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.