Stuck?

I wonder if I'm stuck now. When I sit still and try to be present with how I feel, it's not good. I don't know what the future brings, but right now I only want to stop asking 'What should I do with my life?' I want to have that figured out to the degree that I can stop thinking about it.

I'd like to have a meaningful job. I'd like a little house with an overgrown garden. I'd like to have friends who come over to eat Jiffy Pop and listen to old records and drink beer. That feels like the extent of what I'd like for myself.

The stuck part? I'm on anti-depressants. I go to individual and couples therapy every week. Nothing is really getting better. Essentially. Yes, we communicate better. Yes, I sleep. But I have so little ability to find joy in life. I'm tired of ekeing it out of a generally lusterless experience.

Are my expectations too high? Am I looking to feel more thrilled than everyday life warrants? Or is my life inherently dull? Would anyone in my position feel under-stimulated? You know, maybe it Isn't Just Me. I need more going on, but barely feel capable of handling what I currently have.

Most days I know how the day will proceed. Today it's a trip to the pool and packing for vacation. The pool will be fun. Tonight: a concert and a drink in good company.

Here we go.

HNT: Right Now

This is me at 10:29am on Thursday morning. I took the photo and am now posting it. I haven't gotten up from this chair. The whole while I have listening to the Breeders on iTunes. This is right now.

TGI almost F.

Houseguests left this morning. There are beds to strip, towels to wash, and order to restore all while juggling the Boy.

And the fun part will have to wait; the digital camera needs to charge.

What a week.

Pretty Damn Clear.

Long story short: yesterday I got a phone call that led me to speculate that my husband had forgotten to pass an important message on to me. As I drove along, I began to foam at the mouth. If he had forgotten to pass it on to me, that was it. The last straw. I was done. I was out. I was not going to forgive this one.

And I felt palpable relief and happiness at the prospect. I would finally have the excuse I needed. As it stands right now, if I left I'd have to leave for my own reasons, not because of his behavior. Do you know what a burden that is?

Anyway, it turned out I was not going to get the easy out. He had never gotten the phone call at all; he was off the hook.

This time it was palable disappointment.

That's a pretty clear definition of how things are going, isn't it?

So my question to you is, how much cash do I need in hand before I walk out the door? Throw me some figures, folks.

Wasted Youth.

At the local pool there are the members and there are the lifeguards.

The members are thirty-something parents, children in tow. The women wear bathing suits that cover their tummies. Stretch marks and spider veins mar every leg. Too much beer drinking by the men, clearly. We have puffy middles and loose skin. One has crow's feet from the sun; another has a permanent 'I worry' crease on his forehead.

The lifeguards are, on average, fifteen years old. Fit and tan are their trademark descriptors. Their skin is impossibly smooth. Where are the weird hairs?

There are two lying next to each other on chaise chairs. A boy and a girl. I think they're together but it isn't blatent. My mind wanders to when they're alone on his parent's couch. Their beautiful bodies close to one another, unbridled stamina and lust filling their hearts...and they have no idea what is going on. He is as clumsy as she is. Um, er, uh....So clueless.

I'd rather have my lumpy bod and the brain and experience that go with it. I'd rather have his body, scars and all, and the brain that's wondering which lustful, fearless, hilarious, and unhinged way it's going to go this time. And when we meet as two gorgeous animals...

Oh those poor kids.

Style of the Dead.

We went to Ikea yesterday. It made me want to Start Over. Ditch the furniture and the books, the art, the rugs.

Have my own space. Pick out things that I like without regard to anyone else's feelings. Since living with my husband, everything is a mix of what we both like. But you know, I just really don't want to find space for his velvet Elvis-impersonator painting.

When my mother died, I kept a bit of her furniture, mostly family pieces. They are absolutely not my taste: Victorian antiquey things like fragile caned chairs. Slowly I've been able to sell them. It's not out of a sense of love for her anymore as it is an obligation to my entire family. They're Family Pieces. No, no one else wants them but I'm not entitled to get rid of them. I keep inheriting the Style of the Dead. It's my mother's taste, her grandmother's taste that reigns around here. Plus now the damned velvet Elvis.

Ah, my very own space. Sounds like heaven.

A Confession.

It's happening again.

The sinking stomach.

The clenched teeth.

The whine in my head.

Do Me Queen is here again.

Only this time, it's electronic.

I want every reader to like me best.

I want every blogger to want me most.

I don't want my readers commenting elsewhere.

Certainly not flirting!

My gut rises every time I read about two blogger friends talking without me.

What is that?

For one, I barely have time to blog daily and check out my favorites. How in the hell could I constantly email or IM?

And gosh, could I just be a little less insecure please? I mean really.

Here's that whole self-esteem issue my therapist and I talk about.

So you know what? All of you can have your friendships and chats and other blog loves. I'll be all zen about it. I'm going to chill the fuck out and say hey! glad you're connecting out there.

Just like me best, 'kay?

That's Lady Wry to You, Stableboy.

I'm awake, unable to sleep even after half a sleeping pill. I've been headachey all day thanks to a bonk to the nose by my son's skull. I feel fat and puffy. All I taste is garlic. I now have three days of my son and husband home with me.

And what I want is to magically walk out of this room, away from the computer, and find something new. I want a big empty bed waiting for me; queen size would do. Crisp linens would drape to the floor. There would be my choice of six downy pillows.

I'd spread across the mattress diagonally. My pillows would be arranged all around me to drape an arm or a shoulder over. The sheets would always cool to the touch. I'd stretch in every direction, then relax sublimely akimbo.

I'd have peaceful dreams free of overdue reports about dinosaurs, flaming pies, or murderous cartoonists*.

No one would wake me in the morning. I'd sleep fully until I slowly stirred myself awake.

Oh sure, what the hell, I'd ring down to the kitchen for a decaf cappuccino (this is my fantasy, after all). Eventually my child, dressed and fed, would appear at my bedside.

I think I've just fantasized myself back into an 18th century British manorhouse. Oh the naughty stable boys! Oh the masked balls!

Great, I'm never getting to sleep now. Thanks a lot, Brainiac.

*actual elements in recent dreams.

HNT: All Wet.

Imagine my surprise to see the photo at AAG today. Well, not very surprising at all considering the long long washdown we took together, right after our pillow fight.

Get lathered up with us here.

Getting Towed.

Here's what I saw at Dairy Queen: a big ol' tow truck pulled up, and out hopped a young couple. I could see the big bench seat; it was a large cab and kind of high off the ground.

The couple ran through the rain into DQ. A few minutes later, they ran back with cones in their hands. And my mind began to clatter along its little perverse and lewd track...

High up in the cab of that truck, parked in some deserted cul-de-sac...the engine off, the sound off rain on the roof...no one can see in...eating ice cream and listening to Cheap Trick on the radio...letting him lay me down on the long bench seat...feeling my thighs stick to the plastic as he tries to hike my skirt up...his weight heavy on me and unable to move...the taste of cream on his tongue...our sweaty breath steaming up the windows...he slides my panties to the side so he can finger me...unbuttoning his shorts and pushing them down...he braces his feet against his door, sneakers still on...thrusting inside me without ceremony...my foot braced in the spokes of the steering wheel...the air thick until I crack the window behind my head...the truck rocking slowly to our fucking......

Whose bright idea was it to put bucket seats everywhere? Sadist.

Partly Cloudy

Perhaps this is revealing too much, but my mom once had a friend named Sarah Partly Cloudy. I mean, what the hell, it was the 70's and all sorts of crazy shit was going on.

Today I feel like Wry, Partly Fuzzy. I'm trying to jump-start myself right now by sitting outside on the patio, writing, and drinking an Arnold Palmer. I took my son to a movie this morning and sat too close. Yesterday I backed into another car in a parking lot and today must frequent the fifth Circle of Hell: Car Insurance. See what I mean? No wonder my head pounds.

I wish I had something funny, sexy, silly in mind to post. I look around though, and all I see is the dirty lawn furniture and earwigs. A blue sky with big fluffy white clouds. Ants. Whithered flower buds. Just kind of tapped out on finding the joy in life. Mostly it feels like a chore.

This is it, the split that so often confounds me. The world of last Sunday feels completely foreign today. Where was I? What did I do? It doesn't feel like the same life. I don't feel like the same person. The difference resonates like a schizophrenic break in my mind.

But wait, isn't the whole point of all this therapy and the month-long sobriety to begin reconciling these two separate ideas of myself? I am the same person, and either consciously or not, I choose to segregate different aspects of myself at different times.

As a friend once reminded me, that unhinged, powerful self is only ever dormant, waiting to be summoned. What I sometimes construct as an East German cinderblock wall is actually more like a curtain, billowing and parting. Ha that's the idea at least. Maybe more like shutters these days. Hopefully that's progress.

Well my drink is about done and I'm about talked out. Less dazed, less achey. Party sunny.

Just watch. Those insurance guys are about to call.

Aaaaaargh!

I was at the Dairy Queen today and didn't even think to take a picture. DPQ at DQ...get it?...get it?...

...*sigh*

I'm a goof.

Report.

The best part was the demonic, squealing, gleeful laughter.

I got unhinged.

Ce week-end.

A son's birthday and Father's Day blitz around here. Not really thinking much except of to-do lists and hosting guests.

Tomorrow? The same.

Except for tomorrow night.

A little extra attention to myself, then, is warranted. A pedicure, a long shower, plenty of lotion. I wish I had a new dress to wear, something flowing, relaxed, and summery. Well I'll pull something together. Pretty underwear, some perfume.

I'll certainly have a glow to my cheek.

State of the Union: Harumph.

So I'm in bed tonight, stretching, relaxing. The husband just said goodnight and went back downstairs. And I start thinking. Here I am in bed, and he has chosen to go back downstairs to build a house out of Legos. I kid you not.

Well then I start to think would Most People make the same choice? I can imagine, instead, a person lifting the sheet and sliding himself across my body.

But my husband wouldn't do that. Of course he wouldn't. We've got almost 10 years of history between us; the baggage of frustration, anger, grief, and disappointment will trump simple desire every time. In our marriage, at least.

I lay there feeling sad about this circumstance but not judging his decision to be downstairs, nor mine for not asking him to return. Just mourning the state of things, I guess, and the inevitable decline.

Maybe lots of other long-term couples can push the stuff out of their minds and simply connect as sweaty, gorgeous animals. I'd like to think so. That would be hot.

Bad Verse.

O Home Depot Kid,
who loads my mulch
hot in the midday sun.

O Home Depot Kid,
why don't you lifeguard,
graduate from college?

O Home Depot Kid,
the last wasted hour
can't find the plywood guy.

O Home Depot Kid,
why can I never find a fucking salesman anywhere much less one who knows what the fuck he's talking about in this God-forsaken store amid all the crap?

But you almost make it worth it.

HNT: Facial.

No, you pervs. Not that kind of facial. Thought I'd give you a taste of something above the shoulders.

Join the club here.

Role-Play.

You are the Upstart Competitor; I am the Boss's Daughter.

You are the Lawn Boy; I am the Desperate Housewife.

You are the #1 Ski Instructor; I am Fiesty #2.

You are the Science Teacher; I am the Virgin Ninth Grader.

You are Anakin; I am Amadala.

You are Darth Vader; I am Amadala.

You are Chewbacca; I am an Ewok.

I am a World-Renowned Concert Violinist; You are the Lost Romanian Lover.

I am the Sassy Saloon Owner; You are the Stern but Fair Marshall.

You are a Mexican Apple Thief; I am the Amish Farmer's Daughter.

You are the Rock Star; I am the Groupie.

You are the Pastor; I am One of the Flock.

I am the Bartender; You are the Big Spender.

You are the Millionaire; I am the High-Priced Call Girl.

You are the Sailor; I am the Nurse.

You are the Sailor; I am the Sailor.

I am the Blind Virgin; You are the Midnight Intruder.

You are the Dyslexic Mime; I am the Alcoholic Clown.

You are the Autistic Gardener; I am the Blowsy Heiress.

You are a Demonic Robot; I am Julie Christie.

You are a Robot; I am a Monkey.

You are a Monkey; I am a Monkey.

You are an Animal; I am an Animal.

Let's role-play.

Now.

I want a big fat juicy orgasm. I want to seek it and find it. I want that molten throb through my body. The electric zap from my spine out through my limbs. I want to feel my scalp tingle and my eyes rolls back in my head. I want my vision to sear black. I want to see stars. I want my cunt to seize and buck and writhe and shimmy around his hot driving cock/tongue/hand/whatever. Oh the mounting thrill as it builds and I lose even autonomic function. My throat seizes; I can't breathe. I lose all conscious thought as I grab him into me, hungrily devouring him, using him, my body flailing, my mouth in a snarl of selfish satisfaction. Underlying panic that it will elude me, and the grateful swirling relief when the wave catches me and pulls me under, filling my ears, my head as my body is churned and carried by the current. I want to gasp and land, washed up, on the shore. I want to grind against him to catch the last few extra throbs. I want to make my body do that thing that it can, not just to walk, to reach, to step, to sit, to eat, to carry. My body can do this thing; I want to make it happen. I want it to happen now.

Off.

I haven't been posting much, and when I sit down to write, I go a bit blank.

I feel off.

It could be depression, my old pal, slipping a warm arm around my waist and drawing me near again.

It could be loneliness.

Perhaps, most likely of all, it's exhaustion. I visit the therapist on my own once a week, and my husband and I go as a couple once a week. Being in my head, processing, tires me out. There's also the strain of an uncertain future, of wondering if, or rather how, my marriage will end. Can I take the time from being a mom and a domestic goddess to sit and recharge? Ha. What a laugh.

Here's what I'd like. I'd like at least a night away. It would be in the country. I could lie on the couch and not talk to anyone. I could stare at the fire. I could take a midnight swim. I'd like to feel someone else's hands touch me with something like wonder at the opportunity. I'd let my guard down and not worry about what I was or wasn't feeling.

In the morning, nothing but lazy coffee and the paper. Or not even. Just music. Maybe more sleep. Hell, I could stay in bed until noon, just rolling around and snoozing.

It's a tall order, I know.

I'll start with picking up a book right now and escaping into that.

HNT: Quick and Dirty

Some interesting goings on, so here's a quick picture while I had the chance.

To join the party, go here.

Tied Up.

Everything seems the same these days...so little to excite or thrill me. Last week I went on a large inflated slide with my son -- the kind that immediately drops out from under you. I sat at the top and felt my stomach in my throat. There was the electric thrill of 'am I going to do this?,' the shallow breaths, the tingling scalp. Then I gleefully sailed down.

And I thought of a past moment when I felt the same rush.

He and I had done some negotiating about it. What would I like? What had he been imagining? What did we both expect? The conversation stopped with an awkward pause. It was time to get to it. He gave me a little 'let's move it along, sweetheart' swat on the bum so I walked ahead of him to the house.

"Go out on the deck," he commanded. I stood still in shock. What? I thought we were headed to bed. Outside? He nodded his head 'yes' to my raised eyebrows. My skin crawled. I walked out.

He threaded a long nylon tether behind the porch railing and through the slats. To each end he attached a cuff. He looked me fully in the face. "Ready?"

My scalp tingled. My stomach dropped into my shoes and I began to sweat. Was I really going to do this? Was this my new thing? And with him? Did I trust him to love me and hurt me at the same time? Could I ask that of him -- to intentionally inflict pain? Could I take it? Is this, now that the moment is here, what I really wanted?...

I bent forward on the railing. To reach the cuffs, my arms were about four feet apart, almost fully extended. I could hold myself up, but barely.

"Spread your legs about shoulder width apart."

I did it.

He tied a blue bandana around my eyes. I could see my own nose, that's all. I felt the warm sun on my head and him behind me, lurking. Slowly he raised my skirt and gathered it around my waist, immediately and profoundly exposing me. I couldn't move. I couldn't see. I felt his eyes crawl over my ass, taking posession of it without touching me. Waiting, wondering, trembling. I felt a finger slide down my thigh. His palm slid tenderly over my right cheek, a caress. His touch withdrew.

I waited. There was a whiff of breeze on my ass and I tensed, braced myself. No strike landed. Every nerve jangled. Where is he where is he? I asked.

Then the first swat. Open-palmed. No real sting. I laughed with relief, but not because it didn't hurt. Because it had started.

He pushed my tank top up over my breasts and undid my bra. He grabbed my ponytail with one hand and held on.

Left cheek, a little harder. A tender stroke down the crack of my ass, then a real whack in the middle. "OW!" I said indignantly. My arms bore down on the railing. My breath quickened. A soft pat on the right. A swat on the left. Another whack! "OW!" very annoyed. Two slaps, one on each side.

Finally he broke his silence. His voice slid cooly down my back, calming me down, bringing me back. Here he was. It was him. I was safe. "Your bottom is pink, dear," he said. I nodded. I bet.

He smacked my ass, right, left. The whacks in the middle hurt the most, and I always cried out.

He bit my neck and I moaned. He sweetly stroked my reddened cheeks. His touch was charged; I wondered at the tenderness of it. I craved it. A whisper in my ear lit the backs of my eyes like stars.

"We're going to do a count," he said, "How many can you take?"

I paused. If I said fewer, would he hit harder? Was it grandstanding to say I could take more? "Ten," I offered.

"Ok. You count."

Smack! "One."

Pat. "Two."

Whack! "OW! Three." Through gritted teeth.

Smack. "Four." Breathing again.

Pat Pat. "Five Six." Easy.

Smack! "Seven." Burning now.

Whack! "OW!" Panting. "Eight."

Smack. "Nine." My arms almost buckle.

He then whispered into my ear: "Ten."

My blindfold had ridden up. I could see so I closed my eyes.

He caressed my tender ass. My arms ached. I felt him come behind me and the soft brush of his bare skin. His hard cock probed for and found my hot wet hole. He thrust inside. Oh the sweet sublime pleasure. Every nerve fired. He began to stroke in and out of me as I moaned and gasped. My cunt slurped noisily with our juice.

My arms are almost giving out. The sun is hot on my head now. My ass tingles. Don't stop don't stop the ride the pain the pulse into me.

He stopped and slid out. He unhooked my wrists. I moaned in frustration.

"Go upstairs."

I went.

The Big Picture

I've been thinking about what all of us out here are saying. That is, those of us expressing such discontent with our lives.

I sometimes feel chastened by those who have greater problems than I. Here is the deal with my husband: he's a good, kind man who loves me. He's an involved father. He makes messes but does housework. He works everyday. He'd like our sex life to be better (that is, to exist). He goes to therapy with me.

I really struggle with the guilt of what I don't feel toward him. I should be happy. What, exactly, is my problem?

Well, the same problem with AAG.
And the same with Passionate Man.
Artful Dodger, Lady L, Desperate Husband...
etc etc etc.

Whether it's a lackluster sex life or Hell's Kitchen, we don't feel connected to the person we're married to.

We speak, but are not heard. For me, it's a lack of emotional empathy between my husband and I. I don't think he sees who I truly am anymore. But for others, it's more tangible. 'I need clean dishes.' 'I want good sex.' How can you feel intimate with someone when they can't respond to the simple stuff?


It's late. My brain is dead. That's the crux of what I wanted to say, anyway.

Prom King of the Week: Artful Dodger

Here's to our guy Artful for always offering a creative hand and sage advice. Photo editor, web designer, fiction writer...he's always got something going on.