marriage- an intimate or close union...
Being married seems like such a forgotten dream at times. I can scarcely recognize that young girl, more preoccupied with the music that would be played than the words being exchanged. The ring, the celebrations, the shopping and spending, the anticipation. The stress. The weather. The ancient church with no air conditioning. The ill-fitting dress and gobs of makeup. Toasts and speeches. Tears.
I married a good man, someone who, on paper, was perfect. I kept my eyes closed to the signs that this union was neither intimate nor close. Friends would gush about their husbands to be, the conversations, the trips together, the chemistry between the sheets. I would blush. Our life wasn't like that, but I was planning a wedding and a wedding I would have. I should have been planning a marriage.
And you are warned of this by many. Pay attention to your vows. I don't remember mine, they were a means to an end. Say them. Kiss. Dance all night.
I, in no way, mean to disparage my former husband or what we had. He is still a good friend and our marriage produced two daughters who break and fill our hearts in every way possible. We just didn't fill each other's hearts. And so they broke. And I didn't regret it. And that's how I knew.
I met Boy and I finally understood what everyone else was gushing about. We talk for hours and throw our heads back in laughter time and again. And...oh the chemistry. And the friendship. Our time together is never wasted. Regardless of the activity, our relationship is stronger at the outset.
Last weekend we made lasagna. We. Us. Wine and lasagna and laughter. We are a team and I love my teammate. Our union is intimate and close. It is more a marriage than the one I had.
We already field the question...will you marry him? Will you marry her? Yes. No. Who knows? Absolutely. Never. Someday.
If we do, the only thing that will matter are the words exchanged. And then we'll dance.
If we don't...we'll still dance.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Self Esteem 101
I was reading an article recently about appropriate ages at which to talk to your kids about sex. The article was riddled with parental angst regarding technique and timing for discussing the birds and the bees, without scarring your children for life.
I say do what my parents did. They never needed to have the talk with me, because they ensured that I was the walking "anti-sex." This was an incredibly effective tactic and they achieved this great level of success by giving me regular home perms, outfitting me with glasses Elvis Costello would be proud of and laying down railroad tracks in my mouth...twice. Couple that with a criminal lack of breasts and a big nose and you've got a chastity recipe that few could beat. In fact, this is the perfect breeding ground for the "life of the party" to emerge. Hell, I wasn't going to get laid, but I sure could land a knock knock joke with perfect comedic timing.
My inner Kathy Griffin emerged on a particularly traumatizing day in middle school when swimming was part of physical education classes. It wasn't the breaststroke that did the damage that afternoon, but the breast parade in which we all had to strip down in our naked middle school glory, and shower in front of our classmates and teacher. Where the hell was Dr. Phil in 1988? He would have a had a field day with this abomination. Of course, by 8th grade, most of my girlfriends had been paid a summertime visit by the boob fairy. They were eager to shove those puppies into a one piece Speedo and dive into the deep end. I, on the other hand, still closely resembled a pre-pubescent boy. My slim, flat figure was better fitted for sledding than swimming. I took it upon myself to make the most of this therapy-inducing striptease and streak through the locker room, naked as a jaybird, boldly displaying my lack of assets. Mom would have been proud for sure. The anti-sex tactic had backfired and I was now the naked comedian.
Fast forward twenty years and I still employ a wicked sense of humor to compensate for perceived flaws. Even though I eventually got rid of the perm and exchanged the glasses for contacts, the beauty queen thing never did quite kick in. It's not that I think I'm bad looking, but I'm a dork at heart. Despite my mother's best efforts, I never really learned to dress myself and when Boy's not around I sport a hideous manrobe and glasses. I would totally rock a headgear if they weren't so 1985.
You can imagine how exhausting dating was. The grooming alone nearly killed me. Maybelline can bite me. Crest Whitestrips too while we're at it. And you know what? It doesn't matter how old you are, or how far you've come since the days of a good training bra. Just when you think you've completely shed your middle school self a good friend comes along to reassure you that..."Girl, you have no tits to speak of, but your ass is killer!"
That's why I have Dr. Phil on speed dial.
I say do what my parents did. They never needed to have the talk with me, because they ensured that I was the walking "anti-sex." This was an incredibly effective tactic and they achieved this great level of success by giving me regular home perms, outfitting me with glasses Elvis Costello would be proud of and laying down railroad tracks in my mouth...twice. Couple that with a criminal lack of breasts and a big nose and you've got a chastity recipe that few could beat. In fact, this is the perfect breeding ground for the "life of the party" to emerge. Hell, I wasn't going to get laid, but I sure could land a knock knock joke with perfect comedic timing.
My inner Kathy Griffin emerged on a particularly traumatizing day in middle school when swimming was part of physical education classes. It wasn't the breaststroke that did the damage that afternoon, but the breast parade in which we all had to strip down in our naked middle school glory, and shower in front of our classmates and teacher. Where the hell was Dr. Phil in 1988? He would have a had a field day with this abomination. Of course, by 8th grade, most of my girlfriends had been paid a summertime visit by the boob fairy. They were eager to shove those puppies into a one piece Speedo and dive into the deep end. I, on the other hand, still closely resembled a pre-pubescent boy. My slim, flat figure was better fitted for sledding than swimming. I took it upon myself to make the most of this therapy-inducing striptease and streak through the locker room, naked as a jaybird, boldly displaying my lack of assets. Mom would have been proud for sure. The anti-sex tactic had backfired and I was now the naked comedian.
Fast forward twenty years and I still employ a wicked sense of humor to compensate for perceived flaws. Even though I eventually got rid of the perm and exchanged the glasses for contacts, the beauty queen thing never did quite kick in. It's not that I think I'm bad looking, but I'm a dork at heart. Despite my mother's best efforts, I never really learned to dress myself and when Boy's not around I sport a hideous manrobe and glasses. I would totally rock a headgear if they weren't so 1985.
You can imagine how exhausting dating was. The grooming alone nearly killed me. Maybelline can bite me. Crest Whitestrips too while we're at it. And you know what? It doesn't matter how old you are, or how far you've come since the days of a good training bra. Just when you think you've completely shed your middle school self a good friend comes along to reassure you that..."Girl, you have no tits to speak of, but your ass is killer!"
That's why I have Dr. Phil on speed dial.
Friday, February 19, 2010
The Legacy we Leave...
Heaven
All our lives we're told that this is the place to which we should aspire. Live a good life and you are guaranteed a spot. A place where we are ageless and all the shackles of the earthly world are left behind. Excellent. We'll finally find out who really killed J.F.K and if, in fact, Elvis is dead.
I recently asked Pink her definition of Heaven to which she responded, It is a big cloud in the sky with a house on it, just like Mommy's. Papa and Nemo live there. So does Uncle, Grandpa, Mitzi and Tocchet. In her short five years on this earth, these are the people and animals she's lost. One fish, two crotchety cats, a dear family friend, a great grandfather and, most recently, her beloved Papa Mike. She's been struggling with this lately in her own five year old way, trying to balance what her father and I have told her with the reality. It's an awesome place, but you don't get to come back. How bittersweet is that? Not just for a preschooler, but for all of us.
As a parent I know that this is the time, not to scare her into fearing death, but to focus more on the legacy left behind. This is the time for her father and I to help her begin to shape her own legacy. To help her answer the question, "What will people say about you when you're gone?"
Her Papa was a great man in every sense. Devoted to his family, friends and God. He loved one woman for over thirty-five years and, with her, raised three strong men. He built a community law practice from the ground up and his clients were friends first and foremost. And he loved Pink and Tink with a lion's heart. And they loved him like children love...all the way to the core, no questions asked. Every time Tink smiles her sweet gap-toothed grin, I see him. Every time Pink buries her face in my neck and squeezes, I can feel him. They don't know it yet, but they are his legacy. And what an amazing one to leave behind.
So what will be said about you? Or any of us? If we live our days cognizant of this, we will be better and do better for others. If we are lucky enough, our legacy will resemble Papa Mike's.
All our lives we're told that this is the place to which we should aspire. Live a good life and you are guaranteed a spot. A place where we are ageless and all the shackles of the earthly world are left behind. Excellent. We'll finally find out who really killed J.F.K and if, in fact, Elvis is dead.
I recently asked Pink her definition of Heaven to which she responded, It is a big cloud in the sky with a house on it, just like Mommy's. Papa and Nemo live there. So does Uncle, Grandpa, Mitzi and Tocchet. In her short five years on this earth, these are the people and animals she's lost. One fish, two crotchety cats, a dear family friend, a great grandfather and, most recently, her beloved Papa Mike. She's been struggling with this lately in her own five year old way, trying to balance what her father and I have told her with the reality. It's an awesome place, but you don't get to come back. How bittersweet is that? Not just for a preschooler, but for all of us.
As a parent I know that this is the time, not to scare her into fearing death, but to focus more on the legacy left behind. This is the time for her father and I to help her begin to shape her own legacy. To help her answer the question, "What will people say about you when you're gone?"
Her Papa was a great man in every sense. Devoted to his family, friends and God. He loved one woman for over thirty-five years and, with her, raised three strong men. He built a community law practice from the ground up and his clients were friends first and foremost. And he loved Pink and Tink with a lion's heart. And they loved him like children love...all the way to the core, no questions asked. Every time Tink smiles her sweet gap-toothed grin, I see him. Every time Pink buries her face in my neck and squeezes, I can feel him. They don't know it yet, but they are his legacy. And what an amazing one to leave behind.
So what will be said about you? Or any of us? If we live our days cognizant of this, we will be better and do better for others. If we are lucky enough, our legacy will resemble Papa Mike's.
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Luckiest
I don't get many things right the first time
In fact, I am told that a lot
Now I know all the wrong turns, the stumbles and falls
Brought me here...
In fact, I am told that a lot
Now I know all the wrong turns, the stumbles and falls
Brought me here...
Ben Folds is a mad scientist on the piano. His hands rise and fall at such a frenzied pace that they appear independent of the rest of his body. His appearance is that of a school boy, Coke bottle glasses and Chuck Taylor's deny the lyrical genius streaming from his lips. I am rapt, struggling to not bound from my seat and storm the stage. Attempting, and failing, to bite back the lyrics threatening to escape my body. Thoroughly consumed and entertained by a musical experience that I would later deem..."the best of my life."
And where was I before the day
That I first saw your lovely face?
Now I see it everyday
And I know
That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest
That I first saw your lovely face?
Now I see it everyday
And I know
That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest
Boy is there beside me and my best friends are somewhere in the bustling crowd and I know that we are all on a musical high right now. It is a good night. One where the smiles and laughter are as genuine as a child's and you desperately hope no one mentions the time, for the night is timeless. Tomorrow is tomorrow, but tonight is well deserved and much appreciated.
What if I'd been born fifty years before you
In a house on a street where you lived?
Maybe I'd be outside as you passed on your bike
Would I know?
In a house on a street where you lived?
Maybe I'd be outside as you passed on your bike
Would I know?
At dinner we share wine and lamb ravioli, we laugh at the waiter's mustache and bicker over what celebrity he resembles most. We're quiet, at times, lost in our own thoughts and then, catching each other's eyes, we laugh and resume conversation. We are the kind of friends who truly know what the other is made of. We all sit at this table carrying enough baggage to fill a freight train. Allowing each other, for a moment, to put it down and breathe.
And in a white sea of eyes
I see one pair that I recognize
And I know
That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest
I see one pair that I recognize
And I know
That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest
After the show we huddle in a dark corner of a local watering hole and the best friend and I share a few secrets, like middle school girls in the back of the bus. We look at Boy, face illuminated by the candlelight, and I tell her, as if she doesn't know, how much I love him. "I know", she says. "We all do." Even at the tender age of thirty-three I need my best friend to confirm what I already know to be true. She and I have weathered some storms and will go to our graves with the stories and experiences we've shared. It is a good night.
I love you more than I have ever found a way to say to you
Next door there's an old man who lived to his nineties
And one day passed away in his sleep
And his wife; she stayed for a couple of days
And passed away
I'm sorry, I know that's a strange way to tell you that I know we belong
That I know
That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest
Next door there's an old man who lived to his nineties
And one day passed away in his sleep
And his wife; she stayed for a couple of days
And passed away
I'm sorry, I know that's a strange way to tell you that I know we belong
That I know
That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest
Good friends and good love is not easily found and kept these days. Just when you've found the right tune, the right note, you find that a key is missing from your piano. The song remains unfinished. My friends have often finished the song for me and for that I do feel I am the luckiest.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Naked Snow Day...
Pardon my French, but, UP YOURS OLD MAN WINTER!
Saturday, starry eyed and wrapped around my man, a little winter hibernation was just what the doctor ordered. Fast forward one week and you find Girl, bedraggled and nearly hallucinating. Enclosed for the last six days within the four walls of my ever-shrinking house, my only entertainment that of the preschool variety. Surrounded by blocks and Barbies and two naked children who demanded continuous episodes of Loony Toons, I wondered what horrible act I had committed against the heavens to deserve such a fate.
Pink and Tink had morphed into a two-headed wrecking ball, sans clothing of course. My children repel clothing, their tiny bodies simply cannot handle being confined or constricted by undies and the like. They streak around the house like little nude lightning bolts, begging me to assess how fine their bums are.
"Look at my bum Mommy!"
"Yes girls, very nice."
Rinse and repeat.
And it isn't just bums that have caught their interest as of late, any body part, especially one belonging to me, is fair game for questions and subsequent judgment. I try to change/shower/go to the bathroom in private, but their naked radar is so fine tuned, that as soon as any article of clothing is removed from my body they come running. The conversation usually goes as follows:
(giggles and snickers)
Them: "Is that your bum?"
Me: "Yes."
Them: "It's big!"
Me: (sighing) "Thank You."
Them: "Are those your boobies?"
Me: "Yes."
Them: "They're funny looking!"
Me: (sighing with eyes closed) "Awesome girls, thank you."
Them: "Why do you look so weird Mommy?!"
At this point I usually want to scream: "Because being pregnant with both of you has rendered my body unrecognizable! Your big heads and endless chattering has destroyed my mind and body for all eternity!!!"
Instead I respond: "Because that's the way God made me."
Damn snow days.
Saturday, starry eyed and wrapped around my man, a little winter hibernation was just what the doctor ordered. Fast forward one week and you find Girl, bedraggled and nearly hallucinating. Enclosed for the last six days within the four walls of my ever-shrinking house, my only entertainment that of the preschool variety. Surrounded by blocks and Barbies and two naked children who demanded continuous episodes of Loony Toons, I wondered what horrible act I had committed against the heavens to deserve such a fate.
Pink and Tink had morphed into a two-headed wrecking ball, sans clothing of course. My children repel clothing, their tiny bodies simply cannot handle being confined or constricted by undies and the like. They streak around the house like little nude lightning bolts, begging me to assess how fine their bums are.
"Look at my bum Mommy!"
"Yes girls, very nice."
Rinse and repeat.
And it isn't just bums that have caught their interest as of late, any body part, especially one belonging to me, is fair game for questions and subsequent judgment. I try to change/shower/go to the bathroom in private, but their naked radar is so fine tuned, that as soon as any article of clothing is removed from my body they come running. The conversation usually goes as follows:
(giggles and snickers)
Them: "Is that your bum?"
Me: "Yes."
Them: "It's big!"
Me: (sighing) "Thank You."
Them: "Are those your boobies?"
Me: "Yes."
Them: "They're funny looking!"
Me: (sighing with eyes closed) "Awesome girls, thank you."
Them: "Why do you look so weird Mommy?!"
At this point I usually want to scream: "Because being pregnant with both of you has rendered my body unrecognizable! Your big heads and endless chattering has destroyed my mind and body for all eternity!!!"
Instead I respond: "Because that's the way God made me."
Damn snow days.
Monday, February 8, 2010
My Puzzle Piece...
"You are impossible not to touch."
Boy says this to me as we're lying in bed Saturday morning, the Blizzard of 2010 confining us to this spot. I am grateful for it in a way, a reprieve from life and responsibility, if only for a moment. My head is nestled snugly against his neck and I understand what he means. Our connection is electric; has been since day one. It's more than just the intense attraction of a fledgling relationship, it's a magnetic force pulling us back to each other time and again. Our hands, eyes, lips, forever gravitating towards each other. It's nearly impossible to explain and every known cliche' comes to mind when trying to properly describe my affection for this man. I don't even know if the words exist, but what I do know is that, from the moment we met, I finally felt like I could rest.
I met Boy in April of 2009 and my year prior to our first encounter was wild, wonderful, exhausting and intensely heartbreaking. I had met him at the end of my proverbial dating rope. I had tried on nearly every version of every kind of man, only to find that each one just didn't fit quite right. It was disheartening and completely exhausting. Every free night was date night and I was becoming an expert in my field. I knew the right questions to ask...the ones that elicited laughter and thoughtful responses. I batted my eyelashes, flashed my pearly whites and tilted my head ever-so-coyly to the right. I had mastered the art of conversation and kissing, all of which were met with rave reviews. I dated the too-young-for me guy, the bad boy, the geek, the Hungarian, and all the rest in between who just missed the cut. I had become a cliche'.
And then there he was. Unexpectedly wonderful. The last puzzle piece snapped into place and I could finally see the whole picture of my life. There he was. I sat across from him at dinner that first night and knew, on some level, that the time had come to put my former life to rest. And rest I did. For what seemed like weeks I slept and slowly disentangled myself from the men that had carried me to this point. Some easier to say farewell to than others, but if I was to prove that I had changed, then all of it had to go. All of the old insecurities and failures in love. I packed them away in my U-Haul of memory, shut the door and waved as it drove out of sight.
"You are impossible not to touch."
It's true. He is. He fits me, thrills me, protects me, talks to me, loves me and I can feel it deep within my bones. The ache of true love coursing through me.
Years ago he was married and she left him. The kind of leaving that you can't take back. The kind of leaving that changes you inexplicably. Sometimes I hate her, because, in another life, she hurt this man I love so deeply. It is absurd, our paths will never cross. But I think about her and, mostly, I feel sorry that she missed out on him. Sometimes I'm grateful to her, for putting him on the path that lead to me. In a weird way we are connected, for she gave me the last piece in my puzzle.
Boy says this to me as we're lying in bed Saturday morning, the Blizzard of 2010 confining us to this spot. I am grateful for it in a way, a reprieve from life and responsibility, if only for a moment. My head is nestled snugly against his neck and I understand what he means. Our connection is electric; has been since day one. It's more than just the intense attraction of a fledgling relationship, it's a magnetic force pulling us back to each other time and again. Our hands, eyes, lips, forever gravitating towards each other. It's nearly impossible to explain and every known cliche' comes to mind when trying to properly describe my affection for this man. I don't even know if the words exist, but what I do know is that, from the moment we met, I finally felt like I could rest.
I met Boy in April of 2009 and my year prior to our first encounter was wild, wonderful, exhausting and intensely heartbreaking. I had met him at the end of my proverbial dating rope. I had tried on nearly every version of every kind of man, only to find that each one just didn't fit quite right. It was disheartening and completely exhausting. Every free night was date night and I was becoming an expert in my field. I knew the right questions to ask...the ones that elicited laughter and thoughtful responses. I batted my eyelashes, flashed my pearly whites and tilted my head ever-so-coyly to the right. I had mastered the art of conversation and kissing, all of which were met with rave reviews. I dated the too-young-for me guy, the bad boy, the geek, the Hungarian, and all the rest in between who just missed the cut. I had become a cliche'.
And then there he was. Unexpectedly wonderful. The last puzzle piece snapped into place and I could finally see the whole picture of my life. There he was. I sat across from him at dinner that first night and knew, on some level, that the time had come to put my former life to rest. And rest I did. For what seemed like weeks I slept and slowly disentangled myself from the men that had carried me to this point. Some easier to say farewell to than others, but if I was to prove that I had changed, then all of it had to go. All of the old insecurities and failures in love. I packed them away in my U-Haul of memory, shut the door and waved as it drove out of sight.
"You are impossible not to touch."
It's true. He is. He fits me, thrills me, protects me, talks to me, loves me and I can feel it deep within my bones. The ache of true love coursing through me.
Years ago he was married and she left him. The kind of leaving that you can't take back. The kind of leaving that changes you inexplicably. Sometimes I hate her, because, in another life, she hurt this man I love so deeply. It is absurd, our paths will never cross. But I think about her and, mostly, I feel sorry that she missed out on him. Sometimes I'm grateful to her, for putting him on the path that lead to me. In a weird way we are connected, for she gave me the last piece in my puzzle.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
A Letter to My Girls...
Dearest Pink and Tink,
Do you know how very much I love you?
More than waffles and Wiggles, Barbies and Princesses.
More than Hide n Seek and dancing to the Single Ladies.
More than Friday night movies and singing songs from Rent.
More than Nana's house and Papa's lap.
As much as your beautiful blue eyes and sweet morning kisses.
As much as holding hands and snuggling under covers.
As much as sharing dreams and fears.
Do you know that...
I stand in the kitchen and watch you dance.
I come into your rooms at night to kiss you one last time....more than once.
The sound of your laughter is food for my soul.
I love you is not nearly enough...
I am so very happy to be your Mommy.
Do you know how very much I love you?
More than waffles and Wiggles, Barbies and Princesses.
More than Hide n Seek and dancing to the Single Ladies.
More than Friday night movies and singing songs from Rent.
More than Nana's house and Papa's lap.
As much as your beautiful blue eyes and sweet morning kisses.
As much as holding hands and snuggling under covers.
As much as sharing dreams and fears.
Do you know that...
I stand in the kitchen and watch you dance.
I come into your rooms at night to kiss you one last time....more than once.
The sound of your laughter is food for my soul.
I love you is not nearly enough...
I am so very happy to be your Mommy.
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