Smells Like Old People

So last week some time my pal Tits wrote a blog about "weird sex". It was hilarious because obviously it is subjective.

Well, what she decided was weird to her crossed over into a place in me that I had not considered when pondering what I considered "weird". And then there it was. It hit her and then her hit hit me and before I could stop my eyes from reading, it was there...

Burning...My eyeballs...Make it stop!

"My folks having sex. That is weird to me, and disgusting but why?" she wrote.

I tried to blink.

I covered my mouth.

Not at the thought of her parents having sex or at the thought of my parents having sex. I was raised by my grandparents and it wasn't even the thought of them having sex.

Suddenly, I was reminded of a conversation my grandmother had with me that damn near melted my eardrums at the time and made me want to shower with a Brillo pad.

I can say "at the time" all day long and know that I am still not old enough to hear what she told me.

It was after my grandpa died and she had a boyfriend whom we all despised. It is safe to say that we most accurately despised his existence in hers and our lives, as he had been my grandpa's best friend...and she had had an affair with him for 20 years before my grandpa died.

Grandma was a slut.

That being said, she never spoke about sex and would have liked us all to believe that the stork delivered babies.

She used goofy names for body parts and whispered all "unmentionable" topics.

Breasts, vaginae, and buttocks were all called "whatsis"...

Sometimes she would venture out and call the ass, a "toukis". That's when she was pissed.

But in Gran's world, I had to guess which body part she was addressing...which slowed the conversation down a hair.

When it came to talk about sex, I was given a pamphlet about menstruation by the nuns and a book on sexual health with mediocre pictures that was written in the 50's.

So you can imagine my shock (read: "choke, gag, shoots-shortbread-cookie-through-nose" type delight) while sitting one day at the table when my son was about two, she started babbling about her boyfriend, Carl.

It had gotten to the point that any time his name was mentioned, anyone she was speaking to would suddenly: get busy, have to pee, fart, fall on the floor in a fit, or simply hang up on her.

I was right there.

There was no escape.

Drinking a cup of tea and nibbling on a Stella D'oro Breakfast Treat.

I had let my mind wander and had no idea what she was saying until I hear, "You know, Carl can't get it up anymore but he is VERY good with his hands."

I screamed.

Loud.

High pitched.

More of a shriek.

Horror movie quality.

People have heard this.

Then I started coughing uncontrollably as cookie and tea watered my eyes and shot out of my nose.

This broke her into hysterics. Hysterical laughter from a woman who had no sense of humor to speak of.

My son stopped playing at our feet and looked up at us. His eyes grew large and his lip puffed out.

Grandma had made Mommy scream and now was laughing at her.

He got up, kicked her in the leg and buried his head in my lap.

This made her react much like I had and she cracked up harder.

However, she never discussed sex with me again.

And that is why I have two children, loathe erectile dysfunction and upon meeting someone named Carl, my skin turns green.

The End.

At YOUR Age...?!?!

Sooooo a few weeks back I was partaking in some retail therapy. I was under the weather, so a little debt could not, would not hurt me. Period. At that point I had been pissing my PJs and not sleeping. Rationale was out the door.

I had a "thing" to go to that night and I wanted to dress like a girl.

I wanted a dress.

And shoes that were not flip-flops for said event.

Now, truth be told, I have girly tops and heels that I wear...but I had worn them all and with having that damn cold and the cough...I needed some extra help.

I headed with The Teenager to Saks. Actually, we planned on just walking through Saks to the mall and to the BCBG store, but I got stopped by what would end up being my dress.

Fine.

She was on sale and made my tits and legs look spectacular.

Done.

Next, through the shoe department.

I had been eyeing a pair of Spiga Italy peek-a-boo heels and had to see if they were still available.

I am greeted by Hedy.

Hedy reminds me of "Juno" (Sylvia Sidney) in "Beetlejuice". Voice and all...only shorter, with more makeup and alive...allegedly.

Hedy embodies every bridge playing bitty that my grandma chummed around with. She even had a faint "Lawng Eyelund" accent. Priceless.

Hedy is a snob. The St. Louis kind. How do I know? We run into her all the time. And every time she waits on us she asks The Teenager what high school he goes to. Like she is summing up whether or not Mommy can shop for shoes here.

I want to shake her until her make-up slides off her face.

Even The Teenager is hip to her tricks.

She grabs his face and declares him, "So handsome!"

She asks if he is my only and I mention The Sassy One. She asks her age and I tell her.

(Why the hell must she know this to dress up my feet?)

I spy my Kates and ask to try them on.

She retrieves them and crams my piggies into them...taking notice of my tattoo.

"What are you wearing them with?" Hedy asks.

I nod my head at my hanging dress and indicate that that is my first plan for the stunning heels.

She instantly grabs my garment bag and yanks out the dress.

"Oh yes. These will work", she decides.

I smile and think, "No shit, Sherlock...they are BLACK heels. DERRRR!"

She ponders for a moment...

"This dress is a knock-off of the vintage Pucci line. I used to sell Pucci. I've sold this dress."

I blink charmingly and smile “that one smile” as The Teenager's eyes grow larger.

"Let me show you these" she says and pulls me to a quite lovely pair of Chanels.

She flips them over to expose the price tag.

$650.00

I confirm her evil thoughts by replying, "I love them! Now all we have to do is find me a sweet boyfriend to buy them for me, Hedy."

I giggle like the polished bitch I can be when I really want to shove one across a glass table of Jimmy Choos.

Hedy doesn't miss a beat. She says, "At your age with two kids? A boyfriend is going to be difficult to find, Dear."

Simultaneously, The Teenager's and my lips disappear.

"Oh Hedy, you're a card!" I chuckle. "I'll take the Kates."

Hedy smiles just enough to keep her makeup from cracking.

"OK, Dear. Will that be on your Saks card?"

I think, "Don't fuck with me bitch!"

The Rebel Princess Coalition Sans Two

This weekend is now a blur.

In 3 days I relived fears I had thought I was long ago over, some of my darkest high school bully nightmares, awkward adolescence moments long abandoned, black eyeliner/too much make-up/too much jewelry, teen aged angst and insecurity, emotional torture inflicted by parental units, sorrow, pain, happiness, excitement, anger, frustration, and my ability to always find time to squeeze in some needless shopping.

Two friends with whom I attended high school came to town for a much needed get-together.

We were at least two fabulous females shy of a perfect get-together, having not planned ahead far enough, leaving the other two with practically zero notice.

The 80s party that was planned for Friday night proved to Weirdo and me that we could still have fun and be completely inappropriate in a paper sack. Not the party itself, but the shopping at the Goodwill and other little shops while we searched for vintage treasures to adorn our less-than-80s-bodies.

Weirdo and I had never shopped together in high school. That was a treat shared by Goofball and myself. Instead, in high school Weirdo and I exchanged talk about nails. Mostly, I would give myself French manicures with Liquid Paper on the drive to school and she would bite her nails while I bribed her not to.

Goofball and I were shopping goddesses. We knew the ins and outs and could teach a class on the topic. The current irony being that she now loathes shopping and is married to someone who has a career firmly rooted in women's fashion. She hit the goddammed husband lottery, other than diamond broker, when it comes to fru-fru shit. I won't even mention that he is also a more than decent human who actually loves her. If I didn't love her and like him, I would trip them both. I married a rocket scientist. I'll let you know the next time I need an effing fighter jet.

Saturday was spent from sunrise to almost sunrise again with the three of us (plus 2 male offspring) giggling, snorting, comparing, constructing, climbing, posing, cackling, crawling, and crying our way through The Lou.

It was a blast!

It was absolute glory to be surrounded by two fab chicks who knew and loved me when I was an awkward, insecure, damaged little brat with Flock of Seagulls hair and a shitty attitude...regardless of my imaginary fantastic fashion sense.

It was fantastic to be surrounded by these girls who still do not give a crap what I have accomplished and/or what I have not accomplished either personally or professionally and only care what I have accomplished with regard to our friendships.

We sat there, the three of us, reveling in how we were and are so different and so alike and how none of the latter was abundantly obvious until we were deeply ensconced in discussions about the bowels of our personal hells.

We are all pretty introverted in personality. Oddly, that picture is very different for each of us. Weirdo being the most verbal in her thoughts was both astonishing and exhausting. And although my frustration at the lack of silence I have incorporated into my little world was at times palpable, I knew in a very short time her excited and animated voice would be gone.

Over the weekend I had found myself wishing that we were the women we are today back then and how much we could have supported each other or even simply been the silent comfort in the corner of each others' conscious.

As it was, none of us knew of the others' private hells and we became who we are. Mothers, teachers, healers, comedians, leaders and advocates.

As I arrived home early in the morning after dropping Weirdo off at the airport, I stepped into a room thick with sorrow at the loss of her presence. The silence I had thought that I had wanted exposed itself for the truth it was like a mule kick to the face. They were gone.

I was alone again in the scary world that wanted me to be things that I am not.

I was again without the friends who knew that I was more the punk than the cheerleader. More the shy little girl than the outgoing social butterfly. More Liquid Paper than eraser. More Suzanne Vega than Madonna. More alive than dead.

There is no way to sugar coat or minimize it. I miss them.

The Trembling of a Lost Emotion

I had been aware of his presence for quite some time, having spied him upon his arrival. I intentionally stayed out of his line of vision, as I had no desire to engage in even the most elementary of conversations with this man.

I had never met him in person, however we shared acquaintances in common. This fact alone was disturbing to me.

I had interacted with him briefly, to extend some condolences regarding the pain he was suffering at the termination of his marriage. He had expressed this pain on my friend's blog and was confusing his pain and anger at his wife's abandonment with the topic of the day which involved inequality among the sexes.

Because I originally viewed him as genteel, I wanted to make sure he stepped back and did not involve himself in the very intense debate that had arisen.

He verbally expressed his appreciation and little more was said. A few days and a few blogs later (after my debate opponent had sent him an email) he "friend requested" me. Having little worry about a man who seemed more of a pussy than a prick, I accepted. It was simply easier.

He continued to send emails and I attempted to keep the tone light and a bit dismissive. I was not looking for a mate.

Last weekend he extended several invitations to the same event. Although he could see that I had not opened the invitations, he continued to send them. He also sent them to my friend who writes the blog. She told him she was seeing someone, and it worked (or so we thought at the time). She advised me to do the same.

Having already had my fill of the multiple variables in this incestuous little MySpace world, I had already decided to delete my page and thought nothing of the unanswered invitations from this new contact. Mostly because I opened them after the event to which I had been invited.

I was not accustomed or comfortable with random invitations to join complete strangers out in any venue. Especially when there was no acquaintance who could speak to that person's level of perceived sanity.

I also never quite grasped why people would be anxious to spend quality time with complete strangers that they have not a thing in common with other than a pulse.

It mattered not, as my page was now gone and I believed that to be the end of it.

Fast forward a week to the same friend's birthday party.

She had extended an open invitation to anyone and their mother. Literally.

It was not my party. Not my deal.

She's my friend.

I attended the party.

And then I saw HIM walk in. The email guy.

*FUCK!*

I maintain eye contact with another friend as I see HIM notice me. I had already told her of HIM.

I ignore his presence and continue chatting with her.

He moves to stand in my peripheral.

He hovers awaiting a chance for me to turn and acknowledge him.

(Why do I need to? We have never met! This is not my effing party and he is not my friend!)

I can feel myself yet again getting pissy about people's lack of respect for another's personal space and general social etiquette.

I turn and he says, "Hi Cory."

*blood runs cool and hairs raise on back of my neck*

"Hi," I reply.

Feeling I have dismissed him, I say nothing more and scan the room for my high school friend who has flown in for the weekend.

He, being socially retarded and more than a mite obtuse continues to speak and confronts me about why I deleted him from my friend list.

I smile understanding the confusion and calmly explain to him that I didn't delete him, I deleted my page. I expect that to be the end of it. Nope.

"Why?" he inquires.

I look at him with a smirk.

"It was just a decision I made. I have a lot going on and it seemed unnecessary to keep the page."

Period.

Period.

Period.

I am honestly irritated at this point because I do not feel that I owe a complete stranger any explanations as to why I take a shit or the consistency thereof. I quite frankly don't think I owed anyone an explanation and feel that anyone who was afforded one was either quite fortunate or actually important to me.

He was neither.

I smile as sweetly as possible, considering that I am loathing the general environment and many of the people in it. I spot my high school friend and walk over to her.

Multiple times this man would seek me out and attempt to engage. I would always smile. Chat for a moment and move away.

I do not like strange men.

I do not like strange men who are so lonely and dysfunctional that they seek out a party of total strangers and expect to be accepted as if we too went "way back". We had already had ourselves such a poser in the early Spring. I felt our quota had been met.

At some point I wind down and relax on one of the number of comfy leather couches in this quaint little bar and make myself cozy by an open window.

HE of course hovers somewhere close by. The type of hovering where he is maintaining the visual contact and is very literally observing my every move.

It is my unfortunate luck that a friend sitting next to me on the couch leaves to fetch another beverage.

HE uses this opportunity to sit next to me.

*dammitfuthamuckersonofabitch!*

Having committed to keeping the birthday bash centered on my friend, I simply ignore HIS new position and gaze out the window up at the sky and over at the architecture of the tall building just outside.

I let my mind wander to the activities of the people inside and what their view might be...

He starts speaking to me.

He is asking personal questions.

Originally, I smile politely and say nothing. I look him in the eye. Smile. Say nothing. I am trying to silently convey to him that I am affording him the peace and respect that he is not affording me. He is however, on a mission.

"I watched that cancer trailer", he says. (He is referring to "CrazySexyCancer". I had posted something about it.)

I look at him.

"I watched it for you, you know." He smiles at me in a way that seems as though he believes this will bond us much like Crazy Glue bonded that construction cap to that steel beam. Yeah, marketing is fun.

I smile. I thank him. I look away.

His voice and speech patterns make my skin crawl. He looks like the love child of John Mayer and Charles Manson, with the speech pattern of Billy Bob Thornton's character in Slingblade. This could not be any less intriguing or attractive...unless he were to defecate right there on the coffee table. (Is that a clear enough visual for you?)

He has no idea my fear of men who act this particular way. He has no idea how I do not like unfamiliar environments until I have made myself feel at ease. I would never feel that sitting next to this intrusive man next to an open window that was not at ground level. Never.

He was getting angry.

I was frustrating him.

This only served to make me more tense.

I had done this before to males and it did not work out well for me.

I started to get goosebumps. I felt nauseous and panicked. I had stood to hug another friend good-bye and knew my legs were not stable.

I was angry at myself.

*dammit!*

I knew I should not have come.

I searched in my head for a way to relax him without lying to him and knew that there was not one.

As he continued to ask penetrating questions that I quietly ignored, I finally looked at him, smiled and tried in my most joking tone to ask him, "You do know this is a party, right?" I softly chuckled and returned my gaze out the window.

My body language could not have been any more closed off without leaving a bruise.

I was noticeably and visibly nervous and freaked out by this man. Anyone who knew me saw this. I had started trembling. This alone pissed me off...at myself.

He finally got up and walked away, but continued to hover and continued to keep his eyes on me. He even went so far as to follow me to the restroom area. I was thankful that my friend from high school was tuned in to my frequency. She was my eyes when I could not be.

I ducked and hid from him a bit more, before finally going outside to the street below for some fresh air and a new perspective. My fresh perspective brought the new emotion of frustration.

I had watched him out of the corner of my eye once the red flags went up. I had observed him interacting verbally and physically with other women. This should have relaxed me. It didn't. Why were these women not holding his attention? Why was he seeking me out and following me around?

We spot a bar next door and duck in to relax.

I breathe.

I cannot simply leave as I am the designated driver to my friends. I have to stay close.

Another friend I had been awaiting the arrival of arrives and thinks I have left. I talk to her on the cell and get her up to speed. She has only moments before met this man and knows exactly whom I am speaking of. She texts me that HE is coming down.

Again I feel cold and shiver.

I move behind a wall and watch him walk past the restaurant window never considering that I am there and not on my way home.

I exhale.

We stay for a while and the friends that have trusted me with their safe arrival home come down to join us as does the other friend who had arrived late.

I am ready to leave, but have mentally regressed to that one day back in college. I am angry at myself. I am angry at this man. I am angry at my friend who keeps her filters open to so much dysfunction. I detach.

You never know what your words or actions will trigger in another. I have to be responsible for putting myself in that situation. I make conscious steps to avoid certain situations. Now I know that I cannot attend functions coordinated by this friend and will have to simply make separate arrangements to spend quality time with her, if our schedules allow it.

It was a fascinating experience for me, once I detached. Once detached I was able to explore my fears and emotions and the "why factor". I was able to consider what might be going on in HIS head as well as what drives the psyche of my friend to welcome such individuals into her personal space.

Happy that this was the last big "function" planned for the season, I concentrate on the road ahead and crash heavily in the comfort of my perfect little bed in my personal little room in my personal little space. I am home.

I Am CrazySexy...

I have struggled over the past few months to be able to convey what my private hell is like. You cannot imagine my tears and happiness to find that there is a documentary out that puts it all out there.

I have been criticized and chastised for my treatment choices, even though I KNOW it has worked in the past and is non-traditional in this region. I have had wonderful support as well as a complete shut out from people who did not want to face the fact that people our age get cancer. Odd. Children get it. Why because we are in our alleged prime would we be protected?

Some of my friends have been there through the traditional treatment and the alternative and I think they would agree that I am a happier and healthier person going the way that I have chosen. I have been cut, poisoned, prodded, and fried from the inside out. I will not apologize to anyone for deciding that that is no longer the way for me. But I can provide you some insight. It is your choice to see it.

If you have 7 minutes, watch the trailer for CrazySexyCancer.

Kris does not have BC, but our paths are similar. We are both fighting at a stage where we were long ago told to make our arrangements. I did in 2004. Let me assure you, estate planning while emotionally involved is less fun than a donkey dick up the ass...ummmm, I have heard.

eh-hem...

I try to mostly keep the BC stuff on the KIS page, but this gives a glimpse into the side that as friends, someone going through it would want you to see. It is easier provide this, than to discuss this topic day after day and I know that some people feel shut out. I am sorry. I need to stay centered regarding my treatment. For me. For my kiddos. It is not about you. It cannot be.

And don't call me a fucking hippie, unless by "fucking hippie" you mean that I am a sexually alive, health conscious survivor. Then it's OK.

Peace.

Buddha Ballbuster Bashes the Bullshit

I've got balls.

Figuratively.

This is a known fact.

I'm a little bit scary. Even to myself sometimes. Sometimes I am just completely incapable of bullshit, so I just grab my ankles, pray, and let the truth fly...

Not everyone appreciates a visit from the "Kick-To-The-Balls Fairy".

Some people like to receive the truth like it's a yummy Fluffernutter sandwich... Extra Fluff and light on the mashed nuts.

I am the complete opposite. You can throw the shit at me for all I care, just get it over with.

I know I didn't always feel this way, but I think as you get older, you should not have to have people hold your hand through daily life. It gets easier to hear the truth and suddenly, there you are.

Now, there are plenty of people out there who have a lot more going on than me and there are plenty of people out there who have a helluva lot less going on than me too. And it is usually the latter mentioned fucktards who have the issues in developing their "coping skills".

I'm not going to lie, if you use your childhood, abuse, recovery, stupidity, etc. as a crutch, after so long I will tell you to shit or get off the pot. If you cry like a bitch about it and act like an emotionally crippled freakshow I will possibly crucify you.

No. Not literally.

And no, not intentionally. But the fact of the matter is that people should not have to pussyfoot around you and skirt the truth because you have been deemed incapable of hearing it.

Why should your emotional shortcomings be everyone else's problems?

Why should we have to "thin the truth" to make you feel better about your poor life choices and destructively unhealthy behavior?

You are an adult. You know the difference between right and wrong. Why should people have to explain it to you?

Saying that you know you are wrong but continuing to engage in the same behavior repeatedly is cute for like 2 minutes...

...if that...

Honestly, there are bigger problems in the world and universe than your perverse little issues. People need to seek their own happiness and stop expecting it to be gift wrapped and delivered to their door.

I fear there is not enough Fluff on the planet to deliver such a truth... but I have been known to be wrong.

I assure you, it is no one's fault that you lack the respect and self worth to make the positive changes you need to make in your life.

I assure you that no one will benefit more than you by making those changes.

Until you make the decision to do so, get a vibrator. They can't have kids, don't drink like fish, and will only fuck your friends if you let them.

Permission Not Granted: An Open Letter to a Cheater

You didn't grant me permission.

I know.

You didn't tell me that I could.

I know.

Guess what?

I don't need your permission.

I don't need you to tell me that it is OK to for me to feel as I do.

I don't need you to tell me that I am allowed to disagree with your behavior.

I just am.

You don't have to agree with me or how I feel. But why do I need your permission to express myself in my personal space?

I didn't go to your space.

I didn't go to someone else's space.

I came to my own space and put into words how I feel.

If you expect me to apologize that my opinion hurts you, you are nuts.

It is my opinion.

I did not hide it from you.

I did not sneak around behind your back.

I spoke to you directly about it. You and I.

I did not lie.

I did not ask anyone to believe as I do.

I am sorry that you are not open minded enough to consider that some people will not agree with you and your actions.

People disagree with me all the time.

So what?

You hurt me. You lied to me. Personally.

If you are now offended that I reported it, don't do it. Because you sure as shit take pleasure when it is someone else at the receiving end. And you sure as shit take pleasure when people give it back to me.

I personally watched you waiting for me to pounce on someone for your own
personal thrill.

It must have killed you when I didn't.

It must have killed you that I simply went directly to them.

You wanted me to say what I did. You told me you did. You said you were too weak. You were simply naive to think that you would come out unscathed.

Why should you?

I didn't.

I knew I wouldn't.

It was a decision that I owned.

You got hurt.

Your pain was your karma.

I kept a few people from getting hurt.

Their thanks was mine.

Be angry, but pay attention.

I just protected others the way that I had protected you.

This is how people stand up for what they believe in.

This is how people stop the cycle.

Sure as shit you'll never fuck with me again, now will you? You should have listened when I told you not to fuck with me. I am not you. I do not allow people to use me like a doormat.

It should make you angry.

It should make you angry that what I say is true.

If you don't like the truth, change it.

If you don't stand for something, you will fall for anything. Right?

Well, you fell. Hard. Repeatedly.

You're down now. Are you going to stay there or are you going to get up?

Are you going to run to the safety of those who will enable the same cycle you have lived in for years with their delicious, red and beautiful poisonous apples of comfort?

Or listen to the inner self who cried out that it wanted change?

It doesn't matter if I believe you to be wrong.

It matters only that you know that you are.