Confession: I Drink, Swear, Love

Yup. I read Eat, Pray, Love. And, Yup, I was inspired and all that. Blah blah blah.


Actually, I have a major bone to pick with that damn book: it made me hungry. And I don’t like to eat. I resent all those passages rhapsodizing about yummy food: I think I gained four pounds from chapter ten alone!


It did not have the same effect on my spiritual life. I try to pray, really, I do. But my stupid brain doesn’t cooperate and, instead of achieving a nice zen-like state and becoming one with God or Zeus or the Universe, I start reviewing my to-do list. And then I start swearing.


As for Love, well, THAT I didn’t need any inspiration for!  As will be revealed, I am apparently a slut.  At least according to my mom.

Still, the novel did inspire me to write my own super-successful Woman’s Self-Discovery Novel that then becomes an International best-seller and then an Oscar-buzzing movie staring Julia Roberts….OK, that SO is not going to happen. For so many reasons:


1. I don’t much want to discover anything else about myself. I was a psychology major and know for a fact that self-discovery is a pretty darn painful process. I like my current ignorant bliss. I know myself ok—about as well as I know my neighbor, Rob—and just like I don’t want to know why Rob insists upon mowing his lawn in purple speedos and black hi-tops, I also don’t really want to know why I periodically get neurotic and demand tons of emotional reassurance of everyone from my husband to my friends to my butcher.

2. Self-discovery requires Alone Time. Lots of it. I don’t get alone time. Ever. I try to steal some every once in a while by locking myself in the bathroom. If I were ever faced with serious chunks of alone time I know exactly how I’d fill it: with a million books, a cask of wine and Matt Damon to rub my feet while I read and sipped. When I got relaxed enough, I’d take a nap. Then I’d wake up and make use of Matt Damon for more than a foot rub (wink wink). Then I’d repeat. I could probably keep that up for, oh, ever!

3. If I did discover myself, I’d probably discover that I’m a crappy writer (do I HAVE my own agent???) and so I’d stop writing which would never lead to that best-selling adapted for movie-format novel.

4. Besides, I’d rather be played by Angelina Jolie. Julie Roberts is amazing and gorgeous, but she’s just too GOOD to be me. Angie is a lot more my style. Make of that what you will.


The sucky thing about trying to avoid Self-Discovery is that others insist upon enlightening you, whether you desire it or not. Specifically, Mothers delight in this. Being a mother myself, I understand. We love our children and want the best for them. And we often define ‘the best for them’ as ‘whatever conduct we ourselves approve of.” Not surprisingly to those reading this, my own conduct is a bit of a trial to my poor sainted mother.

Recently, she asked me if I was having an affair.

I have no idea where she got this idea. Actually, I do: I was spotted at Costco with a Man-Who-Is-Not-My-Husband. This being a small town, the gossip mill went into hyperdrive and soon my mother was informed by no fewer than 5 ‘friends’ that her slutty daughter had been spotted loading 20 pounds of butter in aisle 10 of Costco with a blonde man. To set the record straight, we were buying food for the Senior Pancake Breakfast. Bulk-quantities of saturated fat would not be what made me horny enough to break my marriage vows.


Besides, when the fuck would I pencil an affair into my busy schedule? Remember, I multi-task my poop-time by also making it my daily alone-time. And that is just WRONG. So, unless my boyfriend wants to get busy in the bathroom, I’m not quite sure when I can fit him in. Sorry, boys.


However, this apparently means my mother thinks I’m a slut. Ok, Ok…I WAS a slut. Had I been born with a penis, I’d have been the kind of legendary collegiate Player all men like to believe they were. But that was long ago, before Stu, crow’s feet, minivans and stretch marks. These days I’m only a femme fatale in my day dreams. And then when I’m all nice and horny from those day dreams I go home and make sweet, sweet love to my husband.

Or naughty love. Or hard, fast, sexy love. Or slow, drawn out love. Or…well, you get the point. My husband is now the focus of all of my slut-like tendencies.

Unless Matt Damon shows up with wine, a book and offers to rub my feet. But back to discovering myself…

The fact that my own mother thinks I'm a whore did not send me running off to the nearest priest or Freudian psychologist.  It just led me to swear.

I didn’t just ‘swear’. No ‘oh, darn’, ‘shoot’, or even, ‘shit’. No, I went for the world’s most PERFECT word. FUCK.


There is no greater word in the English language. I would argue that there is no greater word in ANY language. Any conjugation of the word is immensely satisfying: fuck. Fucker. Fucking. It also functions as the perfect split to any infinitive. As in, ‘to split an infinitive’ just becomes a bit…jazzier…when split with the perfect interjection: ‘to FUCKING split an infinitive!” And yes, that is my split infinitive lecture at my public high school in my conservative small town. Sue me. Or fire me. Whatever.


Fuck you.

Anyway, after indulging in extensive swear-therapy, I turned to my therapy of choice: wine.


This led my poor mom to ask me, ‘honey, do you have a drinking problem?”
Huh. I don’t know. I was too busy enjoying my chardonnay to think about it at the time. Later, I did what all smart women do when asked a self-discovery question they can’t answer: I asked my girl friends at our next Wine Night. The answer was unanimously ‘no’. This was such a reassuring answer that I opened another bottle and toasted all of them.

And yes, I am aware that I am going to Hell. Or Hades. Or am doomed to come back in my next life as a stink-bug with horrible Karma. Whatever. My mother’s prying actually forced me to do some swear-filled, wine-saturated self-discovery after my husband discovered a particularly pleasurable spot on my self. So, without further ado and because ‘brevity is the soul of wit’ here are my drunken and satisfied self-discovery discoveries:



I love: my daughters’ laughter and their father’s eyes. lazy Saturday mornings, consuming books, date nights with friends. being close to my family, being blessed with friends who are like family, the nostalgic longing I feel for those who are far away. long e-mails, any beach, sappy country songs and dancing all night at clubs I am much too old to attend. good food, rich desserts, trashy romance novels and deep philosophical discussions. shoes, earrings, expensive jeans and Coach handbags. my babies, my husband, my dog and the home we’ve all built together.

I enjoy: working in my garden, a smooth whiskey, a glass of wine with girlfriends, action movies where lots of stuff blows up and an excellent spa day. Walking our little white dog in the sunshine while pulling my girls in our big red wagon on the way to the park with the steep blue slide. Watching my big, strong, handsome husband walk our little white dog with her pink leash and collar. Listening to my girls’ delighted giggles as they watch their daddy pretend to be mad at the dog. Teaching my students, a sweaty workout, a well-decorated house. A perfectly planned party with good people.


I don’t particularly enjoy: cleaning up after a good party, the dog, the kids, my husband and any other creature who makes a mess in my house…most especially myself. Laundry. Anything involving me and my baby-blue, old-but-still-running Dodge P.O.S. minivan.



I want: to meet Matt Damon! a new car. definitely a tiled kitchen floor instead of our stained and torn linoleum and new granite countertops instead of ugly tile with geese-stamps on them (they came with the house). a trip to Maui would be nice and I’m always in need of a babysitter… Okay, seriously: I need all the people in my life, even—or especially—those whom I forget to tell; serenity and the chaos I have created; my belief that we, it, the world is GOOD and everyone can learn. Stuart—he’s better than old Matt Damon any day!


I loathe: cultivated ignorance.  Ergo, I embarked on this rather painful little Self-Discovery journey.  Oprah better fucking call!


I need: a night alone with my husband so we can drink good wine and fuck like crazy.

Confession: I’m very bendy!

Yes, Friends fans, that’s a shout-out to Phoebe.

It’s also (quite fortunately, if you’re my husband) very true. I have ample evidence. Most of it is not appropriate for this blog. But never fear, dear readers, I can hint and suggest and tease without breaking the public decency codes!

I’m not going to cite my ability to do the splits, or put my leg over my head, or hold a lovely pretzel-like contortion for eternal yoga breaths. But, of course, I can do all of those things. Not quite as easily as smoothly as I could before pregnancy and childbirth made my hips expand two extra inches…but I can still tuck my ankles behind my ears when I’m motivated enough to do so.

The last vestiges of my cheerleading glory days aside, my first piece of evidence is my ability to act out a very common female fantasy: hot sex with a man in uniform! As with most fantasies, the actual reality can be a bit tricky. For as sexy as a cop—especially one as gorgeous and well-built as mine-- in full uniform looks, the uniform itself is NOT conducive to sex.

The gun belt weighs at least 15 pounds and is bulky and awkward. It is slung low on the hips, directly over the important area, and loaded down with gun, ammunition, handcuffs, flashlight, radio and whatever else, all jutting out from the critical area in awkward and potentially fatal directions. The leg holster holds another gun or a taser—two things you do NOT want to accidentally jostle-- and the radio headset snakes up his back to his shoulder. On his feet are full combat boots laced high up on the leg and concealed somewhere upon his person is a loaded back-up weapon, maybe a knife or two. And, of course, the Kevlar bullet-proof vest is heavy and thick and prevents both a bullet from piercing the skin…and the wearer from feeling anything from neck to crotch.

A woman seeking to love a man in uniform has to coordinate her moves carefully, avoiding the loaded and cocked weapons, the tangle of the handcuffs (these are NOT the fun fuzzy kind for play).  Perhaps most importantly, one must avoid triggering the radio. Some things should not be heard by the entire Force.  Like when a horny woman is playing with one of the County’s Finest’s best weapons…and hoping to make it discharge.

None of this hinders me. I am a very short, petite woman. My man is at least a foot taller than me, more so in his boots. This only adds to the necessity of extreme flexibility. With the ease of long practice, I can rise on my bare toes, snake my arms around his neck and press fully against him, wiggling to avoid the jut of his gun, to settle him in the cradle of my hips. I can wrap my little legs around him, above the gun belt, under the vest, and hang on for the inevitable discharge. Mmmm.

My husband in uniform isn’t the only thing I can wrap my legs around. I’m also fairly adept at pole dancing. Yes, you read that right: I have mastered the pole!

Ok, ‘mastered’ may be a bit of an exaggeration. The truth is, I have a new and profound respect for pole dancers! It is HARD to climb up what is really a fireman’s pole, get inverted, swing one’s legs about and somehow look sexy doing so. Still, several girlfriends and I, bored with the endless miles we log racing off to nowhere on an elliptical machine or treadmill, signed up for ‘vertical core alignment class’; i.e.: pole dancing. We thought it would be a fun way to get some exercise, maybe pick up a tip or two for our own private performances.

The first session kicked my ass. Seriously. I couldn’t raise my arms for days. Trying to satisfy the sexy requirments of that damn huge pole did more for sculpting Jennifer Anniston-esque arms than Jill-the-Norwegian-Personal-Trainer accomplished in six sweaty nintey-minute sessions.

Even more humiliating, two decidedly chunky-and-frumpy girls and one 65-year-old grandma totally bested me and my 3 Hot Minivan Mom friends. We flailed about, swinging around the pole like 4th grade boys at recess (NOT sexy!) while they strutted, flipped, contorted…all with pointed toes and pornographically arched backs…to the beat of Al Green.

When I arrived home, Stuart asked me, predictable male smirk in place, if I had learned anything. I showed him the baseball-sized bruise on my inner thigh (a result of less-than-adequate tricep strength, according to Pole Dancing Grandma) and slunk into the bathroom to soak my aching bones.

Still, we returned. If Grandma and Chunky Girls (who didn’t even have manicures, pedicures OR cute work-out outfits!) could do it, damn it so could we! We decided our main problem was the music. Who feels sexy to Al Green? Personally, I just feel faintly nauseated…the way I feel whenever creepy old Uncle George drinks too much whiskey at family gatherings and forgets that he’s, well, my UNCLE, and therefore not genetically acceptable for sexual advances. I know an unfortunate amount about these things as my family’s Southern. At my first (and last) Mississippi family reunion, I was hit on by a very nice boy who informed me, “we’re just kissing cousins, honey!” as he tried to kiss me, his cousin! In case you’re not from the South, ‘kissing cousins’ simply means we are related, but our branches are far enough apart on the family tree to ensure that our children would not resemble a Picasso...BUT WE ARE STILL AT THE SAME FAMILY REUNION! (By the way, slimy Uncle George is not ANYTHING acceptable for sexual advances, unless buckets of money, mushy bellies, bald heads and rheumy eyes do it for you…but the UNCLE bit adds a puke-in-my-mouth element.)

Back to me learning how to pole dance. After our initial humiliation, we HMMs were determined to conquer the Pole: to spin, swing, strut and prove that strippers have nothing on us beautiful, married, working, accomplished small-town mothers!

The next class, we all downed a couple of glasses of wine first and brought the Pussy Cat Dolls for non-nausiating inspiration. Loosen up my Buttons loosened up my joints, and I found that spinning around the pole isn’t all THAT hard. Carol did a headstand, her long, sexy legs entwining about the long, shiny pole. Brook climbed it and slowly eased her way down, her back arched in a way that drew fantastic attention to her well-toned ass. Me...well...I’m good at walking around the pole.

Don’t laugh, there’s an art to it. And once I’ve walked around it a few times, stroking its length with my pretty, well-manicured hands as if it is Matt Damon wearing a Russian Silver Mink ballkini, I lift my leg slowly over my head and stroke the length with my pointed pedicured toe, as if I were removing that silky, skimpy ballkini. Eat your heart out, boys!

For the record, I have only performed for the women in my class. Stuart has talked about installing a pole in the bedroom, but I don’t think it’ll match my décor. I just like the knowledge that, should the recession get any worse, I can simply take my sassy self on down to Reno and apply for a job at the Wild Orchid or Gentleman’s Club.

Or, even better, next time I take my babies for a visit to the local fire station, maybe I’ll ask those sexy men in uniform if I can take a little spin on their pole!

Confession: this one is a threesome...

Confession: it is deep

I have a hole.

It is gaping

And aching

And deep and wide

And unfillable.



I tried to fill it with him,

But it wasn’t his hole to fill

And he had even fewer resources to offer

So I was angry and disappointed and hurt



And the hole got deeper

The edges more slippery than before.



I bridged it with work

And the kids

And hobbies and crafts

And the quiet mental reassurances we women tell ourselves about our emptinesses—

--we don’t call them lies, although they are—

and they are empty lies, too.



I stayed busy

I got bored

I made friends and filled my days with a whirlwind of activities:

I exercised, I gardened.

I baked and read and wrote and drove and cleaned

And continued the in and out and here and there of the typical lonely wife’s day

A day of children’s laughter and slightly melancholy friendships

A day of a simple, shared, quiet look of empathetic understanding

With a woman who also has a hole



We all do, you know.

We all do.



The nights I couldn’t do anything about

Except to stare into the darkness,

Listen to the whirrrr of the fan

The clang of the house

The somehow desolate sound of a helicopter passing over

And count the moments until dawn



Sometimes I forget about the hole

Sometimes I simply accept its existence

Sometimes I hate it

Sometimes I think it makes me stronger



Always I wish I could fill it.



But I don’t think it’s going away,

This hole of mine

I don’t know if it’s always been there and I just now noticed.
Or if it suddenly appeared,

A great sink hole in my psyche

As I grew up.



I do know that its origins don’t matter,

Only the eternity of its duration.



I have a hole.

It is gaping

And aching

And deep and wide

And unfillable



And it hurts.

Confession: I am A Woman who Waits

I am a woman who Waits.



I Wait through wars and shifts and training and long lonely nights.

I Wait for phone calls and texts and e-mails and conversations

     and for moments, for chances, for caresses, kisses and sighs.

I Wait alone and with the kids and with women

     and with the dry pages of a book and the cold chatter of late-night TV.

I Wait with anger and with patience and with pain and with solitude.

Sometimes, I Wait with peace.



I Wait…

like my mother and my grandmothers and all of the sisters and daughters throughout time

…for my men.



I Wait for my father. For I was born a girl and he was born a man and we cannot overcome that gap despite like and respect and familial love and worship and need.



I Wait for my other self, my love who is mine but not. I wait while he fights and loves and struggles and learns and screams and cries and I cannot often Wait with him because of distance and time and rules and…



I Wait for my love, my half with whom I share a home and children and the big triumphs and the small chores and the millions of little secrets born of Vows.

I Wait while he struggles and protects and grows.

I Wait through all the dinners with an empty chair and the weekends and the children’s questions and the stories and the bedtimes and the tears and the nights with the cold side of the bed.



I swore I would never Wait.



As a young woman, I vowed to Have.

     Eagerly, I grasped all shiny Possibility in my fists.

          Greedily, I clutched all Experience immediately to my breast.

                 Hungrily, I drank of all,

gulped and swallowed and consumed.



For I despised Women Who Wait.

I scoffed at their quiet patience, felt pity for their competent aloneness, imagined shame in their accepting smiles and yearning eyes.

I vowed I would never Wait.


But we women, we grow. And we learn. And some vows are broken by the desire and need and want to keep Vows. And our men Leave and fight and protect and earn and provide. And we Stay and feed the children and build the home and earn the money and drive the endless to-and-from and cook the dinners and listen to the days and pray and dream and…



Wait,



Wait,



Wait.

through the seconds.

the moments.

the days.

the nights.



We Wait for those who Go,

Our wise Grandmothers knew, there is pride in being able to Wait.



Because MY men who Go

They must have a soft place, a love, a reason to Return.

And so I Wait.

Confession: Sometimes, the hole is filled, the wait rewarded.

I am a mother, wife, teacher, student, daughter, friend, enemy, leader, follower, mentor, employee, small-town community member, sister, lover.



I soothe and cherish and care and love.



I organize and clean and tidy and do all the little things that need to be done.



I schedule. I accept, I decline.



I exercise and lounge and laugh and cry and talk and listen.



I embrace the loud and bask in the silence.



I have worked and sweated and pushed and persevered and reached that perfection that I first conceived…then defined…and…finally…achieved.



And no where in all of that is an ‘I’, a woman, a person, a ME.



And I chose this, created it, cultivated it. I take pride in it, revel in it, bask in the chaos and the scurry and the hard and the easy and the work and the fun.



But not some nights.



Some nights, I want to set aside the burden, like an over-stuffed backpack, just slide it off my shoulders, ease it onto the floor and walk away. Just for a moment.

For a moment feel the lightness of me.



This is the reason I so cherish when we love. Because, for that time, I am not a teacher, mother, daughter, sister. I am just a woman. The time is surreal, ethereal, removed. The endless loop of ‘needs’ and ‘shoulds’ and ‘must dos’ stops. The compartments that hold pick-ups and drop-offs and schedules and shopping lists and could-haves and coming-ups and laundry and chores and job worries and motherly concerns and wifely issues are not only closed, they do not exist in my head.



For that time, I simply am.

Thought is gone.

Identity is gone.

I can only touch, taste, stroke, feel.

Remember choosing him, him choosing me.

Make the choice again.

There is only the sensation of skin, of warm breath, of hard and soft and wet. There is only the sound of sighs and gasps and commands and cries. There is only ecstasy, and release, and anticipation and that giddy sense of yes and please and again.


And because of the pleasure, the intense, searing, repeating pleasure, there is a deep connection, a lightness of being.


The wait is rewarded.


The hole is filled.