Memorial Musings

I woke up this morning at 4:00…and at 4:15…and at 5:00…and at 5:30….my left knee hurts really bad. I took advil at 4:30, but the pain just wouldn’t go away. No Larry today. I have physical therapy tomorrow and I’ll wait until I get the go ahead from my therapist before I do much more with my knee.

It was getting so much better…then I went dancing. I should have known better, but my dancing buddy is so handsome and strong and manly, and…

I had a dream the other night that I was sleeping with a client/friend. Just sleeping. Just laying in bed with my arms wrapped about his waist, my legs curled up into his, my cheek resting against his strong back. No sex, no kissing, just spooning. It felt so good.

I guess I needed the being touched on Sunday more than I needed to pamper my knee.

I’m still journaling the food and exercise, I’m just not publishing it on my blog anymore. It’s boring. I yawn when I write it, I can’t imagine what you do when you read it.

I read a book last week on the elliptical, called Nineteen Minutes by Jodi Picoult about a Columbine type school shooting, told from the prospective of various participants. The shooter, of course. The shooter’s mom and dad. The detective. The defense attorney. A mother and daughter who were once close to the shooter and his mother.

When I heard about Virginia Tech, bleeding heart liberal that I am, my first thought was for the shooter and I wondered at the torture he must have endured to inspire such rage as to want to kill so many people. My second, my third, my fourth, my hundredth thought was for the families of the people who died, but my first thought is always for the underdog, and I wondered how it would feel to be the mother of someone responsible for such an atrocity.

The book, Nineteen Minutes, did an excellent job of giving one insight into just that. At my birthday dinner with my three sons, I asked them about bullying at school, asked them if they witness it, asked them if they experience it. They were solemn for a moment, (something that rarely happens at our dinner table) and then they all three spoke at once. “Doesn’t happen at Wyoming, Mom.” “Teachers are really good about not tolerating bullying.” “It’s discussed in class and just doesn’t happen, Mom.”

I was reassured, to some degree, and relieved. My sons, except for some residual teasing about their father, do not seem to be subject to teasing like some kids are. But I wondered about the kids that I see that attract the kind of attention discussed in the book I read. The kids without a clue, without the social radar to understand their differences, the awkward, socially backward kids I remember from school, that I KNOW attend school with my kids. The kids who are glued to the computer instead of the ballfield because that is where they excel.

My boys attend one of the best public schools in the state (puff, puff) and I recognize that a byproduct of that achievement is that a kid can be a hero in the class room through academics just as easily as on the football field. I have noted that praised is heaped on and promoted for many academic and artistic achievements every bit as much as for athletic achievements. The stereotypic “dumb jock” does not have a position of honor at Wyoming High School.

At least, that’s what I’m telling myself today to reassure myself that what I read about in that book won’t happen to one of my boys. And to reassure myself that my kids would tell me if something bad was happening to them.

I planted flowers on Saturday; stirred up the dirt in the flower pots lining my walkway, added some lovely leaf compost, patted and prodded and smoothed out the soil around the roots of my plants, finishing with finely shredded leaf mulch. I was working on the pots next to the garage when I noticed my neighbor crossing the street, headed in my direction.

“Otto! Hey, how are you? I see you are sporting new growth on your chin!” I tease my neighbor of over 21 years.

“Hey, Betty.” He rubs his newly whisker covered chin as if surprised to find more than just skin. In a gentle and tender voice, he asks, “Say Betty, I was noticing your flag the other day. It’s all tattered and ragged. Is there a reason you keep it up like that?”

I look at my neighbor. I was 27 years old when I moved in next door to him and his wife. Before babies, before divorce, before a business of my own, when I was young and beautiful and had my whole life ahead of me. I squat on my planting stool, my hands deep in the dirt, a smudge of soil above my eyebrow. We don’t know each other terribly well, even after 21 years of listening to each other bicker at our children, of surveying the garbage that we leave next to the curb on Wednesday nights. I can count on one hand the number of times we have ever broken bread together. But still…we’ve been good neighbors, always polite, always a cheery hello in the mornings when we pick up the paper, never a reason to complain to either each other, or to other neighbors.

“Of course there is a reason, Otto.” I smile. “I hung that flag on September 11, 2001. I have left the flag up, and I have watched Mother Nature do to that flag what I consider George W. Bush has done to our country by involving us in that senseless war in the desert. The carnage done to that flag represents the carnage wreaked upon us as citizens of the United States.”

“But, Betty, George Bush is not the United States. The flag represents the United States, which includes all of us, not just George Bush.”

I sadly nod in agreement. “The flag represents the effect his presidency has had on us as a people, though. The tatters in the flag demonstrate the tatters in our individual liberties, stolen from us over the past seven years. The tatters in the flag represent the revulsion we now inspire in most of the rest of the world. The tatters in the flag represent the havoc wreaked on our economy by George Bush’s oil cronies. You see, George Bush has affected every single person in this country, maybe even in the world, and his affect is represented by what nature has done to this flag.”

I pause for breath.

“You know Betty, it’s against the law to burn the flag, or to mutilate the flag…”

“I haven’t touched that flag, Otto. The wind and the rain and the snow and the sleet have done the damage.”

Otto shuffled his feet in frustration. “Betty, I served over in Korea for four years. I look at your flag and it makes me angry.”

“When I look at that flag, it makes me sad.”

“I’m against this war, too, Betty, and I understand, with three sons the ages of your sons, and with the talks I read about Iran and Syria, I understand your concern, but Betty, I watched my buddies die defending that flag, and it hurts to see it in the shape yours has become. It makes me angry.”

“Oh, Otto, I don’t mean to make you angry. You know that.”

Otto sighed. “Yes, Betty, I know it’s not intentional. I tell you what, could you just take it down for Memorial Day? That would make me feel better.”

“Of course, Otto. Out of my love and respect for you as my neighbor of 21 years, I will take down the flag for the remainder of the weekend. In exchange, I’m hoping that when you see it back up after Tuesday, you will think of the spirit behind my protest, and let your anger go.”

He grinned at me. “You’ve got a deal, Betty.”

Later than evening, I solemnly took down my tattered flag and laid it to rest behind my porch. Last night, as I took a limping walk around the block with my BFF, I relayed my story. As we turned the corner, she said, “But Betty, you flag is still up.”

“What!?”

“Yeah, I can see it from here.”

Sure enough, one of my sons, assuming, I suppose, that a neighbor had taken the flag down in protest, had rehung my tattered flag. I quickly limped my way over to my porch and once again, lifted my reluctant flag off it’s pedestal and rested it behind the porch.

I guess Otto will get an extra day of flag reprieve.

And I will let my sons know what I’m doing.

Tales from the Scales

Just so you all know, I am MINUS one pound...I forgot to put in a minus sign.

And I'm having a lovely birthday. Thanks to all who have emailed, left comments, sent cards. Off to dinner with my three favorite men, then the movies. We are seeing "Sweet Land".

Blogging Food

I caught a three pound bass at my client's lake on Saturday...with a cane pole...can't wait to tell you all about it.

Tomorrow is my birthday, so do me a favor and wish me a happy birthday. I could use the cheering up.

I promise I will write more as soon as....as soon as I get all this work done at the office, and all my flowers planted.

Promise.

Sunday, May 20, 2007

Powerbar for breakfast with coffee, of course. Sausage patty on a hamburger bun, banana, corn on the cob for lunch. Skim Café Mocha for Sun Magazine Discussion Group meeting. 6 RyeKrisp crackers and hummus, plus three squares of cheese pizza for dinner.

Monday, May 21, 2007
¾ of a power bar for breakfast with coffee. Three pear slices leftover from Saturday. Spring mix salad with feta cheese, pine nuts and dried cranberries with raspberry dressing. Four handfuls of Golden crisp cereal while I made dinner, which was hamburger helper, corn on the cob, fresh broccoli, green apple and pear slices. We had to stretch the hamburger helper to six people because there were so many kids in my house tonight! Everyone got lots of veggies and fruit and just a dollop of cheesy hamburger casserole. 4 Ryekrisp crackers with cheese. Handful of popcorn. One Wood chuck. That’s apple cider beer, so that counts as a fruit, right?

Herein Lies the Truth

From my second Quaker meeting...

Herein lies the truth:
That which you must overcome, must first overcome you.
That which would surrender itself to you, you must first surrender
That which you believe of others, in part, you believe of yourself.

More later...

Can someone let me know if someone else said this?

Thursday, May 17, 2007

220 calories on larry, first physical therapy appt. for my knee and my shoulder. Coffee for breakfast. Took a cornbread casserole to the potluck for my last writing class. Had lunch there…potluck lunch, but let’s see if I can remember what I ate. 5 fresh cherries, three brussel sprouts, a serving of my own cornbread casserole, three spears of asparagus with hummus, a tablespoon of cheese spread on a cracker, some sweet noodle casserole with apricot preserves, a small bowl of a lovely, lovely chicken soup. I stayed away from the zucchini bread, the cookies, the bar cake, the pastries. For dinner, I had chicken casserole, broccoli and mashed potatoes. I was hungry for…something….while I folded laundry watching Grey’s Anatomy, and I considered the power bars I’d bought, and the Dove’s dark chocolate drops hiding in my car, but I….resisted.

Friday, May 18, 2007

A whopping 530 calories on larry…to make up for not enough time yesterday…that and the novel I’m reading was at a really good part and I lost track of the time. Also did five weight machines, adding the two that my physical therapist recommended for my knee. Coffee and (drumroll, please) Cheerios with a little milk for breakfast. That’s right. I ate breakfast. Tuna sandwich and small apple for lunch. Snacked on 12 peanut butter pretzel squares with my afternoon tea. Went across the street to have a drink with a client-two cosmopolitans…and he invited me to the Waterfront to celebrate the sale of their properties, along with the realtor (he was buying, of course) and a couple other staff. I had a glass of chardonnay, two shrimp, three oysters, half a crab claw, four bites of filet mignon, five bites of baked potato (made for nice leftovers to take home for tomorrow), three bites of macaroni and cheese, six spears of asparagus, my entire salad, and two bites of crème brulee. I was exactly the right about of full, enjoyed and savored every bite, and didn’t feel like I was anywhere close to the “d” word.

Saturday, May 19, 2007

Coffee and half a power bar for breakfast, power bar for lunch. An entire pear. One bite of Kevin’s marshmallow treat. Small amount of iron skillet fried potatoes and onions, four bites of macaroni and cheese, ¾ of a hamburger patty, one can of root beer, one bottle of beer, four bites of leftover fillet mignon, six bites of leftover baked potato, Kevin’s banana split leftovers and nine Ryekrisp crackers with cheese.

Lonely

Lonely. Feeling the lonely, the lethargy except when it comes to Larry the Eliptical, then I feel alive. I wonder at this loneliness, though, living as I do with a houseful of boys who love me. I came home from movie group last night to find my two youngest sons doing their homework on the floor of my closet. Greg was on the computer, which made sense, but Kevin was doing a poster project on the floor. Perhaps he just wanted to be close to his brother.

But lonely, I am. I eyed the calendar warily yesterday. It’s been almost two months. How can not having something be so painful?

Peanut butter and mango jelly on a hamburger bun, two small apples, chili, yogurt with granola, mandarin oranges, popcorn, orange, cosmopolitan after movie group and a handful of potato chip crumbs from the bottom of the bag as I watched the last half hour of Boston Legal. Thank the lord the potato chips are all gone now. 412 calories on Larry the Eliptical and only one weight machine.

Week One...weak one?

423 calories on Larry, three weight machines, Coffee, Tuna salad on a hamburger bun, a handful of potato chips, three two inch squares of pizza, an orange. I know, I know, not enough food. I’ll try to eat more today.

Lost one pound. I should be happy. My clothes are feeling the effects, though. That’s good.

States I've Lived

create your own visited states map
or check out these Google Hacks.

States I've Visited

create your own visited states map
or check out these Google Hacks.

A Woman’s Needs

I gardened this weekend. I dug in the dirt. I mixed in rotted leaf mulch with the dusty soil, nutrients my flowers will love. I sweated and I toiled, wiping my face with my t-shirt, careful not to expose the bare breasts beneath. I find it sacrilegious to wear a bra while gardening.

I watched the sparrows nesting in the old and unused furnace exhaust pipe outside my garage, tittering if I got too close, but mostly ignoring me as they went back and forth, bringing tidbits of worms to their cheeping offspring. I hurt no earthworms as the ground was so dry, they had descended down, down, to cooler, moister soil below the reach of my spade.

My pond is finally losing it’s murky cast, but the water level is falling because we’ve had no rain. I want to wait until I get the annuals in so as not to disturb the carefully cultivated soil.

I read a book all day Saturday, had dinner with Robert and his new love, Chris, and his old love, Kathy. Robert was in seventh heaven, surrounded by three women who adore him. He calls us his “Angels”. Every middle aged man’s fantasy. Which relates to my burning question, and I will get to it eventually.

Yesterday was Mother’s Day. I went with Chris and Robert to hear Kathy preach at her church. Kathy is a Presbyterian Minister, and I’ve wanted to see her in action for ages, so on Mother’s Day, we finally went. She was AWESOME!!! I couldn’t believe that the woman, acting out a simple Bible verse, adding her wisdom, her spin, her interpretation in such an inspired display of creativity was the same Kathy I’d learned to love over the past eight months.

I spent the rest of the day in the garden, but something funny happened during the day. I got two phone calls from two of Greg’s friends, wishing me a Happy Mother’s Day. It almost made me cry. One of them was a girl that has spent a lot of time at our house. She went through a troubled spell, and needed someone to talk to once in awhile. Heck, I don’t have any daughters, so I was more than happy to lend an ear to girl troubles. Her troubles had an air of familiarity about them, but all I ever did for her was listen intently and tell her I loved her.

The other one that called has been Greg’s best friend since kindergarten. His mother died when they were in second grade, and I’ve…well, I’ve had a soft spot in my heart for him ever since. He and Greg have managed to spend almost every weekend at either my house or his house for the past nine years. He told me that when I introduce my sons to my dates, and I call him a friend of my son’s, it hurts his feelings. He says he considers me another mom.

Aw, shucks. Is that not the greatest compliment a mom can get? I mean, I’ve yelled at that kid, gotten mad as a hornet. I’ve hugged that kid, picked up his dirty socks off the floor, cooked for him, cried for him, loved him… Sometimes a parent wonders if their kids get it, if they have any acknowledgement of the depths of your love and trust…and sometimes, kids give you the answer and it turns out you were the one not getting it.

Like my own kids. Kevin handed me his gift, told me that his dad made him sweep the entire side walk and driveway by his Dad’s building so that he could buy me a gift…an adjustable ring with a very large green stone, surrounded by iridescent glass. He knows I like green….and Scott bought me a very large box of ….chocolates….because he knows I like chocolate. Greg wrote me a song…which he sang for me while he played his guitar, the lyrics telling the story of how I used to sing to him, and his love of music is my legacy to him. The chorus said something about this being Mother’s Day and I got this song because he has only worked for a week and hasn’t had a payday yet.

He said it was a country song.

I am so very blessed.

Which leads me to my next topic…the shortage of porn designed for women. The shortage of hot sex videos where the people actually know each other first, love each other, tell each other how beautiful and loved they are instead of ….oh criminy, I can’t talk about that stuff in the same post as waxing poetically about my children!

I’ll talk about that tomorrow.

Because this post is about what a woman needs.

And I have all that I need.

Food and exercise log-May 12 & 13.

Saturday-Maple Eggo cereal, 1% milk and coffee for breakfast, leftover tiny piece of chicken, corn, peas and a leftover hamburger for lunch, soup and bread for dinner. Two bottles of Woodchuck’s Apple Cider Beer with dinner. No popcorn at the movies. No midday snacks. No exercise. I don’t go to the gym on weekends, but I usually do yard work. Today, I read a book.

Sunday-Coffee for breakfast, apple juice (no cookie!) before church, salsa and a few chips, one taco, one cheese enchilada (didn’t like, ate less than half) and one chicken enchilada with refried beans for lunch, oh, and two bites of fried ice cream, on the house for the mothers. No snacks midday…worked in the garden digging for five hours. Had a cup of decaf with my mom and some of her Mother’s Day smoked almonds when we visited. Took the boys to Chipoltle, had half of a burrito with pork. No alcohol. No sweets. Yippee!

Burning Hot Images

Never ask to see the Kama Sutra file on your handsome male friend’s palmtop when you are trying to get through sex months of celibacy. I mean, six months of celibacy. (The computer typed sex and I started to backspace to correct, realized the freudian slip for what it was and left it.)

Again, never view full color drawings of people making love, complete with an endless variety of positions and full descriptions of the advantages, pressure points, and resulting ecstasy when you are…well, you know.

I tried to be cool about. I tried to focus on the fact that I was unshowered, without a spec of make-up on, dressed to go to the gym, instead of feeling my nipples harden of their own accord. I tried to forget the images when he hugged me goodbye, but somehow, his arms felt…longer…and the ropey muscles of his biceps burned through the spandex of my workout shirt. I could swear that I felt every curve of his pecs through his polo shirt in the 10 seconds of that hug. He let go, I was still hugging. Imagine that.

We lunched at LuLu’s, a noodle restaurant near Tri County. I had wide noodles with chicken, carrots and broccoli. He had itty bitty skinny noodles with curry and hot sauce. He solemnly looked across the table at me and told me that he didn’t like the wide noodles, he preferred the skinny ones. I stifled a sarcastic retort, giving him the benefit of the doubt. He is my friend, not my lover. It doesn’t matter to me what size noodles he likes. I’ve always preferred the thicker kind….

Instead I smiled innocently and commented that I liked them both, wide and skinny. I can find something to like in almost any noodle. He furrowed his brow and noted that the wider noodles seemed too wet, almost slimy. He noted that he really didn’t like limp noodles. I wryly agreed. His skinny noodles were dry, almost no moisture at all. My mind went…well….where it usually goes, but I was good, I kept my mouth shut, my eyes open wide and innocent. If he knew me better, he would have read my mind. Robert would have been rolling on the floor at this point.

I acknowledged that wide noodles do seem to be a bit slippier, but when cooked correctly, have a crunchy edge to them that seems more satisfactory. The skinny noodles had no texture, no diversity, they were all the same.

I remembered a conversation I’d had with him on the bus to the peace march when he’d offered me a bite of his cucumber which he held in his hand, thick and long and green. My eyes widened with surprise and I demurely declined, but not without allowing the snicker of indecent thought to briefly cross my face. “You have a dirty mind,” he said laughing. I acknowledged his observation with pride.

I did NOT allow that snicker anywhere close to my eyes this time. He was a friend. Not a lover.

And that was all before the Kama Sutra pictures.

Sigh.

I got my long awaited massage to assuage the lust to be touched.

So, as I said, Chinese noodle dish as described above for lunch. Coffee only for breakfast. Hamburger with lettuce, no bun, two small apples for dinner. Handful of potato chips for a snack. A whopping 480 calories on Larry the Eliptical, along with four weight machines.

Two glasses of merlot with a girlfriend after my massage.

Nice.

Aging Well

I went to the Deloitte & Touche alumni party last night. I had to force myself to go. I sat in the car finishing my Sun Magazine in an attempt to kill time so that I could fulfill my obligation and stay as little time as possible. I was apprehensive about going because…because…well…I was just a cute little thing when I worked at Deloitte & Touche. Smart, yes, a firecracker auditor, most definitely, but a sweet, pretty girl first and foremost. I was the only female manager before the merger of Deloitte Haskins & Sells, and Touche Ross, and I felt like I had an image to uphold.

Truth be told, I am about thirty pounds heavier than when I worked there, and I was reluctant to subject myself to the eyes widened in surprise. To my abject relief, there were only two people there that I remembered, and they were both people I liked, people that I knew saw Betty, not my dress size. I toured the remodeled offices (the main reason for the party) with these two old friends, and was just about ready to head for the door. As I smiled my good byes, the former partner in charge of the audit section, whose office was right next to mine in the old days, swaggered off the elevator. Seventeen years ago, he was a slight, smiling, plastic man and as it turns out, he hadn’t changed much.

His eyes widened as he took in my name tag, his gaze sweeping me up and down. I was wearing a black, sleeveless dress and sandals, no pantyhose to tuck in my tummy. I hate pantyhose.

“Betty Waite! You look…great!”

I looked at him skeptically. “Why Doug, you look exactly the same as the day I left.”

“What are you doing now? You left for a smaller firm, right? Are you still there?”

I smiled my beaming Betty smile and offered him my card. “Of course not Doug. I have my own firm now. We are all working mothers and we’ve redefined flexibility in the workplace.”

Doug grinned slyly at the three or four colleagues that have stopped to listen. “She’s good, isn’t she.”

He examined my card and looked back up at me. “You…you…even your hair is different!”

“You’re right about that,” I agreed dryly. “Got a few more gray hairs, that’s for sure. Teenagers will do that to you.”

“But…but…” he squinted his eyes at me, trying to get the words politically correct. “You actually look YOUNGER than when you worked here!” he finally sputters out.

I kept on smiling. I mean, what else could I do? “I promise you, Doug, I haven’t had any work done. Perhaps we are all just aging well.”

What I really wanted to say was, “Oh it’s the latest rage. Gain thirty pounds, and you can fill in the laugh lines on your face, too!”

I was too kind to say that.

Except here on my blog. And yes, I’ve changed the names to protect the…well, you know.

A part of me wonders if I read things into what he said out of my own insecurity. Perhaps he really did think I looked great. Perhaps he was visably shocked because I looked...younger. I thought back to what I remembered of him, how he had sent one of the rising young audit stars to a "resort" to lose fifty pounds before he would promote him. I though of his razor thin and face lifted wife, stunning in her sequined red dress at the Fall dinner dance. I thought of his emaculate life and concluded that my instincts were right on target.

Another good day. 412 calories on Larry, three weight machines, a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats for breakfast, with coffee, of course. Two strawberries, three crackers, some asparagus, a little cheese, some spicy almonds, and a salad with a little cheese and turkey for lunch, leftover Popeyes chicken (2 pieces, deskinned, of course) and red beans with coleslaw for dinner and a handful of Maple Syrup Leggo cereal for a snack before I went to bed.

Oh, and a glass of wine at the party.

Good Day

Short time at the gym yesterday. Had a meeting, was running late, did 263 calories on Larry the Eliptical, only did the abs weight machine…but at least it was something. Grabbed a handful on Honey Bunches of Oats on my way out the door, had coffee, of course. For lunch, ran through Wendy’s, was good and got a grilled chicken sandwich and a yogurt cup. Dinner was two pieces of Popeye’s chicken, a small serving of red beans and rice, and some cole slaw. Oops, had a handful of potato chips as I ran out the door to drive Kevin to his baseball game.

Was a good day, with the exception of feeling melancholy for my friend who is suffering from heartache. Been there, done that, wish I could make it better for him…and for her. I like his girlfriend, too.

No pangs of loneliness for myself, which is good. A good day.

Went to see Anna Quinlan at Joseph Beth, got her to sign two books for me, started reading her latest one while I waited in line. I see books in a new light now. I evaluate their effectiveness at alleviating discomfort on the elliptical machine, which is almost the only time I have to read books at this juncture of my life. That, and Friday or Saturday evenings when I have no plans, which is almost never. I like to have something to look forward to, so I try very hard to have weekend plans.

Off to class. I’m late…big surprise, huh?

Another Day, Another Donut

Not really. About once a week, I take my youngest son to the Wyoming Pastry Shop for a donut before I take him to school. I love donuts, but I’ve never even been tempted to sample in all the years that I’ve been doing this. Somehow, the sweet, fried flour has no appeal to me, pre morning coffee, pre exercise, pre shower. After I get to work, now that’s another story.

I’m trying to figure out how to do this online diet support group thingy…oops, I said diet. I didn’t mean to do that. The guys who read this will probably roll their eyes and slide the curser down the page. I want this part to be short, sweet, and innocuous. Here goes. 35 minutes with Larry (430 calories), three weight machines. Coffee in the morning. Swarma with labneh, one piece of pita and olives for lunch. A handful of M&Ms and a square of Ghirardelli in the afternoon. (I do chocolate once a week) and a hamburger (no bun), corn and a handful of potato chips for dinner. I did NOT buy popcorn at the movies, but Robert and Chris shared their tub with me and I munched a couple handfuls during the movie…nothing that I would feel guilty about.

I will post my prior day victories and losses each morning. Maybe I’ll also write about something else, too, just for the fun of it.

I have been reading two blogs written by an older couple, in their seventies, married for 52 years only to each other. I discovered the wife’s blog quite by accident and wrote about her earlier. Yesterday I read the husband’s blog. I cried my eyes out. They both write with such loving kindness about each other, even after all these years. He wrote about his wild life sanctuary in his back yard, and the joy and occasional pain that accompanies such a hobby. A kind man, with a gentle heart. I want one of those.

I read the words of these two people, who live about 20 miles away from me, as fate would have it. It is true, as Richard Bach writes in his book, “Illusions, the Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah” that we don’t live in one big world, we each live in our own separate worlds, and we each are the centers of our own universe.

While at Disneyland with my sons last month, I watched the hordes of people, wandering from attraction to vendor’s booth to attraction to restaurant, and I wondered at the unknowing I had of them. I wondered at the chance intersection of time and space that put them with me at that particular moment of time. I wondered about their lives and their loves and their dreams, knowing that I would never know, and the unknowing was unnerving. They are all centers of their own. They all sleep and love and sit on the toilet. Their thoughts wander in as many directions as the firecracker explosions at the end of the evening, and they have no thought of me, and my universe, just as I had no thought of them, prior to that particular moment in time.

How sad it made me. All these beautiful people, all these beautiful souls, and I don’t get to know them, nor do they get to know me.

Particular moments in time can turn out to be very important.

That’s my philosophy lesson for the day. I have to get going now. Larry the Eliptical is calling me and I have a lunch appointment.

I apologize again for all the diet stuff in my blog….but, it’s for a good cause so…get used to it.

May Day Weight Loss Challenge

Ok, ok. This is the other thing I'm going to do during my six months of celibacy. I hate to do it, I hate to succumb to the rather shallow expectations of acceptable beauty pounded at us by society. I consider myself quite lovely, just as I am. I recognize also that 90% of men in our society have trouble seeing past a bulging bottom to the inner beauty and spark that resides inside.

Sigh.

A lesbian friend told me she thought I should keep the weight and use it as a litmus test for a man worth having...if he was bright enough to see beyond my bottom, then he might actually be worthy of one as lovely as me. I considered her words...but impatience ran out, and I was beside myself with grief at the time, and the weight came off anyway.

See, I lose weight when I am intrinsically sad. I lost over 50 lbs after my divorce, and I've gained about thirty of it back after...you guessed it...I got happy again. I lost the weight in five years, gained it back in two.

Damn the luck.

Oh, to be able to be thin and happy at the same time.

Enough, enough.

Ok, my weakness is french fries, and television snacking. I don't snack much when I read, when I write or when I'm on the computer. So my plan is to keep food away from the television. Go visit Larry the Eliptical every day. Salads or soup for lunch, and something, anything for breakfast just to rev up my metabolism.

But just so you know, I am NOT on a diet. I don't do diets. Ever again.

Nope, this is just a lifestyle adjustment.

Seriously.

Thirty six lbs would be just fine. And guess what. The program ends on September 18th, just three days before the end of my self imposed celibacy.

I wonder if I should start taking applications....

Passing Time

Things I do to get through six months of celibacy:

Buy new underwear. I spent $300 at Victoria’s Secret in about half an hour buying all new matching bras and panties. If I’m not going to get to feel good any other way, at least I will look good underneath.

Buy new sandals. The prettiest parts of me are my feet, and I love the freedom of sunshine on my toes.

Buy new clothes. What’s with all this buying shit? I almost never buy clothes, or shoes, or underwear. I guess I’m just being nice to myself.

Use my massage gift certificate. I asked for a guy masseuse, but all they had were girls. Sigh.

Write more. Pour more onto the page…and I got a secret admirer out of it, too.

Consciously turn the page of the calendar. My best girlfriend gave me a calendar with buff rappers adorning each page. Every time I turn the page, I think about the boy’s mother. Ok, I also notice the abs and the other…um…bulges, but then I remember that these boys approximate the same ages as my oldest son and his friends…that’s when I remind myself to think about their mothers.

Spend time with friends. Must I have so many good looking male friends? Sheesh.

Garden. Gardening is good. Makes me sweat. Gives me a lovely sense of accomplishment. I notice lots out in the garden. I notice the harmony of the bird music, and I acknowledge the presence of the bumblebees, and then I think about the birds and I think about the bees, and pretty soon I’m thinking about the birds and the bees….aw, hell.

Going to the gym every day. Every day. Sweat a little. Work off this flabby belly. Pound away at Larry the Eliptical. I hope he enjoys it. I read, I glance at the television. I look at the guy sweating next to me…arms rippling, gluts straining under thin strips of cotton….aw, hell.

Sigh.

It’s a hard life, being celibate.

Wait a minute…that didn’t come out right.

Down Day Afternoon

I am feeling down today. And yesterday. And I don’t know why. Hormones, maybe, but it’s a week late for that. I meant to dig in the dirt yesterday, but instead sat on the couch all evening watching mindless television until the Sopranos came on. I visibly startled, barking a sharp “oh!” when Chris shot his friend. The dog nuzzled closer to me in sympathy.

I am sparring with my sons over responsibility for mowing the grass. I want to not be involved. I want them to simply do it. Get it done. It is a constant power struggle in my house. It is the one chore…the ONE chore I refuse to do myself. It is tempting to hire it out, but it is also the one chore I refuse to pay an outsider to do. I have three teenage boys. It’s the least they can do.

I need to be hugged. Physically need it. I’ve scheduled a massage, which is the next best thing, but it’s not the same as making believe someone cares about you within the safety circle of their arms.

I met a man for coffee yesterday afternoon. He was appealing intellectually and spiritually, but I felt no physical electric arc. I reminded myself, as I sat there smiling over my skim milk mocha, that I wasn’t after sex, I was after companionship. He would be an interesting companion, but who was I really kidding?

I sat through my first Quaker meeting, arriving late, as usual, stumbling through the silence to find my seat, finally settling into a comfortable place, my head resting on the wooden door frame, gazing through a heart shaped canopy of leaves to watch the trees dancing in the distance. At one point, I felt tears leak from my eyes. It felt right to be there, to allow the spirit to move me, just as it moves the trees. I wondered what it would be like to be a tree instead of Betty.

The silence of the Quaker meeting was different that the silence by my fish pond. It was meditation in community, rather than alone. Alone with our thoughts, granted that we are, but the physicality of others was never lost in my reverie of thoughts. I could feel their compassion.

I hate these days of melancholy, of ennui and effort, just to make a meal. I really wanted to dig in the dirt yesterday, but it was just too much. Too much effort.

I have four and a half more months, maybe more, to get through. The thought of baring my soul, much less my body, is repulsive to me at the moment, but the longing remains, as counter intuitive as that sounds. I want familiar. I want another boring body next to mine. I don’t want to go through the discovery stage. I want already known. Already accepted. Already loved.

I’m asking for the impossible.

But then, I’ve been asking for the impossible all along.

Six Months of Celibacy

I am well into my second month of celibacy, and I have to say, I am beginning to get comfortable. I still have to uncramp a muscle now and then, and at times, the claustrophobia of learning to live with only me in my mind disquiets me. For the most part, at night especially, I am learning to truly enjoy the aloneness.

This morning, I randomly read blogs, clicking the next blog button at least a dozen times, eyes lighting for only a second on Arabic script, then French prose, and Spanish subtitles. I happened upon “Old Lady Lincoln”. I started reading a poem “What Made Me Me”. The blog is written by a woman who has been married to the same man for 52 years. She posted a picture of herself and her husband back in 1957 and another recent one. I startled as a tear slid down my face.

What the fuck?!

She had jokes on her blog, mostly. One was about a 92 year old man, on his birthday, talking to his body parts. I’m paraphrasing here….

He looked at his toes and said, “Toes, you have kept me firmly rooted on the right path, have led me to far off destinations unknown, have traveled fleetly to help me escape harm. You are 92 years old today, and I thank you for your service.

Then he looked at his knees and continued, “Knees, you have held me up when I was weak, encouraged me to venture into uneven fields. You have wobbled to show me great desire, and kept me from stumbling on my path. You are 92 years old today, and I thank you for your service.”

His eyes lighted on his crotch and he sighed, “Ah Willy. If you were still alive, you’d be 92 years old today.”

Sometimes, that’s how I feel about my Willy….or perhaps the female equivalent of a Willy is a Wanda? Ok, Ok, I know in my heart, and in my head, that I will one day have sex again. I realize that I am not metaphorically stitching my vagina closed, but sometimes, it feels like it.

My birthday approaches and with it comes the usual baggage of age and alone. I don’t remember feeling this way when I was married, even that last year, a month after Rexford came out. I had celebrated my birthday by calling my first love, the one that had gotten away twenty years before.

It has been a long time since I have celebrated my birthday as part of a couple. Last year, Last First Date Guy came by….at 10:30 at night, bearing a lilac bush, and the year before that, I had a first date on my birthday, which turned out to be a lovely event. The year before that I waited all day for Mickey to call, but it was a Saturday and he was busy with someone else.

This year, not a man on my mind. Not one. I would say not a single one, but no married or otherwise attached men on my mind, either.

I have learned many lessons over the past few years, learning how to be single again, or maybe, learning to be single for the first time. I’m reading Richard Bach, and in the Illusionist, he says that problems befall us because we have asked to learn a lesson. My sister, a devout Mormon, says to be careful what you ask from God. I told her that I only ask God for patience and for strength. She said, “Then God will send you situations requiring patience and strength.”

I thought about that. Of course I have asked God for love. Haven’t I? I know I have asked God for joy.

Now that I know my own strength, my requests from now on will be of the joy and love variety. Send me situations to show off my joy. Send me people to love.

Pretty please.

But I’d appreciate it if you waited a month or two.

I still have some lessons to learn.