Ready for the Next Big Thing

If I had a whole day to write this, I might be able to accurately describe how ready I am to put this year behind me. If I had the house to myself, I might be able to find the words to tell you what I've learned truly enough that you'd never have to learn it for yourself. If there were holy silence in my space instead of the typical cacophony of life, I'm sure we'd both come away from this blog entry feeling enlightened and healed.

I can't explain. No time. I can only summarize.

I've learned more about trust and betrayal this year than I knew could be learned. Thankfully, I've learned more about trust than I have about betrayal. I am grateful for those who have entrusted their careers, their hearts, their secrets, their bodies, and their souls to me. Their esteem gives me hope.

I've learned that love changes nothing. So don't take it too seriously - Love is Love is Love.

The vast majority of people I love live their lives in fear. I've learned that I can't help them. I'm sorry. Please join me in the light when you decide to see it.

I've learned that the rhyme my softball coach used to chant (If you can SEE it, you can BE it) is true.

The Beatles were right: Money can't buy me love.

It was fun trying, though!!

I've learned that professional recognition isn't all it's cracked up to be. Some days I'd kill to be invisible.

I found out the hard way that I have a girly streak a mile wide: I really want someone to think I'm beautiful. Or at least tell me I am. Telling myself I'm perfect just isn't cutting it any more.

I've also learned that I'm not half as independent as I'd like to think. I've longed for someone else to make the decisions; I've wished that someone would take care of me. Humbling, to be sure.

I know what it's like to be a rock star. I've learned that giving every ounce of my energy for others pays back a thousandfold and more. I'm addicted to it.

I know that I have to give to get.

I've learned - again! - that quitting smoking sucks big hairy donkey dick. I believe I'll be a non-smoker for good this time.

Like it or not, things are going to change. I've learned that I can choose to be healed by change or scarred by it. Doesn't take a rocket scientist to guess what my past MO has been. But I'll choose differently tomorrow... and the next day... and the day after that.

Goodbye, 2006. Welcome, 2007. Let's allow it to be easy, shall we?

Change (it doesn't matter who you are)

So, things are about to change. Again. I probably won't be posting for a while.

You may have already realized that I don't possess many coping mechanisms for change. Much of my psychological safety depends upon certain key elements of my life remaining static... the goings-on in my head are chaotic enough and I have to be able to depend on something other than death and taxes.

As a whole, the events that are unfolding are too huge for me to contemplate. Seperately, they seem almost trivial. Though venting my pain and frustration won't change the way these events unfold, perhaps I'll feel better addressing (as little letters! Cute, yes???) them one by one.

1. You come and go as you please and have the audacity to be surprised when people stop caring where you are. Further, you announce that you've "made a decision" and expect time to stop to accomodate you. If you had an ounce of sensitivity in your psyche or an iota of decency in your soul, you'd realize that in this life, you reap what you sow. I hope you are pleased with this year's harvest. You cultivated it so carefully.

2. For seven years, I've felt safe knowing that someone had my six, even on different schedules, in different buildings, and in different job descriptions. We share a mutual respect for enlightened living and all things miraculous, and have made silk purses out of sow's ears over rare and nutty stouts more times than I can count. You've steered me through challenges great and small, but didn't realize that you wouldn't be there to teach me how to handle this, the greatest challenge since I walked into that shabby office so many years ago. Though I celebrate your courage and achievement, I am already lost and frightened and oh so alone.

3. I cried for you last night, for almost an hour. Real, wracking sobs that left me with completely blocked sinuses, an utter emptiness that defies explanation, and the same unanswered questions that I started with over a year ago. Would it kill you to give me just one fucking clue into your thought process about this situation? Do you really believe that throwing me a frickin' bone would compromise your intricately woven security blanket? If you can't trust me by now - Heaven knows I've kept a lot of secrets and played a really cool game - then why continue in the same vein? For God's sake, if you have to leave - because make no mistake, that's exactly what you're doing and this time there's no going back - leave me with something to feel good about. A reason. An excuse. A sentiment. A summary. An explanation. A compulsion. Anything! Anything but this horrific ambivalence that permeates every arena but one.
Love me... or don't. But choose.

4. I can't work this way. You're just going to have to trust me, because you can't have it both ways - if you want to control every little thing, then you'll have to make it a point to be here to do it. Your only other option is to trust me. If you can't step out of feeling threatened and defensive long enough to see clearly, then just step back and let me do my thing, because I'm going to do it with or without your explicit support. You don't like the way I handle things? Then show up every once in awhile and handle them yourself. You don't want me to take over? The show up every once in awhile and take charge. You don't want me to subjugate your will to my own? Then show up every once in awhile - and you better be on your game. As of this moment, I am off the fence and on the field.



Apres le deluge...

Silly Girl

I think I've got it licked,
and then the phone rings:
for one incredible second
the possibilities are endless.
Of course it's not you -
Heavens, why would it be?

Hypersensitivity

There are a thousand ways my heart can break. At least.

So far, being a non-smoker has been a good thing. I'm glad to be a new non-smoker.

Aye, but here's the rub: like any addict, I used my addiction to suppress things that I didn't want to deal with in full. Addictions are handy like that.

Now... there are a thousand ways my heart can break.

The worst is over?

Day 5

The worst part is over. The worst part is over. The worst part is OVER.

Isn't it?

I stopped smoking - cold turkey - on Thanksgiving. People have mentioned that I have now proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am a complete lunatic, as only a lunatic would attempt such a feat during a holiday weekend. And, while it's true that there's a certain measure of madness to this method, I chose the long holiday weekend for a reason: 24/7 supervision.

For the first four days, I was cursed/blessed to have either my disapproving husband or my tattletelling kids with me at all times. If a spare moment suddenly appeared out of thin air, no way could I have diverted to the nearest tobacconist: the guilt would have been too much to bear. The kids have been perfecting their long-suffering wounded stares in the mirror for weeks now. I couldn't stand the thought of giving them a chance to use them.

Bottom line: I know enough about myself to know that I needed the extra support of being under constant surveillance.

Today - Day 5!! - was the first day as a non-smoker at work. There's a 7-11 within walking distance and there isn't a single person in the building who could give a rat's ass if I quit smoking or died coughing on the stairs. And when I needed to escape for a minute, I didn't know what to do with myself... I ended up hoofing it up and down the stairs for 10 minutes or so. Today was definitely the toughest day yet, mostly because there was no one to stare mournfully at me if I fell off the wagon.

Here's the funny thing about giving up the smoking habit: no one cuts me any slack. If I were quitting heroin, I'd have 6 weeks off of work and when I stuttered so badly while trying to complete a sentence that I eventually just gave up and walked away, people would understand because it's withdrawal, for Heaven's sake! Ditto alcohol. If I were addicted to alcohol instead of tobacco, I'd be able to get financial help from my employer for a residential treatment facility and 6 weeks off to kick the habit. Instead, I try to explain my shaking hands and stunted thought processes by saying, "Sorry, I've quit smoking and am struggling a bit today," and people just look at me with their eyes squinted and their foreheads creased up like... So??????????

Day 5: successfully navigated like the four days before it. The worst part is over.

More Pictures from the 2006 San Diego 3-Day

Pictures from the 2006 San Diego 3-Day

Word Vomit

It has long been known to me that my mouth often operates on unvectored thrust.

Trust me, I've been attentive to it... I learned early that my inside voice very rarely will find validation if it finds the doorway to the outside. I practice self-control: counting to ten before responding, thinking twice about my first reaction, asking a question instead of making a statement, etc., etc., etc.

Some days are better than others.

My eldest daughter announced that she is engaged. I knew about it before it was announced, of course, because her now-fiancee and long-time "significant other" telephoned my husband and asked for his daughter's hand. My husband, in turn, telephoned me to share the news. My first thought (then unspoken): How am I going to produce $40,000.00 for this glorious event within the space of a year?

A shitty first thought. I know.

I'm preoccupied with financial concerns at the moment because there are a helluva lot more concerns than there are finances. I've got my mind on my money and my money on my mind because it's time to pay property taxes... my husband has threatened that he's coming home within the space of a few weeks and will need to ship his household and the car... our financial outlook is bleak at best because of the months spent maintaining two households in the two highest housing markets in the United States and I already know it will take us years to recover from this little experiment in seperation... I've made some questionable financial decisions over the past eighteen months that are currently coming back to haunt me... and hooray!! The holidays are right around the corner!!!

So, when my daughter called to share her momentous news, I said, "That's great, sweetheart!! Have you decided on a day??"

She replied, "I'm still trying to get used to the idea! Why? Do I need to know the date already?"

And I said,

(wait for it)

"Well, am I expected to pay for it?"

(yes, that's what I said.)

Of course, I was rewarded with dead silence on the other end. Not for long, but certainly long enough to know that my inside voice had escaped again. She covered it well, and composed herself almost immediately. But I knew.

Even I probably couldn't have ruined her big day. But I sure put a big fucking dent in it, didn't I??

But worse than that is the fact that what came out of my mouth reflected nothing even close to what I meant or was thinking. OF COURSE I'm going to pay for it!! OF COURSE she can expect that I will, insofar as I can.

What I meant was: How long do I have to prepare?? But even that would have been a question in bad taste for the moment.

She called me on it today, told me that I had hurt her feelings and that she did not expect us to pay for anything. I agreed that my comment was in poor taste and apologized. I thanked her for bringing it to my attention and explained why such a horrible thing would come out of my mouth in the first place.

I don't think either of us felt any better.

Word vomit. It's a curse. Or a blessing, if one's goal is to systematically alienate the entire human race.

A Difficult Topic... but Which Isn't?

A recent conversation with a dear friend of many, many years prompted this post. His frustration, helplessness, and confusion was touching and tragic to me; however, it is the topic itself that is far more frightening.

Dalma Heyn, in her book The Erotic Silence of the American Wife, wrote:

"Trying to account for why so many wives called their marriages 'happy' when they revealed signs of feeling deeply alientated in them, Bernard (sociologist Jessie Bernard, 1976) found that researchers tended to ignore what a woman said unless certain arbitrary criteria were met. They measured the success of a woman's marriage not according to her honest appraisal of it, but rather to their interpretation of her adjustment to it. ...Bernard concluded that if researchers measure a woman's happiness in marriage by her adjustment to it, it is understandable why a wife would do the same, since she then 'interprets reconciliation as happiness no matter how much she is paying for it in terms of psychological distress.'"

She continued,

"Married women in these (modern) studies report about 20 percent more depression than single women and three times the rate of severe neurosis. Married women have more nervous breakdowns, nervousness, heart palpitations, and inertia. Still other afflictions disproportionately plague married women: insomnia, trembling hands, dizzy spells, nightmares, hypochondria, passivity, agoraphobia and other phobias, unhappiness with their physical appearance, and overwhelming feelings of guilt and shame. A twenty-five year longitudinal study of college-educated women found that wives had the lowest self-esteem, felt the least attractive, reported the most loneliness, and considered themselves the least competent at any task - even child care."

And,

"Finally, when noted mental health researchers Gerald Klerman and Myrna Weissman reviewed all the depression literature on women and tested for factors ranging from genetics to PMS to birth control pills, they could find only two prime causes for female depression: low social status and marriage." (italics mine)

The book itself explores the subject of women with extramarital relationships, and how it is increasingly common for women to say that "their dilemma is not how to end either the adulterous relationship or the marriage, but how to maintain both."

I hear quite often from married women that approximate my age that sex has become so low on their list of priorities that it may as well not be on the list at all. We are tired... we are frazzled from working full-time, maintaining a household, raising children, managing a family calendar, organizing activities, and providing an endless supply of baked goods for the PTA/Booster Club/Book Fair Pot Luck/Bake Sale/etc. More than this, sex becomes just another duty; something else to add to the list of chores that must be accomplished before we can fall, exhausted, into bed for approximately 5 hours of sleep per night. And this is just the surface - underneath the emotional exhaustion of the business that is marriage and family is the dark and sinister knowledge that your children stole your figure, your youth, and your career competitiveness... and your husband sees that you are no longer the young girl with so much promise and sexual fire, a dessicated husk that can barely bring herself to go through the motions.

Heyn writes,

"As woman after woman voices her deepest feelings about marriage and sex, striking similarities emerge: Something had changed inside each of them during marriage; they had experienced a profound loss, an inexplicable silencing of their inner selves."

Does it seem logical to anyone else that the voice of that inner self might often be sexual desire?

My hypothesis: Married women seek extramarital relationships because they represent a sacred space no longer found in their lives of sacrifice. A purely sexual relationship is an equal relationship - one in which each party brings the same thing to the table and leaves with the same reward. Married women lose their sexual voice - and thus their manifested sexual desire - because sex becomes something that must happen to maintain the relationship rather than something that must happen to be whole.

Heyn wrote:

"I am saying that for all these women I interviewed, sexually exclusive marital relationships were made joyous only when they first killed off that Perfect Wife, and shattered this rigid institutional cage in which she flourished and which imprisoned their sexual selves. The conventional goodness the women entered when they married, and through which they found they still assumed status and approval, was precisely what was killing them - and their husbands, too - and they felt they must smash that framework in order to save them both."

...And Hilarity Ensues...

I am in financial creativity mode, fervishly making savings solutions and shopping for better interest rates for existing debt. I'm not willing to refinance my mortgage because I want to have a huge chunk of profit from the sale of this tiny home when I retire, a chunk that will by me a happy little mansion anywhere else in the country.

So, when I received the "limited time offer" for a 0% interest rate on balance transfers "for LIFE!!" teaser, I decided to apply. I had a specific account to transfer in mind and needed a specific credit line to do it, which I related to Katie, the Customer Service representative, immediately. She told me there was no way of knowing what I would be approved for without applying, so I (sigh) went through the process via telephone.

Let me take this opportunity to mention that I have held an account with this particular financial institution in the past and HATED every minute of it. Exhorbitant and undisclosed fees - which they found a way to levy even after the account was closed but still being paid for - and shoddy customer service was my unshakable recollection, but I was giving them another chance - against my better judgment!! - because 0% interest "For LIFE!!!" is a helluva deal.

After giving Katie more information than I'd feel comfortable giving a lover, she gleefully informed me that I had been "INSTANTLY APPROVED!!" for a credit line of $6000. To which I, of course, replied, "That's not gonna cut it."

"I'm sorry?" Poor Katie.

"That's not enough. I told you at the outset that I would need a specific credit line and that I would be wasting our time if I were not going to be approved for that amount."

"I understand, Ma'am, but this was only the Instant Approval. Please call back within 72 hours to request a credit line increase. That way, you'll be able to speak with an Account Manager."

"I'd like to just submit my request now, so your underwriter or whoever can get a copy of my credit report and have an answer for me when I call back."

"I'm sorry, Ma'am. The account is inaccesible for requests now."

(sigh) Naturally.

Monday morning I called the 1-800 number and requested a credit line increase. Pam, the Customer Service representative (this time in Utah - the first one was in Arizona), proclaimed that I probably would not be approved because "they give you the highest amount they can give you when you're first approved."

Uh, right. Apparently Arizona and Utah don't communicate well. Anyway, I politely asked Pam to please put the request through regardless. She tittered, "Well, okaaaaaay...." and told me to call back before 5:00 pm the next day, because "that's when the Account Managers are in."

(sigh) Right.

I dialed the 1-800 number again upon returning home from work today, to find myself connected to the Delaware Customer Service Center. Marie, the newest Customer Service rep in an increasingly long line of extremely polite disappointments, informed me that my request for increased funding had been denied. She then asked me if I was ready to transfer the balances of my high-interest credit cards?? I laughed and advised her that I wanted to cancel my account. She crooned, "I can help you with that right away," and then I heard a click followed by Muzak.

(sigh) Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, over?

After spending a few moments on hold, another Customer Service rep came on the line, identified himself as Dave, and asked how he could help me today. I, still stung from being unceremoniously passed off and confused because it appeared that my previous discussion with Marie had somehow been erased from historical happenstance, again provided my identifying information (now Dave the CSR knows more about me that my first four boyfriends put together) and related my confusion at being transferred when I had only asked to cancel my account. Dave responded that he could help me with that right away, and I braced myself for the click that would irrefutably prove that I was stuck in a customer service time warp.

I realized that I had been squinching my eyes shut, awaiting the onslaught of Muzak, when Dave asked why I was choosing to cancel the account I'd applied for only three days before?

"Well, Dave, I had a specific account in mind to transfer a balance from and I wasn't approved for enough credit to do it."

"Oh, bummer. What kind of credit line do you need?"

"$14,000."

"Oh, well why not just use the $6000 line we gave you to transfer as much of that other balance as you can?"

"Dave, it's all or nothing. Please just cancel the account."

"I'm working on that right now for you, Ma'am. But I have to tell you that transferring the $6000 from your other balance would save you $68.19 per month."

Was I hearing this right? Was he trying to convince me that I should SPLIT the debt? Incredulous, I realized that he was!

"Hey, Dave, that's great. But I really just want to cancel the account. The 0% interest rate sounded really good, but I'm not willing to split the balance. I'll just get a signature loan from my bank."

Snottily, Dave retorted, "Well, even if you got a 2.99% rate, you'd still be paying $19 more per month than you would if you used our $6000 at 0%."

Patience, girl, I thought. This man was obviously sent by Beelezebub to torment you. Getting medieval on his dumb ass won't make this go any faster.

"Dave, please don't interpret this to mean that I'm interested in discussing this any further, but let me point out that transferring $6000 of a $14,000 debt that sits currently at 12.99% to a 0% rate means that I would be paying a combined rate of approximately 7.5% on both. Please tell me how you calculate that deal to be saving me any money at all when I can get a signature loan from my bank at a 3.99% rate for the whole shebang?"

"Well, why didn't you do that in the first place, then? You're obviously desperate for the money or you wouldn't have applied."

Yes. He really said that. Yes he did. I hadn't realized that only "desperate" people applied for 0% credit line to transfer high-rate balances. Though I had had suspicions prior to this more-bizarre-every-second conversation with Dave, I was quickly becoming certain of the folly of being seduced by a mailer and a come-hither-thou-fascinating-stranger low interest rate. I summoned every bit of icy righteousness available in my armory.

"Dave, I will now implore you to resist the urge to switch to the application screen after we conclude our business, lest you feel small and stupid. Of course, you'll make your own decision, but I hope next time it will involve knowing the facts of a matter before you open your mouth to speak as an expert. That said, is that account cancelled and deleted?"

"I'm sorry that you obviously don't want to save as much money as you possibly can. Your account is cancelled." Dave said this in a tone that implied that THEY had sought ME out (instead ofthe other way around) and that indicated I'm not good enough for a Discover account anyway.

With infinite patience, I thanked him for his time and offered a silent prayer of gratitute for my narrow escape.

(sigh) What the hell was I thinking?

OOPS! I just realized that I typed the name of the financial institution!! Gee, I hope my humble blogging doesn't cause any measure of public distrust!!!!

Some Things Are Not Negotiable

My daughter had a self-inflicted medical issue the other day that forced an inconvenient, but immediately necessary response. Though her injury appeared serious, it was not an emergency; thus, I attempted to make an Urgent Care appointment at our regular clinic with our regular "primary care manager."

I was informed that no appointments were available for the next few days because the clinic doctors had "union issues." Seems that these issues precluded most of the doctors from appearing for work.

I was forced to take my daughter to the already understaffed and vastly overworked Emergency Room at the Naval Medical Center, where we encountered tired, dedicated professionals who were not happy about keeping us waiting for 3 and 1/2 hours and did their very best to keep us informed and comfortable. They recognized that the heavier-than-usual backlog was a result of the current dysfunction in the clinical environments and took it in stride as positively as possible, at least to the public eye. I, moved by their response and acceptance, remembered again how blessed I have been to serve with shipmates such as these.

In my mind, there are some professions that mean more than a paycheck. We who choose to serve the public good, whether it be in military service, law enforcement, the medical field, or emergency services, do not have the luxury of negotiating terms of service. In the military, I learned the meaning of duty; in my current role I am called to practice it regardless of pay, union involvement, or private expectation. One could argue that our servicemen and women show their dedication to duty because they are obligated by their signatures on contracts that make them government property twenty-four hours a day. Having lived it myself, I have to disagree. Military service, like the other fields mentioned, is a calling. I committed myself to duty because I wanted to, not because I had to. And I continue that personal tradition today. No one twists my arm and tells me that I'm responsible for protecting the safety of the people in this community - I am compelled to be. And I will do it, without or without a pay increase every year, with or without benefits, with or without ergonomic office equipment.

I am disappointed in the professional ethics of several doctors who chose their personal interests over the duty of their calling. I am incensed that the ER staff at the Naval Medical Center were forced to triage the trauma victims that arrived in ambulance after ambulance within the parameters of patients in pain that had already waited several hours for treatment. I empathize with the frustration of those patient and exhausted doctors, nurses, and corpsman who were forced to notify Emergency Services that they were unable to accept any more ambulance deliveries because of the backlog of patients who SHOULD HAVE been seen in the clinical environment. And I am stricken with grief for those who did not get necessary medical care in time to make a difference.

"Union issues." Shame on you.

I Wish...

...I didn't know.

I Am...

I am Jack’s broken heart. I’ve been blind, deaf, and dumb!

I know I’m at the end of my emotional reserves when every response I have is a quote from Fight Club. It’s a trite survival tool, but an effective one. Filtering my life through the philosophy of Fight Club allows me to take an emotional break, just long enough to remember that nothing external has anything whatsoever to do with me.

I had definitely forgotten that I am not a beautiful and unique snowflake.

And though I could wallow in freakish self-pity over my own ongoing foolishness, I think I’d rather impart – with the utmost gratitude – this simple sentiment:

We squared off in that dark, arousing basement and you kicked my ass – and in doing so set me free. Thank you! I remember now why ruthless selfishness is the human animal’s prime directive!

And with this recaptured liberty, I also remember the things I don’t have time for:

I don’t have time – or money, for that matter – for investments with no foreseeable return.

In that vein, I don’t have time for altruism. Even if someone could prove that such a thing actually exists.

I spend too much time with and for people who don’t give a shit, and not enough time with and for people who do. No one has time for that!

I don’t have time for deception of any kind, not even when its purpose is an attempt to avoid emotional pain. I certainly don’t have time for people who practice it.

I don’t have time for clothes that don’t fit, shoes that hurt my feet, or push-up bras. What you see is what you get.

I don’t have time for what other people think is right or wrong. I don’t have time for should or ought. I can say without reservation that I don’t have time to conform, even if I had the inclination to.

I don’t have time for unsatisfying sex. I barely have time for good sex. Posers need not apply.

I don’t have time for “maybe.” It’s too late in the game to be waiting for folks to get off the fence.

I don’t have time to donate to the personal gain of individuals. Didn’t plan well? Too fucking bad.

I don’t have time to grant second chances. When you show me who you are, I’ll believe you - the first time.

I’m not in a position to judge, and neither is anyone else. If I were, I still wouldn’t have time for it.

I don’t have time for things. My attention will not be wasted earning more money than I can use to buy crap I don’t need.

I don’t have time for complacency, ambivalence, or condescension. Wanna make excuses or feel superior? Take it elsewhere.

I don’t have time for guessing or games. If you love me, show it. If you don’t, get out of my way.

I don’t have time to fulfill anyone’s needs but my own. My needs might include others, but they certainly don’t depend on them.

I don’t have time for average. Bring it… or don’t. But don’t expect me to applaud you for half-assed efforts at minimal proficiency.

And, when all is said and done, I doubt I’ll find time to feel the need to justify my actions, feelings, or desires. To anyone. Down one road is a grand adventure… down the other is safety. I don’t have time to worry about the choice.

I am Jack’s smirking revenge.

Memory Necklaces

I read a sort of goofy meditation ritual today that asked the reader to imagine an "energetic" manifestation of self as wearing beaded necklaces, each representing a specific emotion. The mediation ritual was designed to be a visualization of sorts, a way to disentangle from emotions associated with memories that cripple the spirit.

Yeah, I know what you're thinking. I thought it too.

But as I dismissed it, I saw a quick picture in my own mind of a body wearing so many necklaces, some of which were so long that they had to be wrapped several times around, that the body itself was not even recognizable. For if each necklace represents an emotion, and the length of each strand represents how many times during a lifetime that emotion has been experienced, a person my age must be carrying a veritable king's ransom in memory beads.

That's gotta be pretty fucking heavy.

So fucking heavy, in fact, that I believe the meditation guru just might have a point. Do I really need to carry around each instance of each emotion, building upon each memory until the weight of that particular emotion is unbearable?

I mean, we can all guess which strands are the longest, right? It doesn't take a theoretical physicist to deduce that the painful, self-doubting, self-deprecating, jealous, and angry memory necklaces are the ones with the greatest number of beads. We've all become so emo now that we don't have to chase our food.

I'm pretty sure I'm not obligated to wear memory necklaces. I lost (or burnt, I can't remember) my copy of the Human Rule Book long ago, but I have absolutely no recollection of a mandate to decorate myself with beads of remembrance and forever bear the burden of their horrific weight. Good, bad, ugly, or indifferent... what use do I have for more than two or three beads apiece?

Yep, pretty fucking heavy. I think it's time to lighten up.

Sweet Release

I exacted vengeance today.

You don't know it, but my pride is avenged. I'll wear the bruises of it for weeks, the scent of it like an exotic fur. What you started was finished; what I wanted, I had. The fragrant and slippery fruit of my hope and trust was sliced and eaten and thoroughly enjoyed, mere minutes after you declined the offering - again.

I am shamed, but free.

The Love Trump

"Lust is stronger than love." That's the quote, and - try as I might- I can't disprove it.

I thought about not coming back to this at all. It won't make me popular and I feel a million ugly glares pointed my way just thinking about it. Unfortunately, none of your sappiness will make that five-word statement any less true.

We're not just talking about sex, here. Lust takes many forms. And every form it might take - explicit, subtle, surreptitious - trumps love.

Doubt me, do you? Think about this, then: is it love that keeps you from acting on your lust? And don't tell me you don't feel it, because you do. Sometimes it feels like greed, sometimes it feels like hunger, sometimes it feels like covetousness, often it is violent, and sometimes it just feels like good old-fashioned horniness, and you feel it every day. Is it love for your significant other that stops you from taking the meaningful eye contact with the dark-eyed stranger in the coffee shop as far as you know it will go? No. It's social paranoia. You don't want to get caught - by anyone! - doing a thing you promised someone you'd never do. Doesn't matter how unreasonable that promise was or is, the only thing that matters is that you won't slake your lust in all manner of hedonistic pleasures because you fear being caught doing it. Giving in to lust is the equivalent of social suicide, tantamount to moral seppuku.

You fear being judged.

Oh, and here's the funny part: you fear being judged by people who are just as lustful as you are. You fear judgment from people who are pulling their hair out trying to keep you from knowing what lustful desire they gave in to today, what bridge they themselves burned as the object of their lust waved them merrily forward. Is it love that fuels their judgment? Of course not. They want your social circle - however big or small it may be - to focus on your percieved shortcomings so theirs remain undiscovered. The politics of lust are the most sinister known to man. Just ask former President Clinton.

It's fear that stops you, not love. Do you love your loved ones less when you give in to lust? Absolutely not. Does indulging in a particular craving mean that your love has somehow become less than it was? Never. Love is love is Love. But lust is stronger, oh yes it is. It's lust that people lie for, die for, kill for - not love.

And if the fear of reprisal is overcome, there's no stopping it.

An Exercise in Contrast

I remember buying the wedding dress, and knowing it was the right one by the way your eyes glittered with sudden and unexpected joy as you sat, humoring me, in a reupholstered chair to the side of the dais.

Later, much later, you told me at which point you would begin to remove that dress on our wedding night. Then you showed me.

I remember fumbling in anger and terror with the key and wondering how much time I had as I tried to retrieve that dress from your apartment, leaving everything else. What a sight I must have been: walking alone in the middle of the night, wearing a Stetson, and carrying a wedding dress with a full cathedral train.

I remember our first night together, how you raged and rutted and sobbed and shuddered; how our bodies fit like puzzle pieces and how, at the end, I was wrung out like a washcloth and had nothing left to give - but my ear- to your gutteral croak of "stay."

And when I finally did, you were afraid to leave me; making excuses to come home from work to make certain I still slept soundly in the big bed I sold my soul to buy. You laughingly chided me for not waking fully enough to challenge you upon entering; I could only shrug sleepily and yawn, "Who else would it be?"

I remember our last night together: my terror and helplessness as I lay pinned beneath you, your once-beloved body now the warden of my tiny and effective prison, your breath hot and thick with rage. Each time my head hit the floor I heard a new word: You. Are. Mine. You. Can't. Go. I. Won't. Let. You. Go. You. Fucking. Bitch.

I remember the boyish boldness with which you escorted me to the finest establishment you could afford for our first dinner together. I struggled to hide my amusement - after all, we could have gone anywhere had you not insisted upon taking the financial burden upon yourself - as you opened doors for me, seated me, ordered for me, and orchestrated an amazing dessert that I could find nowhere on the menu.

Later, much later, I sat impaled by your frighteningly hot length as you burned with fever, feeding you orange slices and singing you lullabyes. Drenched with sweat, you murmured incoherently, but would not allow me to move even long enough to call an ambulance.

I remember making an excuse to get out of the house so we could share a Thanksgiving dinner. We sat in silence, you shaking with anger so violently it made the silverware rattle on the table. I moved to stand, to escape the horrific silence long enough to wash my hands, and you yanked me back by my hair. My head hit the table at the same time that my backside connected with the floor; through the explosions of fireworks in front of my eyes and the roaring in my ears I heard, "Get up, stupid."

I remember decorating a pathetic little tree with odds and ends and bits of ribbon, splurging only on the string of lights that created, in the dark of that miniscule room, an ethereal space. We lay on the floor, entwined, faces upturned toward the twinkling branches. Your breath in my ear, "I love you, you are my only," your scent filling my nostrils, commingled with old carpet and seeping pine.

You left message after message on my voicemail, crying out my name randomly in the midst of strings of polysyllabic gibberish punctuated by sounds of flesh striking metal. Knowing I would look at the Caller ID, you called from every pay phone you encountered in that all-night drunken excursion. Fascinated and frightened by the intensity, I dared not turn off the phone.

I remember seeing your truck as I exited the auditorium through the back door into the parking lot that I had thought was safely hidden from the street. Already knowing that the effort was futile though I could not yet see you, I ran at full, panicked speed to my car only to realize that you were sitting, hidden, against the driver's side door. As you stood to greet me - like nothing had ever happened!! - I dived into the relative safety of my car. I turned in time to see your fist shatter my window, pelting my face and body with broken glass. You dragged me partially out of the window to within centimeters of your face, shouting and shaking: You're! Dead! To! Me!

I remember seeing you for the first time and thinking, Oh, there you are!

You walked casually into the hospital room and said, "It's all right now. Here I am."

I tossed the deed to a dream now dead onto the Formica tabletop. You pushed an envelope, fat with money and regret toward me, almost mockingly. "There you go."

MySpace: WTF, Mate?

Okay, so I have a MySpace account. Yes I do.

I originally set it up so I would be able to actually learn about the system so my daughter couldn't pull the wool over my eyes about what the server is capable of and what it's not. I also wanted to learn all the little tricks so I could decrease the chance of her getting one over on me.

So I set up the account, using a fake picture and minimal information. My 15-year-old daughter was my one and only friend (not counting Tom, of course).

Then my daughter's friend sent me a "friend request." I was thrilled! Someone wanted to be my friend on MySpace!! So what if it was another 15-year-old?? Then I found out my son has a MySpace account, so I sent him a friend request. Now I had three - count 'em, three - friends!!

I can't even describe the utter ecstasy I felt when my first comment was posted. You know you're really somebody on MySpace when you have comments.

I learned how to embed a song or video into my profile. Oh yeah. Folks who visited my profile now had something to listen to as they perused my comments!!

I slowly collected a few more friends. Some were actually adults. And then my daughter and I decided that I needed more friends, so she posted a bulletin advertising my friendless state. Lo! and Behold!! Friend requests galore!! I skyrocketed into delusions of popularity as I changed my "Top Friends" capacity from 4 to 16 to encompass ALL of my 14 friends.

Yes, I know that most people have at least 200 friends. All I can say about that is: cyberspace imitates life.

Then, my friends started to ask questions like, "Why am I behind so-and-so if he leaves you comments and whatnot and I don't?" Of course, I had to post an entire bulletin dedicated to the fact that I don't arrange my "Friends" space in any particular order except for the first two - my daughter and my son. I qualified this bulletin by acknowledging that some people might manage to be offended by being placed in no particular order, but that I would have to persevere and possibly lose their MySpace friendship in order to abide by my own personal values. I shudder to contemplate the day when my "Top Friends" space doesn't have room for ALL of my friends. What drama awaits? How will I prioritize my friendships then??

More importantly, how am I going to prioritize Toby Keith, Jake Peavy, and Gil the Crab?? Does their specialty status in life automatically entitle them to preferred status in my friends list? Is there a protocol for this??? I am overcome by etiquette stress already and Toby Keith hasn't even responded yet.

Exhausted from all this negotiating, I noticed that my profile was boring in comparison with the icon-studded and video-laden profiles of some of my friends. It was time to freshen my perspective and join the ranks of those who pimp their MySpace. After three tries, I was able to change the colors and basic layout of my profile - and embed a personalized photograph.

Now we're getting somewhere, I thought gleefully. Now my friends not only had cool tunes to rock out to while visiting my profile - perhaps to leave comments!! - but had soothing colors to enhance their profile-visiting experience. I was proud of my new-found cyber-knowledge. I was impressed by my own derring-do. I was hip, man!!

And now, I'm committed. Now I have to manage comments and messages, accept or deny friend requests, mediate the personal drama of my 14 friends, and read pages full of surveys and personal confessions. Instead of calling my friends on the phone, or visiting them at their various places of residence, I now visit their MySpace profiles to get updates on current events in their lives, most of which need to be cross-referenced with the profiles of their friends, and so on, and so on, and so on...

It's more than a hobby, man. It's MySpace.

A Topic to Ruminate Upon and Return to...

From a recently read book:

"But lust is stronger than love..."

Upon reading the line, I was struck by the fundamental truth of it, until my "rational" mind took over and dissected it in an attempt to prove the basic falsity of it. A strange reaction, to be sure: why would my mind rail against the truth it recgonized so suddenly and fully?

Let's come back to it.

Humility None Too Soon

This is a difficult subject for me to write about, but I don't think I'm going to be able to purge it any other way.

The long and short of it: I'm accustomed to getting what I want. Especially where men are concerned. This time I didn't. And now I feel...

Well, silly.

And broken, used, angry, frustrated, sad, old, undesirable, and humbled.

But mostly silly.

You see, I'm new to the "trying" game, because usually I don't really have to. Being new to it, I certainly tried too hard, and for far too long. And the bitterness I feel now would be very easily directed toward the man himself if I were less human than I am (or more so?), as it would have been very simple for him to prevent me from making an utter fool of myself by just being completely honest about his motives or lack thereof. The reality of it is that I kept trying, far past the point of diminishing returns.

That's hardly his fault, right? Right.

But the "diminishing returns" statement is really the key to the heart of the matter. In retrospect, there weren't many returns in the first place and "diminishing" is generous. There was some joyriding in there, but it was the kind that is the usual precursor to further intimacy and this time that just wasn't the case. I wanted to show him so many things! Not the least of which was the fact that secondary relationships often enhance primary relationships and don't have to reflect the nightmarish forced-morality scenarios that Hollywood loves to exploit our fears with. And I interpreted consistently mixed signals as a sign that, somewhere inside, he really wanted to come along but hadn't yet broken free from the moral paranoia that's infused into our social norms. And I kept trying!! I approached it from every angle I could think of and failed miserably. And now, thousands of dollars, hours upon hours of time, and a million suggestive self-portraits later, I am...

Silly.

But I realized, driving home today, that so much of my failure to secure the thing I wanted can be attributed to factors beyound my control... yet, I have taken this failure upon myself and somehow turned it around to fit into my newest litany of self-hate: "You're old, you're ugly, your thighs are out of control and you're too lazy to do anything about it, you're boring, you're a total bitch, no WONDER he doesn't want you...," et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. And though these things may, in fact, be true for the man in question, they are certainly not true across the board.

I've found myself using this one experience as an excuse to isolate myself, a reason to just quit the game entirely. Because of this one failure - which, in the grand scheme of things matters not at all - I wound myself into quite the little tizzy of self-doubt... which, naturally, led me to believe that all I had to do was try harder - even though failure was - and always was - inevitable. The worst part of this is that I based my sexual value on this experience rather than on the input of several others who were pushed to the curb because I was trying to get something out of my reach. And that's the sickest thing of all: I would willingly choose to interpret my extrinsic value based on the guarded and dowright cagey reactions of the one person who obviously doesn't want anything to do with me rather than on the honest and open admiration of those who do.

I'm glad I've figured it out. Silly, indeed! But an important lesson nonetheless, as my own predilection toward self-deprecation needs better monitoring lest I find myself in another unvectored thrust toward trying too hard for too little return.

Moments of Grace

The other night, my youngest and I drove to pick up another child from a dance. It was about 11:00 pm - not late on a Saturday night by anyone's standards and certainly not by Southern California standards. We had a short drive to the freeway, but during that trip we saw not another car. Not even one. And when we came off the long (and strangely deserted) on-ramp to presumably merge into freeway traffic, there was none. I could see a spattering of red taillights far ahead of us and a glow of headlights far behind... but no one was within a mile of us.

We had a SoCal freeway to ourselves. For about 30 seconds, because we got off at the next exit.

My youngest is 8, and she displayed a measure of trepidation by asking, "Where is everybody? What's wrong??" At 8 years of age, she already knows that there is traffic everywhere we go. Worse, she already knows that no traffic probably means something is not right.

"Enjoy it, honey," I said, "It's a moment of grace."

I am grateful.

Where was I? Where were YOU??

I made it through the day without ripping anyone's head off. It was damn close a couple of times.

I made it through the day without lecturing anyone about their constant complaints regarding the noise from Miramar. No matter how many times I tell people that all that noise is the sound of their fucking freedom, they never seem to get it.

I made it through the day without crying. Okay, that's a lie.

I made it through the day without sobbing hysterically in public. Quite a feat.

I made it through the day without screaming at my neighbors to get the fucking flags that they flew so proudly during the days after our National Tragedy out of whatever dusty bin they tossed them in once the shock had passed and fly them just as proudly now. This thing ain't over.

I made it through the day proud to have served and contributed to our current state of readiness. I wished - like a million times before - that I could contribute more... now... again...

I made it through the day without wearing my disappointment in many of my fellow Americans on my face like a mask of contempt. Because if it had been MY decision, this would have been a one-day war. Sorry, civilians (who just happen to live where the terrorists live). Sucks to be you.

I made it through the day with a previously unknown shred of objectivity. In retrospect, it's a good thing that it wasn't me making that decision. Because the entire Middle East would have been a smoking hole in the Earth and we'd be having fallout lawsuits right and left.

But you know what? America would have forgotten about my rash decision and moved on. Three guesses how I know that... first two don't count.

And now, a moment of sanity....

It will be but a moment, trust me. I can't maintain a realistic outlook for longer than that.

Body crisis averted? No. Adequately dealt with? No. Faced head on with realistic goals for the future? Nary a chance, good fellow. Licked, promised, and pushed to the back burner to simmer until scorched and unrecognizable? You got it.

Marital issues? Yeah, I still got 'em. The spousal unit was back for a two-week visit, and it went relatively well (that means there was only one irrational screaming match and - for once! - I chose not to play). He threatened to come back for good in November. Funny how he never gets around to asking if I'm willing to even HAVE him back at all. But, still consumed by ambivalence, I'd have no answer if he did.

He did fix the garbage disposal and the backyard sprinkler system. I rewarded him with sex and dinner at the nicest restaurant that I could afford.

And today I sit in my briefly empty and momentarily quiet house, enjoying a minor respite and trying to pinpoint the feeling of helplessness that is the underlying foundation of the ambivalence that plagues me. It's MY life, right???? Why do I hesitate to control it?

Hmmmmm.

Mutual Underappreciation

My body doesn't like me today. Frankly, the feeling is mutual.

In general, I think I'm doing pretty well for a 40-year-old with two kids and a rather sordid lifestyle. My body has always been strong, fairly attractive, and quite resilient. It has processed horrors untold and heartaches unnumbered, and has bounced back every time. I have enjoyed my body thoroughly and am grateful for its innate power and superior protoplasm.

But... today is different. And I am hard-pressed to explain why I could look in the mirror yesterday and think "hot older woman" and look in the exact same mirror today and think "baggy old hag." Is it my body that's different? Or is it my (dare I say it?) perspective? And - Goddess help me!! - whcih perspective is the right one?? Which perspective more accurately reflects reality??

So, in the interest of science, I asked a trusted person whom I suspected - yes, only suspected - wouldn't lie to me. Here is an abridged transcript of the conversation:

Me: What do you think of my body? BE HONEST!

Trusted Soul: It's hot, but you have too many tattoos.

Me: Would anyone else say it's hot? Or is that a completely subjective assessment?

Trusted Soul: With minor variations, I think anyone would say so. Why?

Me: Because I've found that I can't mediate my own self-image and need outside input to try to figure out what my body actually looks like. Sorry if the question made you uncomfortable.

Trusted Soul: Whatever.

Me: Thanks. Anything else I should know?

Trusted Soul: Your ass sags down the ground, you old hag. I wouldn't fuck you with my dog's dick.
(okay, Trusted Soul did not actually say this. Trusted Soul said that I need more padding in the rear, and qualified it to his personal taste. But I knew what he meant.)

Me: I'll be doing more squats from now on!

Trusted Soul: That's the spirit!

Me: Fuck you, cowboy!!
(Okay, I didn't actually say that. How could I? I'm the dumbshit who ASKED. I actually said):
Me: Not sure if I feel better, but I am certainly more informed!!

Trusted Soul: Sorry I didn't sugar-coat it.

Me: I asked you because I knew you wouldn't. (What was I thinking here, I wonder???)

Well, it does seem that my experiment proved that today's body perspective is not the norm or the assessment that most accurately reflects reality. It would seem - of course, only from one conversation and one opinion other than my own - that my body's hatred of me today is a passing phase and not the actual state of affairs conveniently denied on a daily basis. I've also learned that my own assessment of "problem areas" seems to reflect reality - or at least the assessments of others.

Did I feel better? Hell freaking no. So - again in the interest of science - I sought alternate input from someone I suspected - yes, only suspected - would lie to me. The transcript of the conversation follows, abridged and seriously edited for content:

Me: Pretend you're talking to one of your friends about my body. What would you say?

Favorite Player: I'm not going to tell you that. (Truth!!)

Me: Okay, then just tell me what you think of my body and be brutally honest.

Favorite Player: I fantasize about you when I masturbate. All the time. (Lie!!!!)

Me: Um, riiight. But that doesn't answer my question.

Favorite Player: You're perfect. You're the sexiest woman I know. Your ass is amazing. I'm hard right now just thinking about you. (Lie!!!)

Me: And that's it? Would you change anything about me if you could?

Favorite Player: Yeah, I'd make you stop saying "no." (Truth!!)

I knew he was lying. In part because he wanted me to stop sounding so unlike myself, partly because he was trying to be nice, and mostly because he's an opportunist and thought he might have found a viable chink in the armor. I knew that nothing he said changed the blatant truth discovered on my own and in my previous conversation regarding the same question, nothing he observed reflected the reality of my body image any more than my changing moods... but did I feel better?

Hella yeah, I did. So, now - on top of my current body crisis!! - I have to admit to myself that I really just wanted someone to tell me what I wanted to hear. And I wanted to hear that the current crisis requires no action on my part, no acknowledgement of the way time and self-abuse is marching steadily across my physical landscape. Alas, even through the haze of self-satisfaction that only being comprehensively lied to can produce, I realize that it's time to become serious about taking care of my body.

It's been taking care of me all this time. No wonder it's pissed!

Ambivalence

My ambivalence is rooted so deeply that I can't even muster a feeling other than ambivalence about my own ambivalence, which would normally be rather troubling to me.

Of course, that doesn't mean I don't care. Or does it?

Y2K

A span of centuries! he announced-
millenia, even! - this love
his digitally encapsulated
and disembodied tongue hurried
and tinged with a flavor
of other-things-to-do
still sounded hopelessly
and tragically sincere
to my lie-weary ears
My vision instantly clouded
with images of countdown kisses
(and two thousand tears)
a press of skin that would
softly welcome a passing of ages
into an undefined new order
that our love would not
(at that moment or any)
witness or "span" at all
except perhaps in his passing thought
and in my lie-weary heart
as his lips part to greet and touch
the first of the Last Days.

Outside

I have only secrets

listen, and kiss her

for I am a fool who remembers that day

Others are laughing

as, naked, I stagger

away from these bruises of our yesterday

Wounded, I bleed

and through it you question

almost as if you were never here

Always the magic:

we let it consume me

like fire and desire, this perfume I wear.

Summation

There's only us, there's only this
Forget regret, or life is yours to miss
No other road, no other way...
No day but today

There's only us, only tonight
We must let go to know what's right
No other course, no other way...
No day but today

I can't control
My destiny
I trust my soul
My only goal is just to be

There's only now,
There's only here:
Give in to love,
Or live in fear...
No other path,
No other way...
No day but today...
No day but today

From RENT
Listen to the whole song at: www.myspace.com/humblepublicservant

To Kill a Critter

There are about 100 baby Black Widow spiders living on one giant web in my bathroom.

I know that's what they are because I've become intimately acquainted with the species over the years... my husband and children like to catch the glossy adult beauties and keep them in jars so they can watch them build their amazing egg sacs, which they then defend so fiercely. One day, the eggs sacs burst, and out zoom thousands of the little things... they look nothing like their mature predecessors and are actually quite cute, in a helpless and ultimately squishable sort of way. They egress the jar that holds their mother captive simply by cruising out of the holes punched into the top of the lid, out to the Brave New World of my garage where they hide among the clutter to eventually have copious families of their own.

Thus my fear of the garage. But I digress!

I was (well, what else??) sitting on the toilet when I noticed them... legs fine as hair splayed below the tiny signature hourglass bodies with their funny little bulbous white bottoms that will - in the females - grow to darken and sport the blazing crest of their legacy. The web - probably built by their mother - encompasses an entire corner of the room, though the lady in question is nowhere to be found (she must have a good hiding place, because I never knew she was there in the first place and I can't find her now that I'm looking). I wonder: will they know what to do if a hapless fly or lost ant wanders into the web? Are these tiny creatures already expected to sustain themselves? I am fascinated. This small colony sprung to life in the short time between my morning toilette and my return home from work.

But I again digress, because as fascinated as I am, I am about to retrieve the vacuum cleaner from its resting place in the closet and destroy the web and anything on it. I can't allow them to just... live there! Can I? Regardless, I am strangely and almost comically consumed by guilt at what I am readying myself to do. I'm fairly certain that mass arachno-infanticide will not please the Goddess, as spiders are her sacred creatures; more than that, they are so placid and unobtrusive it's difficult to view them as the dangerous and aggressive creatures they will rapidly become. Right now, they are a totem of sorts: an example of ultimate patience, a tutorial in energy conservation and self-reliance. I contemplate their demise and shudder at my own disattached malevolence: the one who will unthinkingly destroy so many just because I fear their small, but effective, power.

Yes, I know... this is a bit more contemplative thean the situation requires. They're spiders, for Heaven's sake! In my bathroom!! Hundreds of them!!! But I think I'll wait until tomorrow to vacuum. Maybe they'll be less... cute... tomorrow.

Pour l'amour d'E et de chagrin...

Je me rappèle quand nous avons agi aimons les amis. Je plains que nous avons perdu, et savoir c'est mon défaut. Je regrette.

Rage is Like Candy...

...when you've finally had enough, you're sweating and sick to your stomach.

I find that I deliberately put myself in situations that will allow me to practice self-sacrifice... situations which quickly become a weird, less-lethal form of self-immolation, as I practically light myself on fire with the friction of double-booking, overlapping commitments, and agreements made in haste.

I fear the word "no." That's what it is. I'm don't like to say it... I don't like to hear it... and I can't bear the thought of letting someone down. Even someone I don't like.

So, I propose (to myself) a small experiment: for seven days, I will be completely honest with myself (when consciously possible) and with others. If I can not be completely honest, I will not say anything at all. If the answer is "no," I'll say "no." If the answer is, "I'm so sick of picking up the slack of your lazy-ass incompetence," I'll say nothing. If the answer is,"I'd like to help, but can't right now," I'll say it as nicely as I can.

Observation du Jour

It hurts - a lot - to be deliberately and ostensibly excluded from something just because it is convenient to be exclusive. Though this is not behavior that I would typically exhibit (and thank the Goddess my mama taught me better), I stand with new resolve to be mindful of exclusion.

More to the Point

So much for staying under the radar.

Today's little non-event-that-was-made-into-an-event is an apt demonstration of the mediocrity that we spoke of and how it promulgates. Without delving too much into the details, I went to another building to complete a job requirement at a time that I knew I may not be able to complete the errand because of Federal regulations outlining times when certain tasks can and can't be done in certain institutions because of the scheduled activites that the residents are doing at those times. Though I arrived very shortly after the "cut off" time, I knew that it was likely that the activity itself had not commenced yet. As I hurried down the corridor, one of the staff shouted from approximately 25 yards away (maybe further - far enough that I couldn't see her face) asking where I was going. I turned only out of curiosity because I was sure the person couldn't possibly be addressing me because I was so far away. As it turns out, she was, so I turned around and walked back to meet her in the middle. She advised me that I would not be allowed to complete my task at this time. I replied that it was only a few minutes after the cut off time and the activity probably had not commenced. She replied that I wasn't allowed to go regardless of when the activity actually started. I replied that the regulation actually states that the task can not be completed specifically when the activity is being conducted, not before or after. She reiterated that I would not be allowed to complete the task. I left as requested, in a hurry, but waving to people on my way out.

No big deal, right? Wrong!!

When I returned to my office, I received a phone call from a Supervisor in the institution I had just visited. That Supervisor wondered aloud if I needed "clarification" about the rules surrounding the unavailability during certain times. The Supervisor stated that his staff were "worried" that I was "rude" and "uncooperative." I asked (in disbelief), "They said I was rude? To them??" The Supervisor clarified that this was, indeed, the case. I decided to get straight to the point and asked when the institution had decided to block off a certain time frame rather than follow the regulation (at this point I actually used the Regulation Title and Section) to the letter. The Supervisor advised that "it's actually (insert WRONG Regulation Title here)." I sputtered a moment, started to correct him, and then said "Never mind," as it was apparent to me by his tone that he was positive that he was correct in his assertion. He'll find out sometime in the future and then feel stupid without me having to point it out for him, so why fight the battle? He went on to advise me that the time frame set aside had nothing to do with the Regulation and everything to do with people from my building being in the way of people in his building during certain times of day. Which means that his staff member had just prevented me from completing a Federally-regulated task on a whim.

How much do you want to bet that that staff member has absolutely no knowledge of why she has been asked to keep people out during that certain time?? Let's have a side bet, while we're at it, about which Federal Regulation that poor uninformed staff member would cite if asked. I'm guessing that the reason that staff member felt she had to go find out who I am and report my "rudeness" to her Supervisor is because she felt unempowered to deal with statements like "The Regulation states blah-blah-blah, so tell me again why you are preventing me from completing this required task?" from people like me who are only trying to do their job. And why is she unempowered? Because even her friggin' SUPERVISOR doesn't know the regulation! Hell, he doesn't even know the Title and Section, even though it's been a catch phrase around my workplace for several years now!!

So, more to the point: I know that people gravitate to the lowest common denominator because my 1) being in a hurry, 2) being knowledgable about why I was in a hurry, and 3) asking why I was being prevented from doing something I am legally required to do was interpreted as rudeness rather than competance.

No, I'm not going to lose sleep over it. But when I am Queen, things will be much, much different.

The Song of L

Fat sister, you love him

so you never see it

and so he can haunt all those who will dance

Once you were naked

his piercing ferocious

and he squirmed delicious, deep and immense

You never knew it

how they laughed about it

how you'd embrace every secret he'd tell

Come, broken blind woman

and run through the rhythm

I will teach you to blaze, bleed, and kill

Eaten

So easy to bleed when the question is asked

my sacrifice cuts like time-smoked glass

and though I only use this will

no fever healed but mostly killed

red and slow I dance it long

and wear it like a cloud

And known have I the love he brings

he my heart devoured

The Normative Nature of Mediocrity

I'm currently practicing the art of flying under the radar. It's not natural to me, so my success is sporadic and surprising. Despite the pain to my psyche of keeping a low profile, I am finding that staying out of the spotlight has afforded me plenty of time to observe other homo sapien sapiens in their habitat away from home (the workplace).

My humble observation: People will gravitate to the lowest common denominator.

My humble theory: People will gravitate to the lowest common denominator because it is somehow better to "fit in" than it is to "stand out."

My humble gripe: People will often posit one thing as a personal value and demonstrate something completely different in their actions.

My humble conclusion: Unfortunately, it seems that people who've previously purported and demonstrated themselves to be utterly competent and completely dedicated will renege when put into a position where their co-workers do not demonstrate the same capabilities. Perhaps they wish to seem less threatening; perhaps they just wish to be accepted. Either way, there is a tremendous amount of personal potential wasted for a social presumption that probably isn't even true.

Young Women Beware

When I married my current (and absent) husband, we were both recently divorced. My first marriage lasted only a year, produced no children or significant debt, and was shed fairly easily. My husband's first marriage lasted eleven years, produced two children, and was born out of the fabled status of "high school sweethearts." The breakup itself was nasty, the history that led to it even nastier. I was 22 when we wed, he 32.

I thought long and hard before agreeing to marry him, as I was very young and was not sure if I could handle the responsibility of existing children and the inevitable weirdness that goes along with having a wife-in-law. When I finally acquiesced, I was certain that I had thought of every contingency and was prepared for the journey to come. Ha ha.

Though the pitfalls I hadn't thought of are legion, by far the most difficult thing about being a second wife is... well, being second. And though we will be (presumably) celebrating our 17th anniversary this year, being second just never ends.

Young women beware: the things you now, in your haze of being-in-love, look forward to sharing with your husband-who-has-been-married-before, have been already shared by he and your wife-in-law. Your first pregnancy and first child? Ho-hum. Momentous and amazing for you, but not for him... he's seen it before and every little change your body and mind suffers, he'll be able to say something to the effect of, "Oh, yes, I remember that. You'll be fine in a couple of hours," or some such rot. The birthing process? He's an old pro! No one has to show him how to clamp the cord!! This particular miracle is old hat and maybe even - yes, I'm going to put it all out there for you - tedious to him. First steps, first tooth, first haircut, first day of school - the same. And don't think for a second that you've got some sexual trick up your sleeve that he hasn't seen before - whatever kink you can dredge up from the abyss of your mind, he's been there and done that. And it was was much better for him then than it ever will be with you because 1) it was his first time, 2) he was young, and 3) he's already memorialized it in his head as the be-all, end-all of sexual experience. You'll even get to deal with the darker side of being second, especially in the sexual arena - he has baggage to spare and those trunks of horror seem to open up and spill their poison at the most inopportune times, often without explanation or even a sense of context. And there you'll be, victim of some long-ago sexual power struggle that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with how you are allowed to relate to your husband. Your wife-in-law may live thousands of miles away from you, but don't think she isn't in bed with you and your husband every single night. She is. And he still wants her. Why? Because she was first. It doesn't matter how horrible their marriage was. It doesn't matter how badly they fucked each other over. He will always want her because she was first and all those memories revolve around the excitement, the fear, the thrill, the ecstasy of the first time.

Being second means that you're never sure who your husband is talking to, and find yourself reminding him, "hey, it's me you're talking to, remember? Remember, me, the sane one? The one who isn't out to screw you over and take your money? The one who doesn't use drugs and screw your best friend just because?? The one who's still here???"

If you have the blessing (and the curse) of being a step-mother, being second means that you never quite fit in as a parent. You won't have to sign permission slips - in fact, you aren't allowed to sign permission slips - and you won't be pressured to participate in the PTA. You won't be part of the major decisions regarding the children - despite the fact that those children may live under your roof - and you won't be able to dispute any amount of child support paid regadless of how often they're physically with you. You will, however, be blamed for any books that were read while at your house that were expressly forbidden at their mom's house (critical information which, strangely enough, wasn't passed on to you, the fifth-wheel-step-parent), for any bad habits or expressions suddenly demonstrated, for forgetting to bring a child's favorite pillow back with them from weekend visitation, and for "being inconsistent." You will be expected to drive the children to whatever activities they have planned without your input or permission. You will be expected to pick them up from friend's homes, school, daycare, church, or some hotel where their mom left them and forgot they were there. You will be expected to learn how to be a fair authority figure to children you didn't raise for the first ten (or however many) years of their lives, and to bite your tongue when the children you've come to love as your own are subjected to petty games played by their "natural" parents. You will be expected to mediate rifts between households, and you will be expected to help pay for field trips, movie passes, orthodontia, AP examinations, and college. The good (and somewhat surprising) news is that it will all be worth it... eventually.

True, all of this I considered - though not in the huge way it manifested in reality - and somewhat expected when I chose to marry again. What I didn't anticipate was the outright resentment I feel that I was not able to experience the man that was to watch him grow into the man that is. Perhaps the man that is would be different if I had been first: less bitter, less unsure of himself, less insensitive, less blaming, less deceitful. Perhaps not. The hard and cold truth is that I'll never know. I picked up the pieces of a broken life and I put it together the best way I could, considering that I didn't know the original configuration and the fact that some of the parts were missing. I trusted that the bitterness, the deceitfulness, the whining, and the self-pity would disperse along with the memories of the horrors of before. I honestly believed that my love would change everything, that everything that was broken would be healed by the force of my will alone. It didn't, obviously. Would I be writing this if it did?

I didn't get to know the young man, the one who was joyous and filled with the wonder of first love. I didn't get to experience five or six years kid-free and spontaneous, filled with friends and parties and romantic getaways. I wasn't able to share the triumphs of his younger years, or know him as an honest, faithful, giving, and trusting person. I wasn't allowed to enjoy the years of constant full-time employment and the benefits thereof. I married the man who gave away 66% of his paycheck to child and spousal support and allowed me to buy him dishes because he didn't have enough for the two of us to eat together. I married the man who had weekly telephonic screaming matches with my wife-in-law until I put my foot down and took over all communication between the households (much to my wife-in-law's chagrin). I married the man who - still! - struggles with the memories of being young and carefree and of the joys of living kid-free and spontaneous, and seeks out the experience whenever he can (and sometimes - don't be shocked!! - with the ex, who - don't be shocked!! - welcomes his attention despite the fact that I have treated her as family since Day One). I've continued to pick up the pieces through unemployment, constant out-of-state travel, car and motorcycle accidents, excessive drinking, serial irresponsibility, and now a job across the Pacific Ocean so he can "find himself" while I attempt (rather unsuccessfully) to work full-time, care single-handedly for a house, a yard, two younger children, two grown children, two large dogs, two tortoises, and two households' worth of bills while completing a bathroom remodel, motorcycle overhaul, and garbage disposal repair.

My consolation: I'm the first to stick around. I'm the first to do it for 17 years. Even his flippin' mother didn't put up with him for this long.

My conclusion and warning: Being second is a LOT of work. Being second is a LOT of heartbreak, some of which blindsided me and knocked me for a couple of really good loops. Beign second is a LOT of responsibility, because you have to take responsibility for things you aren't necessarily responsible for (like the children, unsubsidized student loans, your wife-in-law's bail, and your husband's penchant for talking to you like you haven't been here for the past 17 years).

I know you're wondering: Would I do it again if I could do it over?

Probably. I loved him awful. But if I'd known then what I know now, I sure as hell would have killed off the ex first.