Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Whine before bed

I am aging. I am 32 going on 64 and physically aging and it scares the crap out of me. Vanity and insecurity mix poorly with aging and old-maid hood. Oh my aching, wrinkling, sagging head.

I know I should just be glad I am healthy and all the parts I entered with are still attached and functioning-
but for the love of ass implants and Oil of Olay, do the fuckers have to soften and droop?

Apparently the label fell off my weight loss prayers. Or perhaps I mumbled as I am wont to do and 'weight loss, bigger boobs' came out as 'lose the boobs'.

Need a vote for pessimism? Laugh lines. Little sons of bitches! Crikey on a cracker.

Monday, February 26, 2007

bits and pieces

There is so much more I could share but never do- do I look beyond the immediate any more? When the weather calms and my walks of six or seven mind wandering miles resume perhaps the muses will be illuminated again.

Lying in bed Sunday morning my boyfriend sleeping quietly beside me I wanted so much to slip my left arm beneath his dozy head and roll him onto my chest but chose instead to let him slumber on. In short time he did waken and we embarked on our drowsy morning cuddling ritual.

For the first time my partner's body size is close to my own- there is but six inches and thirty five pounds of difference. It is face-sparklingly wonderful. I can hold my lover in my arms in bed or standing rest my head on his chest just beneath his chin; one glance up lands me in a kiss with eye contact and no broken necks.

He chides me often for not fully smiling in the photos he takes and I, wishing he might stop expecting more, explain over and over that when I smile for a camera my little eyes disappear beneath my risen cheeks. Except yesterday, he then said, " But you have a beautiful smile!"
and finally I understood that is what he hopes to capture and enjoy.

Laryngitis is setting in tonight and being the eternal goofball I am finding excuses to talk because my squeak sounds so silly- and you are supposed to strain your vocal cords right? Why just scratch when you can lose your voice completely?

On Thursday I have an admissions interview with a local massage therapy school. If I gain admittance, and full financial aid, I need only sacrifice myself to 15 months of busting my behind and at the end gain a new career. Yea!

I like nursing- but a career in massage therapy might offer me all I like about nursing but lots more of it. Besides, the holistic approach is much more my game. I am excited by the opportunities to branch further into natural ways of healing and patient teaching. I strongly feel human touch affords relaxation and comfort. Heal the emotional and the physical stands a better chance. Heal the physical- increase mobility or range of motion, ease the pain- and the emotional benefits from increased independence, activity and comfort. The components of our beings are tied together intrinsically.

Missing: one pair of boobs

A strange thing is occurring about my boobular area- it is shrinking. Back in the days before smile lines and sagging I was a D cup. The lapse to a B cup made sense as I lost 25 pounds senior year of high school (and another 15 pounds Freshman year of college- yes, the famed 15 only I starved myself instead and dropped it.)- Of course, 1/10th of that came from my chest.
But what is this slip to an A and a half? I am not liking this. Help from the boob gods is needed!
Think if I roll them in fertilizer and wrap them in a copy of Maxim over night they'll get bigger?

Friday, February 23, 2007

What is it?

Not sure what I've caught, but it comes with progressive phlegm and a sore throat,
and sitting at the computer reading blogs and downloading I-Tunes until it's 2AM and I am knocking myself in the eyeball with the headphones and thinking I'm very funny.

Powerful Word


Close your eyes (okay that will make reading difficult) - No, close your eyes and imagine your dreamiest, best ever summer moments.

What did you see?

I remember waking up hot and sticky at 10AM in the middle of the week, or awake in my T shirt and underpants sitting in a silent kitchen in the early morning grey light, the varnish on the chair still cool on the backs of my thighs, humidity seeping under the window sash as the sun rose.

Night time laying goose bumps along my arms and legs as we caught fireflies until the rest of the neighborhood went to bed or curled up necking in sand damp and scratchy, ducking when summer patrolmen panned the shore line with flashlights.

Dancing around the house with my girlfriend singing loudly and bumping hips to the Pointer Sisters' "I'm So Excited" or Billy Joel's "Only the Good Die Young", Aqua Net perfuming the air, eye shadow boxes and blush brushes scattered everywhere, posing and primping to walk up and down the boardwalk smiling at the gatherings of teenaged boys clustered tightly along the railing, hoping to be asked for our phone numbers and dreaming we'd meet the loves of our lives.


What do you remember?

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

Things that suck

When you cut your ankle shaving either:
a)right before a job interview or any other activity where blood on your pants is unacceptable.
b)in someone else's shower and you don't know where the bandaids are kept and they've given you the 'good bath towels' to use.

Monday, February 19, 2007


I am falling in love again! Rather I found the above blog today and am immersing myself in a most pleasurable read. Isn't it the grandest to stumble upon an intrinsically touching blog rife with archives? Read and read and read sucking it all up like a pizza crust dipped in milk.
(ha! sneak in one of my eating secrets with a bad analogy!- growing up in my house we had milk with every supper, including takeout pizza; ergo, when I have pizza the urge is strong to snog the crusts in cow suds!)

My BF asked last night if I am addicted to blogs, the reading and writing. Honestly, I paused to consider his query before responding, "I could stop if I wanted to!"; then I giggled.

Your blogs make me laugh and cry; they make me want to be a better writer. (you can see by that sentence the forecast is dismal ;)

I started blogging to encourage myself to write again. I continue blogging because I like to hear myself talk, and because on any given day I just might still have some masochistic readers continuing to show up anticipating my drivel.

Your advice and comments have import. I am sorry I am not a better hostess, but I am really glad you are here.

Some perspecitves of mine

* (if you get bored reading, at least please skip to the end and consider my question- Thanks! )

Currently I am listening to Peter Murphy's 'Keep Me From Harm', which I would upload and post to share with you if I knew how or even could. So much for that but perhaps you are familiar.

My Harold had the cassette and I would borrow it for night runs when we lived two blocks from the sea in Long Branch. After remembering and missing the music for two years I bought the CD (Wild Birds) used from

When it plays I recall running beneath the stars on muggy summer nights and returning home to Harold in his studio; I recall lounging in the tub last summer caught between a fiance I left, a wedding I nixed, a future that would surely start some day but wasn't showing yet on the horizon, and being popped back into the dating world at 32; a dating world much different from the one I left behind at age 24.

My life has contained two complete alterations. The first was the rape at age 21 when a change was pushed upon me- my life eclipsed over night beyond my volition.

The second time came leaving Maine and I can't efficiently explain the depth of metamorphosis enabled by that decision. I consistently think I am 34 years old, an age yet 17 months away, and wonder if in this year I aged by two. Well birthday 2007 should be a pleasant surprise when I drop a year instead of adding one.

If I look quantitatively at time gone by(e) I am flabbergasted at the speed- wind whipped and dizzy and slightly disoriented. Have you ever fallen asleep on a car or a plane? Have you ever closed your eyes at the beginning of a trip to open them and find you are nearly arrived? The hours flew by and you slept through it all.

But a qualitative look tells me there were years tucked between the weeks. Peak back at yourself ten years ago and consider every change your mind, body and life has undergone during the past decade. Little lives tucked within.

When I start to feel old, when I can't fathom how I got to my early thirties so quickly, when I am shocked to imagine sixty may come quicker still, I remind myself that hopefully there is still all the lifetime I have had remaining ahead of me .

*In the opinion of my great-grandmother, people never aged beyond 16 at heart- at least that was her love age. I wonder, in the center of your heart, the core of who you are- how old are you?

Sunday, February 18, 2007

Seeking Advice

So here is the goal:

I want to go to school for massage therapy- the whole shebang that will leave me fully licensed to practice.

I hear that the market is currently saturated with massage therapists; but markets fluctuate and some day there will be a dearth of therapists.

Why massage therapy?
I enjoy touching people therapeutically. Simple human touch can effect wonders. Physical contact and comfort soothes the body and the mind. Soothing the mind fosters emotional health and healing.
Did you know there is such a field as Infant Massage?

The obstacles:

Finances! Once ends are met every month there is little left over if any.

I am near $2000 in debt (nearly all of this being college loans).

My circa 1995 Saturn is nearing both 116k miles, and the crapper.

When I flew the Maine coop last year I did so mid-semester- that will not look spiffy on my transcripts.

My question for you is;
How in this situation do I get back to school?

Saturday, February 17, 2007

By the skin of my teeth (Almost!)

Oops- I nearly missed a Saturday but here I am gliding in at 11:12 PM, and mostly only because I finally remembered how to log in through Google, and because my boyfriend, whose laptop I am using, left me unattended for a bit so that he could complete some chores.

Attending my cousin's baby shower today set me, as being involved even secondarily in major life events oft does, thinking about the path my life has traveled.

I've suffered my minor share of bumps and bruises, mistakes, and surprises. My mom tells me now and again that I have 'been through so much' in my life. Now, comparatively my life has been a feather bed. I grew up caucasian middle class in the suburbs- the nuclear family (at least until my parents separated with grandiose enmity when I was 15).

The phrase 'biological clock' was an objective part of my vocabulary through childhood, a rite of passage I assumed I would inherit as part and parcel of womanhood. My body is unaware my uterus didn't grow; my hormonal levels and cycles are within normal range for a healthy 32 year old woman. Along comes age 30 and with it an unrelenting biological urge to procreate that coupled with my emotional and conscious desires for pregnancy and motherhood caused frustration and depression. The urge has thankfully relented, and during that last depression I may have finally come to terms with my inability to procreate; rather, I can now be around babies and not once find my joyous heart puddling into tears of grief.
Rather, I can simply enjoy the babes to my heart's content: my friends in Pennsylvania who now have infants and toddlers tease that the babies are the only reason I come to visit and kindly delegate time specifically for Karen to cuddle and play with the little ones. The two hours I was allowed to keep baby K cuddled on my chest at New Year's is an excellent example!

I've oft wished aloud that I had partied and skipped school in my teens when I had the chance, but truly if anything could be changed I would pay more attention in school and thoroughly apply myself, I would visit my grandmother more, I would never drop out of Millersville University a wee three semesters in.

All the same, as Maya Angelou said in a very different light, I wouldn't take nothin' for my journey now. And as the magnet on my childhood refridgerator said, "I yam what I yam!"
(did you guess it was molded in the shape of a yam? ;)

Monday, February 12, 2007

Garage Sale Cow

Boyfriend bought me my first MP3 player for Valentine's Day (yes, it's the 12th today... details, details... ) (he also uploaded for me one of his Hendrix albums and one of his 311- Hooray!)
(Yummy Hendrix.)
I have heard All Along the Watchtower by Dylan, and remade by others. I have heard other Hendrix cuts. The guitar flowing through Hendrix's Watchtower still wrap around the inner bits of me making them twiddle, float, and dance. Still one of the best things I've ever heard.

Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?
Except I'm not sure how that applies to two adults in their thirties dating in 2007.
My boundary now is no living together unless nuptial plans are well under way. Perhaps cohabitation is the new fornication?

Saturday, February 10, 2007

the sound of my own voice

I've begun to think that this age of women being everything can be emasculating. I know I need my sexy, feminine side recognized and appreciated even if I can hang my own mini-blinds, check my own oil, hold my own door, push and jump my own car, move furniture all by myself and paint my own walls.

I am learning, partly on my own but instigated by experience, that I need to let a man be a man; that men need to take care of me (at least a little bit.)

I need to bite my tongue and let him pay the bill. I will earnestly offer once in a while but when he refuses I will let it go.

If he wants to carry my bags I will let him, and thank him, even though I know I can lug thirty pounds of groceries two miles home on foot and partially uphill.

I have been successfully crossing streets all by myself for at least 22 of my 32 years, but if he is a happier man holding my hand and leading me to safety I will hang back and let him navigate.

It is not about being weak, or giving up female power. It is about respecting my partner and letting him feel good. It is about satisfying his needs and in turn fostering our relationship.

Saturday, February 03, 2007

erratic saturday streaming

'I remember...' is an extremely powerful phrase in my language. Uttered silently in my head or caught from the voice of another it transports me to places I want to linger, warm places amongst people I loved once, homes decorated where I languished in comfort; age four lying in a sun ray on my grandparents' coal dust saturated low pile rough on my cheek navy green carpet watching the dust motes dance and wondering if they were live creatures wiggling just for me;
racing through the wind on a equine muscles hot in the sun air roaring cold between every hair rushing fresh straight through my body muscles responding to keep my seat up a hill and back down rocking my pelvis to the rhythm suddenly a cowboy and a wild girl taking the plains free and fast holding the pace locking my legs part of the horse smelling of horse covered in horse dirt sticky and grey in a paste on my fingers and face nothing existing but us and the earth.

Some people dream they can fly and awake sad it is not true.

I dream of being pregnant, and of being given a child, and wake up ready to give birth or gather my infant from the crib.

I dream of running for miles legs scissoring smoothly feet digesting the ground in three foot bites and wake itching to let myself loose.

I want to be a giraffe or a leopard or a wild horse with four long muscled legs made for running and soar over the dirt and grass all muscles flexing in one giant scream of living power and joy.

Friday, February 02, 2007

the wonderfully lost with a touch of wonderful

I spent most of the summer dreaming of quick, without-a-trace ways to off myself: what point was there in going on when at 32 I was unable to bear children, broke, unemployed, single having just broken off an engagement three months prior to nuptials, homesick for my Maine friends and job, swallowed daily by a blood sucking and energy stealing cloud of who-gives-a-fuck about even breathing, and feeling guiltier than if I'd drowned a bag of kittens about leaving the fiance that maybe I shouldn't have left.

December was a little better. Mostly I still missed Fiance lots, regretted leaving, and couldn't sleep at night.

But everybody has a limit. Like my friend Harold (much more eloquently than this) says, You can only mope in your own black cloud for so long.

Christmas Eve I was very sad. Christmas morning I called to wish him a Merry... . Christmas afternoon I snuck off for quiet time away from my two engaged, younger cousins. Christmas night I was done.

December 26th I emailed that cute guy who sent an Interest to my matchmaker site on December 14th. December 30th we had our first date. February 2nd and I still feel blessed.

I did love Fiance, and his family; but a woman can take only so much inconsideration, emotional loneliness, unbrushed teeth, and two or three day old underwear before she runs screaming (with two cats, a garbage bags of clothes, one litter box, a bed pillow, a giant suitcase, and her favorite tunes) from the apartment while Mr. 'Why do I have to brush my teeth every day or clean up after myself or help you with anything and please stop whining about needing time with me' snores another day away.
(True to my own sense of right, I left the engagement ring behind.)

He wasn't cruel. He wasn't nasty. He was just enough for himself and used to it.

I was quite happy to find myself laughing with another woman on Tuesday about all the just not fun things I will never, ever miss. (like standing in the rain or freezing cold watching him sit in the drivers' seat and fiddle, hoping he unlocks the dad-blasted passenger side before I float away or catch my death; or having to ask him several times a week, Could you please take a shower today and maybe brush your teeth before bed? because your morning breath floats down to me at 6AM and let me tell you buddy that two-day old unbrushed shit would wake Rumpelstiltskin.)

(Addendum: I feel guilty and mean after typing this, as if this post were the entire truth, and the tone of it the entire me. The point of this piece is the joy I did feel to remember the reasons I left and all things about us that did not work.
I sing his praises, I trash him a little. I leave out that I also tried very, very hard.)