Lighter side! Things in your apartment that send single girls running OUT the door!

  Being an Internet/Information junkie I love it when I stumble upon  a new site. Especially when it’s a relationship site.  Not only would I love  to write for one, but I find them to be great inspiration.  Kind of like Sex in the City in web page form.  I recently found  one such site http://www.howaboutwe.com . This may be my new guilty pleasure; especially when I come upon lists . You could call it “10 things about  cat burglars” ( found recently on www.mentalfloss.com )  I want to know those 10 things.  This particular list : “10 things that should never be in a  Ladies bedroom” along with  “10 things in  a dude’s room” http://www.howaboutwe.com/date-report/1119-10-things-ladies-shouldn-t-have-in-their-bedrooms   It  made me remember my  single days. These were on my list of “ewwwws”.

• Old Big Gulp cups, Pt 1. I once dated a guy who would fill one up and drink it for 2 days. I still shudder .
• Old Big Gulp cups, Pt 2. I hate it  if I ask for a drink of water and I am served in a take out /convenience store cup. Real grown ups have real glass ware.
• The pile of laundry in the corner.  It’s the weekend. you were hoping to get lucky. Me too. That’s why I cleaned my place. You never know.
• Empty alcohol bottles /Beer Pyramid on display.   I drink.  I have rarely turned down a party, even on a work night.  I don’t want to think this is all you do . Don’t make me judge you on your empty bottle of Everclear or Makers Mark
• Condom wrappers. Please let me hold the belief  that I am special. I don’t want to wonder  how long that wrapper has been on your night stand.  All I ask for is an empty spot to  put my earrings!
• Leopard Print Anything!  I once slept with a guy that had a leopard print comforter.  I teased him mercilessly.  To this day, anything  tacky and leopard print gets called by  his nickname. My husband  still gets a a sick  thrill out of this.
• Dead Plants.  Nothing looks more pathetic.
• Anything your  former  flames  have left behind.  Do I have to explain this one?
• General Filth.  Don’t make  me run out the door before you have gotten me to the bedroom.

It’s the weekend.  Who knows what will happen.  But treat your place like you do yourself.  Clean, buff and polish.  I did.

What an Atheist Believes .

 Here is a big shocker: I don’t believe in God.  I don’t believe in religion.  I also do not believe in censorship.  While the disbelief in censorship is no surprise, my disbelief in god surprises people.   The next question I get after “coming out” as an Atheist is  “What DO you believe?”




There is no short answer. There are many things I believe and hold sacred, sort of like voodoo. Each Atheist  searches their self and comes up with their own answers.  Often it is this search  that leads to their rejection  of the religion  of their  early years. This  also leads them to  the classification of their sacred symbols and holy places. Because each  one of is  us is different ,  mine may be different  than another Atheist.
I believe in the genuine  goodness of  people.  I have faith that given the chance, they will do the right thing.  I believe that we should all take care of each other. The good that  we put out comes back. I believe  together , we have the power within ourselves to do extraordinary things. I believe  in our right  to make our own choices from and decide our own paths.  I believe our power comes from within and  not from a higher power.  Because of this I believe also that we  are responsible for all  of our actions. 


 I believe  we should follow the universal  "Golden Rule : Do unto others" . Or as my friends and I like to say " Don't be an asshole".  This also lets me look at a person's behavior and decide  if I want to  forgive that person. My family are the only ones I love unconditionally.  I have no problem cutting someone out of my life.  Cross me, and you are dead to me. I give up on lost causes.



 I believe many things are sacred. My most sacred objects?  My family. My children,  G.   My home. These are my sacred cows and would sacrifice anything  for them.  Work.  I believe there is power in  working.  It does not matter the job.  It only matters that you work.  If you dig ditches, dig the best ditches possible.  There is a sacredness to serving your fellow man.

  I believe  heaven and hell are  places  of your own creation.  Your choices determine where you are at any given point. You are directly responsible for  your situation.  You are your own salvation
I believe each day  I have the opportunity to make the world a better place. I have only this day and no other.  When I am  dead,  it’s the end.  If I live on, it’s in the memories of my family and friends. Hopefully they will be able to say  I followed my own commandments and made the world a better place while I was here.

BFF 100 Celebrate like an Atheist!

In my last blog I got a little heavy explaining how and why I became and Atheist. Giving up a deity to worship and ask for assistance is a difficult change.  It can be a little lonely when you realize you are on your own.  But all is not doom and gloom. One of the best parts of Atheism is the holidays.  Yes, I celebrated the holidays.  They mean something a little different to me.  Let’s start with the big ones.

 Christmas:  The Christian Christmas marks the birth of the Christian messiah.  The month of December also marks Winter Solstice for my Wiccan friends and Hanukah for my Jewish friends.  December for this Atheist means Christmas in the secular sense.  

 Christmas decorations for us include Santa, but no holy family in their crèche. Tree decorations that started as a theme a decade ago have devolved into a mish mash of snowmen, snowflakes and cartoon characters.  These reflect our sacred tradition of getting one new ornament per year, per family member.   Friends and family are welcome to add their own.  The tree stands sacred as a living family history. It’s not uncommon to hear us reminisce about past Christmas’ as we decorate.  The presents, I hold these sacred as they represent our ability to fill our children with delight and restock their toy supply.  The opening of them is a sacred time for me, or at least it counts as sacred after I go back to bed!   The feast; this is the equivalent of my church ceremony.  The meal is our gift to our friends and family.  There is sacredness to sharing this meal, because we chose to spend this time together.  As for Christmas carols,  I am the one that listens to them with the children as we  drive to look at Christmas lights.  I will admit to being a huge fan of the more serious Christian Christmas songs for their drama.  I have always loved singing Christmas music.

  Easter of course is the other big one. While my friends talk about the passion play, Passover, spring solstice, I am gearing up for Easter bunnies, baskets and dresses.  I get to skip over the questions about why we get a basket of chocolate if the lord died but was resurrected.  I get to buy my kids more toys and new clothes, which is stressful enough with out having to explain the religious overtones of the holiday.  Easter dinner is the same.  It’s a huge dinner with friends and family that allows us to celebrate our love for them.

 Birthdays share the same concept.  We shower the birthday person with gifts and love.   It’s the same concept for anniversaries.  Our favorite holiday:  The first day that G is home from work.   These days mean shopping, presents, food, and parties. We prepare for them as laboriously as any other holiday. We accept these preparations as a show of love and celebration of our family. We know that other families, regardless of religion feel the same.  For an Atheist, any day can be a “holiday”.  The sacredness of celebrating our family does not need a specific day.  Every day with my whole family is a holy day.

An Everyday Atheist

                                                             

   When I was young, I was in church every time the doors were open.   I was there for Sunday school, Wednesday night services, children’s choir on Saturday.  I believed because I was taught there was no other way, but to trust and obey. There was a niggling doubt that all this was true.  I remember asking church elders for proof of God’s existence. I was told I had to “have faith”.    I was not satisfied, but knew enough then to be quiet. After all, Santa and the tooth fairy were real, even though I was beginning to have my doubts about them too.

  I accepted unconditionally during my teen years. Church was a haven from the day to day pressures of growing up in a single parent home.   Church was safer than school with it’s bullies and hierarchy of rich kids, hoods, hicks , nerds and those like me  who seemed to belong everywhere and nowhere.  Church was a place I felt important. I was surrounded by adults who could help me figure things out from not only a religious perspective, but a social and emotional perspective too.

  When I entered my twenties as single parent I did what most of the twenty something’s were doing: I went to bars and clubs to meet people my age.  I’ll admit to drinking, though it was not as heavily as some.  I learned my alcohol limits the hard way a couple of times. It was a fun way to spend a weekend.  I had grown up dancing with my older sister. This was more of the same.  The best parts of going out were the hours spent getting ready to go out with my girlfriends.   I had also met my boyfriend in the same arena. These relationships proved that you could find love, friendship and other good things in the dens of iniquity.  My best relationships have come from bars, including G.

      I began to question whether or not my being in these places was as sinful as I had been reared to believe. Surely sin could be found there, but sin could be found in church as well.  Growing up in a Southern Baptists church had taught me that one of the greatest sins was to dance. But dancing made my body feel good. Not just in a sense of desirability, but in an exercise sense.  I found places in the bible that spoke of drinking wine /beer at celebrations.  Was this not a celebration every weekend?  I took care of my son and worked every week.  I was not an alcoholic.  Again, I found no definitive answers after asking my pastor/stepfather.  “Because Jesus said so” didn’t fit into logical thinking.

  I also began to explore other belief systems.  I thought back to the ancient Romans and Greeks.  They had their god’s, as did the Norse, Egyptians and Indians.  They all believed in their concept of afterlife. These civilizations were convinced they were correct.  Would “God” allow only a chose few to be correct and go to his heaven, forsaking these ancients?   I realized that Christianity also adopted many pagan customs in order to convert new followers. It started to sound like a pyramid scheme.  I realized that religions main focus was to control the behaviors of the masses by offering eternal rewards or damnation for right or wrong acts.  It was the ultimate “wait ‘til your father gets home” threat.  Was I not old enough to make my own decisions on my own behavior?  

 But like most realizations, Atheism comes from an intensely personal place.  I looked at the world around me.  I saw so many natural disasters.  There were godly people in all theses places. Were their prayers for safety not important?   I looked at violent crime.  Were those victims prayers not heard?  Were they unworthy of heavenly aid?  For what purpose was their suffering?   I looked at the abuse in my childhood.  What had I done that made me unworthy of His protection? What purpose did it serve?  If he was my all knowing, all powerful heavenly father: Why had I not been spared?  

 If HE was able to calm the storms and bring back the dead, why did he not stop the hands and mouths of my abusers?  That was the final realization.  If he wouldn’t protect me, he was just as much at fault. If he couldn’t protect me, then he was not worthy of my loyalty and worship.  If he could or would not do these things, then why should I call him GOD?  

BFF Unchained Melody

    I looked  all over  YouTube for a punked out, gritty version of "Unchained Melody".  I searched through pages of links and  listened to scores of versions .I realized that for many bands, this song has some sort of sacredness. U2 was the only band with the balls  to  rough it up.  I love  U2.  I was hoping for Tina Turner , or  maybe even Janis Joplin.  I could have related.

    One of my favorite songs of all time is Tina and Ike's version of  Proud Mary.  But it's not just for the  song or the sound of it.  Watching  "What's Love Got To Do With It" in the 90's  made me  realize that sometimes you take a pretty song or sentiment and "do it nice and rough, instead of nice and easy".  Not because you want to be different, but because  you want to DO something different, but because  life's circumstances have MADE  you a little different.  Sometimes soft and pretty  just does not fit.  That's why I wanted a rough version and I'm not happy that U2  was still not rough enough. 

                                   

  Sometimes you know nothing but rough. It makes you develop a skin so thick that you can't trust or even relate to the nice and easy.  Soft and easy bores you because it feels artificial and saccharine.  It's terrifying. You can't  trust it.  You are not equipped to handle it.  But sometimes it would be nice.  If you can afford it.

   Love, especially long distance is  never soft.  You long. You hunger.  You stay busy at all costs.  You make really great friends with both lonliness and aloneness.   Anyone who has been there  knows the difference.  To hear such a beautiful song  that expresses all the vulnerability of long distance  can be too much to bear.  


  

Unlikely Role Models

                                                               

  Do you ever read diet books?  The lose 10 pounds in 10 days articles that promise  to make you younger , thinner, smarter?  Yeah, me neither. Ok, I have browsed through the menus.  But they don’t motivate me, even when the food looks good.   The second my head says DIET, my whole being revolts.  I just can’t do it. I hate thinking; this is going to be my last Double stuffed Oreo, pint of Ben and Jerry’s, Starbucks pastry.  In fact thinking about it just gives me a panic attack.   Summer is coming and I’ll admit, I don’t want to bare anything.  I also am starting to really hate the way the body I inhabit looks. But most of all, I am inspired by some unlikely role models.   

  I work in a call center. This means being tethered to a desk by a four foot cord and sitting for 8-9 hours per day.  Yes, I have my own desk and I sit in air conditioned comfort.  But also frustration and stress make a morning and afternoon trip to the break room vending machines seem like an appealing change of scenery.  These vending machines hold the typical assortment of chips and candy bars. We have drink machines, a sandwich machine, even and ice cream machine!  This is nothing compared to having monthly potlucks and a Starbucks in the parking lot.  With all the abundant bad food choice and little exercise, most of us gain weight.  The longer you work in call center, the heavier you become.  Also, your idea of what normal body size looks like becomes skewed as Venezia jeans from Lane Bryant become the norm for everybody instead of Miss Me. 

It’s not the skinny women that motivate me to take a walk at lunch or to grab a smaller hot chocolate. It’s the really big women.   In my first call center I sat next to a lady that brought a rolling cooler to work filled with cheese and chips and cupcakes and several meals. Granted we worked 12 hour shifts.  Watching her eat motivated me to walk around the campus at lunch and climb the stairs on breaks.  I was afraid I was going to become her.  Fast forward 5 years to another call center, another crop of lovely, large ladies.  Like the one with the backside that juts from her back  at a 90 degree angle, or the one that  seems to be kicking herself in the gut every time she raises  a knee.  Watching her walk is enough to make me hit the door at full speed to walk the parking lot a few times. Especially on days when I had planned to sit at my desk, eat my lunch and blog.

Oh, and  BTW, I'm a size 16-20w.   If I make you feel like  exercising, I'm glad I could serve as inspiration!

                        

 Who are your unlikely role models?

With or Without You

     





     Every woman has been the star of her own romance, her own love triangle. We have our Romeo's and Paris', Ashleys' and Rhett's, Jacob's and Edward's.   The terrible thing? What we really want is to create a mash up of the two to create our perfect man. 


 I remember one such summer. Only  in this story,  the gentlemen have the most common names in the modern era.  I had been greedy, I had wanted and hurt them both.  One of them was a gentle giant I could take into the city, take to museums, blend into polite society without worry of his committing a faux pax. He gave my intelligence more credit than I did. I saw with him a comfortable life,  blonde children, and snow.


 The other?  A cowboy as simple and ernest as the mud on his boots and the pearl snaps on his shirts. He understood my need to breathe country air and  drive  old back roads. He understood and loved cans of beer drunk from aluminum cans in dive bars. With him I saw a future of  cotton dresses worn on porch swings, humid nights and  dark eyed babies . 


 I had discarded them for another chance at the wedding ring that had never fully left my heart. After shattering that illusion I chucked the ring , and  now I wanted my  true loves back. I didn't care  which one.I was grateful for whatever they gave me.  Funny thing was I more faithful to the both of them my last single summer than I had been when I was with them.  I had behaved badly , and they were  giving it back to me in spades.  I thought I was going to die , as I slept on my own bed of nails every night.    The pages of my  diary  bled with my shredded dignity. My hands were tied and my heart was torn.  I waited. 

 I waited longer as that summer  turned to fall, then winter.  The human heart can only take so much.  I gave up on the cowboy and settled for being friends.  Summer came round again , and my giant was leaving for  the Black Hills and a future  where I could not follow. I wondered how I would live, his ghost was everywhere .

     Salvation came in a dive,  clean of the ghosts of lover's past.  He had been reared in the city, but could not hide his country heart. Suddenly I realized he was the perfect match for me.  He combined the qualities I loved most from my former loves . He brought qualities I could not have dreamed. He folded me into his life until I could not remember my life before him.  The wait was over. No more stony eyes, no twisting thorn in my side.  I was  whole .

Help me win a $3,000 college scholarship. Vote for my essay!

Help me win a $3,000 college scholarship. Vote for my essay!

The pretty girls are listening.....

I went  to my favorite karaoke  bar last weekend. I wore my "Jack (Daniels) Lives here"  T shirt, some flats and a pony tail.  It was a spur of the moment decision and I did not feel like making a fuss.  I wanted music,  friends and an ice cold Wood Chuck hard cider.


   Around  eleven thirty a group of girls having a batchelorette party came in. They were young and gorgeous and fun.   Their vibe got the party started. Soon other people started coming in and the place filled . Being on my own for the night, I  drifted from group to group and eventually found myself  in the courtyard of the bar.  I sat down to talk to an acquaintance.  On the low brick wall by the entrance was a group of  guys . They were watching and commenting on girls as they walked in.  We heard an odd sound coming from the wall as a group of girls came in.  The cause for the noise? A very tall girl came in wearing jeans and flip flops  was causing a stir.  She must have been at least  6' and was not rail thin. She stood head and shoulders above her  high heel wearing friends.  As they  passed the wall, I heard a string of negative comments directed at the girl.

   I've seen  this and worse in the form of  banners on trucks  saying " No fat chicks"  and facebook status'  asking why  ugly girls are convinced that they are beautiful.  I see  and hear these sentiments and it pisses me off.  But  I would be lying if I wrote  that this was new behavior.


   I had a similar experience  in the  last days of the gay 90's.   I remember going out almost every night with  my girlfriends.  We would spend  hours getting our hair and makeup just right. We bonded over  the requisite  manicures and pedicures.  Who could forget the necessary disco naps?  I remember our  air kisses blown at our reflections and our  exclamations that the guys we would meet that night  were not worthy of our beauty!

 We cruised the floors together and separate, with my main hangout being the  Karaoke part of the club.  I was friendly with the dj's  here, even having  my own nic name.  I felt as comfortable  there as I did my own living room I remember seeing  a couple of very attractive guys one evening. I approached them with a smile and flirted with them for a few minutes.  We found out we had a couple things in common.  Everything seemed to be going well until one of the men pulled a napkin from his pocket. Written on  it was a telephone number and a girl's name in swirling  script.  The  "I" in her name was dotted  with a heart.  My  face fell a little . The guys at the table assured me I was prettier than the girl who had given her number  and I knew, a piece of  hope.  I watched him shred her number into little strips into an ashtray.  To my horror he grabbed one of the club's matchbooks, lit one and  tossed it into the pile of shredded napkin.  Both guys laughed at the silly girl who had thought she was pretty enough.  I knew then that my number , if given. could meet the same fate.   At the very least  I was no longer interested. In trying to be  funny I saw  thier true colors.   I left thier company  as quickly as  politely possible.

 Even though this happenend over a decade ago I'm still shocked  and saddened.  But as a warning to  all the foolish  and mean  guys in groups of more than one : Remember the pretty girls are listening. We  are not impressed by your behavior.

 

BFF Cant Buy Me Love?

      Money can't buy me love.  But it can allow me full immersion into this  smoky club, where  I can be  enveloped by this throng of bodies. The sound coming from a baritone sax  can reach my bar stool from a hundred feet away. It can fill my ears to take me  to another place where the music is loud enough to create pockets of isolation , allowing me the privilege of looking into my long stemmed martini glass and not having to make conversation with those around me. 

  It is too loud to force  more than a shouted plea for an acid green appletini, no sugar on the rim of the glass please... no grenadine or cherry. I want a  twist of lemon .  I like alcohol flavored alcohol. This is a smooth, silky goose. I need that tiny citrus kick.  After watching my bartender flamenco with his shaker and watching the flourish of the liquid lust  swirl into a glass chilled to be as cold as my heart. His lifted brows ask if the first sip was good enough.  My lowered  eyes and raised glass answer the question as I smile my reply.  He leaves to answer the next shouted drink order. The  the smell of limes protruding from the neck of" dos Coronas, por favor" tickle my nose and cause me to lift my eyes and take in my surroundings.

 These exposed brick walls soar high above my head to reach a punched tin ceiling. They anchor the iron staircase with it's ornate railings and it's narrow mezzanine that swarms with a human parade going from the main floor to the throbbing dance floor on the second level. I see ingenues with their  belted a-line dresses and tiny sparkling clutches. I see the danger girls in their skin tight leggings , exposed shoulders and high platform caged shoes.  Interspersed with these era spanning girls are the popped collar boys in their fitted  graphic tees  with velvet burn out and too tough sneer.  The occasional hipster with disheveled hair , thick black framed glasses and  skinny jeans weaves his way through with a studied nonchalance , edging towards boredom.

 I sit here, on this bar stool, perpendicular to the bar and  let my senses feast . My tart cold drink, slides it's way down my throat as I inhale the perfume of bodies, smoke and the mingled cologne of the surging human mass.  The smoke of countless cigarettes fills my nostrils and clings to my hair and clothing.  It will one  of the few things to touch me intimately tonight.  It's  only competition is the urgent pounding of the music.  Being easy, I let both of them have their way.  With my pocket of isolation, I may as well be the only one in the room.

 Another appletini later, the band packs up and the atmosphere changes. I draw the last drops into my mouth. I pay my tab and thank my  kind host for a  lovely evening.  So , no money can't buy me love. But it  can afford me  these moments to be alone in crowded places. It gives me  this unexplainable peace and enjoyment.  When your love is miles away ,it's amazing what 12.50 will get you.

I'm back.... what this really means.

    I'm back.  But what do I mean by that? It's notjust my return to writing, blogging or even hanging out with the knuckleheads I love at Mantana.  It means for the first time in a long time I am back to feeling like myself, a self I have not seen in almost two years. It means I am almost  all the way through a depression I thought would  never lift, and I would be stuck there, forever.

   I am Bipolar. I also have PTSD.  Only the ones I love and trust the most know the reasons for my PTSD.  But I'm not afraid of admitting  being Bipolar. It runs in my family as sure as diabetes runs through others. The more light that can be shed on this mental disorder, the less stigma it will have.  I work every day to control my behavior. One thing I can point out: while I may be "high" and feeling invincible I am fully aware of the possible consequences of any bad behavior. I just don't believe the consequences don't apply to me, because I am Sherri Jean Hunt Smith. When I'm "High" or "up" ( I hate the word manic.  It's too much like maniac) the rules just don't apply to me.

  But it's the flip side that I have been struggling with for  the past two years. What is the downside of the high, of the up? Depression. It started slowly. At the time I was a stay at home mom. It was normal for me to spend a good part of my day taking  naps and surfing the internet.  I would stay up into the night , writing, blogging. I got into a couple of facebook games like Farmville and Cafeworld.  My house work started slipping and my daughter was sometimes late to school.  No one noticed how far I was slipping since G was working in Arizona and I was still in Louisiana.  Most of my contact to the outside word was through friends or  strangers in  places like the grocery store or the bookstore. It's easy to get a boost from those places, but it doesn't last long.  I also started live in sweats and t shirts.  This was not my usual  standard of dress.  People around me accepted  that I was a stay at home mom and wanted to be comfortable.

  I thought going back to work would snap me out of my funk.  I went to work for a telecommunications company as a customer service representative. With the high sales quotas and a supervisor I could not stand, ( let just say if she was on fire , I would bring marshmallows to  make s'mores)  I sank deeper and deeper.  I began wearing  tshirts and jeans to work.  I stopped  wearing full face make up. I stopped  wearing  even eyebrows and lip gloss.  I stopped combing my hair.  I was dead inside. 

   G was home, and he did everything he could.  Where work had  been my solace for years, safety and security was now found in my home and family . This was an epic paradigm shift. It may be the only good thing that came out of this  time.  G and I celebrated 10 years together that summer,  and I had never loved him more.

   I could not leave my job as it was needed  to pay the bills . G's job in Arizona had come to a halt as the recession crept into most of the homes in America and my beloved G was forced to run a fast food restaurant.  There seemed to be no end in sight. This was just my life.  I was sad.  But it went deeper than that. I was just existing. 


   Luckily a change at work was coming.  We were changing from sales to collections.  This meant  no sales and a new supervisor.  I  could make the collections quotas. I went from being an underachieving sales agent to a fervent collections agent.  I made and exceeded my  work goals.  I trusted and respected my new supervisor.  I even got to travel for my company to assist with a conversion.  To make things  even rosier, we moved into a new house .  The friends who had been sleeping on my couch finally had their own rooms and we became the Bo-Hilly's.


  Bigger news came withing weeks of moving. G was able to go back to off site catering. Even better  almost all  of the Bo-Hilly's went with him, leaving me to hold down the fort with the help of a female member of the Bo-Hilly.  Things were looking up financially, but without my G , I fell apart again. I started having panic attacks  at work.  They became daily occurrences.  Before, my panic attacks had been  less than one a month, though they had been  more frequent during the previous year.  I was perplexed.  Things were getting better, so why was this happening now?

 Luckily, the telecommunications company where I work has excellent insurance and a program that allows employees  up to 8 free sessions with a counselor.  I was mailed a list of counselors. I'll admit I chose the one with the  best address.  That was  all the way back in November.  I  now have once a week session with a very nice therapist. 

 Digging out of this depression has been some of the hardest work I've ever done.  Every week I  sit on a couch and cry my eyes out as I explore an issue I have buried. Facing yourself in the mirror to find out why you are self destructive, angry and sad  is scary.   With the help of my therapist and my willingness to do my weekly homework is helping me get through and get better. 

 My goals are a little different, and it's sometimes insane when I look  at a list that includes things like "wear a real outfit" "wear make up" " Practice good sleep hygiene".  I have a mirror on my desk at work. If I don't like the way I look ( a very good indicator to how I am feeling) then I have the tools to change it.  It's these elementary steps that are helping me to beat depression.

 This is how I know my therapy and other work is effective: I look more like the "Me" my friends and I know. I'm back to living in high heels.   I'm back to being a  redhead.  The internal radio station clicked back on a few days ago. I am writing. I am writing again.


 So yes, I'm back. " Back" is a huge accomplishment.  "Back" feels so good.

A love letter to my body.

A love letter to my body

I have been in therapy for the last three and a half months to help with my anxiety and depression. What is therapy like? Once a week I go to a nice WASPy lady's office and relive a terrible day in my life. I cry, I have anxiety attacks. I get mad. I get sad. I'm left exhausted. Thankfully my insurance pays for most of it. I get to feel fragile and shaky as I ask for my homework for the next week. It's some of the hardest homework I have ever done. But I want to get these issues out of the way so I can be some approximation of normal. It's helping. I'm no longer going to work in the equivalent of pajamas. I am wearing make up most days. My hair is back to red. This is this weeks homework.


I can find a million positive things to love about me. I can find less that I don't like. I love my head, because it contains my hair. I love my hair. The closer I get to being back to myself, the better my hair gets. Right now, the dull red is just the first step. It will get brighter as time passes. There are people in my life that have no idea that my hair is not naturally red. Nor can they imagine me any other way. I love my head also because it contains my face. From my high cheekbones to full lips to my green eyes and carefully arched brows, I like what I see.

The most important part of my head: my mind. It contains my memories, my imagination ,my ability to learn and the most important parts of my personality. It's the first place I express my sexuality. I love my sexuality.

If I move to my neck, I'm happy there too. It contains one of my most formidable assets; my voice. Along with my mind I use this tool to soothe and cajole my customers to be successful at my job. My voice is the fourth tool I use to express my sexuality. My shoulders and arms come next. Once my square shoulders brought the shame of masculinity. They became one of the most important parts of my body and one of my favorites. My lovers have praised their strength and named them second in eroticism to my hips. But they taper down to strong arms and graceful hands that have both held and comforted my children and brought myself and my lovers' pleasure. My hands are my main working tools, aside from my mind. I love them unconditionally.

Moving down, I come to my chest. Yes, I love this part of me too.. My breasts have fed my children, aroused my lovers and inspired the lust of many. They have been called epic, legendary. When not using them for pleasure or nurturing, I use them to cover my heart. People usually find out after getting to know me, that no matter how big my breasts are that my heart is even bigger.

I'm going to admit, I'm not crazy about my belly and my hips. I can hate their size, but I love the service I get in Lane Bryant and every other plus size store. I didn't have sales associates running around at GAP trying to help me. And I look great in my clothes. I have been dressing a curvy body my whole life. No matter what size I am, there is always a man that thinks my body is sexy. It's one of the things I love about men. The most important thing about my belly and hips: They cradled my children through the nine months of pregnancy. They provided a healthy, comfortable place for me to enjoy the most intimate part of my children's lives so far. Feeling their kicks and turns has been the most incredible experience of my life.
I even like my vagina. In pictures it appears to be an intense blend of pink and purple and red colors. It brings me pleasure, it brings my lovers pleasure. I am not ashamed of its sights or smells. It's the seat of my womanhood. Womanhood is far more wonderful than girlhood. My ass: all good things there too. It's big, it's round and at age 34 it has not fallen and can still pass the pencil test. . There is an 8 inch scar on my left cheek from surgery. That spider did not know he had bitten off more than he could chew! But when the S.S. Buttocks sails, everyone watches its sensual passing.
My legs are not my favorite either. But they allow me to walk in a way that has made me famous. They are stronger than you realize. While I may not love their shape, they have carried me across continents and wrapped around lovers and bounced children to delighted laughter in endless games of horsey. My legs end at my feet. I love my feet for their solid structure and amazing ability. I love them because they allow me to indulge in delicious pedicures, where the resulting colors allow me to fancifully call my toes ridiculous names. Because it is not enough for me to indulge in the ridiculous, I coerce others to call my toes by their new names. Best yet, they allow me to indulge in my favorite fetish: shoes! I never underestimate the power of a good pair of shoes. My feet are simply the last place for me to express sexuality.

I would say sexuality is that intangible part of my body that envelops and eclipses the rest. It contains the motherly essence that allows me to care for my children and others. It is the motivation behind my head turning walk and the palpable energy that radiates from my being. It's the combination of all the aforementioned parts that create an entity that is greater than the sum of all its parts. It's the force that could empower me to rule the world or destroy it on its axis.

BFF # 90 Sea of Love

 Sea of Love ? Just a phrase turned by a honey dripped voice? Or is the real sea of love as gritty and torn and tortured as the gravel voice of Tom Waits.  Both I think.  But it's more than that.  My sea of love? It's in my king size bed. It's in the empty spce of  my love story's low tide as I wait for the return of my husband. It's the vastness of a beach with  remote controls and magazines  and books scatttered among the six pillows , like so much flotsam washed upon the shore.


Low Tide? It's waiting for  his return from far flung places with the windburned cheeks of a an inland sea called North Dakota. It's a  sea of grass and  far away mountains and men. Across the country might as well be across the universe. The sound of his voice  brought over the miles , over the bounced off signal towers , the sea lights under the water giving false  hope that there is land and safety nearby.


High Tide? It's the roar of an airplane and the hydraulic hiss of landing gear as the tarmac greets it's steel winged vessels. Great ships of the air that carry bits of flesh to waiting outstretched arms.  It's the second in time that stretches to include all of eternity. It's the never  long enough to feel as if he is truly home. It's the run , run of the gotta go here, gotta do this gotta cram it all into this two weeks so we have enough to sustain for the next low tide.


We've done this before, and we will continue to do this again for as long as it lasts. Because this high and low tide is the one that works  for us the best.  We have had other tides. In a decade long relationship, you  will have years of low tides. You will have years of mainly high tides. Through it all, you learn to ride both tides. In this surf of love and life , the best you can hope for is enough of the good waves and someone to pick you  up out of the roilling shallows.