack so we aren't hurt.  We create walls of protection and find ways to alienate or other what we don't know.  We use words like, "the" to give us distance.

My Musical Legacy

There was a conversation with an adorable ginger Monday night.  I was at the Mondrian hotel on Sunset strip and watching Empire Records after a short Q&A with director Allan Moyle. It was an amazing event all around, hosted by GenArt.  This very attractive (if shorter than I like) redhead was telling me all about his experience with vinyl and my experience made me come off as so much older than I am.  Part of it is being the baby for nearly two decades with older parents.  My whole household was older than my generation. Then Mom started adopting and we don't fit much of any family's identity anymore. We call it the zoo and it's who we are.

I'm a native from L.A. and this man with freckle kissed cheeks was from the east coast.  From what I remember of my short trip to New York in 1997, everything was about the latest in everything.  The latest music and style was what mattered.  Status revolved around replacing the old with the new, as quickly as possible.  The wedding we crashed showed me that hairstyles were more of a decades heavy throw back, but everything else was about finding the new things that were the commodification of a generation and nailing down that zeitgeist in any way possible. It was insane and overwhelming to me and I was there only about a week. Vinyl records died and then came back on that side of the country.

In Los Angeles, vinyl never died.  Growing up I played my Dad's Diana Ross records.  He had a small collection of R&B records. I loved smaller 45's because they were mini-records and cute. Most of them were black, but sometimes they came in yellow or red. As I got older I went to house parties. My best friend and the man I named my firstborn after would learn how to DJ, and keep everyone dancing at every single house party I threw until I got married and the parties stopped.   He still DJ's although I'm not sure where and when, but I know he "spins" his records at a Barcade in Koreatown.

I remember hitting record stores with my friends and I would wander for hours while they would go row after row, digging in the crates.  Of course Tower Records was everywhere.  I remember running to the Wherehouse for singles on cassette tapes or the latest Mariah Carey or Madonna albums on CD.  We'd go to Amoeba, Rockaway Records, or Aron's Records and just look for music. It was about hanging out to avoid going home but it was about holding onto a heritage passed down from parents and older siblings.

There's something in the sounds that carry our emotions either through lyrics or melodies.  There's magic in the flow that wraps around us and wrings us dry.  There are still record stores in Los Angeles because they never went away. They evolved.  They re-emerged, but they never went away.

There are kids and adults that geek out on vinyl.  There's something about an automatic arm that moves with precision.  Or sometimes I would hold and guide the arm with the needle onto the dark and smooth outer edge of the record, and watch the needle move towards the center as the songs played through the crackle of imperfections laid into a record.  You can't get that in digital media.  Even modern songs that incorporate the sound that tries to imitate a record can't get it right.  It's too precise.

I'm not a fan of live music usually.  The first time I heard Mariah Carey singing, "I'll Be There," over the sounds of applause, I was bothered.  She didn't sing it the way I wanted it to sound.  I wanted it to be perfect and I wanted to be her only audience and I couldn't feel that way with the sounds of the crowds she was actually singing to.

As I get older, I miss the nostalgia of records.  I miss the sound of melodies woven through white noise and the soft hum of a muted speaker, waiting for it's duty to be lived out in song.  There's a heaviness on a record when vocals dip into sotte voce.  It begs for a physical reaction. I can't remember the artist I used to listen to, but I remember the feeling of her lower ranges gravelling through a record, and that sound memory is a gift.

My kids have never known the sound of vinyl imperfection. With digital media, computer programs modify voices and instruments into perfection so we can take it for granted that if it's on the radio, it will be perfect.  My sons don't know the way Ethel Merman could cut through a room with the way her voice rung out, unassisted.  You are offered that taste on a vinyl record. That was true perfection.

For me, vinyl records mean the sound of the needle first hitting the spinning record with the crackle and groan of the grooves speaking before the melody flows and is met with the power of human ability.  That first sound fills you with anticipation.  I don't plan to get into records again because I only had the by product of my Dad's love of music before.  Really, he had 8-tracks and I'm not going there either.  There are some things I am willing to part with.

My contribution to the legacy I was given is the willingness to sing powerfully. I'm not a singer, but I sing.  It is strong and loud and in my voice are the emotions that won't be held back.  I sing to my sons, looking into their eyes, unashamed and unafraid.  I give them all that I have and maybe one day they'll hear a vinyl recording that speaks to a memory they can't place.  Maybe one day they'll feel the power that I did as a child and it might be one day when they move out or when I'm gone.  It will feel like the memory of their mother singing her heart out to them like it matters, because they do.

First Date

There have been many bad dates.  There was one that was really special and then it turned not so special.  I'm thinking of that night here, but you can read how it ended here.  

There's excitement that looks like piles of discarded dresses and jeans and that mini skirt that will wait for the next date because I'm not that kinda girl on the first date.  I could be, but I'm not.  The search for the perfect outfit matters tonight.  What I wear matters because what I look like matters.  More than that, he matters.  This is more than boredom or opportunity.  I like the sound of his voice and the way he smells.  I like the way my mood shifts and optimism is born with the sound of an alert from my phone telling me he thought of me and has something to say to me.

I brush out the curls I tried to iron in and it's a big puffy mess that ends up getting flat ironed again.  I ignore the random flyaway strands that stand erect on my head like an electrified halo, and focus on my makeup.  I don't want to wear too much but I need to wear enough that when I look in the mirror I'm not looking back at my Dad.  I end up wiping it all off and starting over because in my excitement, my smokey eye looks like I was sucker punched and I want him to want me, not pity me.

I perch on the edge of my bed, completely ready, except for my shoes.  Do I wear the ones that are comfortable? I could go night hiking in these if he wants to prolong our dinner date.  Do I wear the heels that offer solid footing? Do I wear the strappy stilettos that I already imagined framing his face by his ears? No. That will wait for the night with the skirt that I will keep yanking lower even though I know how short it is before I ever put it on. I decide on flats so if he decides to take me on an adventure, we don't have to make up for my poor wardrobe choices.

Looking at the clock, I end up taking off the long dress and slap on jeans with a low cut top that would go well with the stilettos or the boots because really, part of me wants him to imagine these shoes right next to his ears too.  I look at the clock and there's a whole hour before I need to leave and I realize I'm failing the girl stereo types in my excitement.

I take the time to get caught up in an episode of a show that makes me feel things and I regret it as I'm blinking away tears and hoping my makeup won't run because touching it up would make it feel caked on.

We meet at the restaurant where I forget to wait for him to open the door for me.  I like the way he stands next to me and the air in the room is charged because one touch on my arm or his open palm on my lower back sends warmth through every inch of my body.  I follow the waiter to our table and start pulling out my chair before he has a chance to because I forget that some guys want to do this too.

He sits next to me and our conversation flows into his passions and hobbies.  Hearing him talk makes me want to share and I jump out with my excitement and I'm calmed almost immediately when I feel the warmth of his palm on the back of my hand and look into his eyes, getting momentarily lost.  At the same time, talking constantly might mask the fact that I can't understand most of what he says.  His dark hair and thick accent are so sexy to me. My thoughts ramble faster than I can speak and I get a little tongue tied. I try anyway and my words stumble in a heap right before me.  I feel the weight of his solid thigh now resting against mine and his gaze is intense and a little hungry.  My mouth is suddenly dry and I nearly knock over my water only to see his quick reflexes save the day and his amused laughter washes away my anxiety because in that moment my clumsiness is secondary to the way his amusement makes me feel.  I appreciate the fact that I don't drink on a first date and try not to laugh at the party foul it would've been if I had ordered that Cape Cod.

Our meal arrives and suddenly I'm not hungry.  I knew I couldn't handle an entire gluten free pizza on my own, but I didn't realize I'd get so full so quickly either. I want to pick at my food and watch him eat because he's ravenous after a long day at work. I'm lost to the smile on his face and the smell of his cologne mingled with the scent that is uniquely his.  He looks at me like I've just ordered food I don't plan to eat and there's a moment when I understand why men don't understand female quirks and I decide eating what I was hungry for is better than wasting a meal because of nerves.  It's a pleasure filled moment when I'm surprised by textures and the unexpected spice combinations make me want to savor each bite. With the first taste I'm lost to a sensory moment of textures and an infusion of herbs that demand my full focus.  Eyes closed and odd sounds coming from me, he can't contain his laughter and the sound rocks me out of my food joy bliss with a smile that doesn't even care about what might be between my teeth.

As we eat, our conversation winds down into what you would expect from two people really comfortable in each other's company.  Our meal is finished and we're turned toward each other, side by side in a booth.  His arm is more resting on the seat back of the restaurant booth than touching me but I still take the moment to move closer to him so I could feel the warmth of his body.  I laugh at a joke, unsure if it was actually funny or not and inch closer and he takes that as his cue to pull me closer, and tilt my chin up for a gentle but chaste kiss.

We leave the restaurant and he walks me to my car, holding my hand like I might get lost without it.  I put my purse and leftover pizza in the passenger's side and he leans down for another kiss.  His hands are warm and solid, but not demanding in his embrace.  His kiss is gentle and while he's exploring, he's also very responsive to my reactions.  He opens my car door and this time I let him.  I'm seated and he shuts my door, leaning in for a last kiss once I lower my window to say good night.

And that was when I decided he'd get a second date.

It was halfway through the third date that I could start to understand what he was saying and I chose to end it.

One day someone special will ask me out.  He won't assume a date means I want sex, although if I'm saying yes to a date, I've already decided I would potentially be okay with that.  A spin on the dance floor won't mean he has freedom to touch my derriere.  He'll be tall.  He'll be beautiful.  He may be a ginger, but I love blondes and brunettes too. More than that, he'll be smart and able to shift my perspective with an observation. For now, I'm content dating myself and seeing friends that don't want me for sex.

Blushing

I saw it again.  I imagined myself bumping around a kitchen with a man.  We were chopping produce and washing hands together.  Unlike last time, I imagined the man I keep having small talk conversations with. I felt the flush that I had when a friend pointed out I was blushing on Saturday.  Wow.  Just wow.  And a healthy dose of an epic YES! It was just a moment and a momentary fantasy that isn't even committed to one person.  The big deal is that there is a fantasy that involves something more serious than a single date.  It's more serious than the crushes I commit to.  It's about no longer being content with being a loner and opening up to the idea of sharing my free time with someone else.  That is a huge deal.

Right now my boys are banging and crashing and playing and being happy in their shenanigans. I still can't see myself inviting anyone into our brand of crazy, but the moment came and the fantasy was real for a moment or two, and I imagined an actual person.  Take that,  anti-social tendencies.

I say this, but I've made solo plans for tomorrow night. Old habits die hard.

But there was a conversation . . .

What I said was, “I’m a lightweight.”

He said, “oh, a cheap date.”

I said that just last week when sipping a margarita and surrounded by friends.

What I thought was, “I don’t drink on the first date.”

What I should have said was, “are you asking me out?”

Instead I said, “yeah” and walked away, lighting up the room with a smile.