anonymous kisses

While I was at Terri's the other day, I saw a commercial that said the average person has had 28 first kisses.

"How do they know?" I scoffed.

"They surveyed like ten people, and that was the average," Terri calmly explained.

"I don't think I could even name every person I've had a 'first kiss' with," I said with disdain.

"I could!" she declared.

By Terri's reasoning, if you averaged someone like her: a serial monogamist who has been with her now-husband since her early twenties--with someone like me: an exuberant kisser, who has been single all but nine years of my adult life--you are likely to get an average of 28.

As I pondered this, I started to think that maybe I was a first-kiss slut. I remember many a party in my youthful days where I handed out kisses like candy.

If you were having a bad day, I might try to kiss it better.

If you were having a great day, I might kiss you in celebration.

If you asked me for a kiss, I would most likely acquiesce to your request.

If Prince's song "Kiss" came over the speakers, I might kiss Terri. (And yes, she kissed me back!)

"They probably polled like 10 people and came up with their average," she said--throwing me a bone.

While I wanted to feel bad about handing out kisses in such a cavalier fashion, I just couldn't muster the requisite remorse. And tonite I remembered why.

As I was leaving Gracie's, I walked past a jaunty fellow who, in addition to being a sharp dresser with a charming southern accent, sort of stepped in my way as if to stop me.

"You look familiar...have we met?" I asked, after a double take (and sort of falling into his arms).

"I don't know. Did we make out once?" was his reply.

"I don't think so," I said, "but you never know."

"There's only one way to find out," he quipped.

And thus commenced a first kiss. An anonymous and entirely pleasant first kiss.

As we parted, we both smiled--with a twinkle in our eyes--and I continued out the front door into the cold of a January Utah nite.

Cougartown

My friends and I have an ongoing debate about what, exactly, qualifies one to be labeled a cougar:
- You have to be at least 10 years older than the fella to be a cougar
- You can't be a cougar in your 30's; you have to be 40 or older
- You have to make more money than the boytoy to be a cougar
- You have to be a celebrity to be a cougar
- If the dude is closer in age to your daughters than to you, you might be
a cougar

This discussion stemmed from my dalliance with a couple of rather young (okay, very young) twenty-somethings over the summer, and has continued thanks to my entering the final year of my thirties. I'm not particularly fond of the term, but it does make me giggle. And I dare any woman to say "no thanks" given the chance to have a strapping young male tell her she's hot. That's just going against nature.

It hasn't helped that Shal's daughter Abi blurts out, "That reminds me of Becky!" while watching "Cougartown" with her mom. But, to be fair, her comparison is more about copious amounts of wine drunk from ridiculously large glasses than dating habits.

The truth is, I think I'm in a twenty-something dating state of mind. Let's face it, I didn't do a lot of dating in my twenties--I had a baby and then got married at 23. The problem is that most guys my age did do a lot of dating in their twenties, and even in their thirties, and many of them now want to settle down and have a family. OR they have little kids and are looking for someone to love their spawn as much as them. Which is not a bad thing to want--it's just not what I'm interested in.

I want to play. I want to hang out and go to movies, and see bands and have drinks. I want to try new restaurants and visit art galleries. I want to be spontaneous and do things I've never done before. I want to be silly. I want to be a little bit irresponsible. I don't know if this is some kind of pre-emptive empty nest syndrome or my version of a midlife crisis, but being on the brink of "on my own"--not a wife or a mom of little kids, but just a woman living my life--makes me somewhat giddy and I want to ride it out.

In preparation for my impending fortieth birthday which is coming in a little less than 50 weeks, my friends have offered (or should I say threatened?) to throw me a cougar-themed party. My preferred definition of cougar is related to being at least 40 years old, so the theme is perfectly timed. There's been talk of cocktails served by shirtless young men and lots of animal prints. It sounds horribly awesome! So I figure I should keep the cougar-vibe alive for the next 11 months or so...but only so my friends won't have to come up with another idea for my big birthday bash. I'm always thinking of others. That's just who I am.

The other side of the coin

I usually like to think/talk/write about the things I enjoy about being single or dating or basically NOT being in a "relationship." (I have to put that word in quotes because that's how I say it. That's how I think it. That's how I respond to that word...I like to diminish its power or impact or meaning--even when I'm just writing about it and not trying to avoid being labeled as in one!)

So...I decided to make a list of things that I actually like about being in a relationship. (I'm actually kind of surprised at how brief the list is (and how many of the items are related to kissing)!

**Hearing "Hey Babe" or some other familiar, term of endearment that only a blood relative or romantic interest usually utters

**Kissing hello

**Someone to sit with me on Friday nite while I watch movies, eat pizza & drink wine (I thought of this on on Friday nite!)

**Kissing goodbye

**Someone who at least pretends to care about the minutiae of my day as I drone on and on sharing either a) something I think is desperately funny or b) something I think is desperately idiotic and, therefore, must be bitched about

**Backrubs, neckrubs, footrubs, just plain rubs, I guess...(I know that my list might seem heavily weighted to the physical, but that is the main area that is least abundant in my life--I have lots of emotional and social and fun support/oulets, but not so much physical contact with others in the human race)

**Kissing

**Feeling sexy & having someone to appreciate it (I often feel sexy but it's nice to have someone who notices, confirms your feeling and lets you know they like it!)

**Cooking and eating with someone who loves it--sharing smells, flavors, textures, creativity, laughs and (of course) kitchen kisses!

That's all I can come up with so far.

Maybe I just haven't delved deeply enough into myself and my reasons for being willing to continually revisit the dating (and potential relationship) scene. I know that I like to date and I like to have someone I'm excited about and I like having someone who's excited about me...but I think part of me has become pretty disconnected (whether that's a defensive move against potential hurt, disappointment or continued single-ness, I don't know) from the whole idea of falling into like or (heaven help me) love.

I think if I'm gonna really put my hands all over this, I'm going to have to spend some more time sitting in this inquiry. I don't really want to...but I'm afraid that I have become too compartmentalized and I need to integrate and open up some place of vulnerability, openness and acceptance if I want to be able to invite in a true possibility of like (baby steps, people!).

Hands All Over

I hereby (after several glasses of wine, a rousing round of SingStar, yummy dinner, divine cake and wonderful company provided by my friends and their offspring) declare the journey into the final year of my thirties UNDERWAY!
It was always destined to happen, and here we are.

While I feel (and look) so very young (I KNOW you agree...) I do know that this is some sort of milestone (of sorts). I plan to embrace this year fully--accepting all that it has to offer, and not shying away.

I received the new Maroon 5 cd for Christmas (loves to Terri!), and the title song, "Hands All Over" is going to be theme song of this year--and not in just a dirty, sexual way (although that may happen, if the fates deem it so!) but in a willingness to take on all comers in life this year--career, family, love, spirituality, etc. I want to dive in to the deep end.

And, I promise to share. The good, the bad, and (yes) the ugly.

Stay tuned...39 here I come! (Woo-hoo!!!)

A spoonful of sugar...

So many times...especially throughout the Holiday season...it is easy to think that our kids don't really 'get it.'

But then they casually toss us reminders that--yes--they do, indeed, 'get it.'

And they throw us a bone.

"Mom is so good at Christmas," Gabi said on Christmas morning. She proceeded to explain how she had sat in bed (from about 5:00am until about 8:00am--when Savannah agreed to get up) and pondered how that phenomenon had come to be. She came to the conclusion that during her (and her sister's) first few years on this planet she was less aware and; therefore, I was afforded time to "practice" and get the formula for providing an exceptional Christmas morning experience "down."

I was, obviously, moved by Gabi's recognition of the thought, effort, and heart that has gone into making every one of her 15 Christmases special. I needed the warmth of that memory two days later when she pouted and tried in every way she could contrive to torment me throughout our annual Nutcracker outing (which, by the way, they had BOTH asked for with much enthusiasm).

My girls do deserve 'props,' however, for indulging me in a Moving Out Movie Marathon on Savannah's last nite at home where they both sulked and fought and I ended up in the bathtub sobbing my mother-heart out at the end and the beginning that was happening whether or not I was ready for it.

Then, again, tonite, I texted Savannah for the second time to verify that her heart was still beating while it was in California with her boyfriend's family.

Rather than texting me back, she opted for calling. (Something I have a sneaking suspicion she may regret.) After we caught up on the minutiae of our days (and my dating life) I told her that she must call me later when she could speak freely about the beau's family.

To my delight, she concurred that she did -indeed- need to call me back when she could share with me the 411 on the boyfriend's family. It made my heart sing with delight to know that some things--whether flattering or not--can only be truly shared and understood with family.

I have surprised myself over the past year with my ability to let go and to accept the evolution of my daughters' burgeoning independence and maturity. And--in the spirit of Mary Poppins--those 'bones' so unexpectedly thrown my way from my beloved progeny, are the spoonfuls of sugar that make the medicine (of them growing up) go down...in a most delightful way!

The Early Bird Special

Terri's birthday is on New Year's Eve. She called me tonite to let me know that she wants to stay in, have sushi and play games with the fam in our jammies.

"Unless you get a better offer," she added. Noting that she would TOTALLY understand if I wanted to go out instead.

Then she started thinking about if she would rather go out, but then details like babysitters, etc. started creeping in and she talked herself out of it as quickly as she (almost) talked herself into it.

"No!" I reassured her. "Sushi and games sounds perfect."

"But you go out," Terri insisted. "You like going out."

No I don't. Not really.

What I do is go for drinks after work. I like to "go out" between five and eight, when it's relatively quiet and I can enjoy every moment of my favorite bartender who I'm absolutely addicted to. We used to go out between nine and 11--and stay until they kicked us out. It instantly dawned on me that this is how people end up eating dinner at three in the afternoon.

"You seem to be right on schedule," Terri quipped as I shared my revelation with her. The only difference between me and those white-haired early bird diners is that I (apparently) drink more regularly than I eat. Some day I'll be drinking at three in the afternoon and then I'll forget about the early bird special and end up paying full price for my senior meal (if I don't pass out before the hunger registers).

Scientology Camp

So a few weeks ago a colleague and I (we'll call her "J") were sent to a training for work. Now, I have traveled copiously for work over the years and this quickly became one of the most bizarre and memorable forays into the business travel realm.

First, I must explain that where we were sent was a former convent isolated on 100 private acres in the middle of somewhere near St. Louis, MO. We arrived there in the rain in the dark--driven by a man who texted the entire drive and then inexplicably darted across the road at the last moment (you know, when you see someone deciding and then they commit too late and pull in front of you and you have to slam on your brakes) in front of a rapidly-approaching car in order to enter the compound. And, I almost forgot, but when he met us at the airport he had no sign or other signal in place to alert us that he was our ride--in fact, J had to ask HIM if he was from the place. Confidence was high at that moment.

After miraculously arriving in one piece, we were greeted by a dark, abandoned building and a giant black man. (He was very tall.) We were escorted to our room where the lights failed to come on at the flick of the switch. We were advised that the bedside lamp should work. J fumbled in the dark for the lamp and we were rewarded by a warm glow revealing two of the tiniest beds I've ever seen--they were like toddler beds. We were sharing! Since my last sharing experience was with a brain-dead whore, I was less enthusiastic than my colleague. (Although J is in no way close to either brain-dead or whore. As she once quipped, "It's okay to act like a whore--but with only one guy!")

We put our bags down and rushed out to the dinner that they had "saved" for us. Dinner is only served between 6:00pm and 7:00pm, and since we arrived too late, they had to set some aside for us. We entered the cafeteria area and found some sad, shriveled pizza and a wilted salad bar waiting. We were starving and grateful for the meal, but as we swallowed our first bites we felt (and heard) our tummys start to recoil. This would become our post-eating ritual for the duration--gurgling and bubbling abounded.

While we ate, we had whispered dinner conversation. To emphasize the point, let me just say that basically EVERYTHING about me was too loud for that place. We were given forms to fill out and then told to meet the big guy at the front desk. When the forms asked for our home addresses and phone numbers we balked. I put my former address, and since the post office has messed up my forwarding order twice, I figured I was safe.

After turning in our papers we were given a sort of scavenger hunt and told to wander the building and grounds to identify all of the items on the list. Before setting out on our grand adventure, we stopped by our room and discovered that it only locked from the outside. We had a key, but the keyhole was on the outside of the door. We could not lock it from the inside. This freaked us out. Rooming together was looking much better at this point. When I mentioned this to Gabi on the phone she said to push a chair under the door, and Terri's advice was to call a cab, go into the city and get a hotel room.

J and I began our scavenger hunt for (hold your breath!) the linen room, the laundry room, the ironing room, the lounge, and then it got much more convoluted. We entered various rooms and were instructed to notice five things. We were sent to the different first, second and third floors. As things progressed I kept thinking we'd found where they would kill us and hide the bodies, but then we would end up somewhere much better suited to killing and hiding--and it went on.

In the morning, after I had kept J up all night between my horrid coughing and subsequent snoring, we partook of breakfast (served promptly between 8:00am and 9:00am only) and met the big guy to begin our training. An interesting fact: all the people who work at this place also live on-site. They also (nice as they were) seemed like members of some special work-release program for either a rehab or insane asylum. The best of the bunch was the big guy and he remains our favorite.

"This is in no way associated with Scientology," were the opening words of our orientation. Big guy continued to take us through the life and discoveries of L. Ron Hubbard (the creator of the training we were about to endure) and then ended with rousing testimonials by both John Travolta and Tom Cruise. I just think if you're going to try to avoid association with Scientology, you might want to consider getting different spokespeople.

The next eight hours were spent sitting up as straight as possible, smiling, looking alert and moving through various exercises that seemed designed for, well, people somewhat more "special" than we considered ourselves to be. We had to use random objects to demonstrate how we walked from one room to the next (J graciously saved me from this exercise--she was much better at it than I). We had to define words like "symbol" and then look them up in the dictionary if we took more than one second to answer. Once we defined the word, we had to use it properly in a sentence.

And my favorite--We had to use clay to make a model of "someone thinking about someone drinking a cup of tea." We sat down at the clay table and J immediately set to work making a perfect model of a shapely someone thinking about a slightly smaller, but otherwise identical someone else drinking a cup of tea. I am somewhat intimidated by activities like these--especially when alongside an undiscovered Michelangelo. I did the most logical thing: made a stick figure man thinking about another stick figure drinking tea. However, when reviewed by the work-release instructor, I was told that mine was wrong. It wasn't three-dimensional. My natural instinct was to point out that nowhere in the instructions did it mention the dimensions that were required. However--J and I had made a pact--we would NOT rock the boat. We would follow all instructions mildly, obediently, and in all other ways against our natural rebel natures. (We are both quite outspoken and willing to share our views and, therefore, our colleagues who had gone to the convent before us were taking bets on who would get kicked out first. We were determined to prove them wrong!) Even as the words left my mouth, I started destroying my lovely two-dimensional stick figures and got with the program.

Well, to make a long story slightly less long, we survived and finished a three day program in around 10 hours. We were, much to everyone's surprise, told that we were the best group they'd had out there from our company--AND we should have been in a more advanced class. Yup. That's right. The two wild card trouble makers showed everyone else up. Hey--that's what happens when you add highly competitive and wanting to be the best at everything to the mix. (Not mention a fear of Stockholm syndrome setting in and losing our identities forever!) After being handed our certificates of completion, and handing them back to our instructor so he could hand them back to us in front of the rest of the inmates who work there, we risked life and limb by getting back in the van and racing to the airport to try to get on an earlier flight.

Saturday afternoon (we got home Friday), after returning from the doctor with a diagnosis of sinus infection and strep throat, I received a text from J: "Are you as glad to be home as I am?" I sat there coughing, with a fever, on 2000mg of antibiotics and prescription cough medicine and thought, "Yes. Yes I am."