Dark-n-Glossy

I had this idea that I wanted to go dark brunette. Don't ask why, only that when girls want a change, they change their hair.

I went to the hairdresser and did a whole semi-permanent color. The hairdresser and I both looked glum by the time she started drying it. Too light.

I got back in the chair and she whipped up a new batch. A dark batch. And then she let me sit a good long while with my hair in a soupy mix.

I've got the more dramatic look I wanted: dark eyes and hair, fair skin. It's good, no?

Fuck You, 2006.

Even through its last days, 2006 is determined to Yankee Swap me a big bag of poo. I had one nice thing this week, a massage, and I had to cancel it today so that my husband and I get to mediation with the lawyer.

I mean, come on.

Nevermind that I had to spend the last five days with my ridiculous mother-in-law and my lackidaisical sister-in-law. Nevermind that the house remains a mess and I'm the only one who will deal with it. Nevermind that my ass has gotten fat from pie.

I just wanted to get touched. I knew that would help.

I'm not asking for much, not even for someone to pull my skirt up and get a feel of my ass. Not even for someone to pull my hair aside and kiss my neck. Not even asking for someone to bury his face between my breasts, or legs.

I know those are big things to ask for, to want, to expect. I just wanted to get halfway there today, to space out and relax, feeling someone else's hands rub the stress and sadness out of my muscles.

There are four days left. Maybe 2006 will throw me a bone yet.

Christmas.

Folks, for those of you looking for something interesting to read, I got nothin' for yuz. I have a houseful of the husband's family, a toddler, all the cooking, and a mother-in-law who can't stop burning pies.

The best part of today was a mid-morning nap wrapped up with some self-love focused on three characters: me, a boy, and the Toys of Babeland.

Am I allowed to write that, much less do that, on Christmas?

Not In The Mood.

I'm not in the mood to deal with my son (oh yeah, honeymoon over).
I'm not in the mood to go to the grocery store.
I'm not in the mood to change the sheets.
I'm not in the mood to clean the house.
I'm not in the mood to work all day tomorrow.
I'm not in the mood to shop.
I'm not in the mood to wrap.
I'm not in the mood to do much other than drink 'nogg and stare at the Xmas tree.

So fuck it. That's what I'm going to do.

Up All Night?

It's late and the thing I should do is do the bedtime ritual and go to bed. It's 11pm and I've had two glasses of bourbon and therefore not sleepy. No sir. Couldn't sleep if I wanted to. Could probably rally to do something else, though . . .

Misc.

My son and I are having this total love affair these days. He wants to kiss and hug again and again. We're all lovey-dovey. "Mommy . . . I love you" volunteered just because. Considering he's 3.5, I better enjoy it while I can.
___________

Is it gross to hear my husband flush the toilet while using the electric toothbrush? Is this a guy thing -- brushing and peeing at the same time? Ick. This is also a man who tries to justify not washing his hands after using the bathroom because he 'only uses two fingers to hold himself, and they don't get peed on!' Just watch, the next guy I date will be some hypochondriac hand-washing OCD stockbroker.
___________

God, I miss kissing. There's the first contact, lips touching, and then the inevitable pull toward each other as it deepens. . .you grab his coat lapel, he cups the side of your face. . . and then you both tighten your grip. You can hear him lightly groan, and he hears you gasp or an escaped whimper. You alternately think 'Oh I could do this forever' and 'Please O please fuck me soon.'

That is, if the kiss is any good.

Saturday Night and I'm OK.

I spent the day working, which I love. Lots of people out there buying wine and cheese for parties.

But it feels as though every damn person on the planet, including my husband, is at a Christmas party tonight.

But hey! Guess what! This is another growth opportunity to acclimate myself to a new life, where I'm not always out and having fun and even, gasp, feeling alone (but not lonely, not yet).

Also, the hit counter jumped past 100,000 in the last day or so. To celebrate, here is a spontaneous photo.
___
OK I just posted the above five minutes ago and I need to come back and edit it. Really, this whole Bravery thing feels worn thin, er, worn bald like a bad radial tire. I was at work helping what I thought was an adorable gay couple with their purchases. We talked about the stuff in the store and what would be good for the party, and I distinctly thought, 'wait, are they flirting with me?' Can they do that? Well, yes, actually. I'm not wearing a wedding ring anymore.

And this completely unnerves me, as first mentioned in a post about a month ago about my male friends touching me and how it feels suddenly strange. Friendly? Sexual?

I was out with some of these friends a few weeks back, and on our way home, we stopped in at an ordinary bar. My friend left me at the bar for about ten minutes, and old memories came flooding back. Oh right: Guys don't hit on me. I'd like to think it's because of my intimidating beauty, but closer to the truth would be the way I carry myself: Don't approach me. Time and again I've been told that I have a stand-offish manner with strangers and project a kind of cool judgement. It's not untrue; I usually do size people up pretty quick, and most of them are wearing the wrong shoes.

I'm not a grinning bimbo at the bar. I don't want to meet everyone there, but should we begin to talk, I can hold a good conversation with even a four foot pile of drywall.

The hypocritical piece of all of it is that although I often dread male attention, when I don't get it I miss it. I want to be wanted but only so far. I don't want to have to reject or make choices or take risks. I want the flirty fun and the admiration, but no obligation.

But then again, who wants never to be touched or wanted or desired? I'd like the hot and sweaty stuff too, just not the requirements of negotiating toward or away from it. I'd like to jump into someone's bed with whom I automatically feel intimate and safe, do all the bendy stretchy spanky bits, then jump back out, toodle-oo! An impossibility.

Oh right. Plus I'm celibate for the near future. OK. Done. There's my answer.

You Didn't Ask.

My husband and I are in separate bedrooms. We started mediation last week with an attorney we both like and think will get us through this separation moderately intact and with our asses as unviolated as possible (or, I should say, as preferred under these specifically unerotic circumstances).

I felt itchy and funny earlier this week so I took off my wedding ring. As an experiment, not long-term. We had figured we would talk about it sometime. I never bothered to put it back on and yesterday I noticed that my husband had taken his off too, I thought in response to me. Goddammit it actually bothered me, brought up sadness and loneliness, duh, as another landmark in this uncoupling (that's a $111.97 therapy word for you all). When we finally talked last night I said 'hey I didn't take off my wedding ring as some kind of mandate about wearing our wedding rings.' And he said 'well I only just noticed you took yours off. I took mine off because it seemed time.'

"Oh. OK. Great. I'm glad we're in such fucking accord and this is so clearly not breaking your heart. No, that's fine." says Idiotic Pride, "but I am a FUCKING CATCH! Do you mean to say..." Humph. Huff. "...that you don't want to be with me as much as I don't want to be with you?"

I crack me up. I am an insane person.

**Currently I am enjoying the palliative effects of ginger ale and The Smithereens.**

Whew.

Ok I'm just going to recommend first off that all of you get a flu shot because you do not want to get hit with what's going around.

It spanked me hard and not in a good 'yeah baby' kind of way. Two days of pukin', chills, aches, sweating, stomach cramps, dry mouth. . .you get the idea.

On the upside, you should check out Radiolab.org at wnyc. It's a good show.

If I was smart, I'd cancel my haircut appointment today. But since I'm vain, I probably won't.

The Worst Thing In The World.

Throwing up.

HNT: Fashion Victim

Most of the time I dress pretty normally for a stay-at-home mom. Wool trousers, blouse or sweater. I generally buy Banana Republic.

Yesterday I went to the thrift store to consign a bag, and looked through the clothes. I found a sweater and a skirt that belong to My New Life, which is actually closer to who I am than this Current Life.

Today I wore the sweater and a different skirt and a pair of Wellingtons for the rain. I felt as though I looked exactly like myself: funk prep.

Shirts Worn By Men I Won't Fuck

Going back to a conversation I had with my Not My Boyfriend**:

If you were in a bar, and single, which t-shirts would totally turn you off?

I will not ever ever fuck you if you are wearing a Bush/Cheney shirt.
I will not ever ever fuck you if you are wearing a Joe Lieberman t-shirt. Probably, in fact, I will shoot you in the face, as you are an underling of the undead and probably undead yourself.
I will not fuck you if you are wearing a Howard Stern t-shirt.
I will not fuck you if you are wearing a 'Free Mumia' t-shirt.
I will not fuck you if you are wearing a sports team jersey.
I might fuck you if you are wearing a 'The sports team from my region is superior to the sports team from your region' t-shirt.
I will not fuck you if you are wearing a Budweiser t-shirt.
I will fuck you if you are wearing a Natty Bo or PBR t-shirt.
I will not fuck you if you are wearing a 'Remember 9/11' t-shirt.
I will not fuck you if you are wearing an eagle with American flag t-shirt.
I will fuck you if you are wearing an eagle, American flag, rose, and Virgin Mary t-shirt.
I will fuck you if you are wearing a t-shirt with a superhero except Superman, Robin, or Plasticman.
You will fuck me hard if you are wearing a t-shirt with an Alan Moore character on it.

And if you are wearing a t-shirt with Underdog, Magilla Gorilla, or Ironman on it, I will fuck you twice.

** You should all know that my Not My Boyfriend gives Double-Bacon-Genius-Burger birthday gifts. Thanks.**

Right Now.

What would I go for. . . .

No foreplay meal. Food and wine makes me sluggish so I'd say right now I'm not hungry so I'll pass on eating together as seduction. Except oysters! Scratch all that. I'd go for a dozen oysters!!

OK so we have some oysters. Good. Now what? Mmmmmm, how about some music? Yes! I've got it! We'll listen to records on the livingroom floor -- old Phoebe Snow and Jim Croce. Then, um, you start to undress me? Maybe we wrestle. Ack, no not this time. Oh! I'm wearing a skirt with tights and you start sliding your hand up my leg while we're talking. You don't break the thread of conversation as you slowly tickle the taut fabric between my legs. That's good, I like that. Then, er, wait. Is this kinky enough? What's going to be the thing about this time that will keep you returning to the thought of it? What's the hook here?

Do you rip my tights? Nah, too frisky. This is a more relaxed vibe. Do we need a prop like a camera or a mirror? Let me think for a minute. . . . . ..

Well fine maybe I'm not in the mood for some crazy, kinky scene.

In fact. . .

What I'm more thinking of is the opposite. I'll tell you that it's been a while, intentionally. I've held myself off the market and am feeling a bit shy and reserved, now that it comes to it. I'll ask you to lead me into it, to be my guide back to myself and that part of me. You're a little unnerved -- pressured? -- at having to step up a little more. But as I've been telling you this, we're still kissing and your hand is still under my skirt. I think we're facing each other.

As you begin to ply me with your hands and mouth, you'll feel my body open to you, albeit slowly. Your tongue tickles my ear a little but not too much before you go for my neck. A girl can't be a virgin twice, but this will have the same feeling: I'm uncertain and reserved but wanting help in pushing past that into the scheming, bold, red molten hot center of myself.

So you patiently undress me, waiting until you sense my impatience, my readiness for the next step. You'll test your own will by going slower than you need so as to give the animal urge in me room to step forward toward you. You become almost demure in your kisses so that I will push my face forward for more. Your hands retreat so I'll grab them back to me. Oh I forgot to mention this all goes out the door at the point that you get to see my breasts. They overwhelm you. They floor you. You revel in them.

Hmmm, where are we at this point? probably still on the livingroom floor, but I want us to move. The Oriental rug will hurt my knees. I'm going to say that we get ourselves red-faced and grinding on the carpet, I've loosened up and clutching for more, and then you say 'OK dear, enough of this. Come to bed.' And you lead me to wherever that is.

Do I need to go on? Or can you take it from here?

One Year.

Today is the one-year anniversary of this blog.

I'm not making a big deal about this, but I want to send out a heartfelt thanks to all of you for reading along and tuning in.

I Can't Tell.

So about this celibacy thing:

True, choosing whether or not to get hot and sweaty with someone isn't really too much of an issue right now. I'm still living with my husband, after all. It's a fairly lonely experience to sleep alone in the same house with someone you've been with for ten years, so when I fall asleep, I console myself with fantasies and memories.

Yet I wonder if I'm doing myself a disservice, cancelling out the benefits of celibacy, namely, self-reliance. Do escapist fantasies keep me from tuning in to and accepting loneliness? As in, if I really wanted to get full value out of this, would I be disciplining my mind as well? What a tall order it would be to not only isolate myself physically but also mentally. Isn't that our nature -- to crave connection?

Where are the inappropriate boundaries of where I let my mind go, of what I think of and with whom I do it? My erotic essential nature wants to be recognized even if it is currently untapped. Even if you don't drive your car for few months, you should go out and start it and let it run just to keep it charged. There are pieces of me that I don't want to forget, or even worse, deny.

So I'm going to crawl into bed and remember a late night, my lover's body in the light of a single candle, and his sweet and tender care.

Quickie.

This week I've considered and accepted another job, celebrated my husband's and my birthdays, started mediation, worked, yoga-ed, taken care of my son. I'm tired. That's why I'm out of touch. Falling. . .down. . . .. . .now.

Me, The Insane Person.

At 4:45 today I was leaning on my car and breathing deeply. My son clambored around the passenger compartment, yelling and weeping. I had shut him in there.

When we left his school, he demanded to go to a restaurant for dinner. I said no, so he refused to walk any further. I picked him up and carried him. When we got to the car, he threw another tantrum, screaming that he wanted to go back and try walking nicely. By this point the only safe thing I could do was to get him in the car and shut the door so I wouldn't hurt him.

Then I'm stuck there feeling completely unbalanced, and humorless. That's just not me. And that is the problem with motherhood: not the tantrums or the weeping or the sleeplessness, but that at time I feel like an entirely different person.

I've recently started a job with incredibly cool women (hip glasses, clogs). None of them have kids. I don't think this is a coincidence. Either they are cool so they didn't choose motherhood, or they didn't choose motherhood and are therefore still cool. I'm getting back to that center of being my irreverent, testy, fun self, but moments like these, bracing myself to turn around and deal with the tempest in the car, I feel it all slough away and it's just me, the insane person.


**I got him out of the car, let him walk nicely along the sidewalk, and helped him back to his carseat.

Oh, It's Hilarious.

For the last hour I've been moving closets so that my stuff is actually here in my new bedroom and all the crap from this closet is in my old one in the bedroom. So I'm carting stuff back and forth, finally realizing at trip number 5 that I should be carrying stuff in both directions. An efficiency-of-motion expert I am not, clearly. That said, I am still careful about how I soap up in the shower (down one side up the other); sadly, I am not kidding.

But I digress!

I was on the closet floor trying to prop up some pictures, which kept getting tangled up in the clothes hanging from the rod above. Like dresses and stuff. In particular: my wedding veil. It's like fighting a spider web. Everytime I put something in the closet, somehow that veil got tangled in the fray.

"OK!" I finally yelled. "I get it! I get the irony!!!!"

No more problems. But it is continuing to be a talking-out-loud kind of day, which is generally a sign of a good, silly mood.

Rub Me.

I'd like to give you a little somethin sexy, to perk up your mind.

Who am I kidding? I'd like to feel a little somethin sexy. But I don't. I'm working, driving the boy around, moving furniture, raking leaves . . .

. . .I'm tired!

What I'd really like is the command 'Come with me into the bedroom.' I'd obey. You'd say 'Undress please.' I would. 'Lie down please.' I'm prone. You'd straddle my back and massage the tired, aching, fucking weary muscles of my back with your strong, lithe hands. My thoughts would wander. I'd stare into space.

Kind of like now with me and the computer screen. Tired.

Going to bed, thinking about that massage.

Not So Bad.

Last night I slept in this little room by myself. I've got books, a desk, a dresser, a bed, my computer, and pictures of my family. Plus the wireless gizmo and the file cabinet.

Anxiety and strange noises conspired to keep me awake; I'm completely unaccustomed to how regular sounds resonante in here. Well I finally drifted off, I had terrible nightmares, obvious manifestations of my anxieties. I awoke feeling desperate to change the space around. Didn't happen. Instead, I'm beginning to see small advantages to being in here.

It's the warmest bedroom. It's quiet. The windows catch lovely morning light. I can listen to iTunes as I get ready, or anytime, really. I can write whenever I like without my husband keeping tabs, tapping his foot. And I smartened up today and retrieved my box of sex toys from the other bedroom. Sure, it's small in here, but as a friend recommended, I'll just think of it as my little spaceship.

Also, I don't have to spend another tense night in bed with my husband. I mean, maybe I'll crash in his room when his family comes to visit for Christmas, but that's it. And there's no denying that the last time we had sex was, in fact, the last time. What a relief.

Today's Change.

Last night my husband and I enjoyed gourmet cheeses and pate while we watched Bergman.

haha

The cheese and pate is right, but really we watched. . .wait for it. . .Caddyshack.

That movie always cheers me up. One word: Spaulding. It also has the only movie quote I know by heart:
So I says to the llama, 'How about a little somethin', you know, for the effort. The llama says 'There will be no money, but on your deathbed, when you die, you will achieve total consciousness.' So I got that going for me. Which is nice.'

I slept long and hard, something I needed. Today brought a big change: I moved out of the bedroom and into the office. The furniture configuration is a bit wacky now, but everything but the closet is moved, and I have a nice tidily-made bed right next to me as I type. In fact, I'm going to get my book, stir the homemade Marcella Hazan Bolognese on the stove, and come back up to read before I go play music with my friends.

Everything is ok. **



**Well, still celebate while muddling through the end of my marriage. That kind of ok.

The New Way

Welcome to December 1, 2006.

I've decided to make a pledge of celibacy for a little while.

I've been thinking about it for about a week now, relevant to what decisions and instincts will best serve me in the upcoming months. I'm facing the dissolution of my marriage and the creation of a new life. How, therefore, do I stay focused? It would be easy and fun to distract myself with the tumult of a sexual relationship. Wouldn't it be convenient to forget all the stuff I was suppposed to be dealing with? Ooooo the intrigue - such an exciting charge, a buzz to enliven my heart and body. I'd love to feel Something Else.

But I have too much to do and learn.

I have a lot of faith in myself, but not enough to trust my decisions about sex. If I chose to take a lover, I'd like to think I'd be doing it for the right reasons, but I think I'd secretly, or unconsciously be looking to fill a need or save me in a way that no one but I can. The depths of loneliness and sadness will be painful, but I need to go there and get myself back out again.

And it's also time to embrace humility, to admit that there's a lot I've done as a disservice to myself that I don't want to repeat.

So that's the deal for the next few months.

Awesome!