Well, I Knew That!!

Your results:
You are Wonder Woman

Wonder Woman 88% Superman 85% Spider-Man 80% Supergirl 78% Robin 70% The Flash 70% Iron Man 70% Green Lantern 55% Batman 50% Catwoman 40% Hulk 35%

You are a beautiful princess with great strength of character.

Click here to take the "Which Superhero are you?" quiz...

Broken Things

“Mom, can you fix this?” Kevin’s big blue eyes looked up hopefully into mine. I couldn’t help but smile back at him, and I glanced down at the broken legged Luke Skywalker cupped in his hands. Kevin had tried in vain to tape the leg back together, but now, the leg dangled from a torn piece of tape just below the knee.

“Hmmm. Major surgery required here, but yeah, I think it’s within the realm of possibility.” I tousled his head and retrieved the two Skywalker pieces from his hand.

I got out the Krazy Glue and a few minutes later, Luke was two legged once again.

“Here you go, Kevin. Be careful of that leg. It needs to dry for awhile before you play too much with it.”

Two hours later, he’s back again, sad faced and resigned, Luke Skywalker an amputee once again. I decided to try Elmer’s Glue this time. Luke is plastic. Perhaps the Krazy Glue is not for plastic. I had to sit and hold Luke together for a few minutes until the Elmer’s dried sufficiently to hold on its own, then I stashed him up on top of the refrigerator so that he could dry in peace.

The next day, I gave Kevin his toy back with a caution to use care. Broken things sometimes take time to heal.

A couple hours later, he was back. I heaved a big sigh, got on the phone to my friend Kim whose children have always been active participants in creative art works. She suggested a hot glue gun, which she just happened to have. I went over to her house for coffee, and reconstructive surgery on Luke Skywalker was performed once again.

This time, he sat on top of my refrigerator for three days.

This time, he lasted a whole day in Kevin’s care.

As I surveyed the damage once again, chipping away at the old glue, cleaning the wound for the next repair job, I thought about the past year, about the bandaids and krazy glue and hot glue I had been trying to use to mend my heart. Truth be told, I have been trying all sorts of methods to stitch the damn thing back together for the past five years. I’m sure that any of the fortunate few that have managed to find a respite within the walls of my heart, have wondered at the wind whistling through the open holes. Just like that poor toy of my son’s, every time I think I’ve found a way to mend the hole, the glue gives way and the grief gushes out.

I pondered the dilemma.

With a deep sigh, I sat down with Kevin on the couch.

“Kevin, I think I can fix Luke Skywalker, but here’s the problem. In order for his leg to stay fixed, you aren’t going to be able to play with him for a while. A long while. Just like it takes time for your finger to heal if you cut it, your toy needs some time by himself for the glue to dry, for the material to set and bond with the plastic in your toy. Do you think you can part with Luke Skywalker long enough for all that to happen?”

Kevin nodded solemnly. “I really love that toy, Mom, but I don’t want him to be broken. How long do you think it’ll take?”

“I have no idea, sweetie. Longer than three days. Maybe a month. Maybe more. As long as it takes.”

I glued Luke Skywalker back together, using Super Glue this time, carefully holding his leg tightly together until I felt the hold take. I stuck him on the top shelf of my closet.

Months went by. I forgot about Luke Skywalker. Kevin was soon absorbed in other toys, Harry Potter gained favor, as did YuGiOh, and Fairly Odd Parents, and a myriad of other features on Cartoon Network. Star Wars was forgotten.

I cleaned my closet over Thanksgiving, and lo and behold, guess who fell off the top shelf as I strained to organize the mass of books which reside there. I excitedly held him behind my back as I approached my son with hidden treasure.

“Guess who I found in my closet, Kevin?” I asked mischievously.

Kevin barely glanced up from his video game. He was working his way through the different levels of Halo II, determined to destroy all monsters. He has assured me that it is not a violent game, only bad monsters get killed, not people. They play it at Stephan’s church, so it can’t be bad, Mom. Yeah, right.

“Ta da! Look, Kevin! I found Luke Skywalker!” I whipped the toy out from behind my back.

Kevin smiled broadly. His eyes left the tv screen for the briefest of moments to rest on his former favorite toy. “Thanks, Mom! Could you put him up on the shelf there?” nodding his head to the shelving unit to my right, never taking his hands off the controls.

I gingerly placed Luke Skywalker on Kevin’s shelf, and watched for a moment, as Luke Skywalker watched Kevin with his now favorite toy. We shared a wry smile, and I could swear I saw Luke Skywalker’s shoulders give the faintest of shrugs. A boy’s affections are fleeting. I knew that. We all know that. Puff the Magic Dragon made that knowledge legendary.

2005 draws to a close. I am struggling to find the wellspring of holiday spirit that I know lies within me somewhere. The super glue holding my heart together bonds one day at a time. Perhaps 2006 will be the year I finally put my heart on the shelf, not forever, but just long enough to finally give it a chance to heal.

Footnote: The title of my post is from a Lucy Kaplansky song. You can find her music here. The song is from her album “Every Single Day”.

Blogger Tag...You're IT!!

I've been tagged by Dick the Boomer. Here's my assignment:

1) Delve into your blog archive.2) Search the archive for your 23rd post.3) Find the 5th sentence, or the closest to it.4) Post the text of your sentence in your blog along with these instructions. Ponder it for meaning, subtext or hidden agendas.5) Tag 5 people to do the same.

So here is my 23rd post - sentence 5:


He knows no prejudice, except a preference for his Mommy’s voice.

In my melancholy state, I can read lots into this. I have spent the weekend fighting with my oldest son, struggling to find the balance between discipline and dictatorship, trading hard hearted, heat seeking barbs that afterwards I wish I could retract with all my heart. When Scott was nine months old, he became a Daddy’s boy, preferring the comfort of Rexford’s arms, head swiveling to watch my expression when his Daddy swooped him up in his arms. I remember the sense of betrayal, thinking “…but, but, I breastfed you for FIVE months!”

None of the other boys ever lost their adoration for me, they still have it. But Scott has been skeptical of me since he was a toddler. Questions me, gets in my face, challenges my authority. He told me that the only reason he was here with me instead of with his father is because he is bigger than me and he knows I could never beat him up. Beat him up?! Where in the hell did that come from? I sobbed at that remark. Put my head down on the kitchen counter and heaved tears into my folded arms. I feel like such a failure to him. He ended up telling me he loves me and I ended up wrapping my arms around him, holding him close, whispering to him that he will always be a bright, shining star to me.

But the preference for his Mommy’s voice dissipated many, many years ago.

Ok, who to tag....

Christie Jo
Polly
Gina
Brian (whoa another November post!)
Lizzie

One of Those Days

The fifty first dates are now logged in the annals of my personal history, awaiting compilation into a New York Times bestseller. My book will have no Sex in the City happily ever after, though. I was disappointed, when that series ended, that once again, Hollywood decided that unless it includes a wedding ring, it’s not really happily ever after.

As the universe again demonstrated, her sense of humor is unrivaled by the comedians on Comedy Central. My fiftieth first date was spent in the company of a man who was married for 29 years…I was his first date, post marriage. A fun date he was, too. Flirtatious and funny, appropriately complimentary but not overly effusive, we shared a couple of beers and a burger at a bar down the street from my house. I kissed him goodnight…his first kiss from someone other than his wife since before high school. I made sure that kiss counted.

I have found that I like initiating first kisses, if I’m sure the guy wants to kiss me. I like smiling a sultry smile though half lidded eyes, draping my arms over the man’s shoulders, pressing my breasts against his chest, resting my soft lips against his, adding a little pressure, letting just the tip of my tongue touch his lower lip…and waiting for a reaction.

Monday night’s reaction was very obvious. I was a little worried about him. :-)....I do like being a woman.

So, the fifty first dates are over. I have unsubscribed to the two internet dating sites from which all fifty of my first dates originated. I have hidden my profile as the rest of my billing cycle runs out. I’m tired. I want a rest.

I know some of you are chomping at the bit to hear about the sweet musician who rocked my world last week…He’s still around. He called me last night…but it was the first I’d heard from him since we went out on Friday. I’m still very interested…he fascinates me. I’m not so sure how he feels about me. But then, if I like a guy, if I really like a guy, I IMMEDIATELY get scared, become convinced that his ardor has flamed and died, am certain that each date is going to be the last. Sigh. Perhaps I fired my therapist too soon.

And I’m still going out with the older gentleman. He took me to dinner and the symphony on Saturday. I might go out with the guy last night again. Date #49 is still sniffing around, too.

Am I a bad girl for dating more than one man at a time?

Robert’s prescription for me is to find a guy I like (which I have) and just date him for 10 dates. I like the idea in theory, but until the guy says, “Listen, I don’t think we should date other people” doesn’t this put a lot of pressure on the relationship? Guys are SOOO gunshy. I would never even think of suggesting a committed relationship unless I’d already been on the 10 dates, and I’d already bared my blog, my breasts and my soul to him. Until that happens, I’m not going to suggest that they date only me, and if they are dating others, then….well….shouldn’t I, also? Just to keep things easy and breezy?

On the other hand, if you always do what you’ve always done, won’t you always get what you’ve always got?

On to more pleasant topics.

A man from India commented on my blog! Someone from halfway around the world found my site, read my words, and left a comment! I am so touched…

I have been appointed spokesperson for the Women Writing for a Change Capital Campaign. That means, I get lots of time in front of the microphone, get to be the point person for the media. I get to be front and center, get to do some showing off over the next year. When they asked me, I said, “Sure, I’m not going to be dating in 2006, I’m going to need SOMETHING to fill up my time.”

They all laughed.

I was serious.

Yesterday, I got a call from the office. I picked up my cell phone to answer the call, and it was April Peterson, a woman I had worked with years and years ago at Touche Ross & Co. I got tears in my eyes to hear her voice on the other end of the line. She was a very good friend of mine, a mentor of sorts, while I was pregnant with my first child. She took a job with Arco in Los Angeles and moved away, but we kept in touch, seeing each other once a year or so for many years. She came home six years ago for her sister’s wedding, quit her job at Arco, and traveled around the world for a year. I lost track of her. She was a kindred spirit, and I felt the loss of her friendship acutely. Rexford had liked her, too. I tried to find her when I got the client in LA, but there were many, many April Petersons that lived in LA, and I had no idea in which neighborhood to begin a search.

April was single when I knew her, but was always hoping to find someone with which to share her life. Kinda like me, now. I had always wondered if she had ever gotten married, if she had ever had kids, settled down to the life of domesticity with which I was so very familiar. My heart leaped up into my throat when she said to me on the phone, “And Betty, there’s someone I want you to meet…”

I couldn’t wait to see her. I had a 10:00am meeting with some writing friends, but at 1:00pm, I was to meet April for coffee at Joseph Beth Booksellers in Rookwood Commons. Truth be told, as happy as I was for April, I wondered if I would be able to talk with her, really talk with her, with another person there. After all, I hadn’t seen her in six years, and I’d have to tell her about my divorce…

I walked into the bookstore, and there she was, looking exactly as I remembered her. I hugged her tightly, for what seemed like forever, and then stepped back to look around. I didn’t see a guy. I looked at her quizzically. She moved towards the stroller parked in our way. A black haired, pink bedecked little brown eyed girl peeked up at me.

“Betty, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Zia.”

Tears prickled my eyes, and I gasped in surprise. There was no man, there was a baby girl! I held my hand out to the two year old and knelt next to the stroller.

“Hello, Zia. It’s nice to meet you.” She grinned and hid her face in the back of the stroller.

I looked up at April in wonder.

“Remember? I said that if I wasn’t married by the time I was 45, I was going to have a child on my own. Well, guess what. I’m 45.”

We spent the next two hours updating each other on the last six years. She hugged me tight when the tears welled in my eyes as I told her about my divorce, about the trauma to my family. I listened to her tales of her travels around the world, of her adventure in finding Zia, how much the child has enriched her life. I felt a flood of gratitude for being able to have my children with me, for the rather traditional way they came into my life. I told her about my 50 dates. She revealed that she hadn’t had a date for well over a year, not since she got Zia.

I smiled to myself. So the universe reveals her hand again; a glimpse into the future, through the eyes of my friend. A year without a date? Big deal.

I have three children with which to savor my time.

How blessed I am.

Figleaf

I have never posted someone else's blog post onto my blog. This one touched me, so to speak. It spoke exactly to the melancholy I feel sometimes when the bed I climb into at nights feels so wide, so solitary.

Here is Figleaf's web site. And this is what moved me...

It's not always about kink though is it? Sometimes it's not even about sex.

You know one of the loveliest feelings there is is when kissing is a foregone conclusion, hands caressing first outside and then inside clothes is a foregone conclusion. When you both know you'll feel each other's hot breath against each other's moist lips and that, as buttons unbutton and zippers unzip, you'll feel kisses and tongue tips on newly bared skin. When there's no doubt that one or both of you will lunge forward and the other will fall back with welcoming arms. When wondering about the first taps of velvet hardness will meet liquid warmth is only a matter of when and not if, and knowing that questions about stretch and friction, pace, panting, and moans will be answered in time, and when you're sure that giggles and kisses and murmurs of "wow, what got into you" will soon be memories instead of fantasies...

When you both know that will all come to pass but not yet...

That's a lovely, lovely time to sit together on the window seat drinking tea and watching the last of the leaves fall from the trees as you wait for the fire to warm the room. And in that timeless now you can talk about anything. Or nothing at all.


Oooh. Sigh.

Sitting at the Kid's Table

Here is my Thanksgiving gift to you. This story was inspired by two of my favorite people. You know who you are.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Sitting at the Kid's Table

Thanksgiving Day dawned crisp and clear. Snow was forecast for the afternoon. Sara lay in her bed, her huge, king sized, four poster, mahogany bed, contemplating her day. Thanksgiving was at her house this year. Her three sisters and her brother and their families would join her as well as her Mother and Father, a few cousins from the distant past and whoever else happened along. Every year, someone unexpected showed up at Thanksgiving. It was uncanny. She alternated responsibility for hosting with her siblings, and they had all gotten used to not putting placemats out, or setting the table too tightly, because inevitably, another setting would be squeezed in before the day was over. This was not a bad thing. Her siblings and herself were surprisingly flexible when it came to such matters, and considered the addition of another guest a gift from the Hostess Goddess.

Her mother was another story. She did not handle the unexpected well, a condition that seemed to be exacerbated with the passage of time. Many years ago, hosting responsibility was shifted to the children, under the guise of giving Mother a break, but in reality, to diffuse the tension that percolated like a fine roast coffee in Mother’s kitchen. One could smell it wafting through the entire house.

She lay there and listened to the birds singing, appreciating the sweet songs, centering herself for the unpredictability of her day. She had two kids, Emily and Sam, ages 16 and 18, but they were pretty good at fending for themselves on a day like today. How she admired Emily’s no nonsense attitude towards life, her strength of will, her determination, her confidence. Last year, at her sister Kate’s smaller house, there was room for only 15 adults at the dining room table, which had been stretched to the max by adding the kitchen table onto the end with the division masked by a tablecloth. The kids, ranging in age from 5 to 18, Sara’s son being the oldest, had had to eat on card tables in the basement. At the last minute, Sam was squeezed in at the end, now that he was of voting age, and Emily had been left to babysit her cousins. She didn’t complain. She simply grabbed the $50 bottle of Merlot off the adult table and sweetly said, “I think I’ll be needing this more that you this evening.” Sara’s siblings sat in shock, but Sara let her go. Emily had a point.

Sara hunkered down, snug under the covers for two more minutes, then finally, as the clock struck 7:00am, swung her legs out of bed, made her bed in the nude, padded to the bathroom and pulled on her jeans. It was time to get the turkey in the oven.

Sara’s siblings started to arrive at noon, dinner was at 3:00pm, but the women all enjoyed the comraderie of cooking together. They knew each other’s kitchens as well as their own, and had developed a rhythm when cooking together that rivaled the hip hop hocus pocus emanating from their teenagers’ earphones. No need to ask where the measuring cups were, not that they had much use for measuring. Sara had just finished putting the potatoes on to boil when Kate gestured for Sara, Jeanne and Sally to come closer.

“I have to tell you guys something, but you have to promise not to tell anyone! Dad would kill me if he knew I told you three.”

“What is it, Kate?” Sally was breathless, she loved gossip.

“Ok, but you have to promise not to say a word about this to anyone!”

“Alright, alright, we promise, just tell us.” Sara looked impatiently at the simmering pots on the stove.

“Mom had an accident three days ago. She drove her car through a store window.”

“Oh my God! Was anyone hurt?! Is she ok? Was the car damaged much?” Jeanne tittered in her usual spastic way.

“No, Mom’s fine, no one was hurt, the car is fixable.” Kate looked hurriedly around her, making sure none of the kids were within earshot. “You can’t tell any one! Dad would be furious and Mother, god knows what mother would do.”

Sara fussed about this new bit of information. No one could talk to their mother about this and someone could have been hurt! Someone needed to say something, needed to make sure that nothing like this ever happened again. A child could have been in the way of the window! Someone could have been killed!

As Kate set the table, Sally sprinkled the onions on the green bean casserole, Sara cleaned up the aftermath of the Waldorf salad and Jeanne arranged the deviled eggs, their parents arrived. Sara answered the door and was enveloped in a cloud of White Shoulders, her mother’s signature scent.

“Sara, darling, you look lovely….oh, but is that really what you are wearing for dinner?” Her mother arched an eyebrow at Sara’s jeans.

“Oh, um, Happy Thanksgiving, Mother. No, of..of..course not. I was just heading into the bedroom to change.”

“I should think so, darling. Wear something more festive.” Her mother smiled deprecatingly and swept through to greet the others in a perfect tawny silk pant suit, with green accents on her feet, her ears and around her neck. Perfect looking, as always.

Standing in her closet, Sara was at something of a loss. Flipping through her clothes, finally she settled on a pink sweater and beige pants. Innocuous enough, and probably more suitable for the occasion than her jeans, she felt just a tug of irritation but quickly shrugged it aside. It was only for a day.

She hurried back into the kitchen for the final dinner preparations. Her sisters were filling bowls with corn and yeast rolls, sweet potatoes and salad. Her brother was readying the knives to carve the turkey, which always took place at the table, with a flourish of stainless steel, one of her father’s favorite traditions. She was just about to mash the potatoes when she heard a voice behind her.

“Not like that, Sara. You’re doing it all wrong. Oh, just let me do it. I hope I don’t get mashed potatoes all over my silk suit.” Sara’s mother waved her away. Grim faced, she glanced at Kate, who smiled sympathetically and shrugged her shoulders. Sara turned to the refrigerator to get the can of cranberry sauce. She headed for the electric can opener on the counter when she heard her father’s voice.

“Sara, don’t use the electric can opener. You need to use the hand held one so that you can be certain to have a clean opening so the cranberries slide out in one piece, otherwise, you’ll have a big mess. Here, just let me do it.” Sara’s father took the can from her hands, opening it with a few flicks of his wrist. Sara started feeling funny in her stomach. She scanned the faces of her siblings, but they seemed just as they always were when their parents were around….smiling secretly to each other, but guardedly watching their backsides.

Everyone was seated for dinner. The card tables had been squeezed onto the end of the dining room table, so all the kids were at one end, the end closest to the door and the TV room, easy access for a quick getaway. Sara’s father sat in his usual place at the head of the table, waiting expectantly with twin carving knives appending his hands. Sara slipped into her chair, breathing a sigh of relief to finally get a chance to sit down.

“Sara! These table settings are all wrong! The water glass goes to the left of the wine glass!” Her mother’s voice cut through the conversations and the table quieted, all eyes turning to look at Sara.

“I’m sorry, Mother.” Sara muttered as she shrunk into her chair and glanced at the floor. Lacy anklets encircled her feet and black patent leather shoes gleamed up at her. Eyes widening, she looked up at her sisters to see if they had noticed anything. Their eyes averted, Kate was hurriedly switching the water glasses, hoping to avoid the spectacle of their mother’s temper, a common place occurrence at frequent family gatherings.

The family held hands as grace was giggled through by the grandchildren, each of which, as tradition held in the Saylor family, had a chance to profess their thanks. Silver clinked against china as dishes were passed, wine was poured and glasses were raised, the adults giving their thanks as well.

“Sara, I think the turkey is a bit dry, and the dressing needs more sage and maybe just a touch more pepper.” Matter of factly, Sara’s mother addressed her plate in general. “Did you buy the pies, or did you bake them yourself?”

“I, um, ran out of time and picked them up at the bakery.” Sara felt something funny under her seat. She reached down and found that she was sitting on what appeared to be a large, metropolitan sized telephone book. Kate, sitting next to her, seemed to have grown into a gigantic woman.

“What is happening to me!” Sara thought wildly to herself, trying to scramble to her feet, which she found, no longer touched the floor. “Is this some kind of bad dream?”

“Sara! Stop your fidgeting. Sit still and eat your dinner!”

Sara looked down in horror at the frilly party dress she now wore. Reaching up, she found her hair in pigtails, bound with yellow ribbons. Choking back her dismay, she squeaked out, “Yes, Mother.”

Sara heard Emily’s voice, muffled and far off. “Mom, are you ok?”

“I’m sitting at the kid’s table.” Sara mumbled to herself.

“Emily! Must you show your stomach to all of us at the dinner table? I swear. The things kids wear today. I can’t believe your mother lets you out of the house with that on. And your shirt has such a low neckline! Its too low at the top and not low enough at the bottom! Sara, tell your daughter to go change her clothes this instant.” Claudia, Sara’s mother finished her speech with a toss of her head, looking expectantly at her always compliance daughter.

“Oh, I don’t know, Mother.” Sara stammered, looking down at her plate.

“Well, if you won’t tell her, I will! Emily, go change your clothes!” Claudia rose from her chair, pointing towards Emily’s room. “Now!”

Something rumbled outside. Sara looked up, startled. She didn’t see anything, but it sounded almost like a train engine. She heard it again. It seemed to be coming from her stomach! She felt it bubbling up. She belched, and covered her mouth in horror, looking around wildly. Everyone was focused on the drama between Claudia and Emily. The rumbling sound changed, flooding Sara’s body. Out of no where, Sara heard the impossible coming out of her mouth.

“Sit down, Mother. You, too, Emily. Mother, Emily is dressed just fine, she dresses just like everyone else in her age group. How would you like it if I told you that you had to dress differently than everyone else you knew? You wouldn’t like it, and neither would Emily. In the future, if you have concerns about Emily, you may address then directly to me, not in front of the entire family, so that I can tell you to go to hell in private.” She had risen to her feet, during her little speech, gone were the patent leather shoes, gone were the lacy socks, gone was the frilly party dress, gone was the telephone book. She sat back down and sighed. Whew. That was close.

Shocked silence enveloped the room. Sara looked over at her mother. Her mother was sitting now, her hand on her heart, her mouth hanging open in a most unbecoming way.

“Mother, really, you should close your mouth. Unless you are ready to take another bite of Kate’s wonderful Waldorf salad, of course. And Mother, what’s this I hear about you running the car into a store window! Why you could have killed someone!”

Claudia’s face was turning a ghastly shade of red. Sara felt a tiny touch of concern that her mother might really explode, and oh, what a mess that would make over this lovely Thanksgiving dinner she and her sisters had so painstakingly prepared.

Heading her mother off at the pass, Sara inquired sweetly, “Mother, would you like another glass of wine?”

“How dare you speak to me like that?” Unfortunately, Claudia had caught her breath.

“What, speak to you like you speak to everyone else? Simple. I just paid attention to you. I learned at the mouth of the master.” With that, Sara, bowed her head in her mother’s direction. “Seriously Mother. None of us want to put up with that crap anymore. You can either learn how to treat your children as the forty something people we are, or you can have Thanksgiving dinner by yourself. In my house, I’m queen bee, and I’m not scooting over just because you are here, visiting.”

“Well, I never!”

“No, Mother, I don’t imagine you have.”


The next year, Sara sat in silence, surveying the peaceful surroundings at the Thanksgiving table, at Jeanne’s house. The kids were all eating at the kitchen table, the adults congregated around the dining room table. Glasses were raised and toasts were made and Sara smiled at both of her children, both of which were seated with the adults. Such a good year it had been. Her new boyfriend, the mysterious neighbor that Sally's husband had brought to dinner the year before, sat next to her once again. A diamond ring glimmered on Sara’s left hand. Emily and Sam growing in stature and spirit, had been such a joy, getting good grades, getting along well in all their various activities. Sam was a freshman in college and seemed to be thriving, Emily was in her senior year, exploring various career paths. Raised voices were heard from the kitchen.

“Jason, put your napkin on your lap. Taylor, don’t chew with your mouth open. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Megan, if I hear you belch one more time, you will finish your dinner in your room.”

Sara high fived Jeanne. What a good idea it had been to put their mother exactly where she belonged...sitting at the kid’s table.

Betty Wants

Thanks to Gina for this suggestion!

Here's the deal...you google (your name) wants, and see what the internet gurus have chosen for you...This is what Betty Wants:

Betty Wants Betty Boop Figurines
Betty wants the ex that she let slip away (NOT!!!)
betty wants to do 42 things. write a story that leaves people breathless (oh yeah)
Betty Wants To Make Up With Carl (Who’s Carl?)
Kind-hearted Betty wants to stop and find out what's the matter
Betty wants to get a reverse mortgage, she'll need to meet with a HUD approved
counselor before you can get a reverse mortgage
Betty wants Archie but Archie wants Veronica but Veronica is never sure if she
wants Archie or not, just that she doesn't want Betty to have him. (Story of my life)
Betty wants a square, gray, stone coffee table (I already have one!)
Betty wants to be loved by you, only you (and you, and you, and you…lol)
Betty wants it (Well, duh. Don’t we all?)
Betty wants to get across, it is that abuse is not
the fault of the person on the receiving end. (Sigh. So true.)

Nurse Betty Retires

After Rexford moved out, I had an affair with my first love, the man who broke my young and tender twenty one year old heart. He was the only man I ever fantasized about all those years I was married, the only man I would have ever even considered breaking my vows with. He was the one who got away. We had kept in touch over the years, talking on the phone for ten minutes once or twice a year, conversing just enough to keep a tiny thread of connection. I had run into him one time while visiting my cousin, and he had looked into my eyes and told me that I had beautiful children.

I cried the whole drive home, because a part of me always believed that those children should have been his.

He was the first person I called when Rexford left, the only person I trusted to truly understand my heartbreak. I was also hoping for comfort from him, for reassurance from him that I was still a desirable woman, that life still had hope, that the disconsolation I felt would be short lived. He gave me all those things. In many ways, he saved my life.

He was married.

He still is.

My relationship with him is older than any other relationship I have, outside of my family. For whatever reason, we both needed a sliver of connection. Sometimes, I think that I should regret that affair. After all, heathen that I am, my morals are strong, and a deceitful relationship is wrong in any book. I don’t regret it, though. My weekends with him are still unrivaled in passion and playfulness and fun. I can’t begin to describe the devastation I felt after Jeff came out; my family crumbled into ruins around me and I was helpless to change the outcome. In the midst of my misery, I had an oasis.

While I dated him, I was in college, and while I was in college, I worked as a nursing assistant in a nursing home. I wore a cute white nurse’s uniform. After our affair started, he confessed to me once that he’d always had a nurse fantasy.

I didn’t need any more encouragement than that. The man expresses a fantasy, this type A girl is gonna make it come true. I got a dress uniform, one with heavy cotton and built in starch. I bought a bonafide nurse’s cap, a Nurse Betty pin, white silk stockings, a lacy garter belt, a white push up bra, white, high heeled pumps, a clipboard, a stethoscope, and I made a trip to the Medical Supply store to get all the other paraphernalia I could think of for an afternoon appointment with Nurse Betty.

We had email exchanges including a clinical gathering of important medical history. I had a form for him to fill out and return to me with very personal, but fun, information and instruction. I had him call to schedule an appointment. I had a friend call him the day before our rendezvous to confirm the appointment…and to remind him to drink plenty of fluids… When the time for the appointment arrived, he timidly knocked on the hotel room door. I checked my lipstick, adjusted the white bobby pins securing my cap and smoothed the white fabric of my dress.

This is not the sort of blog where I feel comfortable discussing the particulars of that encounter, but needless to say, within minutes, we were both laughing so hard, our stomachs hurt. I had done my homework. I had a clipboard with the battery of tests to be performed, testing reaction time, testing new and various pulse places, checking cardiac response to various stimuli and of course, the tongue flexibility test.

We had so much fun that afternoon.

That relationship has been over for four years. The tiny thread of connection has reverted back to the IM conversation every six months or so, and that is as it should be.

I have trouble letting go of people I have loved, whether they are friends, relatives, or lovers. In the past, I have expended a great deal of energy in keeping relationships alive, doing CPR on connections that would have expired long ago, if I hadn’t kept breathing air back into them. As I approach the end of 2005, and the end of my dating marathon, along with my resolutions to go to the gym, to stay away from sugar, to make better use of my time, I have made another resolution. I’m letting go of the people in my past who are not reciprocal in their need for me.

I will not be calling old lovers to wish them happy this and merry that. I will not be driving by their house to check out their flowers. I will not be watching for them online and popping in to say a cheery hello on a bi-monthly basis. My name will not appear on their caller id with an invitation to share a drink. No birthday cards will bear my return address. I’m letting go.

I’m letting go.

The one way street to the heartbreak hotel is now a two way boulevard.

This is huge for me. I wrote a post once about my fear of bridges. I talked about my fear of burning bridges, how it took four years for me to emotionally divorce my husband. I was driving over a bridge the other day…a big, tall one, one that would have white knuckled me for sure in the past. All I felt was freedom.

Nurse Betty’s is hanging up her stethoscope, taking off her push up bra.

My, but the breeze feels nice.

Concert Review

I attended a concert of Adrian Martin’s last night at The Alexander House in Oxford, and I must say, the man can strum a guitar. The adolescent girl in me automatically turned to thoughts of other talents he might have with those nimble fingers of his, but the matronly mother of three that I am simply enjoyed his complex chords. He opened with the hauntingly sensual ballad of Hoagy Carmichael, The Nearness of You, which Norah Jones recorded in 2003. I have always loved that song. For the first few weeks after I bought her CD, I played it over and over in those last few moments before I fell asleep. I would set the cd player two songs before, so that the last sound I heard before sleep seduced me, was the longing in Norah Jones’ voice. I heard that longing in Adrian’s voice last night.

He moved into some John Coltrane tracks with which I was unfamiliar. Because I am a Lucinda Williams’ fan, I immediately perked up when he announced his title. Lucinda refers to John Coltrane in her song “Righteously” so I expected something sexy. Adrian didn’t disappoint me. I don’t think Adrian does much disappointing when it comes to music.

Adrian teaches guitar, and when a couple of his students requested to showcase their talents as well, the maestro moved aside and gave his fledglings some wing room. With proud papa approval, student and teacher worked together as if they had rehearsed for months. As it turns out, the student had just written the song and Adrian simply played along.

Early in the evening, Laurie, Adrian’s life long friend took the stage with him, crooning Joni Mitchell and sultry, jazzy songs from the sixties. Adrian’s tenor blended perfectly with Laurie’s alto creating a harmonic flow reminiscent of long time lovers, although he assures me they are not. Some voices simply make love to music more romantically than their bodies ever could.

My only disappointment of the evening was not hearing any of Adrian’s original work. I know he has some. Perhaps he is simply saving that part of himself until he knows me better…

Only in My Dreams

Fall puffs out a sigh in repose, depositing the cast off clothing of the trees in repositories around my house, on top of my house, some creeping inside my house and under the brake pedal of my car. Next year’s styles will be more of the same, but she doesn’t even bother with white cotton panties this time of the year. For the next few months, the trees sleep in the nude.

I always sleep in the nude. If you happen to call my house after 11:00pm or before 7:00 am, you will most likely get my sleepy voice mumbling a sweet hello, and when you do, keep this in mind. I’m naked on the other end of the line. Kevin’s coaches are now forewarned, as is the dentist and the pharmacy.

I take no medication. None. Zero. Zip. Nada. No blood pressure medicine, no birth control pills, no asthma relief. My body is filled only with the chemicals they spray on apples and asparagus or put in potato chips to keep them fresh.

Tonight I will grill steaks and steam some asparagus for dinner. I promised Kevin steak this week and I bought four of them on Sunday. Tomorrow, the boys get pizza because guess what? I have a date.

A second date to go with the incredible first date I had on Saturday. Perhaps tomorrow I will have a matching set, just like my Victoria Secret bra and panties. Not that he will get to see them, but I will have them on, nonetheless. I will smile knowingly at him.

I’m not going to tell you anything about him. Don’t want to jinx it. The first time I talked to him on the telephone, we talked for six hours. It took us over two hours to say goodbye on Saturday, standing next to my car, kissing under the street lamp.

A drugged out woman approached us, her angry eyes dulled into self prescribed pain relief. She hollered her frustration with her daughter and grand children, shouting threats of violence. He stood quietly with his arms around my waist, my arms around his back, my keys dangling behind him from my left hand. I was on my way home. Really I was.

His eyes never left the woman’s face. His eyes spoke to her quietly, calmly, sympathetically, when she turned the conversation our way. He didn’t say a word.

“I like white folks,” she slurred. “My daughter kicked me out, now I got’s to get to Avondale. Can’t you take me to Avondale? Hey I like that nail polish you got there, girl.”

I looked up at him. His eyes never left her face. He smiled slightly, speaking very softly, “It seems like you have had a tough time this evening.”

“I’m drunk and I’m high.” She stated. We both nodded. “Look at you two, standin’ there hugging. I wanna hug, too. Can I get a hug?”

Without a word, we kept one arm around each other and we both opened up our other arm to her. We hugged her.

He spoke softly to her again. “This is our first date. I am hoping to get up the courage to ask her for a second date. I’m thinking that I probably need to do that with just her. We just came from The Comet. It’s still open. If you hurry, you can probably make last call. I bet there is someone there heading to Avondale that can give you a ride.”

Her eyes brightened. “Is it still open?! You are right! Hey, thanks!” she stumbled away. He turned his attention back to me.

“Now, about that second date…”

It started to rain and I offered him a ride to his car. I parked behind his van and we kissed for half an hour with my foot on the brake and the headlights reflecting off his bumper. I finally turned the ignition off and the car lurched forward, scaring us both.

An hour later, still fully clothed, mind you, even my buttons undisturbed, I headed home, dizzy from the kissing, from staring into beautiful, gentle eyes, parts of me palpitating in places I didn’t even know I had.

Anticipation is a powerful aphrodisiac.

Does he wait for me,
Silently sensual, knowing smile,
Strong shoulders ready to share
my burdens, my joy, my passion,
my dreams?

Is that his laughter I hear
Whistling through the thunderstorms
Raging outside my window?
Perhaps I hear laughter
Only in my dreams.

Did the bed just creak
Under the weight of his body
Climbing in to comfort me,
Or is the warmth of him
Only in my dreams.

Can my tiny, girlish hand be
Engulfed by his artist’s fingers
Gingerly plucking the strains
To a melody I remember, but now hear
Only in my dreams.

Change

Is it okay to post when you have nothing to say? No story to tell, no anecdote to relate? What are we doing, here in cyberworld, sitting at our computers, commiserating with people we will most likely never meet? I read other’s blogs, I nod my head in empathetic response, I read enviously of those who are happily coupled, cry right along with those who lose parents, in-laws, brothers in either expected or unexpected ways. I feel sorry for myself sometimes, and have days when 24 hours would not be sufficient to list all of my blessings. I feel the need to write, nonetheless. I feel the need to post something clever, something relevant, something inspirational.

But today? Nada. I have nothing.

I have been to the gym three days in a row, and not just for a quickie, either. Larry the elliptical and I have had deep, concentrated, sweat producing connection for at least 30 minutes each time. I can feel his jealousy, though, when I dismount him and head for the other machines. He doesn’t complain out loud, but I can feel his judgment. Last night, I sweated only for him, but today, I plan on paying attention to the lower body machines as well. I know he won’t be happy. He just needs to get over it.

No sugar pop or candy, either. I’ve been good. I can feel the weight coming back off and it feels good. I have a date tonight, and I’m in the right mindset. I have nothing to wear, of course. My skinny clothes are still too tight and I gave away all my fat clothes. My summer dresses which had a little growing room are sleeveless and its cold at night now. Don’t suggest that I go buy something. First of all, I’m feeling some belt tightening pressure because of the clients I lost and second of all, I will NOT buy a size bigger just to be comfortable. Huh uh. No way.

I guess I could go naked. Nah, first date. Don’t want to give the wrong impression. Could wear really tight pants, but my date is 17 years older than me and I don’t want to give him a heart attack. One has to consider those things when one dates a man that much older. He is really clever, on the phone and through emails. Age is really a state of mind, right?

No spider solitaire, either. When I’m good, I’m really good. Instead of playing spider solitaire, I’m reading a book in preparation for the book I will write as soon as I get these last four first dates out of the way. Its by Maureen Dowd. The title is….ok, guys, brace yourself. “Are Men Necessary?”



Now, you all know that I just love men. I love their company, hence, the 50 first date thing. I love talking to them, love massaging their….egos. (gotcha, didn’t I?) I love the way certain men smell, love their deep laughter, love to watch a man walk…some would say, swagger. I love the bristle of just a tiny bit of whisker stubble across my cheek when a man kisses me and the bristle of just a tiny bit of whisker across my….wait a second. I can’t talk about that, this isn’t that kind of blog.

I’ve been reading a few of “those” kinds of blogs lately. I’ve been thinking maybe I should start one of my own. The problem is that I have only very distant past memories from which to gleam writing material. Nothing happening in the present to write about.

Sigh.

One of my writing friends suggested I start reading the newspaper and writing a political blog. I love writing. I usually have strong opinions about things, just about anything, really, and I can write pithy posts with the best of them, in my humble opinion. I was asking for advice in trying to find an activity with which to slurp up some of the extra time I will have after my fifty dates are over. Writing emails and checking internet dating sites takes up a big chunk of time, not to mention the actual dates. I told her I wanted a new activity; one that would include being in the proximity of men my age, that would be helpful to the community, that could use some of my various talents, that would give me writing fodder. My friend suggested getting involved in the political scene here in Cincinnati.

I’m thinking maybe she’s on to something.

I did learn a lesson the hard way on blogging recently. Don’t use real names. Ever. I am going to go back through all my posts and change the names to protect the innocent. Hell, I’m even going to protect the guilty. Except me. My name is real, and its going to stay that way.

Which begs the real question.

Am I innocent or guilty?

(this is my 150th post!)

Crazy

That is what my life has been this past week. Crazy. Three days of continuing education last week, three days of performances over the weekend, throw in a few rehearsals, irrepressible children, a court appearance for my middle son related to his traffic accident in July and losing two big clients. The roller coaster ride has been interesting. No time to write, barely time to think.

That’s a lie.

I’ve been doing tons of thinking. During the seminars last week, waiting for the next presenter, during the performance, while I cleaned my fish pond on Sunday, I’ve been thinking. Something’s gotta give. I can’t just keep doing the same thing the same way.

Not that there’s much chance of that, anyway. My life is in such a constant state of flux.

Thank you, Kurt and Gina, for caring about me, for asking after me. I must be sending out distress vibes into the universe.

I lost two big clients, hoped to have made up for it with a big proposal on a brand new client, but they chose someone else. Fortunately, for us anyway, HUD changed some regulations about audits and we picked up some audits for existing clients to almost replace the ones we lost. We will definitely feel some belt tightening this year, and I am going to need to do more working and less writing.

My oldest son hates me. We have been having terrible rows, screaming matches that neither of us can win. I wonder sometimes if I am a “good” mother to him. He is a difficult child to parent and I know that I do the best I can…which doesn’t stop me from wishing I could do better.

I’ve gained some weight. ARGH!!! Why does that matter to me so much? I wish I could just not care, trust that my inner beauty is sufficient, but we are not a society enamored with inner beauty. Chemistry is part superficial, there is no doubt, and in the world of online dating, because the meeting of two people is under such forced conditions, the superficial reigns supreme.

I still have four first dates to go. My love life has stalled over the past few weeks, partly because I spent the past two weekends dating my sons and performing, and partly because the universe has decided to prolong the pleasure of fifty first dates. A part of me wants to get them over with, a part of me wants to savor this period of knowing I still have four to go. I am being more selective, not wanting to waste these last four on men who I don’t feel a connection to after I talk with them over the phone.

Talk about superficiality reigning supreme. It’s a dilemma.

I’m stopping at the end of the year, whether I hit fifty or not.
I am looking forward to a period of time when I am not romanced by any one, except myself. I have taken a few steps to prepare myself, to try to change the way I’m doing things because as I said, the same old ain’t doing it for me anymore. I’ve quit spider solitaire cold turkey. If I need to work more, I’m sure as hell not going to waste writing time on a stupid computer game. I’ve given up writing at home in the morning. Truth be told, I only wrote for about an hour anyway. The rest of the time, I read blogs and played Spider Solitaire. So now, I am getting ready for work right with my boys, heading to the office directly after dropping Kevin off. I can write at the office, too, but won’t be so distracted by everything else, and will be more available to my staff. I’m not even turning on the computer at home in the mornings.

I’ve also given up sugar pop and candy cold turkey. I am trying even harder to get to the gym everyday. I discovered that the time I used to spend at the gym, I was spending visiting my mother in the nursing home. I still have to visit my mother, that is non-negotiable. I’m all she’s got. But I needed to figure out a way to fit the gym in, as well. Fortunately, Kevin has basketball practice at my gym from 6:00-7:00 on Wednesdays and Fridays, so I’ll just stay there and work out while he does. Last night Kevin asked me to take him to the gym to just shoot hoops and I almost kissed him. It forced me to get there, too. It felt so good. I don’t know why its so hard to talk myself into going, it always feels good, I’ve never gone to the gym and then regretted going, but I’ve MANY times not gone, and regretted not going. What’s up with that?

So there you have it. I’m spending more time at work, more time at the gym, less time in front of the computer.

And that’s a good thing.

The Ghost of Halloween Future

What a beautiful Halloween night it was. I had every intention of leaving the office at 2:45 to pick up Kevin from school and get an early start on Halloween preparations. I had great plans, but had much to do before the festivities began at 6:00. I had not even purchased any pumpkins, much less carved them. Kevin’s costume would not take much time, but I had purple false eyelashes to attach to my face and truth be told, I’d never worn false eyelashes before…never needed them. My lashes are naturally long.

Turns out, I didn’t leave the office until 4:30, traffic snailed its way home. Apparently, everyone was leaving early for Halloween. I got home just after five.

“Mom, can I have some money to take Allison out for pizza? Her Mom is letting her out and it’s a really big deal to me.” My oldest son, Scott, jumps me as I walk in the door.

“Scott, I still owe you $7 for lunch, but if you spend it tonight, what will you do for lunch for the rest of the week?

“Mom! I wanna take Allison to LaRosa’s. I wanna pay for her. I want it to be a date. I need more than $7.” Scott whines.

“If you want to take girls out on dates, sounds like you need to get a job. That is totally above and beyond what I should be responsible for. Get a job. Earn some money. Learn how to provide for yourself.” I am lecturing as I get out the blinking pumpkin, the howling ghosts, the creepy spiders that will soon adorn my driveway.

“But Mom! This is really important!”

“Not my problem”, I wave him away, then I turn back to him. “Okay, Scott, I’ll make you a deal. You help me get ready for Halloween, which means setting up the garden fire pit, getting the lawn chair off the front porch, helping carve the pumpkin and setting out the decorations, we will all go out for pizza after Beggar’s Night is over. It won’t be a date, but I’ll pay for Allison, too.”

“Ok,” he sighs reluctantly. “Whaddya want me to do?”

“I need you to set up the garden firepit and get the fire started.”

“We have a firepit?” he brightens considerably.

“Yeah, Mickey got it for me for Christmas. It’s by the fish pond. Set it up in the driveway so I can sit outside and give away candy.”

With Scott in charge of the firepit, I busied myself with the pumpkin. I had just started scraping out seeds when Scott comes in the kitchen.

“Mom, do we have anything to start the fire with? Any charcoal lighter, or something like that?”

“We have lamp oil. That is what your dad always used to start fires in the fireplace. Try that.”

A few minutes later, Scott comes back in. “The lamp oil didn’t work. We need something else, something more combustible. You sure we don’t have any charcoal lighter?”

“You can check in the garage, but I don’t think so.”

“If I can’t find any, I’m going to use the gas for the mower.”

“No! Scott, don’t use gasoline. Its not safe, you’ll set the house on fire!”

“Relax, Mom, I know what I’m doing.”

I start carving the face of the Jack ‘O Lantern. The door flies open. “Mom, come quick!”

I race out the door. A few little spots are ignited on my driveway. I stomp them out with my shoe. “Scott! I told you not to use the gasoline. Now put that stuff away! You don’t want to mess around with fire! You know what happens to people who play with fire!”

“But Mom, I can’t get the wood in the firepit to stay lit. It keeps going out.”

“Use balled up newspaper. That should work.”

I go back to my pumpkin. Just as I fitted the lid back on the smiling faced, three toothed pumpkin, Scott throws open the door. “MOM! COME QUICK!”

I race for the door. The leaves closest to the door are ablaze and spreading fast. The top half of my driveway is on fire. Scott races to the garden hose on the other side of the house. Wordlessly, I flip the hose holder around and with a single word, “RUN!” I turn on the water supply and Scott heads to the driveway, the hose holder whirling out plastic tubing behind him.

In hindsight, so I now know from my neighbor, one is not supposed to fight a gasoline fire with water. One is supposed to use a towel, or a blanket, or a dry powder such as dirt or a fire extinguisher. We used what we had on hand at the time, and that was water. We put it out, quickly and decisively.

With no harm done except to Scott’s favorite plastic BP mug, now a charred glob in the dumpster, Scott resigns from firepit duty, and heads back into the house to lick the wounds to his ego. I finish setting up, pulling cobwebs over the tree, stretching to the mailbox, sure to trap an unsuspecting child thinking to cut through my front yard on his way to the neighbor’s house. I set up the pumpkins, turn on the gothic music, put the candy in my witch’s caldron and head inside to get dressed.

My costume is a black and purple pointed hat with a long purple wig, purple false eyelashes, black lipstick, black eyeliner, purple eye shadow, a black cape, a black dress, black patent leather high heeled boots and a spider necklace with cobweb earrings. I help Kevin with his Grim Reaper hooded robe, get his mask in place and find his scythe. I talk Scott into taking our picture before the first goblins ring our doorbell.

Kevin heads out in search of souls and Starburst. I set up my chair, get myself some Single Malt Scotch and water, to be sipped out of a skull chalice. Dark has descended. The night is warm and still. My neighbor helps me get the firepit lit and it blazes cheerfully beside me as I sit in silence. The first group of children approach. I am still as a statue. I don’t speak until one child says timidly, “trick or treat.” Slowly, I turn my head, arch my right eyebrow and say, “Hello my pretties.” in my witch’s cackle. They take a step back.

“No need to be afraid,” I continue in my cackle. “Witches love children.” I laugh an evil laugh.

They take another step back.

“Come now children, tell me why you are here.” And I stare at the largest of them.

“We are here for candy.” A tentative voice tremors.

“Well, before I dispense with sweet things, you must FIRST answer three questions! Are you prepared to answer the questions?!” I demand, holding the heaping bowl of candy bars in front of me enticingly.

They nod solemnly.

“Do you help your mother with the dishes?” I demand. Three of five nod eagerly. One little voice says, “sometimes.”

“Do you do your homework!?” I stare at each of them individually.

“Yes.” They chorus.

“Do you clean your rooms?” I finish with a flourish of my cape.

“Most of the time.”

“Well, then. Candy for each of you.” And I dropped a treat into each outstretched bag. I then laughed maniacally and they shuffled quickly out of the driveway.

I repeat this routine several times, to the delight of my ten year old who was amidst one group, unbeknownst to me. Once, an older boy approached my still, silent form and squeezed my boot to see if I was real. As he squeezed, my loud, maniacal witches cackle caught him by surprise and he dropped his bag in his haste to back away.

The embers in my firepit slowed to a soft glow as the hands on my watch approached 8:00, the end of Beggar’s Night in Wyoming. I sat there in the silence, watching the shadowy figures of my neighbor’s children weaving in and out of the thresholds down the street. I had a sudden revelation. I have lived in my house for 19 years. I’m one of the old timers on the block. After tonight, I would be the strange, old woman with the scary laugh.

In eight years, I will be the old woman with the cats, living alone, who scares children on Halloween.

I will be a witch.

Maybe I already am.

Passionate Kisses

You're an Passionate Kisser

For you, kissing is about all about following your urges If someone's hot, you'll go in for the kiss - end of story You can keep any relationship hot with your steamy kisses A total spark plug - your kisses are bound to get you in trouble

What Kind of Kisser Are You?