A Mother's Love

“Oh, careful, Betsy.”

My mother’s face grimaced in pain as I stood at the foot of her Medicaid recliner, her left foot resting on my right thigh, tugging at the support hose mandated at her last doctor visit. I whisked it off her foot and she winced again, sucking in her breath as if the extra air might cushion the pain. Gingerly, I grasped the top of the tightly bound flesh colored stocking on her right foot and pulled it off in one fluid motion. Mom’s breath caught in her throat, but only for a moment. She opened her eyes wide and smiled at me.

“My, but you are strong, aren’t you, Betsy Jeanne.”

I laughed and showed her my biceps, tensing so that they popped up in visible definition.

“Yep, Mom, those hours at the gym are beginning to pay off.”

“Oh God, Betty, I don’t know how you do it all…your practice, your boys, and then the gym, and the gardens and your writings. It exhausts me to even think of all the stuff you have going on, but still, here you are, taking care of me.”

“You know me, Mom, the more I have to do, the more I get done.” I glance at my watch. “Can’t stay, Mom, Kevin is home alone and even though I’m only a block away, I hate to leave him by himself.”

“I know that, sweetie. You go on, now.”

I slip the strap of my purse over my shoulder and head for the door.

“Betsy, could you….” Her voice trails off.

“Whacha need, Mom?” I look back from the door.

“Oh, I hate to be a bother. You go on.”

“Mom, if you need something, just tell me.”

She whimpers softly, “Oh, I hate to ask you. Could you just put some lotion on my right foot? It hurts soooo bad.”

I put my purse back down on the couch and resume my place at the foot of Mom’s recliner.

“Sure, Mom. This lotion?” I give the lotion dispenser two quick pushes and smooth the emollient onto her foot.

“Oooh, Oh, careful of the toes. Careful of the toes!”

I look down. Her toes are reddened and chafed, but I see no visible sores. I massage her foot gently, extra careful with her toes. She grimaces with each movement of my hands. She puts her head to one side and begins to cry softly.

“Oh, Betty, I’m afraid I’m gonna lose that foot. It hurts all the time. Something has to be wrong.”

I continue rubbing. There is no external evidence that anything is wrong with her feet. Her doctor has X-Rayed it on several occasions, finding nothing medically wrong.

“Where does it hurt, Mom?”

“All over, oh, it hurts so bad. The bottoms, especially. It feels like there is a fold in my skin and I’m walking on the fold.” She is whimpering softly, sniffling into a kleenex, head to one side, wiping the tears with her tissue.

I examine the bottoms of her feet. There does seem to be a crease down her right foot. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing reddened, nothing obvious. But my mom is in pain, and I want to help. I massage her feet, help her get to bed, head home to get my son into bed next. As I walk, I think about the millisecond of anger that always rears its ugly head when my mother gets whimpery on me. I dearly love my mother, but her bouts of helplessness are like arrows buffeting the crusted sores around my childish heart. I don’t lash out, I suppress that anger quickly and decisively, tending to her needs, comforting her, getting her settled so I can leave. And then I think about it on my walk home.

It is no small irony that the road to my mother’s house is uphill, and the road back to home is down. My mother is an amazingly sweet woman. She is charming and compassionate, loves to tell stories, especially of when I was a little girl. She delights in learning people’s last names and then running a litany of people past the newcomer to determine whether or not they are remotely related to anyone in any of her past lives, particularly, the one she lived in Roanoke, Indiana, her hometown.

My children are gentle with her, always polite, checking in with her on their way to and from their various social functions. They take out her garbage and bring in her recycling bins without even being asked. I have to beg them to do those chores at home. They will sit with her and watch old movies, sneaking her popsicles and helping themselves to her Cheezits. She loves the company.

I idolized my mother when I was little. She was a nurse, working the night shift, 11-7. She was a vision of white, of compassion, of gentle good humor. She was always happy, always singing, always dozing in her chair. She wasn’t angry and unpredictable, like my father. One of my jobs was to polish her white nurse’s shoes and scrub the white shoe strings. I loved watching her get dressed for work in the evenings before bedtime, taking out the hairpins from the pin curls she set every afternoon, putting on her starched white nurse’s cap.

I sat on her lap regularly clear up to when I was sixteen, and felt the recliner groan under the weight of the two of us. She has been a large woman for most of the time I’ve known her, and her hugs have the cushions and padding that small children love and are comforted by. She is very generous with her affections. I have always felt loved.

It was not until I had children of my own that I discovered how angry with her I was. She moved in with Jeff and I, shortly after we bought our first house. It had four bedrooms and two baths. There was plenty of room for the three of us. She came to live with us with the understanding that after I had children, she would stay home with them so that I could go back to work. She had gone back to work six weeks after all five of her children had been born, regretting that she hadn’t had more time with them when they were small. She seemed to really enjoy caring for my oldest son when he was an infant.

She wasn’t the easiest person to live with. She is rather messy, and Jeff and I were both very tidy people. We were both constantly picking up after her, and I would hear about how it aggravated Jeff. Hell, it aggravated me, so at least we didn’t argue about it. She also had no sense of the privacy that relatively newly married people need. If we were watching television, there was mother. If we went out for dinner, her feelings would get hurt if we didn’t invite her along. Same with vacations. When she would go visit my siblings, those were the real vacations. But like I said, she was very loving, very sweet, very good natured, and her heart was always in the right place.

I had gone back to work full time a few months after having my second child. I spent my days trying to please men in stiff white shirts and navy blue pin stripe suits with coordinated silk ties. Men who had stay at home wives, who had no traces of regurgitated milk on the padded shoulders of their suits, as I seemed to always have. After Greg was about six months old, most days would find my mother in tears by the time I got home. She had always said that she would have given anything to stay home with her babies, and I figured I was giving her the next best thing. But she couldn’t handle it, couldn’t handle two children at the same time. My anger started to flare up at her regularly.

It took me a long time, and a lot of therapy to figure out why she was pissing me off so much. My mom was not cold and reserved, but she was perhaps even worse. She was helpless. She could not, or would not, protect me and my siblings from my asshole father. She was not strong enough to defy him, to risk incurring his wrath. She sacrificed her own daughters to protect her veneer of safety. When I had my own children, I discovered first hand the she bear nature that usually comes with giving birth. By offering her the opportunity to be the mother to my sons that she had been unable to be to me, I was offering her a chance to make amends, to make good on the cowardice she had shown when I was a child. Problem was, Mom was still the same weak person. Instead of being unable to stand up to my father, she was unable to stand up to my two year old. And it pissed me off.

I moved my mom out of my house and into her own apartment just after Greg’s first birthday. I found a reliable…and strong willed…caregiver to take her place. For the first few months after she left, I felt like I was on a permanent vacation. I still visited her regularly, and after awhile, we were able to get back to our familiar camaraderie, although something in our relationship had irrevocably changed. I had figured out that I had a choice to make. I could reject my mother because she was weak and didn’t protect me, or I could accept that my mother was what she was and would probably always be, and love her despite her weakness.

I chose the later.

It was not an easy choice.

A mother’s most instinctive job is to protect her children. I see it in birds, I see it in squirrels, when my cat had kittens, when my dog had puppies, hell, sometimes you even see it in insects. If my mother wasn’t able to function as a mother at the most instinctual level, what value could she give me as I tried to raise my children?

I figured out that I truly, intrinsically, loved my mother, as all children so desperately want to love their mothers, regardless of her strengths or weaknesses. I also figured out that my treatment of my mother, my interactions with her, and my children’s interactions with her, could be daily lessons in compassion and strength, for both them and for me. That was worth something.

I kissed my mother on the cheek, still wet from her tears, hiking my purse strap up on my shoulder and I prepared to leave a second time.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Betsy Jeanne. You are so good to me. Better than I deserve.”

That whimper was back in her voice. I had heard this litany before. I sighed.

“I love you, Mom.” That’s all I said.

“I love you, too, Betsy Jeanne.”

I know she does…as best she can.

The Longer View

Results in from speed dating….four out of eight men surveyed in six minute increments would choose Betty as someone to get to know better. Better than last time, but of course my immediate thought is, lip quivering, of course….bbbbut, what about the other four? Why didn’t THEY like me? Jeez oh Pete, I gotta grow up someday….

I had an interesting weekend. Three men asked me out for Friday, I stayed home instead. I passed on two movies and three dinners. That was a first. Saturday, Scott, Greg and I drove to Indianapolis to watch my nephew bench press 650 lbs. He holds the world bench pressing record for his age group and weight class. The weight lifting meet was held at a health club. I walked into the gym, my studly sons in tow, was pointed to a gray door bound with duct tape, and walked into a sea of testosterone. Bulky muscles bulging, biceps attempting to burst the seams of the spandex, holding them at bay like bouncers at a flashy New York night club. Tattoos gleamed from sweat polished granite forearms. Many were bald, shaved bald, not aged bald. Massive shoulders, tapered waists, tight asses, hulking and grunting and sweating profusely, these mountainous men competed against their own records, battled their own personal demons. My nephew, by far, bench pressed more than anyone in the room, regardless of age, rank or serial number. His shoulders spanned a good eight inches beyond his closest competitor.

My nephew is 23 years old. He was born the fall after I graduated from college. I was there when he was born, cuddled him as a baby, brought him outlandish Christmas presents when he was a toddler. Now, he is just shy of 6’ tall, weighs 310 lbs, has a 60 inch chest, not an ounce of fat on him. I asked him to come stay with my boys when I go on my annual week long writing retreat in August. My boys cheered when he said yes. They want to show him off to their friends. Guess I won’t have to worry about who’s in charge while I’m gone…..

I read a blog this weekend. A guy blog. I’m still reeling from the after effects. A friend of mine referred me to this site…a guy friend. I feel like I’ve just looked into the head of every man who has ever broken my heart. Light bulbs went off, flashing to the left, to the right, flickering without rhyme or reason like the fireflies up in the trees in my back yard. I read the blog nonstop, other than to go to my nephew’s weight lifting gig in Indy. I barely cooked for the boys. I didn’t go to the gym. I didn’t do any laundry. I didn’t go on any dates. I don’t know if I ever will again.

You know that’s a lie.

The blog had a profound effect on me. Men are so very different than women. They think so very differently. They assume things, we assume things, and those assumptions are like tangential curves, maybe crossing at haphazard intersections, but never really meeting. I’m sure the universe meant for it to be that way. Is not the ways of man the great mystery in the life of the heterosexual female? And vice versa?

My reactions to this guy Steve were almost identical to my reactions to Tony Soprano. Both of them did things that turned my stomach. Both of them reacted to things in ways that I could probably never forgive. Both of them have a sensitive side that made me want to cradle their heads between my breasts and rock them until they fell asleep. Both of them have made me weep for the little lost boy inside them, the product of cold and uncaring mothers. I literally sobbed at one point in the blog.

And both of them made me wonder what it would be like to fuck their brains out.

Which of course, is the whole point.

I make no judgment about Steve, the guy in the blog. I admire his business acumen, though I could never do some of the things he does. I recognize his quick wit, his ruthlessness, his innate ability to analyze and react. I envy his self confidence. I wonder at his solitary thoughts, his empty house, his need to keep his distance.

I know now why I am where I am at this stage in my life, and it saddens me. I doubt if I’ll ever change, just as I doubt that Steve will, for any extended length of time. I’m like his friend Jerry, just wanting it to be over, not being able to reign it in long enough to let it grow on its own. It all sounds so pathetic in his blog.

I find it ironic that in our society, men often wear their sexual conquests like badges of honor, broadcasting the quantity of their quarry on a blog for all the world to see and admire. Were a woman to do the same, she would be banned from the PTA, whispered about around water coolers, distained and shunned from polite society. I suppose, were I to write a blog and tell no one I know, just send it out there for the great unknown, perhaps I could also be as open and unrepentant…of course, my stories of sexual conquests would have great expanses of inactivity and that can get pretty boring.

So much for equal rights.

Reader be warned, this blog contains explicit sexual details…but he’s a good story teller.

http://certifiedsexwhacko.blogspot.com/

Anybody else out there experiencing a rash of random encounters with baby birds? Every once in a while, the universe sends me birds to save. One year, I saved three adult birds. They were stunned, in the middle of the road. I just happened by, moved them to the side of the road, or took them to the vet and they flew away the next day. One year, the universe sent three families of birds to nest outside of my windows, a family of wrens, a family of mourning doves and a family of cardinals. This year, she is sending me baby birds. I think these baby birds are coming to decidedly unhappy endings because the universe is not sending care instructions with these baby birds. Kevin and I were driving along Burns Avenue and he noticed a baby bird on the side of the street, flanked by concerned parents. I stopped the car, grabbed some tissues, and moved the bird over to a tree, guarded by some friendly hostas. A couple days later, our cats brought in a baby sparrow, just learning to fly, but not quite there yet. We quarantined our cats for 24 hours, and hopefully the bird found its way skyward. Last week, a younger sparrow succumbed to our cats, but it was too far gone for me to do much. I felt cowardly, but I couldn’t bring myself to kill it. I wish I could have. I know that would have been the humane thing to do, but I simply found a quiet spot in the neighbors yard where it could die in peace.

Sometimes I feel the same way about my love life. lol

Love in the Fast Lane

On your mark…set…go! What is your favorite color? What kind of music do you like? Are you a native Cincinnatian? If you had to pick, dogs or cats? How long have you been divorced? Bush or Kerry? What do you do for a living? Do you have children? What’s your favorite thing to do in the winter? What makes your heart beat faster? About what are you the most passionate? If you could live anywhere in the world, where would that be? Were your parents happily married? If you could have lunch with a famous person, who would you choose? Quick, quick, we are running out of time! Favorite movie? Favorite song? What is most likely to make you cry? Favorite food? Favorite fast food? Favorite flower? What moment, up to now, was the highest point in your life….extra points if you say right now, looking into my lovely green eyes….BUZZZZ…time’s up. NEXT!

I did speed dating last night. I talked to eight men for six minutes a piece. At some point during the day today, I’ll find out if any of them want to talk with me again. The age range was 45-61…I am pretty sure I was the youngest woman there, but who knows. The men seemed to be mostly mid fifties. I said I’d talk with all of them again. I thought they were all interesting. I have trouble saying that I wouldn’t want to talk to ANYONE again. Now, the paper didn’t ask if I wanted to kiss them all. I’d have to ponder that, and probably talk to them for more than six minutes to figure that out. Sometimes you can just look at someone and know that you’d want to kiss them, but for the most part, I have to think about it.

I’ve had lots of first dates in the last year and a half. My Fridays and Saturdays are almost always booked by Wednesday. Almost always. Last night was my second time speed dating. Last time I talked to ten men. I was charming. I was witty. I looked hot, my make up was perfect, my hands freshly manicured. The age range last time was 35-51. I wasn’t the youngest one there, nor the hottest, but I thought I was holding my own. I found something to like about all ten men, and dutifully marked all ten as people I’d like to talk to again. I left feeling pretty smug. I was certain all ten men wanted to talk to me again, I mean, who wouldn’t? I’m pretty, I'm witty, I’m smart, I’m accomplished, I have a really sweet smile…

The next day I got the email. “We’re sorry, but there were no matches for you. Because you are such a loser, and because we are pretty sure you are a masochist, we will kindly only charge you half price the next time you want to self flagellate…I mean, speed date.” Ok, so maybe that is a slight exaggeration to their email, but you get the gist.

It was a humbling experience. I think the universe sends us such experiences, on occasion, just to keep us humble.

One of the guys last night noted that one has to be pretty secure with oneself to go through it, because its a big dose of rejection, for the most part.

I guess I am a masochist, because I did it again last night.

I’ll keep you posted.

Full Moon Rising

Yesterday was the first day of summer…last night was the longest day of the year….tonight is a full moon. Summer solstice. I sat by my fish pond with my morning coffee, pondering my fate, my station in life, breathing in the summer scents, the moist, hot air. A fledging robin squeaked at me, fresh from the nest, his mother and father cackling in worry, on the lookout for Princess and Leah, my two carnivorous cats. The birds come to gorge themselves on the mulberry bush, rooted in my neighbor’s yard, its fruit laden branches arching to the edge of my sanctuary. In a moment of wonder, a hummingbird appeared out of no where, hovering over the waterfall, dipping suddenly, rising again, turning to look straight at me. We both said, “Ooh!” at the same time, and the hummingbird sped away.

People are like that.

They appear out of no where, dazzle you for a moment or two, and then are gone, a breathy “Ooh!” left in their wake…perhaps for both of you.

And then, there are the fireflies. Last night, celebrating the longest night of the year, returning from yet another first date, I sat out on the back patio, a lovely glass of wine in hand. I laid the lounge chair down flat and gazed up at the tops of the tall hickory trees that grace my back yard. The branches were ablaze with twinkling lights, reminiscent of fairy lights on a Christmas tree. I watched for the longest time, feeling my aloneness, fascinated with the picture before me, but not necessarily feeling lonely.

I know what those fireflies were doing.

And it wasn’t watching movies.

Was it voyeuristic of me to even have that thought? To continue to watch even after I did? Fireflies are so free with their affections, it makes we wonder at our society’s sense of morality, although I feel no desire to spread my affections freely, so to speak. But I do wonder why it has to be so difficult.

Sometimes I wish I was a firefly.

Or a hummingbird.

But then again, there’s always those damn cats to consider.

Paranoia

“Guys! Dinner’s ready!” I call to my three sons, banging pots, dishes clattering into their places around my kitchen table. I stop for a minute and listen.

Silence.

I walk back into the family room…no boys…head back to the hallway leading to their three rooms. Still nothing. I knock softly on Scott’s door, then open it, to find all three boys hovered around Scott’s computer monitor, staring intently at the screen. Scott is in his usual position, leaned back in his desk chair, his keyboard on his lap. The remote is…well…remote. No tv for this particular scenario.

“Whatcha doing, boys?” I inquire politely.

No one even looks at me. I hate it when that happens.

Scott is typing furiously, Greg and Kevin are watching the action, Kevin occasionally flapping his hands up and down in excitement.

“BOYS! Dinner is ready!” I insist on their attention.

Greg doesn’t even look at me. “Not now, Mom, we want to hear what happened. Scott is IMing with John. They are on the same Paranoia team.”

“Paranoia? What’s that?”

“It’s a game, Mom. That’s why he bought that fancy nerf gun, to play Paranoia.”

I had noticed nerf bullets laying about. That mystery was now solved.

“Well, I want to hear all about this game. At the dinner table. Come on, its getting cold.”

Tearing themselves away from the computer, Scott typed his goodbyes furiously, then set the keyboard back on his desk.

“Ok, ok, lets get this over with then! I need to get back to John so we can plan our strategy tonight!”

Seated around my kitchen table, plates laden with rice, pork chops with mushroom gravy, peas and apple slices I survey my three sons.

“Who wants to tell me about Paranoia?”

They all start talking at once.

“Everyone is playing it.”
“Its this game at the high school. Its huge!”
“I’m on a team with John, Chris, and Steve.”
“Four people to a team. You are out if you get shot with a nerf bullet.”
“They can’t shoot you if you are on school property, inside your house or if you are naked.”

“Naked?” I inquire. “They can’t shoot you if you are naked? But…you would only be naked in a bathroom, and that is inside your house…I’m confused.”

Scott looks thoughtful. “You’re right, Mom. Kind of a weird rule, isn’t it. Some guy in California thought up the game. They started playing it last year. I guess in California, naked isn’t just in the bathroom.”

The next evening, I come home from work, Scott is glumly sitting on the couch, the remote in his hand, rhythmically flipping from channel to channel.

“What’s wrong, son?”

“Nathan shot me through my open window when I was riding in Andrew’s car. We were at an intersection and out of nowhere, this hoard of kids appeared. I’m out of the game.” He viciously punched a button on the remote. “They got Steve, too. John and Chris are still in, so we might be able to make it to the next round, but its not likely.”

“I’m sorry son. I know how excited you were about this game.”

“My first year playing Paranoia and I get out on the first day.” He slumped back in the seat.

Later that evening, just after dark, I was watching tv with Kevin. I heard a noise on the roof. I got up to find out what was going on. Greg came around the corner.

“Did you hear something, Greg? I thought I heard something on the roof.”

“Its those kids playing Paranoia.”

“What?! On the roof? Wait a second! Scott already got out, why are they here?” I’m headed out the door as I’m talking.

“I guess they are hoping to catch John or Chris here.” Greg replies to my back.

Outside, its just after dusk. I see shadows moving stealthily on the roof over my bedroom.

“EXCUSE ME! Would you please get down off my roof? What do you kids think you are doing!?”

A tall kid turns around, shushing me with his fore finger over his pursed lips.

“HA! Guess again, big guy. You come down off that roof right now or I’m calling the cops.” I march towards the street as the kids scramble off the roof. Even cool mom’s have their limits.

“Calm down, Mrs. Waite. There’s no need to call the cops.”

“Boys, being up on a roof is dangerous. You should have never been up there.”

“Dangerous? What’s dangerous about a roof?”

I give him my “Don’t give me any lip look” and he apologizes. I head back into the house. A few minutes later, Scott burst into the family room.

“Mom, I need your bathrobe.”

“You need my what?”

“I need your bathrobe!”

“Why?”

“Because John is outside naked and I need to have a bathrobe handy for him in case a cop comes by!”

Suddenly, I can’t breathe. My knees are weak. I grab the counter top to regain my balance. John is naked? John? Shy John? John who has trouble looking me straight in the eye because he is so shy? John who blushes crimson at any even slightly off color comment? John is naked? Outside in my front yard? Oh, good lord.

I grab my bathrobe and head outside. I see shadowy figures darting about in the darkness. One of them is significantly lighter than the others, a nerf dart gun in his arms, pausing periodically to aim and fire. I approach one of the dark figures. Long brown hair and feminine features greet me. A girl?! There’s a teenage girl in my yard and my son’s best friend is running around my yard naked? I am beside myself with anxiety…but have trouble not bursting out into maniacal laughter at the absurdity of it all.

“Scott, I got two of them! We’re still in the game!” John babbles excitedly, running past us.

“John Callison, you come right here and put this on! What do you think you are doing!? First of all, you’re naked,” I shriek, “and second of all, there’s a girl here! What were you thinking?!”

Sheepishly, John covers his private parts with his hand…like the whole world hasn’t already seen them. I drape my bathrobe across his shoulders. One of the other players approaches, armed and ready to fire. I stand in front of John.

“Don’t even think about it. He’s off limits in my front yard.” I growl at the kid.

Escorting my 17 year old son’s naked best friend, clad now in my black velour bathrobe with the leopard print collar, I contemplate this moment in my life.

“What if your parents saw you!”

“My parents are in Paris.” He explains, logically.

Remind me never to go to Paris and leave my teenage boys behind. Who knows what could happen.

First Time

She sat nervously in the seat next to him, alternating crossing her arms and clutching her hands in her lap.

“Relax, Gorgeous. It’ll be fine. Loosen up!” He stroked her soft, baby fine hair, picking up a strand, caressing it between his thumb and forefinger, sliding his fingers through her mane, and massaging her temples.

“I..I’ve never done anything like this before.” She stammered.

“Well, a woman of your age, you need to enjoy all of life’s pleasures. You are going to love this. I promise you. After I’m done with you, will be back time and time again, asking for more. I guarantee it.”

She looked at him aghast. “Oh, I doubt that! This is a one time thing, once only! I don’t think I could ever…ooooooh!” She moaned with pleasure as he massaged her neck, rubbing the spot right at the top of her vertebrae.

“Just lean back, sweetie. Relax. Enjoy it.”

“Ok”, she whimpered softly.

A short time later, she woke with a start. She opened her eyes, saw him smiling fondly, his face close to hers.

“Did I fall asleep?!”

“Just for a few minutes. That happens sometimes. Its okay.” He gently touched the side of her face.

“Is it…over? Are you…um…finished?” she cautiously looked up at him.

He laughed softly. “For the most part. I’m still admiring my work. So, what did you think?”

“I’m…I’m not sure yet. It felt nice, didn’t sting or hurt at all. I don’t know why I was so worried about that. You hear horror stories…”

He took two small strands in his hands, caressed down her cheek, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. “You were terrific. One of the best I’ve ever worked with. Lets take a look.”

He swung the chair around and she gasped at her reflection in the mirror.

“Oooooh. Oh! Oh! Oh,my!” she swallowed in surprise.

“I think its lovely.” He said, quietly.

Soberly she looked at the mirror. A slow, sly smile crept across her face. “I’m not a virgin anymore, am I.”

He laughed. “Well, honey, I think that got taken care of long ago, something about having three boys makes me assume that, of course, three boys that are the spitting image of you. But, you are right. You no longer have what is called “virgin hair”.

“I like it.” She breathed huskily. “I like it, a lot!”

“Well, you know what they say”, he said, grinning at her. “Blondes have more fun.”

She tossed her head and laughed. “I’ll give you a full report…next time.”

The door tinkled after her. He sighed and grabbed his broom, slowly sweeping the golden remnants of his work into a small pile. Another satisfied customer. Sometimes, he really loved this job.

New Blog Stuff

Oh, this blog stuff is sooo much fun! I figured out how to do links! I figured out how to add a counter! I figured out how to enable people who are not bloggers to leave comments! And I did this all without having to call Brian! Now if I could just remember how he told me to add pictures...afterall, I have a camera phone!

Seriously, those of you who read my blog who are not bloggers can now leave comments if the mood strikes you...and I hope it does.

Anyway, another story will be posted this afternoon, but for some reason, my staff seems to think that I need to review some of these audits on my desk so that we can issue them and get paid. In the meantime, I've received permission from my sister to post a letter she wrote to me in response to the blog I wrote alluding to some nastiness in our childhood. I hesitated posting that piece, for many reasons, the most significant being that it isn't only my dirty little secret. It belongs to my whole family. We've decided not to have secrets anymore. Whoa, this is some deep shit. More lighthearted stuff coming up. Anyway, here's the letter she wrote. I have such an awesome family. :-) Kinda makes up for such an asshole father.

Betty--I just read your blogs from the past week. I especially enjoyed June
10, because you wrote about how dad's evil affected you. Mostly because you
didn't write about dad, or the events, but rather how it caused a minor
disturbance in your routine at school. This huge horrible thing is going
on, but you are able to focus instead on your teacher, and reading and
rhyming and helping. And your teacher succumbed to your distraction instead
of paying attention to that little voice that told her all was not well.
Shame on her. One wonders what pain in her life allowed her to miss the
screaming evidence of that in yours. I can almost forgive her, because, my
dear sister, you are so very good at what you do---what ever you choose to
do. You chose to be happy and helpful and entertaining, and that takes a
level of courage that most adults can't imagine in themselves. I love you,
my courageous, witty, beautiful, strong, brilliant sister. Kathy.

Blogger chain mail

Yoda! How could you! I never pass on chain mail! But, hmmmm. In my writing class, our teacher often suggests "writing prompts". The story about my grandmother's hat came from that. Another one was "violence against women" from which came the "Anonymity" piece...so...here goes.

Here's how it works:Pick 5 of the following questions and then complete the sentences. Then pass it on to 3 more of your blog friends! (No tag backs allowed.)
If I could be a scientist?
If I could be a farmer?
If I could be a musician?
If I could be a doctor?
If I could be a painter?
If I could be a gardener?
If I could be a missionary?
If I could be a chef?
If I could be an architect?
If I could be a linguist?
If I could be a psychologist?
If I could be a librarian?
If I could be an athlete?
If I could be a lawyer?
If I could be an inn-keeper?
If I could be a professor?
If I could be a writer?
If I could be a llama-rider?
If I could be a bonnie pirate?
If I could be an astronaut?
If I could be a world famous blogger?
If I could be a justice on any one court in the world?
If I could be married to any current famous political figure?
Here are my choices:

If I could be a world famous blogger?

What do you mean, "could be"? The question is "when"! When I am a world famous blogger, I promise not to forget why I started writing in the first place, never lose sight of the gift that chose me, not the gift that I chose. I will write, first and foremost, to make people laugh, and short of that, to make them smile. If I do my job well, occasionally make them cry because they feel something and think because I've said something they haven't heard before.

If I could be a missionary?

I would have sex every night with the windows open, no blinds, no curtains, dispelling forever the myth that my profession is unimaginative in the bedroom. Wait a second. How can I do that when I sleep alone? Oh Jeez, I better think of a different answer. Let me get back to you on that one.

If I could be married to any current famous political figure?

No question, it would have to be GWB so that I could murder him in his sleep. Can I get arrested for saying that? Just in case, let me change my answer. It would still be GWB so that I could whisper to him all night long...feed the poor, stop the war, education, education, underscore! Feed the poor, stop the war, education, education, underscore! Feed the poor, stop the war, education, education, underscore! Feed the poor, stop the war, education, education, underscore! It might not accomplish any of those things, but at least he wouldn't get much sleep and might be even slower to pull the trigger on all the other foolish things he does during the day.

If I could be a chef?

I'd create dishes so wonderful, Waiter Rant would move to my restaurant and write about my customers. I'd have a children's table so that parents could dine in peace, complete with waiters and waitresses to cut meat and clean up spilled root beer and stop food fights. I would devise a way to take perfectly good uneaten food and transport it quickly to homeless shelters, and give people coupons who donate their doggie bags. I would cook like the woman in Like Water for Chocolat, using my passion to create delicacies, only I'd change the ending to a happy one. I have this thing about happy endings....and finally, I would add the secret ingredient to make even the most lack luster housewife interested in the man who loves her, and the most boring and introverted nerd a maestro of the female body.

If I could be a linguist?

I'd rewrite the language of love using words we all understand...or I'd hone my interpretations skills to more accurately reflect the lessons I've already learned.

I pass this on to my fellow blogger beauties:

Ollypolly
Miz Gina
TheLadyDothSpeak

Lessons

Lazy lessons in laughter and lust
Lilting lightly with longing and trust
Lose their luster as love is lost
Fading fast as I fathom the cost.

Murky mirrors of memories maimed
Multiplied by millions of separate pains
Manifest emotions migrating south
Erasing, effacing my smile from my mouth.

Torrents of tissues, tides of tears
Tethered and tightened by decades of fears
Tortuous tenets tangled by lies
Amazing grace that I find I’ve survived.

My Last Post

Lest any of you think, oh, poor Betty…Don’t. I’m not sure why I posted that story. Perhaps because I read a blog day before yesterday in which the writer posted that bad things don’t happen to people unless they really kinda deserve it. Perhaps because all the blogs I was reading contained idealic life situations and I wanted to shake things up a bit. Perhaps because I just wanted attention. All these things are possible, and probable in fact. Regardless, I posted it and have decided to leave it up there. One of my clients is a place called Healing Connections for survivors of childhood sexual abuse, much of which was brandished at the hands of fathers. The executive director is zealous in her quest to get people to talk about their past, to de-mystify it, defrock our stories from their cloak of shame. I’m not ashamed of what happened to me. I am guilty of nothing, so why would those events shame me? I feel the same about my marriage. If its possible to have a guilt-free divorce, then I have.

Here’s the deal. Just because my father was an asshole, does not mean that I am now messed up in the head. Granted, incest is a tough thing to live with, but we all choose how to deal with it, and I have chosen to take the approach of looking at the past in the eye, thumbing my nose and saying HA! Its never too late to have a happy childhood.

No, I don’t abuse my children. No, I didn’t turn into a lesbian (quite the contrary). No, I didn’t turn into a sex addict, a drug addict, an alcoholic or a mental basket case. Bottom line? I have survived. I’m fearless. After what I have experienced, nothing scares me now. I am independent and strong. I’m sure that I’m probably too eager to please, too hungry for the love I should have gotten from my parents, but all in all, I’m okay, if you get me at a good angle…

Anonymity

I was always a good student, respectful, cooperative, attentive, and the sixth grade was no different. The first semester was rumbling with excitement, and not just from the hormones raging inside our newly budding bodies. We were getting a new school, a new building. After Christmas, we would come back to a brand new building about a mile from the old one. I had gone to school with the same children since first grade and I knew them all, knew most of their brothers and sisters, and had met most of the parents. I was the really poor, really smart girl, the youngest of five children. My sister was equally poor, but was actually brilliant, a National Merit Scholar, the first in the history of Northfield High School, so that took a lot of pressure to perform off of me. No one expected that kind of brilliance to strike more than once from a poor, white trash family such as mine.

Which is not to say that I was ignored. I was not the kind of kid who was easily ignored. I was well mannered and polite, but I liked to show off, loved to perform, had to be noticed. I would do just about anything, short of hurting someone’s feelings, to get a laugh. I read in front of the class at every opportunity, changing my voice for different characters, raising and lowering my tone for emphasis, inflecting emotion through my reading. I was not considered a pretty girl in the sixth grade. I rarely bathed, almost never brushed my teeth or washed my hair. My clothes were often tattered and dirty looking. As the youngest of four girls, my dresses had seen better days long before those clothes got into my closet. But I was born with a happy disposition, a vivid imagination, a wry sense of humor. I laughed easily and often, and that, in and of itself, attracted people to me.

I loved to write poetry. I started writing poems in the second grade, and by the sixth grade, I was a rhyming machine. My teacher, Mrs. Cole, a large, blue haired, gregarious woman who had taught all four of my siblings, would read aloud one of my poems every week. A couple of them were published in the high school literary magazine.

In the old building, there were two sixth grade classes. One had a very large room (one of those trailers they buy to expand a school as the population grows) and the other was a much smaller room on the second floor of the ancient school building. After Christmas, because the new building also had two sixth grades, but of equal size, a few of us were moved from Mrs. Cole’s class to Mrs. Calhoun’s class. I was one of those children. I have no idea how they decided. Ideally, they would have chosen based on the child’s particular adaptability to new situations, but realistically, I think they chose based on whose parents were the least likely to complain. Luckily, I fit both criteria.

I loved Mrs. Cole, but I loved Mrs. Calhoun even more. She was slender and pretty. She had fine, delicate features and a beautiful wardrobe. She wore carefully applied makeup, her hair was shoulder length, turned under at the ends, brown and shiny, which swished when she turned her head. She sat me in the desk closest to hers. While she did not seem to be as impressed with my poetry as Mrs. Cole (the weekly reading of my work stopped in the second semester) she appeared to have appointed me as her personal assistant. I was selected to teach the English lesson once a week. I was selected to assist the students in Special Ed in developing their reading skills. I was selected to tutor students in the New Math curriculum, which was a new fangled, go at your own pace concept. I was selected to monitor the taped spelling lessons. I was thrilled.

It was during this time that my father began raping me, on a fairly regular basis. Sometimes, it was difficult to sit still in class because my bottom hurt. My father was a large man, about six feet tall, and around 350 pounds. I was a little girl, less than five feet, less than a hundred pounds. Once, when I was struggling to find a comfortable position, Mrs. Calhoun asked me if there was something wrong. I looked at her perfect face, her gentle concern, and I longed to tell her, to tell someone. I shook my head, lied through my teeth, told her I had hurt myself climbing trees with my brother. It was a momentous occasion, nonetheless. Someone had asked.

Twelve years later, I ran into her. I had just graduated from college with a degree in political science. I was living in an apartment in a beautiful, brick, historical building with high ceilings and mahogany doorways. On the street in front of my apartment was a massive community yard sale. I needed a toaster and was on a quest. I saw her a few feet away, fondling a Roseville vase. I stammered a greeting, feeling slightly self conscious at meeting my former mentor. I enquired after her husband, who was now a prominent judge in the county. She looked at me quizzically. I introduced myself, forgetting that although she looked exactly as I remembered her, I had changed considerably from the tiny ten year old who had so adored her. Her face was blank. I laughed uneasily, reminding her that I had been in the first class at Metro North, that I had spent the first semester with Mrs. Cole, that I had sat right by her desk, and had helped her in the classroom, that I was the one who wrote all those poems. She apologized, but professed her lack of memory, ending with, I’m sorry, but I’ve had so many students over the past twelve years.

She didn’t remember me.

I had been anonymous.

Shooting Stars

I wrote this piece, as a letter to Mickey, while I was at a writing retreat in August last summer. The retreat was held at a convent deep in the hills of Kentucky. The last two nights...we saw shooting stars.

Dear Mickey,

Friday

Just after our social hour (around 10:30) four of us went outside to check out the stars. We went out to the graveyard and laid down on the pathway and stared up at the sky. I can’t describe it. Millions of stars, carpeting the inky blackness. It was so clear we could see the Milky Way. Not long after we got there, just when I was asking for one, a shooting star skidded across the sky, as big as the advertisement for Orion pictures. I was so excited, I hugged Charlotte. The other women had to hush me up. They were afraid I would wake up the dead nuns, I suppose. We laid there, laughing and talking and singing “Help Me Make It Through the Night” and “I Only Have Eyes For You” and saw about six more little ones, and then, just as we were talking about leaving, another big one streaked across the sky. I wished you were there. I wished your arms were around me, laying there on the ground, and that you had shared with me the magnificence of that night sky.

Saturday

Six of us went out and laid under the stars in the graveyard again. Oh, Mickey, the stars were incredible. We drank tequila with salt and limes, passing the bottle between us, and laughed ourselves silly. The nuns will probably never invite us back because we couldn’t help it, we laughed so loud and so often. I kept asking God for a big one, meaning of course, a shooting star, but these dirty minded women kept gaffawing about something else entirely. Charlotte let out a rambunctious fart, clearing the surrounding county of any and all mosquitos. That was pretty funny, if you knew Charlotte. The good little Baptist girl who doesn’t drink, who doesn’t even eat bourbon fudge. Who sleeps on the couch for the past four years, but admits that her husband comes out to visit every once in awhile….although he does have a little one. I told the joke about Lazy Larry, and we figured out that she had been a clappin’ when she shoulda been a snappin’, so maybe she will remedy the situation when she gets home.

Home. I go home tomorrow. I know I won’t see you. Saturday is for someone else, and I know that. I don’t even hope to see you on Sunday as I’m sure you are taking HER to see the show you had me buy tickets for. That thought hurts more than I can describe. I have no idea when I will see you next, but I know one thing. I have a date with Bob on Thursday. And I’m looking forward to that.

"She let go. Without a thought or a word, she let go.

She let go of the fear. She let go of the judgments. She let go of the
confluence of opinions swarming around her head. She let go of the
committee of indecision within her. She let go of all the 'right'
reasons. Wholly and completely, without hesitation or worry, she just
let go.

She didn't ask anyone for advice. She didn't read a book on how to let
go... She didn't search the scriptures. She just let go. She let go
of all of the memories that held her back. She let go of all of the
anxiety that kept her from moving forward. She let go of the planning
and all of the calculations about how to do it just right.

She didn't promise to let go. She didn't journal about it. She didn't
write the projected date in her Day-Timer. She made no public
announcement and put no ad in the paper. She didn't check the weather
report or read her daily horoscope. She just let go.

She didn't analyze whether she should let go. She didn't call her
friends to discuss the matter. She didn't do a five-step Spiritual Mind
Treatment. She didn't call the prayer line. She didn't utter one word.
She just let go.

No one was around when it happened. There was no applause or
congratulations. No one thanked her or praised her. No one noticed a
thing. Like a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go.

There was no effort. There was no struggle. It wasn't good and it
wasn't bad. It was what it was, and it is just that.

In the space of letting go, she let it all be. A small smile came over
her face. A light breeze blew through her. And the sun and the moon
shone forevermore." -Anonymous

Sex, Lies and....Camera Phones?

To hell with it, I'm posting it anyway....

I’ve been doing this dating thing now for a year and a half. I’ve been divorced/separated for almost five years, but the first year was all about Randy, the second year was all about George and the third year was all about Jerry. Last year, while involving a great deal of Mickey, was mostly about Betty…this year, too, for that matter. I’ve been seeing a lot of her lately, and although she is great company, the sex pretty much sucks…or doesn’t, if you get my drift. I made my bed Sunday morning thinking sadly that it’s a shame that on Sunday morning, the bed is made so easily, just a tug on the sheet, a fluff of the pillow and a pull on the bedspread. Sunday mornings should entail sheets strewn in all directions, fitted sheets pulled from their holdings because of the raucous activity, pillows in all four corners of the room. Indeed, its been awhile.

I’ve been reading a lot of other blogs lately. Today, I went to the office, my desk cleared of any projects and instead of starting a new one, I read Waiter Rant from the beginning. I’ve been following his blog for a couple months, but hadn’t gone back to read his earlier posts. Great stuff. I’ve been reading a couple other blogs…single men, single women. We all talk about our love lives, or lack thereof. The men talk about lack of sex. The women talk about wishing they had someone to watch fireflies with. Now that’s an overstatement, but its still true. A date asked me once what I missed most about my marriage. I told him I missed having someone bring me coffee in the morning. Granted, we took turns. I brought him coffee just as often, but the camaraderie, the conversations, the sharing of hopes and dreams at dawn before the kids got up. I most surely do miss that.

But what I really miss is sex. Regular sex. Sex as often as you want it, and I’m not ashamed to admit that since I’ve hit my forties, I want it a lot. Hell, I’ve always wanted it a lot. Why is it so hard for women to admit that? Of course, maybe its just that you always want what you don’t have. Could be.

Nice girls just don’t talk about it much, at least not in the blogs I read. Maybe I just read nice girl blogs. I like to think I’m a nice girl. Maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m one of those bad girls everyone whispered about in high school, just all dressed up in CPA clothes so that no one will know. But the nice boys talk about it in their blogs. I love Waiter’s blog. He talks about it all the time.

I loved Sex in the City…but if I talk about liking that show here in Cincinnati, everyone looks at me like I’m Samantha. Ohmigod! Maybe I am! Nah, Samantha doesn’t just talk about sex, she gets it and gets it often. I’m still making my bed by myself on Sunday mornings.

I could toss my head and just say that I’m picky, but I’m not really that picky. I have found guys that I would jump on in a heartbeat (after a sufficient number of dates, and some affection had evolved), if I thought they’d lie back and let me, but they just haven’t had the same heartbeat for me. I think its just luck…or providence. Heaven knows I’ve turned down enough offers to know that I have appeal, just unlucky in return appeal. I’m looking for reciprocal appeal, and sometimes, finding someone to fuck is just blind luck. Hey, that sounds like a poem!

I got a new cell phone. It has a camera on it. I can’t figure out how to use it, but that’s not the point. The point is, I have a phone with a camera on it. It has speaker phone. I accidentally turned it on, now I can’t figure out how to turn it off. I walked around the grocery store while my date from last weekend chattered away, me frantically trying to figure out how to turn the speaker phone off. Anyone have any ideas? If not, I’ll be forced to read the owner’s guide. I shudder at the thought.

On the other hand, maybe I’ll figure out the damned camera…post a more recent picture, attract a cute guy on the internet and VOILA!

Problem solved.

More on the poem later…

Like Mother, Like Son?

I got my first summer job in elementary school…pulling nightcrawlers for a penny a piece. I was probably about eight or nine. On summer evenings, after either a good rain or a steady stream from the garden sprinkler, my brother and I would go out, after dark, equipped with flashlights and coffee cans to pull nightcrawlers…those six to seven inch long worms that bass and bluegill love. My dad’s best friend owned a bait shop and was happy to contribute to our savings accounts rather than pick the rascals himself.

It was back breaking work. We couldn’t use mosquito repellent because the worms seemed to be able to smell it. One had to learn to be stealthily quiet. Worms can hear really well, and can feel even the slighted earth vibration. They were hard to catch…unless they were having worm sex, then they were oblivious to everything other than worm fornication and passion. How excited we would be to catch them in the act, giggling like the babies we were, setting our flashlights down in the grass to grasp their slimy bodies in both hands, pulling oh so carefully so as not to break them. Those worms were so indignant to be disturbed, too. Squirming wildly, caught in the act…and we wouldn’t even let them finish…but I digress.

The summers between fifth and sixth, and sixth and seventh grades, my brother, my sister and I hacked weeds out of soybean fields for a friend of my Dad’s. We worked from 7:00am until 4:30 pm. We got paid 50 cents an hour plus lunch at Burger Chef. I always got a Big Chef, fries and a strawberry milkshake. After several hours out the fields, being periodically pelted with dirt clods by your brother, that strawberry milkshake tasted better than anything has ever tasted since.

The summers between seventh and eighth, and eighth and ninth grades, I worked in the concession stand at a drive in movie theatre making a whopping $1 an hour. I poured sodas and made pizza’s and mopped floors. I babysat the summer between ninth and tenth grade, waited tables at a pizza place between tenth and eleventh grade, and got a job as a waitress in a family restaurant the summer between my junior and senior year, which I kept through my senior year. All during college, I worked as a PBS in a nursing home. (a PBS is a professional bedpan slinger…)

My 15 year old son took a life guard class this spring to prepare him for a job as a lifeguard this summer. It required 16 hours each weekend for three weekends in a row. He never complained. He talked excitedly about saving his money to buy a car when he turns 16. I promised I’d match anything he saved. I made the same offer to my 17 year old, who had never held a job of any kind, except perhaps mowing the grass for me for $20.

Monday, I was at a CPA seminar, talking to a fellow CPA, who’s son hangs out with my son. He was regaling me with tales of his son’s job working at Great American Ballpark, being a runner for food for clubhouse patrons. I consider my son’s job as a 15 year old lifeguard to be just about the coolest job a teenage boy could have, but Kyle's job came a close second. While we were talking, a guy sitting at the table piped up.

“I have a job for your 17 year old son…and any of his friends who want to work, too.”

“Really!” I said excitedly, already starting to salivate, visions of help with car insurance payments dancing in my head.

“Yeah, bring them down when school gets out. Pays $8 an hour, to start. If they are any good, we’ll bump them up to $10 after a month. We’re an auto parts distributor. Its hard work, but not too bad. We’re even air conditioned.”

I can’t wait to call Scott. As soon as I’m in the car, I’m on the phone.

“Scott! Guess what! I’ve got you a job!”

“A job??!!” he says in horror. “What kind of job?”

“A job at a warehouse! Right down the street! You could walk to work, if you needed to!”

“Mom! I was going to get a job at the movie theatre! I don’t want to work in a…warehouse.” He spits the last word out in disgust. “That doesn’t sound like any fun at all!”

“FUN? You think a job for a 17 year old boy has to be FUN?”

“And I don’t want to work more than three days a week. And I’ll only take the job if Jimmy gets a job there, too. And I don’t want to start for three weeks, I want to have some fun this summer. And I don’t want to work in the mornings, I want to be able to sleep in in the mornings.”

Where did I go wrong?

In my haste to give my children all the things I didn’t have as a child, to protect them from the indignity of poverty that I felt so acutely, have I done them a grave injustice? Have I deprived them of that most critical quality of life satisfaction? A work ethic?

On the other hand, why is my middle son so different?

Is it all really just genetic?

Date Expectations

Ah, the dating world…for the forty something woman…with three children, a full time job and a dead beat ex-husband. Someone should write a book about it. There are sooo many of us. Luckily, for every one of us, there’s a forty something man in the same situation…or a fifty something man…or (hehehehe) a thirty something man. I mean, times have changed. Sometimes men like older women…don’t they?

After Jeff left, I hooked up with a guy I had dated when I was 20 years old, the one that gave me my first heart break. I howled like a dog when we broke up. He had the audacity to get married on my birthday a year later. Over the course of my marriage to Jeff, we would talk on the phone once, maybe twice a year, for about ten minutes. He always told me how unhappily married he was. I always told him how deliriously happily married I was. I allowed him to console me for a year after Jeff left and then I discovered something I hadn’t even thought about. While Randy had possessed all of the qualities I was hungry for as a 20 something…suave, handsome, tall, worldy, sophisticated, intelligent, funny, good earning potential, good father material, my needs as a forty something woman had changed. I was looking for compassion, kindness, generosity of spirit. I was looking for someone who shared my core values about how people should be treated, someone gentle to animals and poor people. I wanted someone I could talk to, about anything. Someone who would respect my opinions, especially if they differed from theirs. The exterior was not nearly as important.

Luckily, I have found the same to be true about the men I have dated. They don’t seem to be nearly as concerned that my breasts no longer stand at attention, preferring to just lay back in lawn chairs and wave. They seem to be merely amused that sometimes my stomach keeps laughing for 10 seconds after I stop.

Since that year of healing, for which I will be forever grateful to Randy for helping me through, I have skinned my heart a few times, felt the correlating pain of causing others to skin their hearts, too. I have sought advice on how to reel my heart in from its permanent position affixed to the end of my sleeve. I have read “Women Who Love Too Much”, “The Rules”, “The Rules II”, “The Rules for Online Dating” and “The Power of the Subconscious Mind”. All of these books, while helpful, have really only served to add to my confusion, especially when I read blogs from thirty something and forty something men who sound just as confused as I am.

I have found one common thread to the men who attract me…besides the obvious ones relating to tall, dark, handsome, intelligent and funny. That one thread is elusivity. It works in reverse, too. If I am attracted to the guy, and he is elusive, I’m hooked. If the guy is attracted to me and I am elusive, he’s hooked. Unfortunately, if I am attracted, I find it virtually impossible to be elusive. This is all discussed in “The Rules” which I absolutely detest in theory. According to “The Rules”, the man must initiate all interactions in the first three months, MUST work to woo and win the woman or he loses interest. They say its biological, hardwired into the male psyche. So women like me, who are hardwired as girls, but who have learned to hone their competitive powers in the business world, who have learned assertiveness and maybe have a little extra testosterone on the side (which would explain my seemingly strong sex drive) are sunk. How does one act like one doesn’t want what one hasn’t had in weeks…ok, months?

I have tried to play by “The Rules”. Its hard. The Rules say that you can’t call a guy back…unless and only unless, its to change a scheduled event at the last minute. So if you are outside working in the garden and the guy you’ve been dreaming about for three nights in a row calls your cell phone, you can’t call him back. He has to call you again, make that extra effort. Under The Rules, the girl HAS to be elusive. Its delayed gratification at its finest. Delay his and delay yours…even just to talk. And that’s just the beginning. Nothing but a casual kiss on the first date…second date…third date. We are talking singular. You can’t even think about sex until the seventh or eighth date...do you know how difficult that is for a girl like me? To not even think about sex? That is like asking Copper to not think about the steak sitting on the counter with nary an owner around.

I keep hoping the universe will send me someone I like, that likes me back. I keep hoping I’ll get the timing right, one of these times, and the tiles will just fall into place naturally. I keep hoping its not really just an elaborate game and I still haven’t learned The Rules.

Lust

I wrote a post entitled Sex, Lies and a Camera Phone? but decided it was just too...something. Too sexy, too suggestive, too....much. But, I can't post nothing today. How empty would that be. I liked the post I wrote. It actually said a lot about Betty, but after I did it, I felt naked, so I deleted it. I still have it in a word file, of course, but not on my blog...not yet anyway.

This poem, I wrote last year. Its kinda sexy, kinda fun...enjoy.

Lust

Languid pools in laughing eyes
Broad shoulders, tight muscular thighs
A tummy is nice, I like to pat
Both above and behind as a matter of fact

Between the shoulders, a head that can think
Of things besides the remote and a drink
A romantic heart, I admit a passion
But please do not mention a thing about fashion.

Love my kids and I’ll give you my heart
Make me coffee, now that’s a good start
Tell me I’m beautiful, you wouldn’t be wrong
And I might even consider wearing a thong.

Too Cool

I love this time of year. Open the windows, feel the cool evening breeze as you watch the evening news, turn the fan on low while you sleep, wake to the sound of the birds, vibrant through the open windows. Twice a year the Cinergy bill slips below three digits letting Mother Nature take a turn at adjusting the thermostat. My kids never complain, they like this time of year, too, and will regretfully help me close the windows when we finally succumb to the summer heat. Maybe next weekend, maybe the weekend after, but this weekend was perfect weather. The humidity is creeping in, though. I felt it this morning as I sipped my coffee pondside. Not many nights of this left.

I had a date Saturday night, a first date. We had been talking on the computer and on the phone for several days. He was a younger man….eight years younger, to be exact, but was within my 10 year rule, so it was cool. He was cute...personable and fun…and of course, I was, too.

We met at the Kenwood Mall, by the Cheesecake Factory. As we were waiting for the table buzzer to go off, we admired the cheesecake display. My date was not the hovering kind, and neither am I, so off I went to check out the desserts. I heard a deep voice behind me.

“Makes you want to drool, doesn’t it?”

Cocking my head to one side, I turned in the direction of the obviously male voice, preparing to smile my most flirtatious smile. The voice belonged to a latter 50’s man and he was not looking at me, he’s looking at the caramel apple cheesecake, and he’s talking to his three, also latter 50’s male companions. They are all looking at the cheesecake. My shoulders slumped in disappointment. One of them caught my eye as my date sidled his way back towards me.

“I’m not sure how well that cheesecake would go with this beer, though.” He offered a consolation conversation.

“Oh, come now. Everything goes with beer, doesn’t it?” I smiled understandingly.

My date arrived just in time for the exchange. “Do you like beer?” he queried.

“Sure, I like beer, I like wine, I even like a good scotch now and then.” I tossed my head and smiled up at him. He is my date. I should be flirting with him.

“Scotch, what kind of scotch?” the cheesecake man asked, oblivious to my date. Now he decides to flirt with me.

“Lagavulin…expensive, but worth every penny.” I replied a bit cautiously, keeping an eye on my date.

“Hey guys, a girl who knows good scotch!” His buddies looked over in renewed interest. Just then, our table buzzer sounded and I smiled to myself, feeling a bit redeemed, forgiving them for ogling cheesecake, instead of me. We are seated at our table and the waitress asked for our drink order. Seeing the tall glasses of beer had made me thirsty and I ordered a Miller Lite. My date ordered ice water. I looked at him quizzically.

“I guess you don’t like beer?”

“I don’t drink alcohol of any kind. Its in my profile.” He snapped at me.

My eyes widened. Oh shit. I smiled sweetly. C’est la vie. We moved on to other topics. We discussed religion (not only does he not believe in God, he doesn’t believe in spirituality)…we discussed politics (there is absolutely nothing we as average Americans can do to change anything, so why even vote)…we discussed sex (of course pain has no place in the bedroom, but sometimes you just gotta give a little swat, and if it hurts, well that’s just part of it)…in that order, finding that we had almost no common ground. But he had been so much fun to talk to on the telephone. Trying desperately to salvage the situation, I asked him if he’d ever been to Europe. Eureka! A safe topic! He regaled me with stories of his adventures in Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Romania, and his favorite, Italy.

“Did you visit Europe while you were in the Marines?” I inquired.

“I’ve never been in the Marines.” He replied disdainfully.

“But I thought…you sure?” Like someone wouldn’t be sure whether or not they had been in the Marines. In horror, I realized that I was thinking of my date from last weekend, my date who had the same first name as this guy. This has never happened to me before! I have NEVER gotten two dates mixed up, never accidentally mixed up stories. I take great pride in being able to keep names, faces and events in complete compartmentalization, never, ever, shaking the bag and mixing them up. It was the name! I had also never, in the course of a week, gone out with two men sharing the same name. Crap!

I smiled beguilingly at him, twitching my eyebrows just a tiny fraction. “Well, you look like you could have been in the Marines.”

He sat up a little straighter, adjusted his collar, “Why thank you, I have been working out a lot more recently. Here, wanna feel my biceps?” He stretched his arm across the table and flexed for me.

“Ooooh,” I breathed huskily. “Its big…”

I resisted the urge to show him mine, which are comparable, I might add, figuring that I have salvaged the situation, at least for the moment, and I breathed a silent sigh of relief.

He asked me if I wanted to go see a movie, I declined and suggested a coffee instead. He doesn't drink coffee... An hour later, I’m heading for home. I rolled down the window and enjoyed the breeze. I got home around 10:00, checked on the boys. Scott had friends over playing poker. Kevin was stretched out on the couch watching a movie, Greg was listening to music in his room with Phillip, his best buddy since Kindergarten and my surrogate son. (I have several of them.) I read for awhile. Scott’s friends headed home. Kevin headed to bed. I kissed the top of his head as I tucked him in. I checked in on Greg, they’d fallen asleep with the tv on. I turned it off, and quietly closed the door.

“Thanks for letting me have friends over for poker, Mom. You’ve been really cool lately.” Lately? I think to myself. Oh, Scott honey, your Mom’s always cool.

“You’re welcome Scott. Just keep it clean and you can have friends over all summer. No more beer cans left in the living room. No more beer cans, period. Ok?”

“They weren’t mine! I swear, Mom!” He looked at me…sighed…grinned sheepishly. “Ok.”

I closed the door to my room…my beautiful Betty room. I turned on some music, went to the window and breathed in the fresh air, turned the fan on low, stripped off my clothes and climbed in between clean sheets. Ahhhhh. Lovely. There’s only one way to sleep when the weather is like this.

Two hours later, my door flew open, the lights flashed on.

“Mom, I need the phone recharger.” Scott was looking frantically around the room.

I roused myself from my supine position, sleeping on my stomach. I realized that in the newly arrived summer heat, I had kicked off the sheet and the fan oscillated a breeze across my bare bottom.

“AAAAHHHH” I screamed.

“AAAAHHHH” Scott screamed.

Picture Drew Barrymore and ET.

I guess its time to turn on the AC.

Only 75% Liberal??!! Who'd a Thunk!

Your Political Profile

Overall: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal

Social Issues: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal

Personal Responsibility: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal

Fiscal Issues: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal

Ethics: 0% Conservative, 100% Liberal

Defense and Crime: 50% Conservative, 50% Liberal

How Liberal / Conservative Are You?

Self Surgery

“Mmmm, Betty. What soft skin you have.”

John’s hand caressed my bare arm, sliding down my back, coming to rest in that safe spot just at the top of my hip. You know the place. The place where your shirt meets your jeans, where the waist flares out into hip, where a guy can rest his hand and feel like maybe he’s getting away with something and the girl can feel like she’s still in control. This was our second date. We’d been kissing for about 10 minutes. I liked this guy, maybe.

He slipped his hand just under my soft, pastel sweater. I tensed. Pulling his hand around my waist, his fingers nudged the waist band of my Capri pants. I bolted upright, my hand quickly finding the car door handle.

“Hey, thanks for taking me bird watching. I had a great time! Lets do this again. I’ll call you!” I headed for my front door, trying not to run. John looked in dismay after me, his mouth still open in shock.

“Jeez, that was close.” I muttered to myself. I headed to the bathroom, pulled up my shirt, pushed down the top of my pants. There it was. Beady, pulpy, soft and squishy, I have this grotesque skin tag on my upper hip, right next to the safe spot. Usually, my slacks safely conceal this aberration on my body, but this particular outfit is a bit more stylish than the rest of my wardrobe. The sweater is a little higher on the midriff, the pants a little lower on my hips. One false move, and an innocent caress could turn into a nightmare.

I asked my doctor to remove it. She laughed at me, called me the “V” word, handed me a scalpel and told me to do it myself. It would cost $300 for her to do it, and insurance wouldn’t cover it. I looked at her aghast and she laughed at me.

“Not only are you vain, Ms. Betty, but maybe you are a baby, too.”

Ok, that was it. The “V” word and the “B” word in the same day was too much. I snatched the scalpel out of her hand and marched out the door.

That was three years ago. I have tugged on that skin tag. Squeezed that skin tag, prayed over that skin tag. It remained exactly as it was. I took out that scalpel on two different occasions. Washed it with hot soapy water, boiled it for six minutes, swabbed my hip with rubbing alcohol…but just couldn’t do it.

Today, I got out of the shower, soothed my skin with lotion, and caught the skin tag glaring at me in the mirror. I looked at it. Setting my teeth in determination, I rummaged in the drawer for that damned scalpel. Washing it, rinsing it, boiling it, pouring rubbing alcohol on my hip, I grasped that skin tag in one hand, the scalpel in the other. I touched the metal to my skin. I pushed. Ouch. Damn. Squinting my eyes in resolve, I marched into the kitchen, the ice dispenser roaring into action. I held the ice cube to my hip until I could feel the burn of cold. Pushing my breast out of the way (I was naked through this all, of course, having just gotten out of the shower) I looked at the skin tag again. A tiny stain of blood had appeared from my last attempt. I held the scalpel gingerly, sucked in my breath, and sliced it off.

It was gone! It hadn’t hurt a bit! It was bleeding! Oh my god!

Two bandaids and half a bottle of rubbing alcohol later, I was dressed and ready to go see Cinderella Man with my best friend, Robert.

The next time a guy slips his hand under the edge of my sweater, I’ll be ready.

Enough

The mountain of mulch under the basketball hoop is now gone. I finished hauling it around my yard yesterday morning. I made an amazing discovery. I didn’t order enough. I still need more. More mulch. I have a few trees with bare roots, and the last of the mulch didn’t quite stretch far enough to cover the shrubs under my kitchen window. The window boxes by the front door which I never use got short changed, too. Why is it that no matter how much mulch you get delivered to your driveway, its never enough?

It wouldn’t matter how much I ordered. I would still need more. I would have just used more mixed in with the soil, or I would have put down three inches instead of just two. Don’t worry, the basketball court is safe for another year. I’m not going to order any more mulch. No one can see under the shrubs, only I will know how barren it is under there. And I can probably scrounge up a handful or two to take care of the window boxes. The trees will just do without. I find it ironic, though, that the mountain of mulch that I thought I would never finish hauling wasn’t quite enough.

Such is life.

I wonder if that’s the problem with my love life.

Or maybe that is the wonder of my love life. It doesn’t matter if I don’t order enough, because there is always more. Everyday, new people are becoming single, becoming ready to dip their toes and test the waters of the dating pool. Just when I have finally come to accept that good things come to those who wait, my 10 year old throws down the step dad gauntlet. But you know? Its not up to him. Its my schedule, my time line, and I am feeling good about the shoes in my closet, not feeling any particular desire to go shoe shopping right now.

I mean, its summertime and I love bare feet.

And that’s enough for now.