Thursday, January 31, 2008

Slave to love aka the bow-chicka-bow-bow song

I felt this would be fitting for the start of the Valentine's Day frenzy. Even without the lyrics, it's easy on the ears. And if you're fortunate to be with someone who rocks your world; well, put on this tune and rock THEIR world.
Like many Bryan Ferry/Roxy Music songs, I am drawn in by the melody. Sadly, I'm usually incapable of understanding a lick of lyric. This is particularly one song that I have never managed to sing except for "slave to love...slave to love." Seriously, is there any need for more? If you are in the 'bow-chicka-bow-bow' frame of mind, I doubt you'll care about the lyrics. However, just in case you're a curious cat, here are the lyrics. Sing along. You know you want to try.

Tell her I'll be waiting
In the usual place
With the tired and weary
There's no escape
To need a woman
You've got to know
How the strong get weak
And the rich get poor

Slave to love (repeat)

You're running with me
Don't touch the ground
We're the restless hearted
Not the chained and bound
The sky is burning
A sea of flame
Though your world is changing
I will be the same

Slave to love (repeat)
And I can't escape
I'm a slave to love

Can you help me? (repeat)

The storm is breaking
Or so it seems
We're too young to reason
Too grown up to dream
And the spring is turning
Your face to mine
I can hear your laughter
I can see your smile

Slave to love (repeat)
No I can't escape
I'm a slave to love

Giving Valentine's Day the finger

In my 42 years I have experienced very few palatable or romantic Valentine's Day. Looking at the calendar and seeing its approach has always given me a slight case of hives. I nauseatingly gaze upon the beautifully wrapped, scarlet, heartshaped boxes at Fannie May. My eyes fixate with cynicism at Hallmark's windows adorned with cherubs and stuffed animals. My acid reflux nags at my gut to see Victoria's Secrets showing off the boudoir delights. Miss Vickie seduces us with the illusion that she has what we need for a perfect romantic romp in the satin sheets. Quite frankly, if I don't already possess that which would make it a perfect boudoir bonanza, then all the lace and underwires in the world won't be of much service. As my former husband always told me (when he couldn't bring himself to spend the money on lingerie), "it's all going to end up in a heap on the floor anyway. What's the point?"

I'm attempting to keep a positive attitude about the most romantic day of the year. My brother was married on St. Valentine's Day. In that, it is quite romantic. Not so much for me, but the idea that he and his wife exchanged vows on that day does, at the very least, show that romance and love can be enduring.

I've had more dates than I can dare count. None of those have been recent, but in my post-divorce life, I never seemed to be without a male companion. I learned a lot about myself during that dating extravaganza. I had the opportunity to meet and talk with men between ages 22 and 46. I really pushed the envelope when I dated someone 12 years my junior. I found it hard to resist his persistent wooing. He offered up the sense of worship I was dreadfully needing at the time. That relationship was short lived because it ran its course. I had no idea what kind of future I could offer. The last time I spoke with him was a year or so ago. He insisted that I broke his heart. I truly believed I was a flight of fancy. You know, part of his Mrs. Robinson fantasy. He's recovered. Honestly, I just think he was trying to make an old gal feel more like a purring cougar.

I slightly derailed with that walk down memory lane. I'd apologize, but it brought a smile to my face and that's never a bad thing.

There's no doubt in my mind that I have relationship issues. That's a pretty broad scope, but I hyper-analyze everything in my life. Color me spastic! It is, what it is. With that in mind, I recall such a self-shrink session that I wrote about a few months ago. If I might indulge, I would like to share it.

When we're school children, we develop likes for boys or girls. When it's unrequited these likes are referred to as crushes. Or, when the other person is unaware of your affections it's a crush or secret crush. Unfortunately as we age the premise doesn't change.
When I was married I'd get crushes on male acquaintances or co-workers. Naturally, the lines were never crossed and I didn't express my inner emotions toward this person. Afterall, what would the point be? It would create a seriously disturbing situation. What would be worse is the fact that it would be reciprocated and that would open up a giant can of worms, of which, no one was bargaining.
I'm single and I am free to pursue whomever might strike my fancy. Naturally, I do realize that chasing Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson or John Cusack is totally out of the question. Those crushes are harmless and painlessly unrequited. I can easily deal with that. My query is this: What do I do when I get a crush on someone and it's expressed as being mutual? I know, you're saying, "YOU GO FOR IT MARISSA!" Ah, but here is the issue: He doesn't live in the same area where I reside. Keep in mind this is simply at crush status. It is in the 'getting to know you' phase. Round and round and round we go.... where it'll stop nobody knows! I like the giddiness that this evokes. I suppose the rest shouldn't really matter.
In the past, I've had countless crushes. Eventually, they've evolved into friendships because the object of my affection found a woman nearby who aptly suited his needs. The emails and/or phone calls would subside and we'd ease into acquainted pen-pals. The sexual undertones of the correspondence would be replaced with tales of children, pets, jobs and mortgages.
I wonder if my penchant for long distant infatuations doesn't really say more about me than mere whimsy. I've often questioned my ability to commit. I'm not saying that I don't put my all into a relationship. I do. When I'm in it, I sincerely and wholeheartedly give myself to him/us/it. Yet, I've never had one remarkable, long-term relationship other than my marriage. I am a serial dater/serial crusher. I think it says a lot less about them (the men) and a lot about me. What's possibly worse is that I'm fine with this emotional defect. Despite my longing for that special someone, I have concluded that I am a committmentaholiphobic. I want monogomous love. I crave it. I fear it. Committment-aholi-phobic.
For many, they'd declare that I'm a pessimist. I prefer to say I'm incredibly realistic. I'm quite positive about that.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Rick Springfield - Souls

Love this song

Paging Dr. Noah Drake

So, I admit that I'm in love with Rick Springfield. I'm not a rabid, psycho fan, but he's dreamy to infinity. With this post, I also have to admit that I receive the Oprah Newsletter in my e-mail. I don't care what you think. You can laugh and jeer. I'm sharing what information was nestled in that newsletter. A link, my dear friends. A link to the possibility (slim and none) of meeting and greeting and possibly sniffing up on RICK SPRINGFIELD! There you have it. It's there. The link. Go on and click on it. Submit your fantasies about Dr. Noah. Tell Oprah-girlfriend how much it would mean for you to be in the presence of the hotness that is RICK SPRINGFIELD!!!
Mmmmm ... bask in his beauty, ladies. There he is. I might need a moment to gather my composure.
Let me just add that if you are selected to the appear on Oprah with the god-like image that is RS, you have to invite me. I'm not far from Chicago. I'll drive! I'll keep my panties on. I swear I won't embarrass you. I might hyperventilate, but I give a pinky swear that I'll behave ... until he is introduced. Then, ALL bets are off sisters.
You may or may not know how much I love the 80s. You'll soon figure it out, though. Here's a link for the Stuck in the 80s podcast on Rick Springfield. Go on and give it a listen. I dare you not to get addicted. Oh, and what the heck. I'll throw in a bonus podcast with a RS interview. It's a SIT80s roadtrip! I'm all about the links today. 80s guru Steve Spears blogs about everything 80s. It's not just about the podcast, my compadres.

Sunday, January 27, 2008

Old Fashioned Love Song

Just an old fashioned love song
Playing on the radio
And wrapped around the music
is the sound of someone promising they'll never go.

You'll swear you've heard it before
As it slowly rambles on and on.
No need in bringing em back
Cause they've never really gone

When I read the last phrase I ask if it's the songs or the lovers who've really never gone. Considering my own situation, I let the latter theory apply. Although, I think our friends of Three Dog Night are telling us love songs never having departed. The beauty of music is that we can interpret it in whatever fashion we choose. Not unlike an abstract piece of art; music lets us decide how it suits our emotional needs.

Blue Eyes called me last night. I wish that I could blame his Riss Radar, but this was my unintentional fault.

Along with my sister, I am joining the Relay for Life walk for the American Cancer Association. The event is not until June, but I wanted to alert friends and family of my affiliation. In a nutshell, I wanted them to know I'm begging for donations. I imported my Yahoo address list. I thought I'd carefully edited the list. Guess who remained on the list? If you're thinking Blue Eyes, you'd be correct.

Now, don't get me wrong. I know he'd donate generously, but I'm supposed to be fuming over our fall out of last summer. Agreed! I need to get over it. I HAVE, but for the sake of saving face, I'm a man-hating-man-bashing-woman-on-the-verge-of-no-return-from-Jadedtown.

Whenever he and I speak we spend a while catching each other up on our individual lives. He asks about Man-cub. I inquire about his daughters. Yada yada.

We always manage to walk hand in hand down memory lane. For a relationship that only lasted 3 months, we manage to talk ad nauseam about how grand most of it was. With each nuance, we realize how much we've grown separately, but never truly apart. Technically, one might suggest that our relationship never ceased to exist. Our romantic closeness had...or did it? When intimacy is surveyed, most people's minds race to the boudoir. I, on the other hand, prefer to choose this definition of Mirriam-Webster intimacy is:

1 a: intrinsic essential b: belonging to or characterizing one's deepest nature2: marked by very close association, contact, or familiarity 3 a: marked by a warm friendship developing through long association b: suggesting informal warmth or privacy 4: of a very personal or private nature

By that definition I am, without a doubt, intimately involved with Blue Eyes.

How this next subject became part of the dialogue, I do not know. Blue Eyes said something about the time I went blonde for him. I let out a hearty laugh and wondered if this was his way of letting me know he'd read my recent blog posts about him. With that belly laugh I asked him directly. He had no idea. So, I told him how I'd written about how we'd met, dated and broke up (but not fully). I had to explain that I often just write what comes to mind while I have inspiration. I didn't want him thinking that I was obsessing over him. The people in my life are my muses...good, bad and ugly.

As our telephone conversation progressed, the mention of my blog came up again. He asked if he could read it. I was hesitant. I feared what he might think of it. He insisted since the rest of the world had access then he ought to, also. "I was there, remember? I know what happened." Right. I had little to fear, but why was I feeling so queazy? With great deliberation, I sent him the link. And with the click of the enter key, my stomach sank, churned and gurgled with anticipation of displeasure. "I'll call you back when I'm done." And dial-tone...

I read through the entries about him. I searched for potentially harmful information. I quickly gave myself a mental slap. You were there, idiot! Nothing can be disputed.

The phone rang. It was he who is known as Blue Eyes. He liked it. He really liked it. He went so far as to read my entry about the costume follies. He pointed out some parts that really made him laugh. Then, he gave me validation by declaring how much he enjoyed my writing. I was able to make the great story teller laugh.

Bedtime was drawing near. There was a time when I'd do a wicked verbal tap dance in order to keep him on the phone. I never wanted to hang up for fear that it might be the last time. Now with our history, it's no longer questioned. We're that proverbial bad penny that keeps showing up. We're in it for the long haul whether we like it or not.

Just an old fashioned love song
Coming down in three part harmony.
Just an old fashioned love song
One I'm sure they wrote for you and me,

To weave our dreams upon and
Listen to each evening when the lights are low.
To underscore our love affair
With tenderness and feeling
That we've come to know.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

Details are always vulgar

This is a nifty game-ish thing I swiped from a friend of a friend's blog. Their blogs are really quite something to read if you're interested:
Calliope's Creating Motherhood and Lydia Valentine and the New Wave
Here's the fun part:
1. Click on this link. The title of the page is the name of your band.
2. Click on this link. The last four words of the final quotation on the page are the title of your album.
3. Click on this link. The third picture is your album cover.
4. Take the pic, add your band name and album title and tada! (this final step requires photo shop or other image editing software)
Let me know in the comments if you created one. If you don't have the software for such time passing leave your results in the comments. Tell me the name of your band, the album title & describe your cover art.
We'll have an imaginary blogapaloooooza.
Here's my creation:

I am so delighted with the results of my particular album cover. Love it! The album title: Details are always vulgar reminds me of a recent story; a f r i e n d's telling of the tale, shall we say.

My friend works with a rather obtuse man. His social skills and professional decorum are seriously lacking. He tends to blurt out that which is on his mind. He's not been schooled in the rules and regulations of sexual harassment in the work place. If he has, he's without fear of being reported and fired.

The other evening my friend was approached by this socially inept co-worker. While chuckling, he starts telling her about his recent drunken episode on the toilet. She's told that while sitting on the porcelain throne, he was smoking a cigarette. He needed to dispose of it and figured the best place would be in the commode. He wasn't finished with his doodies. In his attempt to toss the lit Marlboro between his legs he asserts that he burned his talliwacker, wang, johnson, ding-a-ling, etc... It didn't stop with that information. He insisted on adding to the tale each time they encountered one another. So, what's a person to do when this sort of information reverberates through their ears? They tell a friend, and that friend tells a friend and so on. What is most disturbing, is this human oddity seemed to enjoy this information being shared.

He added that he had a date this weekend with one of his girlfriends and feared her reaction to the burn mark. With that information, my friend's mind went to question was it really a ciggy burn? Was it really an accident or merely a home-remedy attempt to take care of a nagging male, wart, etc... Apparently this guy prides himself on being quite a Casanova (self-proclaimed and no evidence of such). Her estimation is that he wanted to run this theory past people to see if it holds water. Or, in his case, splashes down.

Lydia's Homework assignment

Friend Lydia has issued a homework assignment. I'm always up for a challenge or dare (within reason). So, here's how it is to be played out: Go to your iTunes and shuffle your playlist. With the first five songs write something about it--a memory, why you like the song, does it remind you of someone? Was it a freebie download and you're cheap so you take anything that's free? You get the idea. Now, here we go......
::shuffling the playlist:::

1. Afterglow - INXS (With J.D. Fortune): I watched the entire reality show Rock Star: INXS and picked J.D. out of the bunch early on. However, I fell in love with Jordis Unga's rendition of Man who Sold the World. Brilliant! I have that downloaded, too. It's not in the first 5 songs to play, though. I wonder whatever became of Ms. Unga. I thought Marty Casey was super, but not right for INXS. He's still with his band Lovehammers. I highly recommend Trees. On the show, he did a wicked cool cover of Britney's "Baby One more Time."

2. I Think I Love You - David Cassidy: Yes, THAT David Cassidy. Oh how I loved to watch The Partridge Family. I was a tad young to have a crush on David, but I still adored the program. Now, Danny Bonaduce is all grown up and really quite creepy. I will have you know that I know the therapist who was on Breaking Bonaduce. In fact, we had lunch with a mutual friend and that friend's momma around Thanksgiving. Yep, my brush with fame, darlings.

3. Beautiful Soul - Jesse McCartney: My son sings this song with the most endearing sweetness and sincerity. Hearing him croon away with the headset on simply melts my heart.

4. Freedom 90 - George Michael: The video to this song is absolutely unforgettable. George refused to appear in it for some reason. I believe it was some kind of contract dispute. So, he had several of the most gloriously beautiful women of the day lip synching. I thought it was truly a work of art. LOVE the song. He was at his prime with this one.

5. Lips Like Sugar - Echo and the Bunnymen: I truly adore this song. This time a memory is attached. I was dating this guy named Don. He was the first boyfriend I had after my divorce. In fact, he and I had our first date on the day my divorced papers arrived in the mail. He appreciated that I wasn't afraid to order real food. After two weeks he declared that he loved me. I got a little freaked. I responded in a shocked fashion and let him know that I couldn't return such a strong emotion at that time, but I appreciated his openness.
He and I shared such an affection for the 80s. This song came on while we were sitting in the car after having met for lunch one day. We were making out and he kissed/sang to me. It wasn't long after that we broke up. He felt I wasn't ready to date seriously. So, we parted ways.
I ran into him a couple years later at a diner. He gave me his number. I called and it took him days to return the call. He informed me he didn't know what possessed him to give me his number as he was engaged to be married that retrospect, he said I was fate's ultimate test to his fidelity. And he rejoiced that he passed. WHATEVER!! I know that never would have happened if Lips Like Sugar had played. hahaha I hope he's delightfully happy.

Love you forever

There is freshly fallen snow here. It's beautiful, but quite frankly I have grown disgusted with the cold. My persistence in complaining about it is futile. I realize that Mother Nature and I don't see eye to eye regarding the weather in the Midwest. If all I had to do was sit by the window and bask in the beauty of the crystals twinkling in the sunlight, I would be happy. However, I have duties as leader of this household--slacking off is not an option.

Man-cub languidly clomped down the stairs . With a slump in his gait, I awaited him with open arms, "let momma give the little man hugs." Standing, he fell into my embrace and declared, "little man who is taller than his momma, you mean." UGH! Too much reality before caffeine had been injected.

Today is my day off. On the days I don't have to primp and preen for work, I take the Man-cub to school. With temperatures being as low as they are (-2F), I didn't want to make him stand in the even more bitter cold wind waiting for the big yellow school bus to arrive.

We made our way out the front door. I followed behind my gentle giant of a child; looking down to see the size of his shoe prints in the glistening white stuff on the sidewalk. He's 13 years old, 7th grade. To me, he's just a child; yet, my foot is engulfed within the imprint of his size 14 shoe. His stride is wide, and I felt as if I was doing lunges Billy Blank/Tae Bo style to keep up. I didn't mention it to him as we made our way to the garage.

While driving, I looked down at the length of my fingers. Again, my own hand dwarfed by the size of my newly inducted to teen-hood Man-cub. I remained silent on the matter. I fought back a wayward tear.

Love You Forever is a must have for any parent. I originally saw this book over 15 years ago. I purchased two copies: One for my sister Maureen who has 2 sons, and one for sister Mary who had lost her only son...also my Godson.
When I had my son, I was given a copy. I would read it to Man-cub regularly. He loved it. I'd put my own melody to the words of the song the mommy sings to her little boy. She rejoices, "I'll love you forever. I'll like you for always. As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be." The author, Robert Munsch tells on his website how the song actually came before the book. His wife had had 2 still borns and that was the song he sang to the children he'd never know. His emotional refrain eventually became the book. On his site, you can download the author reading the story and singing the song. The melody I sang to my son is slightly different--probably due to the tightening of my throat of fighting the tears.

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Tag! I'm it!

Thanks to my friend Lydia, I have been tagged and instructed to list 6 non-important things, quirks, habits about myself. I'll do my best to fulfill my duties:

1. Despite my age of 42, I still possess one baby tooth in my mouth. I think it's fate's way of allowing me to hold on to a part of my childhood....permitting me to be child-like from time to time.

2. I've been celibate for what is going on 3 years. (close your'll let the flies in).

3. In 2006, I played a set of enchanted draperies in our local community theatre's production of Beauty and the Beast. With a 5 foot curtain rod attached to my shoulders, I had to maneuver down the theater aisle and on stage.

4. I can't sleep with anything on my feet.

5. I refer to PMS as "my bio-rhythms are a bit off" as not to appear politically incorrect at work.

6. If I could choose a career (what I do now is a job), I would be a writer or a back up singer.

Who shall I pick on? I'll tell you what, I'm often inclined to not play by the rules. So, if you're reading this, feel free to leave me a comment listing 6 things you want to share about yourself. Add a link to your blog/website.

The Rules:
1) Link to the person that tagged you.
2) Post the rules on your blog.
3) Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.
4) Tag at least three people at the end of your post and link to their blogs.
5) Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
6) Let the fun begin

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Dear Blue Eyes

I read a recent blog post on Sean Daly's Pop Life regarding a phone interview he had with Alanis Morissette. I was reminded of a song that so perfectly resonates with my own love life/lack thereof. It's from her cd titled, Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie. The song is Unsent. It tells of the letters written to former lovers. I've never sat down and composed letters to the men who've passed through the gateway of my heart and head. More often, I've had the rare opportunity to express myself directly. My words to their ears....even if they were deaf to the sound of my disappointment.

Blue Eyes and I spent Thanksgiving together that November of '01. I was ecstatic to make a feast for the man who'd captured my interests. He arrived the Wednesday evening prior to Thanksgiving. He carried on how it was the best turkey dinner he'd ever eaten. He departed the Friday after the holiday. It was the only time he would ever cross the threshold of my sweet, little house on the highway in Gainesville, GA.

We continued to talk every night. He'd call me around 9:45 pm and we'd talk until 10:30 pm. Our talks consisted of everything under the sun and then some. One particular evening he told me to get up from my bed and look out the window. I did as he requested. The moon was bright and full. With a flash of romance he said he was staring at the same moon. With that, we'd always be connected. From that moment on, LeAnn Rimes' Can't Fight the Moonlight would make me think of him.

Because we lived a 5 hr drive from one another, our nightly conversations held a greater importance. I felt safe that we were building a new foundation. A sturdy one made of trust, understanding and communication.

I enjoyed going to Savannah and didn't mind making the drive. I'd take an extra long weekend in early December and another very long one after Christmas. For Christmas, Blue Eyes had gone to New York where his parents resided. He called me a few times and pleaded with me find a way to spend Christmas Day with him. Although he was with his family, he wasn't with his 2 small daughters. I couldn't go. I had my son with me. Blue Eyes understood and we made plans for the New Year's Eve to ring in 2002.

I realize now that I have failed to mention that he was a recently divorced father of two. I had broken my own rule about dating someone who hadn't been divorced longer than a year. I knew what possibilities were ahead, but I ignored the blatant red flags waving in front of my smitten eyes. I was fine with it (or so I thought). I was just riding the crazy train until derailment. I prayed that the love train would pick me up at the station and I'd finally have the prince I'd dreamed of...

Over the course of our short courtship, Blue Eyes expressed his curiosity about seeing me as a blonde. I kept my hair close to the natural shade of dark brown. However, I was a silly vixen out to please my man. I did what I always swore I'd never do: I bleached out my long, curly, brown locks. He was pleased and delighted. He knew I'd make sacrifices on his behalf. I knew I was hanging on to dear life.

On December 27 I ducked out of work early to make tracks for Savannah. I looked to the night sky and saw the bright moon giving me direction to the man I adored. Our song came on the radio . It was a sign that all would be well. For a moment I felt reassured that we had a destiny; a future.

I pulled into his drive way. Before I could put the car in park, he came bolting from the front door. He was either anxious or worried... he was both. He expected me to arrive sooner. Without a second to spare, he gave me one of those now patented kisses that made my teeth sweat. He swept me off the to kitchen where the light was brighter. He wanted to gaze upon the major changes I'd made for his liking. He loved it and his actions showed me just how much.

Prior to New Year's Eve, we just spent quality time together. New Year's Eve was an absolute blast. We'd had dinner at a restaurant on the river. We both dressed up for the occasion, but later went home to put on casual clothes so we could meet friends on River Street and watch the fireworks. The weather had changed from mild to downright freezing. I hadn't prepared for it and I had to borrow a coat from him. There's something so comforting in wearing a man's coat. I felt even more secure wrapped up in his leather jacket. We cuddled together while the fireworks shot off across the canal. It was magical.

The kiss at midnight was a kiss to end all kisses. It seemed to last an eternity. I wanted to make time stand still because I sensed that an end was near. Those red flags I had been ignoring were beginning to slap me in the face. For that evening, I pushed them away and only saw what I needed to see. The weather had turned cold and rainy. The roads and bridges were treacherous and travel was not advised. That bought me a couple more days. We talked about future weekends together. The ice melted and roads were passable. I had to return to work. I needed to be with my son. I soaked his shirt with tears of sadness. I didn't want to leave. I knew if I left, it would be the end of Blue Eyes and the Smitten Kitten. Once I backed out of his driveway, I would never see him again. He didn't have to say it. I knew it. None of the shared hopes and plans of the future would come to fruition. He spoke too often of his ex-wife. He seemed too fixated on women who were petite and blonde (like his ex-wife). I was his rebound. I was the woman I swore I'd never be.

As I pulled away from his home he stood in the driveway. His look was forlorn. He knew it, too. I cried as I drove away from the limits of Savannah.

Despite the three hour conversation we had that night, everything seemed to be turning sour. I sensed something wasn't right, but rather than address it directly, I pushed for commitment. I inquired about moving to Savannah to make a new life. He became distant and unclear about what he wanted. This man who claimed to fear nothing and had such confidence was now faltering. My worst fears were happening and I was losing my grip.

On one fateful Tuesday, January '02, I received a ridiculous instant message, "Our time has come and the end is here." He was breaking up with me online. In a little square box he informed me he'd met someone else and wanted to pursue that. I demanded he be a man and call me since he was clearly lacking in the cajones to drive to do it face to face.

My phone rang within seconds. The call was manic. I was sobbing and he was trying to be blunt and to the point. He'd turned cold. He declared that I wasn't good enough for him. He blurted out that he'd never be able to fall in love and marry a woman who's ass was as big as mine. I told him that I'd never love a man who was as BIG of an ass as he. The call that he expected to only take minutes turned into a marathon 3 hour talk. He admitted the words so lacking in compassion were expressed in an attempt to make me hate him enough to never speak to him again. This was the first relationship I'd had other than my marriage. I couldn't accept anything hateful he threw at me. The man I'd grown so fond of had to still be in there. My biggest mistake was NOT hating him and insisting we never speak again. I immediately changed my hair back to a more natural state. I made sure to tell him I was no longer the blonde bombshell. I was Marissa and swore to never change anything about myself in order to please a man.
We never had a break in our communication. He never stopped calling me or instant messaging me. I begged him to leave me alone and let me heal. He'd call to talk about the issues he was having with the flavor of the month. I had thrown myself head first into the dating pool. I eventually met a man who'd rid me of the painful thoughts of Blue Eyes.

Many years have now passed and Blue Eyes still makes his presence known. In fact, last year our conversations had increased and involved discussions of rekindling a fondness and love we were foolish to ignore. I was foolish to believe he could ever be honest with himself; let alone be forthright with me. He fell off the face of the Earth when I was seconds from confirming a flight to Savannah from Chicago. He never responded to my emails, texts or calls...until August 2007
Truly, my heart has healed, but it has become wiser. Some might refer to that as jaded. I'm far from that. My reality no longer involves the constant pursuit of love from the hairy knuckled persuasion. I go about life and keep an open mind about the burlier sex.

Monday, January 21, 2008

Macon ... whoopie!!

My wild girl's weekend to Savannah turned out to be, ironically, less that I had intended; yet, far more than I had anticipated. On that warm, October '01 afternoon when I started off on I-85 south, I had no clue what the next 3 months would deliver.

I saw The Atlantic Ocean for the first time. I'd visited The Pacific, drove through The Rockies, trail blazed as a teen from Illinois to San Diego, but I had never been to The Atlantic side of these United States.

My trip to Savannah, GA wasn't about sight seeing or letting the salty sea air spritz my face. I was on a mission to meet a man. A man whom I'd been communicating with for some time. I did meet up with a man who'd sweep me off my feet-- where I'd land on my back in a drunken dither.

Blue Eyes and I quickly started communicating via instant messenger. I'm talking about the second I logged on when I got home that Sunday after I drove away assuming never to see him again...there was a message waiting from him. He wanted to make sure I made it home safely. I was truly giddy that he didn't just toss my email and messenger information. Perhaps that wild, supposed one night stand wasn't just that to him. Was I that memorable (as my memory was slightly askew due to taking a drive to margaritaville)? Could I do it again without the mix of tequila and hard thumping dance music? Would he want to repeat it or, more importantly, ask me to take a chance on something substantial?

He didn't waste any time in getting my phone number. We realized that alcohol had no bearing on our ability converse. I was a smitten kitten and he was the catnip I wanted to roll around in. By Wednesday evening we came to the realization that we needed to see each other again. Waiting wasn't an option. Macon, GA was a midpoint we could agree upon. I hauled hiney the second I could leave work. Six o'clock on Saturday evening couldn't come quickly enough. By the time I made tracks, once again, down I-85, it was 6:30 pm and my cell phone was ringing. Blue Eyes couldn't wait to see me again. The feeling was nervously mutual.

I couldn't seem to make my car or the traffic move faster than my heart rate. Had that been the case, my car would have been a streak like the Starship Enterprise hitting warp speed. I received another call informing me that he'd arrived and would be at our meeting place. It was the only place either of us could think of. Neither of us had been to Macon enough to know of another spot. It's not the typical spot to meet a date, but since our relationship hadn't started in the normal fashion, why should our meeting place? Hooters. He told me he'd be at the bar. I'd see him when I stepped through the door. He declared that he wanted to get the full view of me as I walked into the place; a clear view of all the patrons looking to see the hotty he was meeting. I'm not bragging on myself. That's simply what he told me.

I wore a mosaic patterned, sheer, form fitting shirt with a tank top underneath. The jeans I wore were low rise, loose fitting Levi's accompanied with a wide, black, leather belt. Simple black mules on my feet. Heavenly ringlets swirled around my head and shoulders. I felt spectacular!! Two leather and denim clad men perched on their Harleys confirmed how I was feeling, "wow! I bet she's the manager."

With a Cheshire Cat grin blazing across my face I grabbed the brass handle on the establishment door. There he was: Blue Eyes stood to meet me. With a low, but excited voice he said hello. His large hand reached around my waist and pulled me to him. Once more he planted a kiss on me that made my pearlies rattle. Yes, the magic was still there. At least all the lust from the weekend prior carried over, but putting a romantic spin on it makes the memory of it sweeter.

He explained that Hooters had beer, beer and more beer if I wanted an alcoholic beverage. "Sorry sweetie, no margaritas in this place." Beer it was. We laughed and talked. He told me about the hellacious drive he had ....only because he couldn't get there soon enough. He shared his fears that I'd bail on him and just leave him hanging. It gave me a sense of reassurance that he was insecure.

After two beers I had to use the restroom. He escorted me and waited until I emerged. What a shock that was. We concurred that food was necessary and we found a steak house down the road. I had my margarita. I had Blue Eyes across from me. For that moment in time all was right with the world. I felt hopeful for a new beginning. My restless mind was put at ease. He didn't see me as a woman of loose virtues. He wanted to know me. All the fears I had anticipated had been put to bed ...pun intended.

Both of us knew that this wasn't a dine and go evening. We'd both put mileage on our vehicles, minds and hearts. The hotel didn't serve breakfast even of the continental variety. I'm sure we missed it even if it had been available. Waffle House filled our bellies the following morning. I'd left my car at Hooters. Blue Eyes pulled up along side my silver Mitsubishi. It took me hours to get out of his truck. That is not an exaggeration. Neither of us wanted to take opposite routes home. As long as I stayed in that truck time would stand still. We tried to buy ourselves a thin mint piece of heaven.

He got out first and opened my door. He gave me his hand and my foot touched down to a reality I wasn't ready for. With my hand in his, his arm wrapped around my waist--we danced. We tripped the light fantastic with only the rhythm of our pounding hearts. Corny? You betcha!

Sunday, January 20, 2008

Savannah smiles

There was a time when my outlook on dating; and the opportunity to do so didn't seem so far fetched. Situations on the home front permitted me weekend time. As it was, my ex-husband was available to put on his parental hat and take the Man-cub so I could go out; shake my groove thang, so to speak.

I was a regular visitor in a chat room on AOL. From time to time I'd make a connection with a potential date in that venue. There was one particular guy I'd been talking to for quite some time; both on the phone and online. We seemed to hit it off, but it wasn't fireworks. Truly, should that happen when you've not met face to face, I suggest pouring ice cold water on your manner of thinking. SNAP OUT OF IT! Don't get giddy until you've met and spent time together. Trust me on this, people.
This fella lived in Savannah, GA. Now, I had been living in Gainesville, GA and the road trip would take approximately 5 hours of driving a normal, legal speed limit. I'd never been to Savannah. I knew taking a trip alone was risky and incredibly stupid. I was on a natural high and determined to have a weekend of good times. I made arrangements for my ex-husband to care for little dude, I packed, gassed up the car and made tracks to southeast Georgia. What was about to happen was the furthest thing from my mind.

I'll refer to the guy I was heading to spend a weekend with PeeWee. Ironically, he was 6'6" with broad shoulders and a quiet demeanor. I called PeeWee to alert him that I had arrived. He wasn't home from work yet. I killed time by shopping at a department store nearby until I got the call that I could head over to his place. I was dressed simply; white, ribbed t-shirt, loose fitting jeans and white Ked's. He came to the door and seemed unimpressed. The lightning didn't strike immediately, but I wasn't expecting it to. He offered me a drink and we discussed plans for the night.

We kept it very simple by renting movies. "A Knight's Tale" and "The Ladies Man." I can't recall what we ate. We watched movies and chatted a little. I figured by bedtime he wasn't interested in me, but we'd make the most of the weekend since I was there. He offered his bed to me, but I chose the couch. I felt odd putting him out of his own bedroom.

I can already hear the jeers about me staying with a man I'd just met. Someone I'd met online, no less. I know that. I've learned from my past errors. Let's just move on with the story, shall we?
The next day he took me to Tybee Island for some sight seeing. The conversation was limited. He's a quiet sort and I'm a Chatty Cathy. It was nearing late lunchtime and I suggested we get some eats and drinks; my treat. He jumped at that and didn't argue over the check. We consumed Mexican food and high quality margaritas. Well, I did. I can't recall what he drank. I didn't care. I decided to get blitzed so the weekend would hurry up and get over. Truly, how does one spend a weekend with someone who isn't interested in you physically and seems incapable of conversing?

We returned to his place, discussed the events for the night. He inquired if it would be all right to call upon some friends to make the evening more enjoyable. I was so happy he suggested that. I was dying for conversation and laughter.

We made our way down to River Street in downtown Savannah. Everything is within walking distance. Bar crawling is easy to do. He took me to a couple of trendy spots, but he was most comfortable at his regular haunt. This was an Irish pub. It was homey and easy to settle into. Me ordering margaritas about put the bartender into a frenzy, but he made them for me anyway. He made them so well I remember not being able to feel half of my body.

By the time I was feeling quite inebriated, PeeWee's friends showed up. A couple of guys, a couple of girls were part of this regular fold of friends. One guy in particular caught my eye. I was mesmerized. I was bewildered. I was hooked. This man could tell a story with such verve and confidence. He held the whole room in the palm of his hand. His eyes were the most gorgeous shade of blue. Huge! Hypnotic! He was also 6'6", blond crew cut (trust me, it worked for him). A deep baritone voice. It might have been the afternoon of margaritas that was extending into the night, but for that moment in time I was captivated. All at once nothing else in the room existed. Like a Hitchcock movie trick, only Blue Eyes came into view.

Oh no! What was I going to do? I was there with someone else. PeeWee and I had no chemistry, but how could I make eyes at his BEST friend and not be pegged as a skank? I didn't have to worry about what I needed to do. Old Blue Eyes did the work for me. Yep, he was equally entranced by me and my drunken, margarita drinkin' self.
We started upon our bar crawl and made it to a dance club. We were having a great time. PeeWee had enough alcohol in him to seem uncaring that Blue Eyes and I were attached at the hip. Without Peewee's eyes upon us, Blue Eyes planted a mind-numbing kiss on me. Yes, it was one of those that caused the Earth to move, my teeth to shake and uhm, unmentionable other parts to react as well. What to do? What to do? We carried on as if nothing had happened when the people we knew were looking, but we stole moments on the dance floor. He ducked with me in the shadows.

The partying continued, but PeeWee had come to a breaking point and declared he was leaving. Please keep in mind that I rode with him. I had NO clear idea where I was and where to tell a cab to take me. I thought maybe he was playing a head game with me. I called his bluff. I was wrong. He left me. HE LEFT ME! I asked the one female friend who'd been making the bar crawl with us, "what am I going to do? How could he do that to me?" She assured me that he did leave and it wasn't unusual for him to just vanish. Great! Nice guy. What an ass. I turned to Blue Eyes and he quieted my concerns and assured me I'd be taken care of. We continued to drink and dance the night away. My cares were gone. I had my big, blue eyed prince to look after me.

Closing time... we headed out into the Savannah night. The air was brisk, but welcome to my intoxicated head. Then, it hit me. I was, once again, making a judgement that was so off base and ignorant. I had a child to raise. This man might be a killer! In my severely altered state, I felt confident I'd see my son again.

He helped me into his well maintained, white, Ford F-150. I leaned against the door and he helped me with my seatbelt when he got in the driver's side. I kept mumbling things like, "I can't believe he left me. He left me with someone I don't know....someone I'd been publicly making out with all night...what is wrong with me? I'm insane. Clearly, I have lost my mind. No one has ever left me like that. What kind of jerk is he?" Blue Eyes just chuckled and kept telling me all would be well. He insisted I just needed sleep and, in the morning, he'd take me back to PeeWee's safe and sound.

We arrived at Blue Eye's humble ranch home. He poured me out of the truck and on to his couch. I kicked off my shoes and he sat next to me on the couch after giving me a large glass of water. The rest will remain a behind closed doors, details withheld mystery. He was kind and gentlemanly the following morning/afternoon. I have no idea of the time frame, really. I was so far out of my element that nothing was making sense. I showered and requested the use of a toothbrush. He had a spare. Too bad he didn't have an extra package of self-esteem and pride laying around. His actions toward me gave me relief that he didn't view me as something I wasn't: A skanky-hoochie momma-ho'.

After watching "The Breakfast Club," on TV, we made tracks back to PeeWee. I stalled as long as I could. I didn't want to face him. We talked along the way and he held my hand. My long fingers were dwarfed by his enormous paws. I felt comfortable; yet, terribly unsure. There couldn't be anything romantic about what had taken place. That sort of thing just never happens.

I nervously walked the path to PeeWee's apartment. Blue Eyes was keeping pace with me. I feared finding my things strewn all over the walk way. Instead, we were greeted by a cheerful Peewee. My things were laid out on the couch. He said he wasn't sure when I'd be back or when I'd be leaving. He just wanted to make it easier for me to gather my things in case he wasn't there when Blue Eyes returned me. Ugh! This was very out of character for me. I was so hungover that I wanted to just crawl into a dark hole and die for a few hours. I adjourned to the bathroom to put on make up and fix my hair. I'd showered at Blue Eyes', but looking at myself in such a rough disposition was too hard to manage. Plus, I feared questioning looks from PeeWee. I had to find shelter and regain some composure.

I emerged from the bathroom and the three of us talked about anything and everything. Really, the two men talked and I collapsed on the couch hoping to get a second wind before driving back to Gainesville. I knew my time in Savannah was growing to a close. I needed to depart. Blue Eyes asked for my email address. I informed him that my email was also my instant messenger screen name. I didn't offer; nor did he ask for my phone number.

Both men walked me to my car and I hugged PeeWee. I thanked him for hosting me for the weekend. I turned to Blue Eyes who was leaning against my car. To hug, or not to hug? That was the question. I hugged. I wanted to cling for dear life, but that night of whimsy was all it could be. Distance creates impossible relationships. A foundation of margaritas, booty shakin' and uhm, other stuff is not stable. He hugged me back and tightly. As I pulled away I looked to see if he was getting in his truck. He didn't. He walked back in with PeeWee.
I kept telling myself it was all for the thrill of doing it. I had a singular girl's weekend out. I had a fabulous time and that was one for the history books. Nothing more; nothing less. Or so I thought...

More on this in future posts. What? I can't tell you the entire story now. I have to give you something to come back for. Sheesh!

Thursday, January 17, 2008

Whaddup, bra?

Two bumps. Fried eggs, sunny side up. Nothing truly notable. Tube tops flattened them. I was in sixth grade and it happened. I sprouted boobs. I wore an ill fitting bra purchased from K-Mart under my Holly Hobby button down shirt. There I was in all my string bean splendour; straight leg jeans leading down to big feet. My feet haven't really grown since sixth grade. Imagine Olive Oyle with a shag haircut and really dreadful glasses. That was me.

I was one of the first girls to grow boobs. It's not like I wished them upon myself. Genetics made it happen. My mother was busty. My sisters were always packin' a minimum of C-cups.

I was perusing some older photographs and was delighted to see that I did, indeed, have normal sized breasts at some point in my life. Well, normal for the women in my family, that is. Comfortable bras have always eluded me.
As I got older, gained weight, gave birth, breast fed .... my boobs have grown with me like the trees of the Amazon. Sadly, my breasts don't reach to the heavenly skies grasping at sunlight. You can probably guess that my boobalas choose to take the path of least resistance; the path of gravitational pull. Ladies, you know that infamous pencil test? You know the one that says you're breasts are still perky if you place a pencil under your breast and it falls. Well, I can put an entire pencil case under Thelma and Louise and it stays in place.
Let me track back for a second to explain Thelma and Louise. I was discussing how odd I found it that men name their penis. Whereas, women don't typically give their body parts names as if they are an entirely separate entity. The guy, with whom I was discussing this matter, inquired what name I would give my breasts. Without hesitation I blurted out Thelma and Louise. And so it goes....

At one point I had lost 30 lbs, but saw little shrinkage in the breasticular area. As the girls grew, the selection of bras decreased. I was regaled in viewing the delicate, lacy gems in Victoria's Secrets. I'd check the sizes available and walk away feeling like Henrietta Hippo. I hungered to wear pretty things even under the ugliest of holiday sweaters. The Internet had to have the answers I longed for.

The first website I found was . They are a pricey online store based out of Britain. The sizes were virtually unlimited. I was in shameless lacy heaven. One particular brassier caught my eye. It came in a variety of color combinations: Taupe on taupe (boring), purple on black, black on pink, green on black. Delicious! The description read that instead of underwires, this had a polymer support system. Polymer? Immediately my brain dashed to thoughts of NASA. If this thing could support the space shuttle, surely it could support my weighty issue. I first had to find the correct size. I furiously searched around for my tape measure. The instructions for proper measurement tells me I need to put on a bra that fits well. Now, if I had a bra that fit well, would I really need to measure? Me thinks not, but I digress. I follow the simple math instructions for determining the right cup size. It's also noted that bras vary in size depending on brand/manufacturer. UGH! First it was math problems. Now I have to read a chart system that could only be deciphered with the help of a protractor and/or MIT grad. Since I had neither, I took a shot in the dark.

I ordered two: 1 in the boring taupe and the other in black and purple. As a double treat I ordered the matching tummy support thongs. Don't ask me how on Earth a thong can possibly support ones tummy while the fanny pack is bajigglin' around out back. All I had to do was wait...and wait...and finally call the customer service line to find out where my pretty things were. The lovely British woman on the other end assured me they would arrive in no less than 3 days.

::insert Jeopardy theme song:::

My order finally arrived and I shredded the packaging. I whipped off my tshirt, tore off my old, elastic bare bra and held the highly anticipated polymer equipped over the shoulder bolder holder in my happy hands. I unclasped it, wrapped it around my waist, hooks to the front and hooked the 3 heavy duty hook & eyes. I turned it around and scooped my flesh into the supportive; yet gloriously feminine cups. It fit. But what in the world was IN the cups? I'm not talking about Thelma and/or Louise. There was what felt like a shoe horn. A polymer shoe horn was the primary support system of that model. My right hand reached up, under and *knock knock*. I wondered how this polymer armour could possibly be better than a thing wire under the breast material. Sure, the wires eventually work their way up and out at the most inopportune times ... typically rearing it's ugly head when you're talking to a male co-worker, but at least it doesn't knock three times.

I wore the bras because I had spent a small fortune on them. I have to say it created an interesting reaction while on a date and we were getting snuggly and he put his arm under mine to hug me. I demonstrated how I couldn't feel anything on the sides due to the spaceage polymer. Naturally, I had to show off the hollow resonance I could make with my knuckles. It momentarily killed the mood, but things got back on track.

As time went by, my girls got too big for even the beauties. I tried several other styles and sizes and always, ironically, fell flat on proper fit. The bigger I got, the uglier the bras were ... are. Long gone were the days of multiple color and lace selections. No longer could I choose a demi or decolletage revealing, front hook styles. I required the wide, double padded, reinforced, non-slip, non-stretch straps. Long gone were the 2 or 3 hook styles. I now had the grandma 5 hook deals. Sayonara to the smooth fitting, t-shirt butes. Hello multi-seamed nightmares.

Wearing a demi style bra makes it looks like two cats are rasslin' under a blanket when I walk. If the cup size isn't just right, the wires jut outward and it looks like I have an alien obtrusion. If the cup is too small and tight it creates a most delightful quadra-boob situation. Now, that's mighty flattering, isn't it? I know one day my breasticular units will be subject of a Glamour Don't. It's not my fault. It's difficult to be fitted for a bra when your only choices require a second mortgage and a miracle, and a little help from NASA.

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

It's that time again!

I suppose that title could lead anyone to believe it's that time of the month or it's tax time. However, that time, I refer to is AMERICAN IDOL ON FOX! Sorry for the caps. I'm just a little excited. I've been on a slow burn withdrawl since Jordin Sparks was crowned as the season 6 winner. I'll have you know I rooted from her from the second she sang, I who have nothing. I totally love the gem of a song made popular by Shirley Bassey and Tom Jones. I was backing Melinda Doolittle until that moment. I was tiring of her act of humility. She kicked vocal quality ass! The girl simply needed to give herself props. Maybe do a neck boppin' mmmhmm, you know it sugah! I AM that good with two snaps in the air for good measure. But alas, that year is over and I'm hearing Jordin's first release Tattoo being played. I'm happy she's getting airplay. Remember season 5 winner and runner-up, Taylor Hicks and Kat McPhee? Both have been reportedly dropped by their record companies due to low volume sales. Chris Daughtry, 4th place, seems to be secure with his foothold on record sales, Grammy nods, People's Choice nods, etc, etc, etc....

What ever will Simon, Alvin and Theodore bring us this season? I mean, Simon, Paula and Randy. I suggested on Sean Daly's Pop Life blog that Simon not self-molest himself in front of the season 7 hopefuls and all of the world! Ack! Massaging one's man-boobs is simply not tolerated. EVER!

Randy needs to have a Journey reference limit set to 3 times throughout the entire series. He has, no doubt, already exceeded that number in the audition phase. Wasn't his stint with Journey limited to studio work? I'm not an aficianado, but I'm sure I never saw him in the videos. Perhaps he was sporting a house-cut and about 300 lbs thinner.

Paula. Dear Paula. Hey! Paula! Repeat after me:




That's right. Now, put it all together. Just watch the teleprompter, dear. You'll be fine. Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery. Or, in your case, a lifetime membership at Club Loo-loo.

For those of you who need to decompress after watching Idol, might I suggest going to Sean's blog and hanging out to give your thoughts on the evening's show... the worst thing that could happen is you'll stay up too late, miss your alarm the next morning and be late for work. Or, forget to wake up the kids for school.

Monday, January 14, 2008

Costume faux pas

This is a blog I wrote in October, 2007. It is by request that I post it here. I realize it's not Halloween, but this could go for any costume party or "personal" costume party you might embark on.

So, I've been perusing Halloween costumes online. They always show these very thin women dressed in the sexy outfits. Some ads will say "Plus Sizes Available." Oh groovy! However, they don't often show what a pleasantly plump, fully bosomed woman looks like in said 'plus size' costume.
It's a harsh reality when you take the "bar wench" costume from it's hermetically sealed plastic wrap. You attempt to work out the creases and folds from the acrylic fabric in a steamy shower. You use all the hot water trying to fill the bathroom with enough steam to iron it out. To no avail you're left with, at best, a slightly damp wrinkled garment.
While donning your flesh tone 18-hour bra and granny panties, you slip into your fantasy wench attire. The capped puff sleeve goes up on one shoulder, then the other. You look down to find your 18-hour bra doesn't want to be discreet. You attempt to pull the top to cover the bra. In doing so, the lace-up bodice slides upward to the center of your ample bust. You're feeling more than plus-size. You think Omar the Tent maker might be getting a call.
You strip and go in search of that horrific get up you bought in hopes of wearing it one day to turn on your man. However, the man never came along and it was too much sweat and tears to get it on. This modern day version of medievil torture looks far too complicated. The hook n' eyes on the BACK of the bustier/girdle/torture device mock you. You think to yourself that you once conquered those Levi's that were too small.
You realize that you're not as limber as you once were. So, stretching is in order. Afterall, you have to manage to get your arms behind your back. The art of dislocation isn't your strong suit. Therefore, you seek out that yoga DVD that's only gathered dust since you bought it from that annoying, yet convincing skinny bitch who swears (at 3 am on a paid programming ad) you'd lose weight in the first week. You skip putting on the special yoga outfit. Your 18-hour bra and granny panties will suffice.
Sweating and feeling worse than you did before the DVD, you head to the shower. However, there is no hot water because you wasted it all on trying to get that bar wench costume steamed out. So, you just towel off and head back to the torture chamber where the bustier and her friend, the mighty girdle, await you.
With a lot of wriggling and bouncing you manage to get the girdle pulled up over your butt. In the meantime, you've knocked every knicknack off the dresser from bouncing. You stop for a moment and rest on the bed's edge. You look down to find that this girdle is clearly forcing your internal organs to jut upwards and spill over the top of the girdle. You find solace in knowing the bustier will give you an over all smoothness.
Standing up you face the hook n' eye challenge. Sucking in your organs you manage the first couple hooks. You feel behind you to make sure it's not cock-eyed. Awesome! You're on a roll. Now, only 20 more to go. On hook 8 You need a breather and water. The heavy panting has left you breathless and parched. With both breast waving to and fro you head downstairs to the kitchen. You realize the curtains are open so you drop to your knees and crawl like you're in basic training. At the refrigerator you find a bottle of water, but don't stand up in fear that the neighbor could be out there. Leaning against the wall you drink your water and pray your efforts will be worth the pain.
Shimmying back upstairs you face the enemy. Five hooks down. However, the blood has left your arms and shoulders and you feel a tingle. You wonder if this is a stroke. You shake it off and continue. Alas the final hook is hooked, but your boobs are still dawdling above the cups. You adjust and cram them where they are supposed to reside. You look in the full mirror hoping to admire the fruits of your labor only to realize your back fat is now fully pushed to the brim of the bustier and you have a lovely Quasimoto hump working back there....and you have to pee thanks to the bottle of water you chugged an hour before.
Downstairs you go. Completely not caring about the neighbors seeing you in this get up. If they dare to peer into your windows they deserve to be frightened! You wiggled and squirm trying to get the girdle down far enough so you can go to the bathroom. Relief! You do your business and get the girdle back up. You figure you might as well put on the super support queen size pantihose before you put on the fishnet stockings that were supplied with the costume. Another triumph and lots of sweat! You chuck the fishnets because they aren't intended for anyone over 5'0" and the crotch hits you about mid-thigh.
At last! You get the costume on and you get a call that your friends will pick you up at 7pm... TOMORROW NIGHT!!!!!!!!!!! You tell them to forget it! You're certain you'll be in traction and unable to attend.

Sunday, January 13, 2008

Do the monkey with me!

What do these three movies have in common? I mean other than the fact that they are from my favorite decade. My 13 year old son has taken a shine to these flicks. For Christmas, I bought him the double pack Ghostbusters. Prior to that, he discovered Robocop on cable OnDemand. This delights me to no end that he LOVES the same things I do. Well, at least we have similar likes in music and movies. I'm completely at a loss when it comes to learning Yu-Gi-OH! and the video games he plays. I question what's going on in his head when he's watching those anime' programs. I have learned that I need to keep an eye out for those. There are sexual undertones I don't care for him to watch. The characters are all seemingly young, but have in depth relationships with the opposite sex. All the characters seem to shout at each other. I get the heebie-jeebies watching. It's all just too much. I can see how it appeals to the video game generation.

The Man-cub is amused when I tell him he's enjoying the movies I watched as a teen-ager. First of all, I think it's hard for him to imagine me being any different than I am today. We have a pretty groovy relationship. I show him photos of me as a young girl. He's kind and tells me I'm just as beautiful today as I was way back then. I'm relieved that he doesn't exclaim, "No way is that you!" He did notice that my hair color is many shades lighter now. He's also kind enough to point out when the silver starts to show at my temples. Ah, the joys of motherhood.

The day my son asked me to download songs by Fall Out Boy was a real shock to my system. Prior to that he'd been asking for Disney tunes. I admit, I prefer FOB over the whining strains of Disney kids. If you have children who went through the Barney the Dinosaur phase, you'll know what a relief it is for your kidlette to move on. I never tired of Sesame Street, but that's probably due to the fact that it was also a prime element in my childhood. Plus, the children on Sesame Street didn't appear obnoxiously sweet and in dire need of a dose of Ritalin. (not that I advocate the use of drugging children as a means to gain control over them).

Man-cub bought me a copy of Hairspray for Christmas. My sister Maureen helped him make the choice. I saw it in the theater and walked away perplexed and feeling like something wasn't right. I was fixated on the prosthetics used on John Travolta. If you're familiar with the original movie with Ricki Lake, you know that Divine played Edna Turblad; a drag queen filled the enormous pumps of the Tracy's mom. On stage, the same premise follows: A man plays Mama Turnblad ... but in drag form-- Harvey Fierstein ring a bell? It troubled me that they didn't do the same with Travolta. Instead, they layered on the rubber lady suit. ACK!

My second viewing of the movie took place at home with the kiddo. I enjoyed it so much more. I was able to watch it without zoning in on plastic boobs and calves. What was most hysterical about it was Man-cub asking to watch the finale again, and again. I had no issues with it. We jumped to our feet and joined in the twisting, mashed potatoing, 'do the monkey with me' frenzy that was taking place on our 27" screen.

Friday, January 11, 2008

Getting better all the time

Believe it or not, that is the same girl. I was a naive 16 year old girl who was often photographed by her best guy pal. He's now a professional photographer living Venice, CA. It's clear I was just your run of the mill kid. I'm fairly certain, in that photo, we were sitting in our auditorium before show choir practice. It took seeing this picture to realize what my natural hair color is. My how the years have changed me. Ironically, my son looks nearly identical to me in the then photo. Obviously he has bit more peach fuzz on his upper lip and doesn't wear blush or eyeshadow. I wore contacts back then, too. I've needed vision correction since 4th grade. Cripes, I wonder where those photos are? I guarantee you the hair was far worse and my collars were incredibly big.

It has always been said that the women in our family improve with age. Because I heard this so often and witnessed it with my sisters, I never worried about aging. I looked forward to it because it meant I might actually grow out of the dorky, awkward phase of my life. I'm still a dork underneath the highlighted hair and chic eyewear. Sure, I'm heavier and curvier than I was back then. In 1982 I hadn't given birth to a 9 lb 2 oz baby, either. I was just a kid trying to find my way amongst the insanity after having lost my mother to cancer. Is the innocence and hurt obvious?

I know that I wasn't nearly as self conscious about my crooked smile. I have an eye tooth that is crooked and inset from the rest of my choppers. It's been a blessing that, as we age, our gums recede. I had short, block looking teeth in 1982. Now, my smile seems wider and brighter. I guess that could all have something to do with learning to grin and bare even in the most desolate and destitute of times.

I'm proud of my crow's feet and parenthetic grin. They tell the world I wasn't afraid to smile and laugh. Take that to heart, Victoria "Posh Spice" Beckham!! "There are lines upon my face ... from a lifetime of smiles..." Joshua Kadison wrote that line in his song Beautiful in My Eyes. It's so true in my case. I have had hardships, but I manage to keep bouncing back. That's what living is all about, no? I credit my parents for much of that resilience. I witnessed some hard times growing up, but I never felt like we were the poor family on the block. Well, not until my best friend, who was an only child, pointed out how little I had in comparison to her. She wasn't being spiteful, she just had no idea that everybody didn't manage the same lifestyle she and her parents did.

I hear so many people complaining about the aging process. I suggest to be who you is! Just live and forget what ridiculous expectations are set for us by some doctor in Beverly Hills. He's just out to make a buck by making you feel less attractive. Beauty does come from within. No amount of Botox injections, butt lifts, tummy tucks, breast augmentation or cheek implants can give you the intrinsic values that truly make up what being a human is about. I wholeheartedly feel it's a temporary fix. If there is no love for thyself, then the reflection in the mirror won't be what you need it to be to find peace.

Oh, and for the record, I still get pimples. Some things NEVER change no matter how many candles are placed on our birthday cake.

Peace, Love and Crow's Feet!

Wednesday, January 9, 2008

Glamorous Life

I saw this photo and had to chortle. The setting is clearly not of affluence; yet, the subject is clearly displaying her desire to exude, shall we say, a come hither-you know you want me pose. those stilettos aren't made for walkin', my friends. No, those are what I like to refer to as CFM shoes.
I can imagine what's on the other side of this photo. Or rather who is on the receiving end of this woman's conspicuous attempt to seduce. There sits her significant other, Barney. He's home from the salt mines and has cracked open a fresh bottle of suds. He's stripped down to his dirty white t-shirt, slightly stained boxers, tube socks bearing a filthy ring around the ankle where his boots hit. All he can focus on is the sports page and scratching that itch that he can't quite reach. UGH! Barney, they make ointments for that, bud.
She arches her back, gives her hair a toss with hopes that he'll take notice. But alas, all he can mutter to her is, "Make me a turkey pot-pie, I'm starving! What's with that crazy get up? How much did it cost me and is your crazy sister coming over or something? -- And while you're up, I could use another beer."
I can recall a time when I accused my former husband of never noticing me. In fact on this one particular day I made the declaration that it would take me walking outside completely nude for him to stand up and ask, "what's different about you?"
When we first moved to Georgia I managed to drop several pounds without really killing myself. I exercised, danced around with my little boy, I ate a lot less (drank a lot more wine). It was 1998 and I decided on New Year's Eve that I was going to make myself happy. I focused on the bright spots and I didn't feed myself emotionally. The weight came off and I must admit I was looking rather delectable. At least in comparison. I started wearing more form fitting clothing. I tossed the saggy, baggy, frumpy attire. Lower rise jeans were just coming on the market. I think they were called boyfriend jeans. I could wear shirts that just slightly showed skin if I raised my arms. I was happy with what I saw. I can recall other people telling me how great I was looking. The one person I wanted to take notice was my husband.
Once while dressing for work, I slipped into a dress I wouldn't typically wear to work, but I wanted to see what he'd say. I work/ed in an optical lab. I always wore khakis or black slacks. The dress was a slim fitting black, tank style. A slit was up the side just above my knee. Over it, I wore a sheer, black and white print blouse. It didn't really do more than give the illusion that I was covered up. In addition to that, I wore black stockings and heels. My hair was perfectly curly and tousled.
As I strode to the car, I yelled to him that I was leaving for work and that I'd see him later. Not a word about my appearance. I dilly-dallied, leaning in the car. Walking around it to check something in the backseat. Nothing. I waved goodbye and he simply said he'd see me later. I got to work and that's where I received the reaction I had desired. My newly chiseled curves were in full view. It is ironic that despite the resounding praise and accolades given from my co-workers, I felt empty. The man whose adoration I sought out had let me drive away without a single utterance of how much I'd transformed.
That marriage is now over. A woman can only stand being ignored for so long. Of course, he claims he did no such thing. I'm quite sure that people are oblivious to their own actions when they are in a situation that is just comfortable. We fall prey to routine.
Then, one person decides routine just isn't satisfying; however, the other party is fine with it. All hell breaks loose and you're left shopping with money you don't have to spend, but those jeans fit your ass so perfectly. How could that fine rump not make him think routine-shmoutine? Let's turn this town upside down with newness!! He doesn't react in such a manner. So, you drag out the inflatable mattress and tell him his routine lovin' self can sleep on that while you take your new hotness out with girlfriends. Yeah, that taught him! OK, not really. We ended up divorcing in '99 ... and here I am.

Tuesday, January 8, 2008

Poe, but not of the Edgar Allen variety

The haunting strains of Poe cry out on iTunes. She's telling me she's in Control. I'm trying to drown out the fact that my sump-pump is running non-stop. The current warming trend has caused a major meltdown and, needless to say, the ground is quite saturated. If the plowed fields froze over right now, my little town would be a giant ice skating rink. In addition to the rapid rise in temperatures, it has rained considerably. Who ever thought I'd be singing rain, rain go away. come again another day on a January day in the Mid-west? Perhaps it's all part of an Inconvenient Truth after all.
Poe now informs me she's Not a Virgin anymore. I've recently reacquainted myself with her music. When I bought my new iPod on I was awarded free MP3 downloads. I love free stuff. Sure, I had to toss out the funds to get it, but woohoo! If you're unfamiliar with her music, I will gladly supply you with a sampling: Hey Pretty (original non-spoken version), and Not a Virgin. If you are inclined to download some of her tunage, I highly recommend adding Hey Pretty (Drive-by 2001 mix). Her brother, Mark Z. Danielewski author of House of Leaves, reads an excerpt from the book. It's quite tantalizing and an interesting format. That particular version received more radio play than the original. Hearing merely a snippet of that song actually piqued my curiosity for this artist.
Apparent to those who know me, my love of music is undeniable. I still consider myself a novice in comparison to many. At work I am a musical genius. On the grander scale of life, I am a starving student. I hunger for the undiscovered artists who are truly the shining stars in music. Their labors of love might not be cranking out on the radio waves, but thanks to youtube, myspace, itunes, and voracious fans, they are making reverberating tones of love to our ears.
I'm taking suggestions. My ears are hungrily awaiting.

Friday, January 4, 2008

Going mental, I must say!

Going mental is in reference to my positive state of mind. In my head, I am galavanting about like Ed Grimley about to meet Pat Sajak, "I couldn't be more excited, I must say... it's making me mental." This year, 2008, will be a stellar, auspicious year for your's truly.

Today I met two very special family members for the first time. My brother and his family have come back to our hometown for a visit. For some, that isn't something to write home about. However, we haven't seen each other since our father passed away in 1999. You could ask what in the world has prevented us from seeing each other for so long. Circumstances simply didn't allow it. I lived in Georgia, they in Arizona and our paths just never connected. For me, finances are always a hurdle to jump. We've kept in touch to some degree, but more recently we've been talking with greater depth. We were always close as youngsters, but life has a way of grabbing you by your undies and inflicting wedgies ... and we lose sight of everything other than successfully digging your britches from your posterior.

So, these two VIPs are my niece and nephew. Immediately they captured my heart. To receive a big hug from my 4 yr old nephew for the first time just sent me over the edge. I'm soaring with elation. My niece is reserved, but I can tell it won't too long before she warms up to her Auntie Riss. My son thinks they are both so adorable. I have to agree.

Our family Christmas celebration is tomorrow. Not only is my brother's beautiful family here, but my 23 year old niece is returning from her Walt Disney internship. I can't wait to spend time with her and catch up. She and I can laugh at things no one else understands. We'll be in a store, a room, a restaurant and spy something odd. We make eye contact and we just know what the other is thinking; we burst into laughter. Often, it's uncontrollable. You know how you get when you are trying not to laugh. Say, when you're in church or some other solemn environment.

My family is definitely not lacking in the ability to laugh. What's more important is that we can laugh at ourselves. The more mature I get, the more I appreciate them. I guess that's expected, really. Having spent so many holidays away while residing in Georgia helped me gain perspective on the importance of family. We might not always agree (who does?), we have varied personalities, but the bottom line is that we all love one another ... even if the unconditional part doesn't come easily.

Wednesday, January 2, 2008

My sour note with eHarmony

I tantalized you with the promise of another vexxing tale regarding online dating sites in a previous entry. I didn't forget. The new year got in the way of my ability to write cohesively and/or coherently. I didn't get blown away wasted. Although, I did partake in a little adult beverage in the comfort of my humble abode. I'm not a party animal, although I'd like to play one on TV. The snow was falling with fierce intensity and there was no way I was willing to venture back into it. Not saying I had invitations for such plans anyway. I was settled in with the Man-cub for the night. I had worked all day, and was scheduled to work New Year's Day, as well. My intentions were to eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow I had to shovel myself out of the drift that blocked the garage door.

eHarmony's claim to fame is their patented Compatibility Matching System. You're asked a series of questions about yourself, your personal habits, past relationships, etc. It's a gruelling task, but with the promises of in depth analysis and matching, how could it go wrong? I tried eHarmony many years ago when it first made an appearance online. I couldn't afford the membership; therefore, no matches could be found. How nice, eh? This year, I opted to try it again because there was a free weekend over Labor Day Holiday. I figured it was worth a shot if it wasn't going to cost me an arm and a leg (and believe me, eHarmony isn't for a pauper's penny)! What it meant was that I was able to communicate with matches the system came up with for me.

I'm not often inclined to date men who are older. I don't know if I was left scarred over 20 years ago by falling for a man 10 yrs my senior or what. Once I was divorced, my eyes always seemed to be drawn to younger men. None were unlawfully younger, but at least 5 years my junior. Well, there was that one incident where I forgot my own rules and dated someone who was freshly awarded the ability to buy liquor legally.... I'll save that for another day.

The gods at eHarmony must have sensed my 'dating younger' failures and kept sending me possible matches who were more than 8 years older. That made me very hesitant, but what did I know? I'm still single and looking. Perhaps they were on to something I wasn't able to see. After all, I'd spent half a day filling out the bazillion point questionnaire. Surely they had more insight than I! The free weekend made it possible for me to jump the numerous hurdles necessary to have open communication where you are allowed to step out of the website and into your own email. Oooh, how exciting! Exciting like that first sniff of a new shower curtain.

Older men ... older men. You know, that idea was thrilling when I was a bright eyed 21 year old girl. The idea of dating an older man now just conjures up all sorts of imagery that I'm not sure my immaturity can handle. You know what I mean if you ever watched Sex in the City when Samantha dates an older man. Unhuh! That scene when his bare buttocks is walking toward the bathroom to take his Viagra. I don't want to offend anyone with my personal take on this, but seriously, I am having difficulty getting around that visual.

I pushed those horrid visions from my mind's eye and pursued communication with 5 men simultaneously. I got so confused. I had no photos in which to separate the men who were sending me wonderfully written messages. Receiving messages that conveyed well rounded literacy was truly awe inspiring. I'd had my fill of written exchanges with men who were incapable of forming a complete sentence. Their notes were filled with emoticons, innuendo and chatroom short hand. All in all, really more of a nuisance than charming. On a side note: I have a low tolerance for people who don't know the difference between your and you're, their, there, and they're, our and are. And I must insist that if you're going to brag about your cunnilingus skills, please spell tongue properly...not tounge. Is that the cross between a tongue and a lounge? Perhaps it is a hybrid word. I am unaware if it is. Thank you for allowing me that indulgence.

Back to my story. One man in particular was 50 years old, divorced, business owner, my height (5'11"), and lived within a hour's drive. His communication skills were impeccable. He added humor and sarcasm without use of Internet acronyms. He'd given me his work, home and cellular numbers. I was hesitant to call immediately. I waited a few days so not to appear overly anxious or desperate. Our first telephone conversation was polite, laughter filled and not too short, not too long. I'd say about 45 minutes in duration. He informed me that his work would take him out of town, but would love to have dinner, coffee, dessert in the near future. He continued to email me brief notes of acknowledgement. Our third at length phone conversation started to take a rather salacious flavor and it made me a little uneasy. Had I just been seeking a sexual conquest, that would not be an issue. However, this was an eHarmony match up and I had higher expectations for myself. I wanted to guide this on an ideal path for long term commitment. He had to know I wasn't looking for a playmate.

In that same call he suggested I might be a little uptight. I would never describe myself as such. I was on my guard and cautious. I'd allowed too much freedom of discussion early on in past pursuits. I decided a new pattern had to be set. He seemed to adapt to this format with some hesitation. He expressed that he was an open book and no questions were off limits. I asked him plenty about his marriage, companies, affiliations, etc... Because he had been so open with me, I welcomed his thoughts and questions.

Everything seemed to be going swimmingly until, out of the blue, he started discussing hygiene. He declared that personal hygiene was of utmost importance. I agreed that a smelly, unkempt individual leaves little to be desired. He chose to delve deeper into my own habits. I said I showered daily, sometimes twice if necessary (summertime sweat). I'm one of those people who needs to shampoo, rinse, repeat and condition everyday or I feel a major case of funk. It was then that he asked me this: When you use the bathroom, do you use a wet-wash towelette? I laughed heartily thinking he meant it as a joke. In a deadpan response he said, "I'm serious. Do you use a feminine towelette or wash cloth of some sort after using the bathroom?" I was speechless, and for those who know me, that doesn't happen often. I replied by asking, "what kind of question is that?!" He told me he was very oral and hygiene in that area was of utmost importance. UGH! I guess I ought not complain. Had we been communicating vie instant messenger, I am certain he would have spelled tongue correctly.

I felt that judging him based on the wet-wipes question was unfair. After that conversation we expressed a mutual desire to still meet in person. He informed me, again, he had to go out of town for a couple days, but upon his return would like to have a casual dinner. I told him my day off and said he'd get back in touch. I hadn't heard from him up until my day off. It was around 3:00 pm when the phone rang and it was him. "Hey! I just remembered I'd suggested dinner and it completely slipped my mind until now. Are you still up for it tonight?" That's exactly what I wanted to hear. I felt like an afterthought. I wasn't irritated that I hadn't heard back until that moment. I'm a fairly understanding person. I figured something had come up and his out of town business turned out to be more harried than expected. I just went on with my daily activities. I wasn't irritated until he seemed agitated that I couldn't just drop making dinner for my child and run to have a last minute dinner with him. This being our first face to face encounter, I felt it deserved to be more than a spontaneous thing. I knew I had to be the one to set a precedence. Needless to say, I never heard from him again. The delightfully composed emails came to a halt. His number never appeared on my caller ID again. And, for the record, I do keep moist towelettes in the lavatory.