I have a pain in my ass.
And I can tell you what it's not:
It's not...
...January in all its depressing, dismal glory
...my decision to only drink on the weekends (was I drunk when I came up with that one?)
...the lovely layer of fat provided by the extra 8 pounds or so I've been benevolently housing since the new year
...all the crazy, wiry silver (yes, SILVER!) hairs that I obsessively tweeze out of my skull every time I am near a mirror and tweezers are within reach (I'm seriously considering putting some in my purse)
...my empty bank account
...eating only seafood and vegetables and fruit (and having NOTHING ELSE in the house--all the better to avoid temptation!) in a misguided effort at getting rid of those previously mentioned evil 8 pounds
...the reinstatement of my dear friend insomnia--working on about 10 hours of sleep in the past three days
...my inability to stop neurotically chewing on my own fingers--biting my nails and cuticles like I'm stranded on Everest and starving to the point where I am driven to consume myself (or die trying)
...having two teenage daughters and being in the last year of my thirties (my youthful, "you're not old enough to have teenagers!" jig is almost up)
...nearly deaf, inconsiderate neighbors who play their television at decibel levels that probably caused their hearing loss in the first place--and then their alarm goes off incessantly starting at about 5am--and it just whines on and on and on because they are frickin'* deaf and can't hear it unless I throw a shoe (or other handy object) at the gal-durn* shared wall between my bedroom and theirs
*I'm trying to keep it PG, people!
...the parade of assholes constantly (and for no reason) slamming on their brakes (repeatedly) in front of me on the freeway on the commute home from lovely, overcast, gray, dirty, freezing cold Salt Lake City (Utah may look awesome dressed up in celebrities and money and parties held on mountains that are above the frickin' inversion--but it is just another Hollywood lie that gets people to pull out their wallets and contribute to someone as stupid as Kim Kardashian--although she does have a booty that won't quit--who drops over 100 grand on a @#$&%^!*#%?%^@#!!! watch)
No.
My pain in the ass is NONE of these things.
It is a literal PAIN. IN. MY. ASS! I have a knot, or trigger point (for those who can pick up what I'm layin' down), in my ass. And it has tormented me ALL DAY! I have a HUGE archival document sort of situation going on at work (like hide and seek, but with electronic files) that pretty much keeps me glued to my chair.
That is not a conducive situation to a pain in the ass.
All day I had to find excuses to get up and wander to an area where I would not be observed so that I could dig my knuckles into my ass in hopes of releasing said trigger point. But--alas!--I am not trained in the ways of releasing trigger points, and after HOURS of self-knuckling, I am still in pain.
I took a super-hot bath.
I am sitting on a heating pad.
I continue to knuckle.
I broke down and drank some wine(HEY--don't judge me until you've walked a mile in my ass of pain!)
But I find no relief...so I shall wallow. But I will not make you follow. Save yourself while you still can. Don't follow me down this ass-pain road to ruin!
Run! In the name of all that is holy--RUN!
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
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.
"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.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
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.
- 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.
Monday, January 10, 2011
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!).
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!).
Monday, January 3, 2011
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!!!)
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!!!)
Thursday, December 30, 2010
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!
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!
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
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).
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