Crazy


I've been running around like a nut these past few weeks, and from what I can tell, it's going to be like this for a while. Work, travel, and that thing called life is getting in the way of my writing. It should slow down next week or so.

Regardless, I had an interesting chat with the X-hubby just now. It went something like this:

X: You should get a boyfriend.
Me: I don't really want a boyfriend right now. You should get a girlfriend.
X: I don't really want a girlfriend, either. I don't have time right now for all that.
Me: Me neither.
X: Don't you miss sex?
Me: Yes, but I don't need a boyfriend for that.
X: (Laughing) That's exactly what I'm looking for! Maybe we could just have sex. Who thought we would get divorced in order to have casual sex?

As a side note, the X and I will not be having any kind of sex. It is nice that we can laugh about this together. What a crazy life.

AHHHH Grasshopper…….

I got into my car this afternoon, started it, and noticed a little friend looking at me from the other side of the glass. I tilted my head to the side, and squinted me eyes to get a better look at him. A sweet little grasshopper with tall antennas looked back at me. I looked down, then back at him, and said, “Well Mister, you’re in for the ride of your life.”

I wasn’t sure if he would be able to hang on to the windshield wiper going 50 miles per hour down a busy road, but we were about to find out. I watched him the whole way, and he looked like he loved it. Whizzing past trees faster than he could ever imagine, flying at a rate unknown to him before, he looked exhilarated. At some point he turned around and was looking at me as I drove. I think he might have been yelling for me to slow down, but I couldn’t hear him over the wind. I like to imagine he was shouting “YEEEE HAWWW” as we curved around the streets doing 65 mph. (I only say “yee haw” because he’s a Texas grasshopper) As I pulled into my parking lot and got out, I told him “Good job, buddy. You’re in a whole new world!”

I feel a lot like that grasshopper right now. For the past few days, I have noticed all the beauty in the city around me. Driving over high bridges, I stare down at the glistening water and admire the rowers peacefully gliding through the water. I stopped in traffic the other day to admire a rainbow that hovered over the capital, and disappeared in the clouds. It made me remember how hopeful I was as a child when I saw those illusions. It instilled that same hope in me again.
Yesterday I watched the rain coming down through the rays of sunshine and wondered why all this beauty is around me right now. It’s as if the forces have decided to brighten my way.

I have the unmistakable feeling that something is about to happen to me. My energy is shifting, and I can feel a change coming on. I welcome it, but at the same time I’m a little scared. The world is opening up to me, and it’s my turn to be brave just like the grasshopper.

AHHHH Grasshopper…….

I got into my car this afternoon, started it, and noticed a little friend looking at me from the other side of the glass. I tilted my head to the side, and squinted me eyes to get a better look at him. A sweet little grasshopper with tall antennas looked back at me. I looked down, then back at him, and said, “Well Mister, you’re in for the ride of your life.”

I wasn’t sure if he would be able to hang on to the windshield wiper going 50 miles per hour down a busy road, but we were about to find out. I watched him the whole way, and he looked like he loved it. Whizzing past trees faster than he could ever imagine, flying at a rate unknown to him before, he looked exhilarated. At some point he turned around and was looking at me as I drove. I think he might have been yelling for me to slow down, but I couldn’t hear him over the wind. I like to imagine he was shouting “YEEEE HAWWW” as we curved around the streets doing 65 mph. (I only say “yee haw” because he’s a Texas grasshopper) As I pulled into my parking lot and got out, I told him “Good job, buddy. You’re in a whole new world!”

I feel a lot like that grasshopper right now. For the past few days, I have noticed all the beauty in the city around me. Driving over high bridges, I stare down at the glistening water and admire the rowers peacefully gliding through the water. I stopped in traffic the other day to admire a rainbow that hovered over the capital, and disappeared in the clouds. It made me remember how hopeful I was as a child when I saw those illusions. It instilled that same hope in me again.
Yesterday I watched the rain coming down through the rays of sunshine and wondered why all this beauty is around me right now. It’s as if the forces have decided to brighten my way.

I have the unmistakable feeling that something is about to happen to me. My energy is shifting, and I can feel a change coming on. I welcome it, but at the same time I’m a little scared. The world is opening up to me, and it’s my turn to be brave just like the grasshopper.

Sorority Porn Goes Limp

I feel like I was in the TV show Wild On.., or even Girls Gone Wild this weekend. My sister begged me to stay at her house this weekend because she was hosting her sorority reunion. If you haven’t noticed thus far, I will do anything for my sister. I’ll even attend some sorority event for 35 year-old moms.

It was worth going just to see Meme floating around the pool on a giant smiley face penis. I don’t know what her pastor would have thought about it, but in my opinion she looked happier than when she’s at church being told she should be submissive to her husband. After several hours of drinking, the girls started shucking their clothes and jumping in the pool. Is this a bad porno? Is this really what sorority girls do? It was bizarre, but I must admit I had fun.

I spent Saturday tubing in the Guadalupe. It was 4 or 5 hours of drinking, floating, looking at boys, and talking. I got home in enough time to take a shower, hop back in the car and make it to the sorority dinner. Immediately after dinner I started to get scared. From the other end of the table I could hear little voices saying, “Don’t eat that – you’ll loose your buzz!”
I didn’t give it too much thought until I was summoned to that part of the table. In some type of cryptic language the girls were slurring at me to tell them where we were going.

One girl who appeared to be a big fan of blow, got angry and slammed her hands on the table demanding to go to a bar immediately. I glared at my sister, and began asking people if she was going to get into a fight if we took her out. After a quick vote the girls decided she would not get into a fight, and at the worst she would just embarrass us. I wasn’t very relieved.

We headed off to some uppity bars, but it was too early for anything to be going on. Blow girl threw another fit at the first bar when she realized the dancing was in the back of the club. She followed this up by hitting on the doormen so she could get back in later when it picked up. Next she did a strip tease (pretty limited on the strip part, though) in front of a bunch of cars waiting for the light to turn green. I sat there wishing for a freak electrical surge to happen which would force the light to turn green. I pictured the cars revving their engines to get the fist run at her, smashing her into a nice round pothole. It didn’t happen.

At the next bar blow girl lined up six 50 year-old men and started dancing for them. At this point I escaped to the front bar with one of the more normal girls and began doing as many shots as possible. After I realized that a blackout wasn’t possible, I decided the best route was to get the tab and loose them on the way to the next bar. I got the tab, paid and left with a couple of the other girls.

More naked swimming followed at the house that night. Around 4 in the morning I was laying there wondering what kind of life my sister lead in college. Then I started thinking how the whole weekend was like bad porn where no one got laid, which does remind me of my sister’s college life. If I was a smart girl, I would have video taped the whole thing and made some money. Although my sister would hate me. At this point she’s indebted to me for the next 6 months.

Unchained Melody

There’s something you should know about me. I’m a number slut. It’s true, and I know it’s a bad problem. I just can’t help it. A boy asks for my number, and I’ll hand it over without a second thought. Well, that’s not really true. Sometimes I don’t want to give my number out, but I do. Then I spend the next three days avoiding calls and trying to remember the caller’s number so I don’t inadvertently answer their call in the future. I know it’s immature, but at least I’m honest. Well kinda.

Two Sundays ago Cal and I met up at a little bar for a beer. It was early and we thought we’d have a pitcher and then go back to our normal Sunday business. I got to the bar, ordered a beer, and chit chatted with the bartender and a couple of girls I knew. Cal came in and we ordered a pitcher and played “Is that bartender gay”? A couple of pitchers later the bartender was sitting at our table telling us his life story. Cal and I still couldn’t figure it out. So he wears tiny T’s and a strange hat. So he’s telling me about wrestling with boys for fun on his birthday and that he has a Prince Albert. We couldn’t get a read on him, so Cal and I did the only thing we could. We tried to figure out which one of us he was hitting on. After a couple more pitchers, we decided he was hitting on me, although I still think he really wanted Cal.

We hung out with him a couple times that week, and although he seemed like an odd guy we both decided his was quirky and fun. As the week drug on, he started to overwhelm me. “Call me when you get home”, or “Call me after you get off work tomorrow” sprang out of his mouth like we had been married for 5 years. Irritated by this level of possessiveness, I told him I had no intentions of getting involved with him. So he did what any normal gay man chasing a woman would do, he bought me a jewelry box that doubles as a music box. A note was attached to the singing box that said “please don’t shut me out”. Oh, and the song? Unchained Melody. Yea, it’s like that.

By this point I start thinking he’s a nut. I’ve known this guy for a week at this point, and I’m starting to think he’s not quite right in either head for me. Somehow he’s gone from fun gay friend to poised boyfriend. I think not.

Last night he calls while Cal and I are having dinner. I tell him we’re having dinner, in a not so polite manner, and hang up as he is telling me to call him when I get home. First of all, I don’t call my husband or my lover when I get home every night. I don’t call my sister or my pals every day when I get off of work, and I sure as hell don’t give out my whereabouts to possessive men.

Ignoring his request, I went home and went to bed. At 2:45 this morning I hear, “Aammmmaannnddda” outside my bedroom window. My bed rests up against that window, so I can see his shadow perfectly. Then the phone calls start, around 15 in all. He’s leaving me a message that I can perfectly hear him leaving through the window. “I just want to make sure you got home okay. I’m not trying to be a burden. You know me, I’m a Cancer.”

Oh dear Lord! I sink further into my bed and cover my head with a pillow. Then the knocking starts. Then the phone rings, and then “Aammmmaaannndaaa”. This goes on for an hour before he finally gives up. That puts his final score at 10 voice messages, about 5 knocks, and what seemed like a million “Ammaannddaa”s.

This morning I walked outside to see a note from him under my doormat. The note reads:
“I am SO!! Sorry. I don’t mean to be a ass. I just wanted to make sure you got home okay. I am sorry if I am a burden. I don’t mean to be. Love The Nutcase Bartender”.

Gee, what to think. “A ass”, huh? “Burden”, huh? Love? I’ve known this guy less than two weeks. In no way have we established any sort of a relationship, and yet he feels obligated to be my personal stalker / bodyguard. What’s next? I’m hoping there isn’t going to be some grand apology. He left a message today apologizing, and telling me he understands if I never want to talk to him again. Sounds good to me.

I am never giving out my number again! I’m going cold turkey, man. I’ve learned my lesson well.

You stinky!


Rojo, who refuses to write, told me a story about one of his break ups. The interesting part of the story wasn’t what happened between them, it was his ability to physically smell the change in her. Turns out when she laid it down, all he could think of was that she smelled like band-aids. I say, “she’s stinky – good riddance”. Rojo has super ninja smelling power. He usually greets me by smelling me first. Sometimes I feel like a couple of dogs sniffing but, but other times it’s not so bad.

Regardless, I started thinking today about all the smells in my life and the people associated with those smells. It’s a power stimulus capable of bringing on deep emotions in me, yet the smells are pretty simple.

The smell of honeysuckle reminds me of my childhood friend that lived across the street. She’s my oldest friend, and one of my closest friends as well. When I first went off to college, I felt overwhelmed by all the people there. I had a difficult time making friends, and one particular day I was struggling up the steps to the library when the breeze caught a honeysuckle bush. As I trudged up the stairs feeling sorry for myself, I got a hint of the sweet smell. Immediately I felt better, and realized my friends are with me no matter where I go in this world. I still felt lonely occasionally, but it allowed me to get over my little tragedy and I started making friends.

The smell of wintergreen mints reminds me of Pearl. I was miserable when I moved back to Houston to be with my hubby-to-be. (Should he be my x-to be?) I thought the people were materialistic and pompous. I started working with the hubby for a lot of reasons, but one of the reasons due to a beautiful woman he worked with. I couldn’t have that competition, so I weaseled my way into the office. I developed an instant crush on Pearl and spent countless hours in her office eating mints and talking about how neurotic everyone was. She made living in Houston bearable, and she changed the way I look at the world. I learned to tell my friends how much I love them because of her.

The smell of smoke reminds me of Miss Krissy. She would probably hate that, but it’s true. After I kicked the habit for 2 years, I went out with her and saw the error of my ways. It reminds me of long talks over countless drinks and laughing until you pee yourself. I think back on our college days and our reckless ways with everything that wander into our patch. Life is always an adventure with her; she keeps me young. No wonder I’m having a hard time giving it up.

Sandalwood reminds me of spending all day in bed with one of my old lovers. We’d lay there and listen to Miles Davis and talk for hours. He had beautiful long black curly hair, and I loved the way he would put his head on my chest. I would play with his hair and breathe in the incense longing to never leave the comfort of his bed. (Then it turned out he was gay, so I left his bed)

There are a million of these memories stirred up by a scent. Cigars and my grandfather, vodka and my mom, lilies and the day I got engaged. They fill me up with laughter, and sometime tears. They remind me that my past is always with me. What about you?

Here’s to you, Grandma!

I’ve started going to the gym during my lunch break. It’s nothing huge, just weights, and it leaves my nights free for running and doing other more important stuff (i.e. drinking). I changed my gym membership from a snooty personal gym to the YMCA. This basically means that instead of working out with a bunch of women who drive SUVs and struggle with the weight of their diamond rings, I work out with women who struggle with lifting their sagging breasts into their bathing suits and drive Lincoln town-cars.

Yesterday was my first attempt at working out there. I rushed in to find the tiny locker room filled with women over 65. Quite a site! Turns out 11:30 is time for Elder Aqua at the Y. That’s right boy and girls, and the oldies you can imagine sporting bathing suits and swim caps. How lucky could a girl be? After the initial shock of seeing what I was going to look like at 70, I hit the weights with a renewed sense of ferocity.

As I worked out I watched them in the pool. They were peacefully bouncing up and down in their multicolored caps, stretching and bending like reeds. It was like watching that new Subway advertisement. They started to grow on me.

At 21 I thought I was too thin. At 27 I thought I was too fat. At 30 I finally came to love my body. So I have a little belly? I also have a big butt and ample breasts. In the end I came to realize there’s nothing horrible about having a curvy body. I love it, and I know it could be worse. For some reason that year, I gave my self permission to let go and stop worrying what others thought of it. It was the best part of turning 30. I’m no longer self conscious in bed and I no longer feel like other women look better than I do. Now they just look different.

Today I walked into the locker room and found 5 Grammy’s getting ready for their class. Struggling to pull on their suits, they gabbed about their kids. I tried to sneak by them to no avail. “Good morning, missy!” they chanted. “Good morning!” I chirped.

I started to change and then started to laugh. These women were talking to me naked as can be without a care in the world. Drooping buts and varicose veins be damned, they couldn’t have cared less. So I joined them. I didn’t wrap my towel around me while I put my shorts on; I just put on my shorts with reckless abandon. I didn’t hide while messing with my sports bra, and I didn’t worry about binding over properly to tie my shoes.

Life is more important that thick thighs and spider veins. Life is about getting past the little things that harbor into self-doubt, and actually living your life. Life is about being 80, 50, or 30 years old and saying, “fuck it – I’ve got better things to worry about”. So "yea me" and my naked self!

Violets

The first time I met my mother-in-law I was 15. She was the complete opposite from any person I had met, not to mention my mother. My mother was an entrenched alcoholic who would just as soon slur at you as hit you. Based on this slice of life, my MIL (to be) was an opportunity to talk to someone older that wasn’t hopped up on painkillers and vodka.

She taught me how to cook chicken Marsala and make fruity sangria. I remember the first time I heard her say “pussy”. I was astonished that could come out of a woman’s mouth. MIL taught me everything from “needs and wants” in a relationship to playing boogies on the piano. We would talk about sex for hours, and she was open about the importance of giving and receiving. I would cry about my drunk of a mom, and she would cry about her drunk of a husband. In some ways we both needed one another.

When I went away to college, I would send her mother’s day cards. I heard through the grapevine she lost her house when the IRS came after her husband. I would visit her new apartment on summer and winter breaks. Gone were the fancy cars and her gorgeous plantation home. She healed herself in a pint sized flea ridden apartment with the aid of her husband’s mistress. By the time her husband got out of jail he found he truly has lost everything, including both women. She started her own business and began teaching middle school piano at a magnet school.

I lost touch with her for a year or two, but my relationship with her son spurred my return into her life. Back were the days of singing and endless hours of talking. She sends letters frequently about the flowers in her yard and the beauty of life. She’s taken to riding her bike and just finished a 30-mile bike race. I told her about a nude bike ride in Austin, and I think she’s on for next year.

She’s held my hand through the process of leaving her son, and cried with me over the loss of my grandfather. She writes me weekly to tell me I will always be her daughter, and I know she means it. I’ll miss Christmas morning pranks and cooking all day. I’ll miss jokes about her vibrators and her scandalous activities with men. Most of all, I’ll miss her nurturing way. The way she can look at me and see the person inside of me that I want to be. The way she understands when I can’t speak and just want to play the piano.

She’s my mom, and I think she’s spectacular. Through all of this, I can’t imagine a more loving person. I can’t imagine loving someone who was breaking my son’s heart. She amazes me, and she’s part of the reason I’m keeping my married name. I couldn’t be who I am today without her. We all deserve someone like this in our lives, but I know we don’t always get them. I’m grateful to have her as a friend.

Gimme some of that sauce - dig


Oh Goddamn child, I couldn’t be having a better day. It’s a red-letter day if I ever saw one.

Cal and I just had lunch and summed up our abundant and languid love lives. (You can chose which of us has what, but don’t underestimate K.I.D) After we hurriedly scarfed down our not so healthy bowls we headed out the door, and that’s when it happened.

Cal reached down to pick up a Chronicle, and who was staring back at me? The baby with the special sauce. Ahhh damn. How I love me some of that! And you’ve got to love that picture taken from the only place in Texas to live, at the one and only festival in my own back yard that has me on my heels. That man has me so turned around, I can’t even attempt grammar. Perhaps he could teach me.

Then again the last time I saw him (my birthday) he sang out, “You might got the salad, but I got the dressing!” I guess that means I need another grammatical wizard to come my way, but I could make it work with that man.

Sure, sure, we all know the repeat songs, but if you haven’t seen him live try it out. That man will have you wetter than a Popsicle on hot summer day. So I picked up the magazine and restrained myself from running out the door with the whole rack. If only I could get that into my VW. Maybe a smash and dash for the whole rack is in order? Then I could turn into a teenager and decorate my whole apartment with his beautiful face. Hell, put me in the back of the bus with that boy!

For right now, I’m going to settle for a little me time with my copy of the mag. Doesn’t get any better than this.

The Junior League vs. Mosh-pit

I just got off the phone with my sister. She is haughtily entering an airplane with a nanny and two children behind her. “I’m getting on the plane right now. The party is tonight. I hope you didn’t forget. Get to my house as soon as you can after work. Ok, gotta go. Bye.”

I hung up the phone and rolled my eyes in one single movement. It’s my “Sister is a snob” routine. She’s been a pompous handful since the 3rd grade. For Meme only Izod and Ralph Lauren would do. She carried the Preppy Handbook around like a Hari Krishna strangles flowers. Growing up everything was a combination of pink and green. She decorated her room with antiques and created drawing after drawing of Vogue patterns for preppy people. I think at this point I was still eating dirt in the backyard for fun and my room resembled something completely primitive.

In high school she dated one of the richest boys in Houston. Not an easy task in that town, but she had her way. She flew out to their family ranch on the private jet monthly. When the boyfriend got sent to boarding school, a limo would arrive to drive her to meet him on the weekends. Unfortunately, my parents offered Meme a pinto for her 16th birthday. All I can remember about that day was her crying in her room, and yelling that she would rather walk than drive something so horrendous. Eventually they gave in to her distress and bought her a baby blue Volkswagen. When I was 16 I wrecked my first car in 12 hours, and ended up driving my dad’s pickup truck with a camper on it. The camper had pictures of labs painted on it.

In college she joined a sorority. Evidently swallowing live fish and sitting in a baby pool of animal feces was a small price to pay for the company of such fine women. Regardless she went to all the Greek parties and actually “dated” men. They would come the apartment and pick her up, and then return her around 1 am on a late night. She developed a fondness for Blue Narcosis and Christian Ministry groups. On any given night you would either find her at the Green Parrot, or the youth hall with a bible in her hand. When I was in college I was drinking tequila and going to punk shows with my atheist friends, and my fashion sense leaned to either dog collars or pooka beads. A “date” to me meant I met a boy at bar and spent the next three days in his bed.

Before I was married she would set me up with people who were accountants or engineers. Roll the eyes, do the routine. Who ever thought I would grow up to be an accountant? Today she frequents resorts armed with a nanny for the kids, and I roll down to the loudest rock show I can find. At the end of the day, she’s the first person I call to tell her what’s going on in my life.

Of course she gets the watered down version, but she knows what I’m saying. She’s loved me through all of my stages, just like I still love her despite the fact she wore plaid shorts. Days come like today, when she’s pulling me to a party where I will basically be ignored the entire evening by people who consider themselves better than I am. I’ll be the last person there helping her clean up, thinking what a raw deal it is to be her sister some days. Then she’ll look at me, roll her eyes at me and ask me why I won’t go to church with her on Sunday.

Then a crisis comes and argyle sock and Skinny Puppy albums be damned, we will be drinking a glass of wine and crying together. Laughing at what a twit we both are, and how lucky we are to have one another.

The Single Seahorse

It’s not that I mind where I am; I’d just rather be in his bed. This is my first thought every morning. I roll over, wonder what he’s dreaming about hundreds of miles away, and then hop into the shower.

I get to work and instantly check my email for any glimpse of him. Maybe there will be a note telling me he misses me. Maybe there will be one telling me how he misses my sexy ways.

A couple of hours later I get an email to call him. I call and talk to him while he emails someone else. I can tell he’s just letting the sound of my voice swirl in his head, and he takes nothing in. I get off the phone, agitated. I wonder if ADD lasts a whole lifetime. He emails me a sweet note, and again I’m floating.

It was hot one day when I told him I wish we were seahorses. Tied up to one another, or strung around algae, just floating listlessly in a pool of cold dark water. Swaying back and forth with the current, intertwined to keep our stability.

And yet, here we are. Separate to keep our stability. We have no ties to one another, except for our emotions. Our lives continue to be happy without the other one there. We call and talk about the things we use to do. Then we talk about what we want to do next and hang up. We have our own agendas. I have work and he has school. I have my nephews and he has his waves.

But as always, night falls. I lie in bed and wonder where he is, and if he’s happy. I know he is, because I know I am. I hope I dream of seahorses.