Blended

Love multiplied.

This happened two weeks ago - a new marriage with bonus family. My one regret from the day (because let's be clear - I'm 50% regret most days) is that Chloe couldn't be there with us because of work.

I'd like to introduce you to my new blended family....

I've gained a husband, a daughter, a son-in-law and a son. The wedding was simple and casual and we had a small group of friends and family there to share in our happiness and cupcakes.

Mathman, ever the wonderful friend and man he is, sent a text of congratulations and good wishes the morning of the wedding.

My cup totally runneth over.

Wedding day selfie.

Take him from the fire into the frying pan

I googled the Jerry Seinfeld episode where he traveled with his girlfriend and things did not go well. I was looking for a quote but couldn't find it. Instead I found about 3,490,000 Google results for traveling with your girlfriend. 3,150,000 results for traveling with your boyfriend. Who knew traveling with your bf/gf could cause over 6 million internet anxieties? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Anxiety is the new black.

As usual, I'm seeking information too late. That's a good thing. If I don't know ahead of time what to be worried about, I'm less likely to look for trouble or to spend a lot of energy second guessing, leaping to conclusions and seeking out ulterior motives.

The Electrician and I have already clocked two weeks of traveling together and I'd say it's going well. If he were speaking to me, I'd tell you what he thinks.*

It helps, that we're traveling for work, not pleasure. We're not trying to be entertained or to entertain 24/7. We're both working most of our waking hours so our time to get on each other's nerves is limited to the 4 hour drive and the couple of hours we're awake at the end of the day.

Now that his situation has changed and my work is portable, it makes sense for us to live in the same place even if that place is an economy hotel populated by other traveling workers who require the basics - no bed bugs, heat and air conditioning, hot water, a comfortable bed, free wifi and expanded cable.

We're developing a rhythm helped by the fact that we're both creatures of habit. He's up first and out early. I get up, shower, go to the lobby to fill my giant tumbler with an unhealthy amount of caffeine, grab the USA Today for later and return to the room to get to work. At the end of the day, he returns, showers, we eat, do the USA Today Crossword puzzle together, watch a little TV and go to bed.

This week the hotel's hot water tank blew and it was -2 degrees in the West Virginia Panhandle. It's perfectly reasonable for someone who's been doing physical labor outside all day to expect to come back to the hotel for a hot shower. There were probably 300 men who couldn't do that for nearly two days. A pall fell over the Days Inn. The housekeeping staff got a feral look in their eyes if you asked when the hot water might return. Discussions were held about vacating. I feared mutiny.

It's the closest I want to come to pioneer life. Out of desperation, I took a cold shower. So cold it hurt. Water like shards of glass. Or maybe it was ice. Thankfully I'd warmed enough water to rinse my hair. Thank goodness for the in-room microwave, the ice bucket and the coffee maker. I tried to fill the tub with enough hot water so The Electrician could take a bath, but was stymied by the non-functioning drain stopper. I even tried to Life Hack a stopper to no avail.  I'm taking that as a sign that I was right. Life is meant to be weird and difficult.

We survived the ordeal and smell clean again even if my hair does have a slight scent of coffee.

The trickiest part of traveling together is the drive. Four hours each way is plenty of time for me to get under anyone's skin. It's in that quiet car that The Electrician and I are still playing emotional chess - being ourselves, but not quite. We range from letting our freak flags fly to staring silently out the window at the mind-numbingly flat landscape of central Ohio.

I pull out my Kindle and play Solitaire. He jokes it's the most expensive deck of cards he ever purchased. I switch to reading a book until he's no longer paying attention. He recounts the plots and characters of his favorite TV series and movies. I listen and think if I ever have a script or a book completed, he's going to be my pitchman. Sophie Facetimes me and rides along in the car with us. There is much talk of cats.

The Electrician downloads music often. His tastes vary and he tends to play a song over and over until he's had enough. Last week's song was Yelawolf's Til It's Gone. This week's jam is Stephen Bishop's On and On. I had the 45 of that song when I was 10 and music was still pressed onto vinyl discs.

The music provides background for the conversation and filler for the silence. Last night, we rode along singing, neither of us surprised at the lyric muscle memory, both of us off somewhere in the mid 1970s when we couldn't have imagined the strange and wonderful turns our lives would take.

On and on...
You just keep on trying.....

*joke!

What's your song this week?

A Cat's entitled to expect, These evidences of respect

England has Maggie Smith. We had Daisy.

Rescued from the Chicago Humane Society in July of 1998, after Chloe had begged endlessly for a cat, she became part of our family and moved with us from Illinois to Georgia in 2003. 

Even so, she never lost her Chicago accent.

She endured the addition of a baby in 1999 and a parade of interloper cats, but she never lost her sense of feline entitlement, her, pardon my French, top-doggedness. 

She was the Gateway Cat, after all.

As President for Life of the Pussies for Peace, Daisy led the charge against the war in Iraq before dissing that war was cool. She always said she didn't want people to die for a lie, even though she didn't hold silly humans in high regard.

Writing under the pseudonym Maureen Dowd, she offered her unique take on current events and occasionally provided the catlike voice overs for several cartoons. Uncredited, of course. Because she was all about the art. 

Sophie, that brave, strong girl, was home alone with her when Daisy took her last breath. She called each of us to let us know that the Q was gone.

I thought it fitting that Daisy died on Edward Gorey's birthday because I can't think of his art without thinking of cats.

To Daisy, we raise a glass, or dip our paws in it.

To Daisy - 

Who liked the children best when they were sleeping, and....

Who never let us forget who was in charge.

Daisy Q. 1998 - 2013

Rest in peace, Daisy. We were better having known you, at least according to you.

(Title is a line from T.S. Eliot's The Ad-dressing of Cats)

'Til there was you

Twenty-four years. Over half our lives.

Three children. Three houses, three apartments, two interstate moves, a plethora of cats, many and sundry jobs, two separations, one set of divorce papers, nine cars, too few vacations, too many bad decisions, a lifetime of late night discussion and laughs.

Daily I love yous. Sometimes in anger, confusion, ironic, stark contrast to actions.

Our mutual friends tried to introduce us several times. Things got in the way. Then we met on accident - without the intervention of friends. And ------ nothing. He was chatting up blonds in the kitchen. I went for a motorcycle ride with one of his friends.

Timing.  It deserves all those cliches.

On October 1, 1987, The Bodeans played at Jake's in Bloomington, Indiana. Jared wanted to know if I was going. Oh, yeah. I wouldn't miss it this time. I'd missed the band's swing through town the previous spring. One of those times when other plans got in the way.

Save four seats if you get there first. I'm coming with friends, Jared shouted over his shoulder. We were hurrying between classes.

Seats saved. One was for him.

August 21, 1988

Dear lord, why did I say yes to this dress? There is no way to explain it away. I've tried. I was young. I was drunk. I was in a hurry because my mother hadn't taken her nerve pill.

Shockingly and contrary to what our friends and family surely thought, but were to polite to mention, I only looked pregnant.

I thought his mullet was hot, loved running my fingers through his curls. I still love running my fingers through them, even if they're on his back. Literally.

Happy Anniversary, MathMan. Despite our lightening fast beginning. Despite ourselves.

I love  you.

Tell me did I go on a tangent?

Slices of life.

Like pie. Or cheese.

Needs a stronger prescription.

It's been hot, but hey, it's summer in Georgia (I don't know what to say for the rest of you sweltering away where you are.) Heat is to be expected. The real problem is the humidity. But then, that's expected, too. Expected, but still lamented.

I step out of the shower, towel off and I can't get dry. It's disgusting. And it makes pulling on those Fanx (faux Spanx) an unpleasant, curse-word laced activity. Before I even attempt it, I aim to rid myself of some of this moisture. And then there's the fact I despise under-boob sweat. One's chest should not be a swampland.

MathMan is still in bed with his eyes closed. I assume he's asleep. I quietly pick up the box fan next to the bed and hold it in front of me. The air feels deliciously cool on my skin.

"You can just stand there and do that all day."

The sweet man. Of course, I can't take a compliment. "Good thing you're not wearing your glasses. I'm so fat and gross."

"I stand by my statement."

Interactive

Don't you think we need some more word play based on Fifty Shades of Grey?

I mean, in this age of online reality, nothing is a phenomenon until it's been parodied four hundred and seventy-two different ways.

Here are is my attempts at Shading:

Fifty Shades of Kiss My Ass.

Okay, that's it for me. Do something with this. I know you're dying to.

Pointy


I'm listening to the audio book Jennifer Egan's Look at Me. (Salon review from November 14, 2001)

First - Egan is an excellent wordsmith.

Second - Egan was incredibly prescient or I have truly forgotten how deep we already were into the internet in 2000.

Third - I'm an impatient reader/listener. Although Egan's writing is beautiful, blah, blah, blah,  I am often thinking "Get on with it! Get to the point! Tell the damn story!"

Do you do this or am I just an asshole?

Holidaze
I'm going to take the month of August off from the internet. I've got some work travel coming up and a stack  of books to read. School starts back up and that's a busy time at Golden Manor.

All of which is to say, expect me to blog every single day next month because whenever I say I'm taking a break is precisely when life presents me with all sorts of writing material.

Crank it wide open and let your thoughts spill out, yo.

And this because I love the lyrics, that's why.

Tangled up

"The French called this time of day “l’heure bleue.” To the English it was “the gloaming,” the glimmer, the glisten, the glamour — carrying in its consonants the images of houses shuttering, gardens darkening, grass-lined rivers slipping through the shadows.”


“Did I believe the blue nights could last forever?”

During my commute, I'm listening to the audio version of Joan Didion's Blue Nights.

Dear lord, what was I thinking? Yes, it's beautifully written and Joan Didion is the quintessential dry-eyed sob sister, or as John Banville wrote in his review in the New York Times, a connoisseur of catastrophe. But holy gut punches. Between her daughter's death and Joan's aging, I may find the compulsion to drive the car over an embankment on Georgia Highway 61 too much to resist.

Highway 61 - See how easy it could be?

At first, the memoir irritated me with its name dropping and product placement. I almost gave up on it.

Related, but not entirely, it turns out...One of the reasons I don't read chick-lit is because I cannot stand all the references to designers. It's my own version of reverse snobbery because I don't know one designer for another. I mean, to even name a designer, except for the really ubiquitous ones, I 'd have to Google something like "Who are the hot fashion designers in 2012."

Which I fruitlessly did. So I gave up.

The point is what may impress some who enjoy hearing the details of what it's like to eat off the very special and expensive plates of some high society matron sounds like so much blah, brag, blah to me. Yes, it's cool that Joan and her husband John Gregory Dunne lived in the rarefied air they did, but if I'm trying to relate to the story of discovery and loss, etc. you're losing me, Joan. We're not connecting.

In fact, the Chanel suits, the two batiste Christening gowns (gifts both!) for the baby Quintana Roo, the bassinet from Saks, Quintana's introduction to caviar at age five, and the trips to movie sets are obstacles for me. I can't hear what you're trying to say because you keep placing all these status barriers between your story and me, the reader.

I slid the audio book under the car seat (DO NOT PUT IN DIRECT SUNLIGHT) and went back to chewing the inside of my cheek while listening to the radio and gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly.

I eventually reconsidered and extracted the audio book from beneath the seat. But note, I was doing this selfishly. The truth is, I couldn't listen to one more political story, my favorite music station was playing too much Sting and the old time radio classics station was airing westerns which I just couldn't appreciate as I creeped along in traffic that a horse-drawn wagon could lap. Plus I had a serious need to pee.

I'm glad I retrieved the book from car interior oblivion because whether it was my mood or a shift in the story arc, I was able to eventually find connection, to let myself be pulled into the words unraveling the very human endeavors of growing old and losing loved ones.

The dying part was particularly hard because I cannot, will not imagine that one of my children could die before I do.

Ah. The truth making itself known whether I want to acknowledge it or not.

Perhaps I was looking for an excuse to not listen to Blue Nights. Maybe I didn't want to be exposed to such heartbreak. I was afraid of experiencing secondhand Joan's pain, no matter how beautifully written.

My own weakness laid bare in a 1995 Toyota Celica. Not pretty.

“When we talk about mortality we are talking about our children.”

Of all the things I fear - the death of my children is the thing I fear most. That's not a badge of honor, a sign of my devotion, a measure of my depth of love for those three human beings who are part me, part MathMan and mostly inconvenient and expensive. Rather, it's because I'm a big pussy who does not ever want to have confirmed just how weak she is when it comes to her children.

What other kinds of things do I shield my fragile bits, the raw nerves from? My disdain for status statements is easy to discern if I give it a moment's thought. I hate status issues because they force me to admit my failures. According to the Laws of Capitalism, I am a spectacular failure. This is something I'm keenly aware of, again in relation to my children and what I haven't been able to do for them.

My inability to achieve financial security and success is a noose with which I hang myself often. For all the things I could offer my children, financial security seems to be the most valued by our society. If you can't provide it, you are punished in oh so many ways. Which means your children are punished, as well. That knowledge tends to negate many of the good things that don't come with a price tag.

It's cold comfort, but what I'm finding in Joan's story is that even when you are in the position to give your children everything and more, you still will not be able to protect them from everything. Real security cannot be purchased, cannot be banished by privilege, connections or a healthy bank account. The best healthcare money can buy remains useless in the face of certain death.

Yesterday evening, MathMan and I drove home after having dinner out. A rare moment of quiet, contentment, no conversation needed. The light over the hills and across the open fields was blue. Blue night. Blue nights.

I noticed it, broke the comfortable silence to remark on it, realized I'd always noticed it.

My Funny Valentine

MathMan and I are not Valentines Day people. Rebels against most pop culture, we're too busy lamenting the crumbling of our culture as evidenced by Toddlers and Tiaras and Dance Moms to concern ourselves with the hearts and flowers pushed from every angle during the lead up to that special day. We have no use for forced sentimentality. No candlelit dinners. No reenactments of gauzy images from the engagement planning Pinterest boards of single, young women who haven't been scoured clean of romantic notions by reality.

The most romantic Valentines Day we ever shared we didn't actually share. It was 1990. I sat in a Bennigan's on Michigan Avenue drinking beer and sharing mozzarella cheese sticks with a co-worker while Mathman drove three hours through a raging blizzard from the Northwest Side of Chicago to downtown. It may have actually been four hours. Or six. I can't remember because the number grows with every telling of the story. He plowed on through, creeping past abandoned cars and stranded drivers. 

That's love. Intrepid. Determined.Who knew the chains I clamped to his heart were better than snow tires? When he finally arrived in the sparkling fairyland of a snow smothered downtown Chicago, I threw my arms around him and hollered something like "Oh, Pa! You made it through the storm and you brought me some calico, too!" 

He clicked his tongue at the pair of snow-caked horses and turned the wagon toward Lincoln Avenue so we could get home before daylight.

This year, however, I'm going to surprise MathMan by making a big deal out of Valentine's Day. I don't want to give too much away, but I'm probably even going to shower.

Little does he know, he's doing his part, too. He's buying me this book.  In it there's an essay by Suzy who has this post about the book. This is one of my favorite posts by her because it gives you a sense of how she developed her sense of humor and great comedic timing.

And since I'm going to be so happy to get this book as my Valentine's Day gift, you can be assured that MathMan's gift is going to be one that leaves a smile on his face, too.

What's your favorite Valentines Day memory?

And dance by the light of the moon

I'm an incurable romantic. As such, I'm also an inveterate matchmaker. If you let me know directly or indirectly that you're looking, my wheels are turning.

My record on matchmaking is decent. I'm no Yenta, but I do okay. The truth is, I only stick my pointy nose in when I'm confident about my ideas for the potential couple. That keeps my averages up.

One of the themes of my work in progress (WIP) is how would life be different if you'd never existed. As one of the characters in the story says, "Like It's a Wonderful Life and you're George Bailey but there's no Clarence The Angel. Or Mr. Potter."

Yes, something very much like that.

In 1998, I worked with a single, gorgeous, interesting young woman who was having a hard time meeting guys who suited her. At the same time, my husband  had a colleague who I found just as interesting as my coworker. I thought they'd make a great match.

Their wedding was beautiful. It was one of the most interesting wedding I've ever attended because it combined elements of two different cultural traditions. If you've never seen a sari as a wedding dress, you don't know what you're missing. I'll never forget the colors of that wedding.

So why am I thinking of that today?

Well, I saw on Facebook that their second child was born yesterday and I was reminded that our existence leaves tiny imprints more than we realize.

Is it just me being a ridiculous narcissist or have you thought about this? What would be different if you'd never existed?

30 Day Photography Challenge - Someone I love

I struggled with this one because, once again, the list is long. I will never believe that the ability to love is finite. There is not just so much to go around. Nor will I ever subscribe to the notion that the most enduring love comes from family ties or proximity. While those things are huge, there's so much more that goes into it. For me, at least.

And as Stephen Elliott said in a recent Daily Rumpus email, maybe we're trying to use the word love to describe many different emotions.

Yes, definitely that.

I photographed two of my favorite subjects. The love I have for them is enough to keep me going. Unfortunately, neither Nate nor Chloe were around so please note that this does not even come close to being a comprehensive list.

Watching Wilco's live webcast on CBS's David Letterman last night and reminiscing about our recent trip to New York City. Yeah, we could live there. And oh my word, watch that webcast. There's a reason Wilco's fans are a passionate crowd.

Sophie. 

Monday evening, she opened a book of fifteen one act plays and treated Doug and me to a performance of The Man Who Died at Twelve O'Clock including appropriate accents. 

We were blown away. Where did that come from? we wanted to know.

She simply smiled and shrugged, pleased with herself, but not in an obnoxious way.

It's all ahead of her. I hope she grabs it by the tail and never lets go.

Doug. It would take me pages to describe the nuances of how I love this man. 

It's complicated and simple. Unquestioning and conflicted. Dizzying and calming.

Now go to a mirror and take a good look because I think that's the only way this post will come close to being comprehensive.

xoxo

Lisa

Geoffrey, my friend, you have such beauty in your life.


And Randal brings Poe and Shakespeare into his bad habits.

Suitcase of memories

On Saturday, Larry Kirwan, host of Sirius XM's Celtic Crush, talked about music that reminded him of first loves. He asked who was your first love?

What a question because, you see, I've been greedy. So very greedy in love.

I met Troy when I was twelve. Before I knew what love could be.We were a pair for almost two years and the entire time, he took my breath away when I saw him walk by the window of the middle school where I attended. He was in high school, on his way to the shared cafeteria. There were hayrides, and mash sessions in the tent where the farm kids slept during the 4H Fair. Making out to The Car's in the backseat of the Ford Granada. He was dark curly hair and dark eyes, tentative, at first. I was, too. His kisses were secrets I'd write in in my diary. I still think of him when I smell hay.

Or David. Long, languid summers, daring adventures on bridges and in muddy bottoms. A growing up and growing apart I still regret sometimes because he was adorable. When we were in elementary school, he played Rudolph in the Christmas show and I fell in love with him then. I hurt him later because the world was going to be my oyster and I didn't need any ties to home.

Or the other David. The one who gave me lessons in pleasure and pain. One door opened and another slammed shut. There was no looking back from him.

Or the new David. Fireworks exploding over our first kiss like something out of a cheesy movie. Brief and breathless. Barely deserves a mention except, well, you know...

Or maybe Chris. I begged my parents to let me stay with him because going away to school scared the hell out of me. 

I adjusted. Quickly.

Craig, the guy who sang to me Waiting for a Girl Like You the first time we met, helped. He's still helping me adjust, but this time it's to middle age. We skyped last week so I could test out my microphone and webcam because I might have a skype job interview. Yes, this is the world we live in. Anyway, if you don't count my husband who is far and away my BFF, Craig is my best friend. The years show on our faces, but we can still burn through an hour without noticing because we're so busy being ridiculous, trying to make the other laugh.

See? Greedy. I didn't even tell you about Dylan (not his real name) who was a two-fer. High school and college. His song is The Rain King. Or Abdel. I can't narrow the summer of 1987 down to one song. It's the entire cassette of Cat Stevens' Greatest Hits. But especially this song.

I want know who you think about when you think of first loves. What songs trigger a memory of young love, lost love, first love?

Close to my heart

I've been going through old posts from PoliTits to repost now that the old blog is live again. Six years of words. It reminds me how much we've all grown. Grown means different things when applied to different people.

What makes you want to swing for the fences?

Babe, I want you from the ground up

It probably won't surprise you that MathMan and I don't make a big deal out of Valentime's Day. No. I save that kind of romance for my new boyfriend* because we're in that exhilarating stage of new love when you just can't get enough of each other or keep your hands off the other.

That's not to say MathMan hasn't wooed me with his own endearing romantic overtures. He knows how to make me swoon without resorting to the trite. Any Tom, Dick or Hamid can get his valentine a card, a box of Russell Stovers, an armful of her favorite roses or a diamond necklace like the one advertised by Tiffany's in a full page color spread in Sunday's Atlanta Journal Constitution during a recession with near record unemployment. What? No love for the concentration of wealth at the very top where people buy Tiffany heart necklaces?  Philistines.

I am not speaking through gritted teeth.  Anyway, I was making a point about other, more creative ways to show one's affection and I'm not married to just any Ted, Doug or Henry with a credit card and lack of imagination. Heck no. I get text messages like this:

Dear Lisa,
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Lookin' forward to seeing you.

Awwww. Or how about this one:

Dear Lisa,
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I'm writing to you 
While I take a poo.

Now, I ask you - what's not to love? This man thinks of me incessantly. After twenty-somanyIdon'tevenrememberanymore years together, he also knows the direct route to my heart not involving chocolate or pornographic images. Potty humor. I'm a fool for a well-delivered poo story, a cleverly crafted fart joke or a sight gag based on peeing and/or having to pee at the wrong time. Come to think of it, MathMan frequently texts me just that. I'm peeing. That's just so nice because I'm pleased to know he's staying hydrated during his busy days and it's always good to feel like I'm part of his day even when he's many miles away.

In return for his witty, near Hugh Grantesque romantically comedic texts, I'm showing my love for MathMan in ways unique to my role in this relationship. I made him this last night. And you know how much he loves me? Even though he detests cooked raisins, he didn't spit a single one out in my presence. In exchange, I didn't remind him that he needs to grow up and stop calling cooked raisins and cherry pie filling slimy.

Restraint is a form of affection in my book. As such, I'm assuming that his not mentioning that it appeared I was trying to murder him via bread and butter pudding and elevated cholesterol numbers as another obvious sign that our love continues to run true and deep. Like an underground river of bubbling lava.  Or moles.

While I'm on the subject of love, I must tell you that I got lucky with some blog love today. Tengrain, of the world famous Mock Paper Scissors, and the kiss heard round the blogosphere (I still haven't washed my lips two years later!) gave a link shout out to That's Why on the universally famous Crooks & Liars.

Imagine my surprise as I was drag assin' around this morning because I caught the crud from Sophie and as I sat round shouldered, glumly poking my mouse and thinking I should just go back to bed when I opened my statcounter and saw a huge leap in visitors and they weren't all looking for Nancy Pelosi's breasts or the weather lady's nipples. My seven day stats looked positively phallic. I perked right up at the sight of that. So thank you, Tengrain, for that link and the resulting graphic. May I ride them both. To fame and fortune.

I should take a moment and welcome new visitors, but they're all going to the previous post anyway. If you are new, welcome. Thank you for being here. Can I offer you some bread and butter pudding? It's fabulous and the raisins, soaked for hours in Grand Marnier, aren't the least bit slimy. When my husband gets home, we'll be having a poetry reading if you'd like to stick around.

I hope your Monday is starting your week off with a bang. You can take that however you want. Now I must scoot. I'm helping Sophie with her How To demonstration for her sixth grade language arts class. But before she can teach them, she's got to learn how to make a dirty martini, right?

Who's wooing you? What's wooing you? Who or what are you wooing? Have you kissed Tengrain? Do you ever use Woo Hoo on Facebook? Stop that. 


*I don't know what I love more - his overall performance or the flexibility of his hose.

Just See a Thing or Two in Me

As part of the series where I introduce or reintroduce the members of my family, I'd like to give you MathMan.  Not literally, of course.  He's the glue that holds the rest of together.  I'd say he's the most important piece of the puzzle because without him, there would be no us.

But what can I say about the person who has shared over half my life, alternately loving me and wishing a painful death upon my sorry ass?  Okay, here's a perfect example of a MathManism. Just now he wanted to know why I was snickering as I typed (lord, I snicker at my own writing, how embarrassing) so I read him the line.  His response?  "That's passion, honey.  You may not think we're passionate about each other, but you'd be wrong."

Over the years, I've written many posts either about or including MathMan.  He's a gift, a source of material both poignant and humorous.  I'm sorry I can't link to the old Unglued blog because those were times to try this couple's soul and MathMan's light really shined that summer of 2008.  Lately, we get along so well, it seems almost like the calm before a storm, but the truth is, we're in the eye of the storm.  Thankfully, we've learned to use the other as both anchor and launch.  It's a lot easier to take risks when you've got a safe place to return to.

I did a little research into my own scholarly writings on love, marriage, and friendship and found a few posts that would best illustrate this man I met in August 1987, hooked up with on October 1, 1987, began cohabiting with in November 1987, married in August 1988, lived apart from August 1997 - November 1997, separated from in October 2000, was served divorce papers by in December 2000, reconciled with in February 2001, treated badly January 2008 - May 2008, ran away from for a day May 19, 2008 and returned to bruised and broken, but smarter May 20, 2008.

The rest has been smooth sailing ... if you like a wild ride, that is.  Why he puts up with the drama will probably always be a mystery to me, but I'm fortunate that he does.

I've thought a lot about what it means to love and be loved.  The main male character in my first manuscript is based on MathMan.  While working on that book, I've had a chance to really dissect what it is that I like about him, what I love, what I find perplexing and what I wish were different.  In so many ways, that piece of writing has been a labor of love.

There's so much I want to say, but then so much has already been said.  So let's take a look...

The Many Faces of MathMan, not a poem
He's the man who pulled the poo cork.
Who texts me from the bathroom to let me know he's peeing. (True story)
He's the driver for the Commute Chat video series
He's a math guy and so much more.
The father of my children, Big Daddy to the cats.
He's my muse, my erotic inspiration, the person who tells me to get my butt in the chair and write and stop whining about it.
He makes me laugh. And laugh some more.

One of his hallmarks is the ability to say a lot using a minimum of words.  This morning I sat in bed reading Betsy Lerner's The Forest for the Trees and read the following to MathMan:

"Most writers appear neurotic; the truth is, we don't know the half of it.....What's useful about neurotic behavior is that they lend a shapeless day structure.  If you must use yellow paper, if you must drink a double espresso before starting, if you can only write for three hours in the morning, then at least you have parameters...."

MathMan rolled his eyes.  "That's because you're all Special Ed."

He went on to say that he'd learned a few years ago in a training that if someone said the characters moved on the paper, try giving them colored paper to use.  He has a whole bag of tricks for helping learners cope with their unique styles.

He also noted that he's always known that I'm a little crazy.  This was said without apology or derision, a statement of fact like 2 + 2 = 4.

I'd be a liar if I tried to contradict him.

Circa 1988. A great year for love, for hair? Not so much.

The Wisdom of MathMan

MathMan, bless his heart, was full of one liners this weekend.  Sadly, most of them revolved around my breasts.  I swear, it's like the pair of them are a third person in the relationship.  Thankfully, they don't ask for much.  Just an occasional tweezing of the rogue hair (WHAT is THAT all about?) and a good bra (alas, they are often denied).  Oh and they do appreciate being released by the bra, any bras, as soon as the clock strikes 8:00 p.m.

So this man of mine, this light of my life, this guy who helps me figure out percentages, he wakes up on Sunday morning and announces "I like sleeping with big naked boobs."

I blink awake.  "But I'm wearing pants," I yawn.

"You're even funnier without your shirt on," he said before getting up to go weigh himself and pee.  Actually, it's the other way around.  We're all about bragging about our weight loss to each other these days.  You can pretty much the determine the tone of the day by what happens first thing in the morning in the bathroom.  If there's a Woot! it's going to be a good day.  If there's a a "Damn it, I shouldn't have had that half a pizza before bed," it's going to be a tuna over greens day.  Those are not particularly happy days.

Same morning, a little while later, MathMan lay absentmindedly tweaking my nipple while I checked my email on my phone. I'd bet cash money he was using my body while he fantasized about the other woman, Calculus.  The tramp.

"Do you mind?" I skeezed out.   I can take only so much nipple tweaking before I'm compelled to ask the tweaker for an explanation.  "What are you doing?"

He continued to stare off into space.  "I'm communicating."

Family therapists, please take note.  Nipple tweaking is an effective means of "communicating."  I pinched his penis and said, "What I hear you saying is......"

We continued to lollygag about in the bed.  Sadly, that is not a euphemism.  We had other people's kids in the house, you see.  That will keep us locked in our room, looking for entertainment that doesn't make the springs squeak, I tell you what.

I rolled over and one of my ridiculously large breasts became uncovered.  MathMan was on the scene immediately.  "That's better," he smiled.  He put a hand on the exposed flesh and said, "Don't want to let this go to waste."

The rest of the morning went on in the same vein.  Me in need of coffee, but reluctant to leave the room unrestrained.  My breasts in need of some serious corralling.  MathMan waxing poetic about them while thinking about math concepts that are completely over my head.  Probably over my breasts' heads, too, but they'd never tell.  They're always putting on airs like that.

Finally, the Spokescat, who had been rattling our bedroom doorknob and begging for food for what seemed like hours got on my last nerve.  Even all the mammary chat couldn't distract me any longer. I threw the covers off and growled, "That's it, I'll put on a bra.  I can't go around scaring those other kids."

MathMan had a solution for that.  "And that is why we should always say no to letting the kids' friends sleepover.  I guess I better put on some pants, too."

And then he went back to thinking about Calculus.  I'm sure of it.

What's your favorite body part?  Are you a face person?  Do you look at a person's hands first?  A butt aficionado?  Or is it the eyes?  How about the spleen?  I'm rather fond of venting mine........okay, your turn to talk.  I'm shutting up now.

The Really Good Stuff Is at The End

There's a keen sense of expectation in the air tonight. It has risen and fallen with the flow of mood, but it's palpable.

It's been a long day. Work is very busy. I won't bore you with details because it's the detail that bore me. Big meeting = many moving parts = many chances for something to go wrong. My job is to minimize that. As much as I make goofy statements about the kind of work I do, I actually take my role pretty seriously. In a nutshell, my job is to keep my boss's head from exploding.

MathMan and the Royal Pains are joining me on this trip to the north Georgia mountains. They have rarely joined me on business trips, so I think that not knowing exactly what to expect has us all a little on edge. I hope they fun. My martyred self will be working most of the time. I'll have a couple of free hours each afternoon. I' thrilled that I can offer them a change of scenery that won't cost us a fortune.

Adding to the hilarity, we're juggling autos. The Dancer, her friend and I are leaving a day before MathMan and the other two. And the fun is just getting started.

MathMan took our car in for servicing today so that it would be in good shape for the trip. He planned to take The Dancer's car in tomorrow. Today as I was driving The Dancer's car home from work, Roxanne, a 1995 Toyota Celica, protested having to drive at high speeds on I75 and let her clutch go all the way to the floor. MathMan had mentioned a week or so ago that he thought the clutch was going. As I waited for MathMan to pick me up from my stranded position, I thanked my lucky stars that the car did its thing on the road close to home instead of in the passing lane of I75. You've gotta take your luck where you can get it, I guess.

Now we must work on plan B which will involve a rental car. We can't fit everyone into our Corolla. Well, we could, but we've got to put luggage for six people in the trunk, so that option is out.....

*********************************
The Actor/Ninja's voice is really changing. He always had a rather Tom Waits quality to his voice, full of unexplained smoke and gravel, but now it's deepening even further. He sounds like The Beav on Leave It to Beaver when his voice was changing. It cracks me up. Not so funny was an accidental flashing he gave me the other day. Naturally, I reacted with my customary grace and serenity.

"Dude, no!!! I can't see that!!!!" I gasped. He was equally horrified. To break the tension, I used my Aunt Betty's line that she once delivered after having seen THAT when a friend of mine was sitting on a bike, apparently commando under his silky 1979 gym shorts...."Honey, if that thing winks at me, I'm going to have to wink back."

Yeah, that cleared the tension out of the air in a jiffy.

*********************************************
I told MathMan about an email I received last night that left me reeling. Seriously, I read it three times and then went to bed and just lay there, staring at the television, half wanting to tell MathMan about it, but knowing that I needed to churn it through my mind for a bit before I spilled the contents out for him to dissect with me. This particular email came shortly after one I'd received from an old paramour who quite accurately and quite sadly noted that I am a fantastic girlfriend, but a terrible wife.

This lead to a discussion of why MathMan puts up with me. We discussed again, how I am a collector of men, people actually, and how the choices I made when I was younger have had long lasting effects on several people. I've just become aware of some of the consequences of things I'd done. Through all of that discussion, MathMan remained supremely calm and self-assured. This surprised me, but it also gave me new insight into how his mind works.

At one point, I was so fascinated with how he sees things that I grabbed a marker and some paper and drew a picture of a brain. Then we attempted to diagram how much of his brain is taken up by this and that. Apparently boobies and vaginas consume a large part of this man's gray matter. Coming up a close second was work. Money, family and chores overlapped. Sports and food barely made it into a couple of tiny corners.

I was so astonished by this that I asked him if we could try making a pyramid diagram next. He took away my marker.

Fine, I thought. Let's go over again, how it is that MathMan can tolerate my difficult behaviors. Yes, behaviors. I can't be expected to focus on just one way to hard to live with, can I? I pecked and nagged and nibbled at his psyche until he got up and fetched the W. Somerset Maugham book he'd just finished, Up at the Villa.

"Let me tell you, but don't get mad," he began as he searched the book for a particular passage. I lay with my head in his lap, my feet dangling over the end of the love seat.

"I won't. I promise."

"Of course you behaved like a perfect idiot. But it showed you have a generous heart and to tell you the truth, not many of the sort of women I've known had that...." he read aloud.

I'm not quite sure that I ever see myself as generous. Kind, yes. Exceedingly worried about the feelings of others, oh yeah. But generous? I'm not so sure.

Now take my friend Linda. She is generous. Look at the gifts she sent me. She makes these beautiful pieces of art with her own hands and then shares them with me. I am touched and grateful. Linda will make custom pieces for you. Visit her website to see what she has to offer.

Earrings by Spotted Moose Jewels

Click on the pictures to get a better look at the detail on the earrings.

Thank you, Linda.

Whoops! There Goes Another Button!

The Dancer came into the world at exactly 1:00 p.m. central standard time on May 7, 1991. Born in Skokie, Illinois to two bumbling gits of parents who didn't have a clue what to do with her, I'm amazed at the person she has become.

It wasn't until hours later, while holding her and breathing in her newborn breath that smelled like a turkey on rye with mayo to me, I realized that I'd missed As the World Turns for the first time in ages. It served notice, though I'm not sure I paid sufficient attention to it at the time, that our lives would be completely altered by this child.

As I lay on the birthing bed, waiting to have my humpty dumpty put back together again and hemorrhaging dangerously without my knowledge, I squeezed MathMan's hand until his wedding ring cut into him. I didn't realize how hard I was squeezing him because my attention was on the eyes of my baby who was being cleaned, measured and tested. I swear that kid already knew the score because as she wailed her displeasure at being cold, naked, wet and manhandled by nurses, she stared right at me.

Reading my journals from that time, it's obvious that I wanted a baby because I was bored and lonely. I can't even conjure up a memory of what it feels like to be bored or lonely now. Back then, though, we'd just moved to Chicago after graduating from Indiana University. MathMan was a native. I was a foreigner. As a retail manager, MathMan worked horrendous hours. I was alone a lot. I had a job and a couple of friends, but the only other people I knew were my inlaws. I didn't really hang out with them, not because they weren't nice to me, but because, well, for one thing, they were my inlaws, and because they were busy with their own lives.

One day while shopping for our niece in Carson Pirie Scott, I noticed the baby clothes and, I swear, pastel pink and baby blue light shot from my eyes. I lost the ability to speak in anything but baby talk and I started dressing our male cat Phoebe in baby clothes and pushing him around the block in an old buggy I'd rescued on garbage collection day.

MathMan kept wanting to talk about timing and were we ready for a baby? I dismissed this as so many nonsensical words. I was a woman on a mission.

I wouldn't recommend loneliness and boredom as reasons to have a baby, but for us things turned out pretty well. While MathMan worked hard to keep us sheltered, fed and clothed, The Dancer and I got a hang of the mother/daughter thing by waltzing cheek to babysoft cheek in the sun dappled living room, me swirling across the ocean of blue carpet that covered the floors of the pre-War era apartment. I made up songs and sang them to her. She was a rapt audience until she discovered Barney the Dinosaur.

I watched her as she slept in her hand-me-down crib and whispered empowering words to her. I told her over and over that she was strong and smart and beautiful. I spoke French to her, read poetry and labeled everything as we moved through our days. That's a chair. That's a window. That's a blow up doll. That's an idiot who doesn't know how to drive......

In the middle of the night, I would sit in the rocker that once belonged to MathMan's mother and listen to the mingled sounds of her not so gentle sucking and the sleeping city outside the open windows. I would stroke her cheek with my thumb when she paused and fell asleep before her feeding time was up. Otherwise I'd be up with her and her empty tummy an hour later instead of three hours later.

I tried to imagine who she'd be when she grew up.

The Dancer knew that her charms were unrivaled when it came to her daddy. When MathMan came home from the store at night, she would lean so far over in her bouncy seat trying to get at him, that I worried she would topple. She lured him in with her feigned interest in high-level math as he held her on his lap and read his calculus text books from college to her.

Okay, so she's been selected to win the IB math award for the second year in a row. Maybe she wasn't feigning interest after all.

And here we are today. She's eighteen! What a time in her life. I could write pages about how it's all ahead of her and how excited I am for her future, but that's her story to write. I'm still reeling at the idea that this gorgeous, intelligent, talented girl is the product of my DNA mixed with MathMan's.

So about that college decision - I'm going to go full-tilt brag for a bit. She set a goal of being accepted to every school to which she applied. Mission accomplished. Tulane, University of Georgia, Indiana University, Agnes Scott, George Washington and Brenau University, a small, liberal arts women's college in Gainesville, Georgia. I couldn't be more proud.

Her decision was a lesson in the stark realities of life. It's about the money. Indiana University put her immediately into their honors program and even admitted her so that she could bypass their special freshman program. But out of state tuition costs made it impossible for her to go there. The other schools were financially out of reach, too, except for the University of Georgia, and she didn't really want to go there.

She chose Brenau for all the right reasons. As a Brenau Scholar, she has a full academic scholarship and an additional dance scholarship. She can double major in dance and political science. She'll be only two hours away so we can still complain about the obligations of having to go see her in performances at the school and with the Gainesville Ballet Company.

This is all very important you see, not because I can relive my young adulthood vicariously through her (she is vastly more self-disciplined than I was, so her experience is completely incomprehensible to me), but because that very first time I sat in a darkened theater and watched her perform as a four year old to The Lonesome Little Butterfly, I knew that dance was magic for our daughter. I had no idea that she might one day consider a career in dance, but I could tell by her glowing, smiling face and her natural abilities that dance was her thing. To this day, it still is.

Dance, like sports, is a fickle business, though, and I'm glad that she's planning another career path, as well. Currently, her plan is to follow up Brenau with law school to study environmental law. We'll see, of course. I mean, back in 1984, I was sent to Ball State to become a teacher.

This matters in the context of The Dancer having a successful and comfortable life. One of the reasons we insist that she take out only the very minimum in loans is because we don't want her starting out so far in debt like we did. The other value that we've preached about incessantly is loving and believing in what you do. She can observe her parents and see what a difference this makes. One of us has great passion for his career. The other doesn't. It shows.

It's not all parental altruism, though. The other reason why it's important that The Dancer achieve her goals and have a successful (and hopefully lucrative) career is because it won't be long before Reparations are implemented. And that will coincide nicely with the time we plan to launch the other two into the world. MathMan and I will be ready for the freedom we've been missing since that fateful day when I picked up the little box of baby booties and cooed "Oooh, we need a baby, MathMan. Aren't these cute? I wonder if they have them in ballet slippers......?"

Happy birthday, Chloe, for a million reasons and more, I'm so glad you're my daughter.

Love,

Mom

What Should I Put Cream Cheese Frosting on Next?

I think my last post may have been more gloomy than my newer readers are used to. Dude. If you knew me in my political blogging days, you would have been all "what they hell?" and "who needs this angst?" Yeah - those were the days.

So tonight, after he started speaking to me again because I was such a sourpuss on the drive home (What? no video of that?), MathMan asked me if I'd really told The Actor that we only have sex on Wednesdays. I stared at him for a moment before putting my head down on my keyboard to think. Did I?

"Why would you ask me that?" I mumbled into the desk.

"And did you say that sometimes we play naked flashlight tag?" he continued the interrogation.

I whimpered.

There was more to come. I continued to wince and whimper in recognition of my housecat-like mothering skills. "Because it sounds like something you would say. We discussed it on the way home from baseball practice. The Actor, me and his friend." Oh. No.

You see, it's one thing to tell on myself, to show off for you guys and be all la, la, la, look at my whipped up naughtiness and Parenting by Benign Neglect, but when I learn that the crazy stuff I tell my kids spills over to their friends, I get a little embarrassed because some of these kids don't have the sense to not tell their Proper Mamas. And Proper Mamas do not find my loopy brand of humor amusing. At all.

So yes, I'm sure, too, that I said that crazy stuff. What of it now? Well, perhaps we'll see the number of sleepovers slow down as word gets out that I'm foul-mouthed and filthy-minded.

Anyway, I spent the first twenty minutes of our afternoon commute with my eyes pinched shut or by staring moodily out the passenger side window. MathMan was having none of it and without the the benefit of having read my blogpost where I described my testiness and likely blood sugar issues, pressed, pushed and prodded until the dam broke, the words came spilling out and I shared with him my worries about work. (long, boring story) I hate boring him with tales from the workfront, but he seemed not to mind. Just venting helped me. (Thanks, Honey!)

And now the rush of baseball season is upon us. MathMan and The Actor will be gone a lot of the time. This is the time of year when I am left to my own devices too much of the time. When I'm not cleaning the sparkle off things, I'm looking for trouble and indulging in all manner of ill-advised pursuits that end in near-disaster, broken hearts, bad haircuts and unfinished projects in the garden. And that's the good stuff. (Do you ever wonder about the stuff I don't tell you about? Well, if you do, stop that. You'd never sleep again.)

However, with our new situation, Garbo seemed intent on shaking up the dynamic. She only had to ask me once to go to the park with her. I was amazed when I reminded her that we'd have to - gasp! - walk because I don't have a car anymore and she just shrugged and asked if she could ride her bicycle while I walked. No problem.

An hour later, we'd hiked the trail through the woods and along the creek, crossed the covered bridge, gone on the swings, and sauntered home again to spend another hour outside arranging pots and garden stuff and making a home for worms in a little pot. People of the Internets, if you could see the butt-groove in my cheapo, black swivel office chair, you'd realize what a huge deal this was.

Getting out in the fresh air, staring up at those clouds that look like a couple of merpeople about to kiss, listening to the bird who says "Drink your tea" over and over, noticing the smell of wood smoke in the air from the barbecue place down the road, feeling the breeze, enjoying the heft of pots just waiting to be filled with veggie seeds and colorful annuals, noticing the neighbors' houses - the dark wood sided one with the shady woodland garden and ivy-covered trees, and the other one with the lush green lawn and hydrangeas bursting out in pom poms of white? You must be wondering "What is the big deal?"

Plenty. It's been a long couple of years. It's good to be getting back to something closer to normal (for me, that is). I strolled along, watching Garbo on her bicycle, shrinking into the distance as she rode further ahead. I realized I wasn't holding my breath or about to let loose with a tirade of invectives and I didn't feel angry about anything.

I was just taking it all in. Later, I realized that I'd concluded something that had long needed concluding. Sorry to sound so cryptic, but I decided that the best thing to do sometimes is just pretend that a death has occurred. It's irrevocable. Done. Final. And sometimes, it's the inability to retrieve, the lack of hope that allows us to accept something. Finally.

I breathed. In and out. In and out. I didn't count my steps. I wasn't biting on the side of my tongue or furrowing my brow. I don't think I was even pursing my lips.....

*********************************************
Thank you, Fantastic Forrest, for pointing me toward your post tonight. I love the movie Garden State and I adore Zach Braff. I've had the Garden State soundtrack for some time now and there are a couple of songs on it that have been my off and on favorites. One is the one you posted (imagine that!) the other is an utter wallow-tune. And I'm just going to let that song go unplayed tonight for the reasons I mentioned above.

I do want to share with you a video I found that combines the artist who sings the song on the Garden State soundtrack that I love to wallow to and Scrubs, the show which brought Braff his popular fame.

I love the richness of Colin Hay's voice. And his hospital gown is pretty cute, too.

Thanks, MathMan, for the title of this post. Those pretzels dipped in cream cheese frosting were delish!