PMS and Other Things That Suck

Hormonal mood swings are one of the lovelier aspects of womanhood. Not only are they lovely for us, but they’re lovely for everyone around us who has to deal with us when we’re experiencing them. Moments of anger, sadness, or total outright bitchiness for no apparent reason… it’s not anyone’s idea of fun.

You know, this is one of those subjects thats been written about by a lot of people and not once have I ever read anything on the subject that didn’t bug me or make me roll my eyes and say “Seriously? They wasted ink on that?” Most articles aren’t helpful at all, and I don’t really find anything written with biting, bitchy humor to be either entertaining or identifiable. I also don’t think I have ever seen anything written on the subject that would give men any kind of idea what it’s like or any kind of accurate description of what we go through. So… what the hell, I might as well take it on, since, at the moment, I happen to be engulfed in it.

I can’t speak for anyone else, only myself and my own experiences with this, and I’ll be honest, this isn’t like… a FUN subject for me to tackle. Honestly, I’m writing about it because writing is how I cope with things in life that suck. For me, there are months when PMS takes the form of “raging bitch” and months when it takes the form of “sobbing mess.” As you probably just guessed, this month has been “sobbing mess.” Actually, it’s been a little of both; I had a couple days of raging bitch and a couple days of sobbing mess. Today has been a roller coaster of both but mostly sobbing mess.

Unfortunately, though there are over the counter pills out there that are supposed to help with symptoms, they really don’t. There are reports stating that women honest to God do benefit from chocolate at this time in their cycle (personally I am a chocoholic anyway, not just when I’m going through this) and that’s a lovely concept… and it’s why women joke about chocolate all the time. Wine, too. You hear us talk about both of them with the kind of enthusiasm most men wish women had for blow jobs or football like they’re magic elixir or something.

I recall being a teenager and talking about this with a friend of mine. We both knew that when we flew into a hormonal rage and acted like lunatics that it was PMS causing it, but we had no control over it whatsoever, and later would feel terrible for things we did or said. We felt like it was awful to have to apologize later, rather than just simply not behave that way in the first place, especially considering that we knew what we were doing in the moment. I can’t speak for her, but for me, at that time, it was literally impossible to control myself. My theory is that as a teenager, the hormonal imbalance must have been much greater.

In my early 20’s I was dating a guy who, one month, after I had been a total bitch and later apologized, said to me “You know, that ranks right up there with ‘I was drunk’; it’s no excuse to treat people like shit for a week and then say ‘oh, I had PMS’ like it’s a get out of jail free card on your Monopoly board.”  Initially, I was really angry with him. After all, it was hormonal and I couldn’t control it. But, the more I thought about it, the more I agreed with him. I knew what I was doing when I was doing it; now I needed to find a way to stop myself from being a bitch.

I happened to be lucky in that my cycle was always something you could set your watch by. Not only did I know what day Mother Nature would show up but for many years, it happened at exactly 6:30 am, give or take 15 minutes. I’m not kidding, I know that’s nuts, but its true. It made it extremely easy to map out when I’d start to experience mood swings. Once I was able to determine when it was going to happen, I started making a huge effort to figure out how to control my words and actions when it hit. I’ve definitely mastered not taking my raging hormones out on the people around me, though I do still get into those uncontrollable bitchy moods. There are days when *I* don’t even want to be around me.

As for the crying part of this lovely condition… well… that’s another story. It’s not really as if crying or being a mess in that respect causes a fight with anyone. Sure, it might annoy the hell out of them, but it certainly doesn’t offend them. I’ve never really battled all that hard against the crying jags, I mean, as a chick, I find the hysterical bawling my eyes out every so often to be cleansing and sometimes I can even laugh about it later. Like when I find myself overcome with emotion because of the coffee commercial where the son comes home from the military and makes coffee to wake up his mom. Forget it, I’m toast on that one.

And that brings us to the really FUN part of PMS. Its like feeling your emotions in some kind of crazy fun house mirror. Weird stuff gets magnified and looks way out of proportion, but seeing is believing in a mirror, and feeling is believing in life. When you have PMS, things that normally bother you a little become these giant insurmountable problems and you believe your crazy hormonal imbalance when it tells you that your life sucks. Before you know it, you’re so depressed that you’re bawling your eyes out and you have no valid reason for it… but you THINK you do.

Today, for example, I got deep into the sobbing mess mentality. I was feeling every single negative thing in my life on a scale so gargantuan that I really don’t know how I got through the work day. Everything in my life that sucks came right to the surface and took over the front and center of my whole existence and ran my thought processes all day. I was talking to a friend and telling her how I was feeling, and as I was listening to myself, I knew that in a day or two, I would not feel nearly as strongly as I did at that moment.

I don’t have all that tough of a life. I mean, I live in the USA, which, to begin with puts a person right up there just in terms of infrastructure and opportunity. I have a good job, I have a lovely teeny little house, a decent car, food on my table, and for the most part… good health. I have a great family of origin, and wonderful friends. I know all of that and I’m thankful for all of it every single day of my life. But, on days like today, things that suck, like having little health problems, being broke, and having a still fairly broken heart over my last relationship all seem like the end of the world. They become so enormous and heavy on my shoulders and unbearable that I just want to crawl under the covers and never come out.

On some level, though, somewhere deep down, I know it’s only a temporary condition, and tomorrow I’ll be me again. And, as I said, I can only speak for me. Yeah, I have PMS and there’s a few other things I have that suck… lactose intolerance, gluten intolerance, arthritis, a crooked spine, bad hips, chronic fatigue, and a budget that leaves me in the red every month… but happiness truly is a choice and if you know that your cycle is frigging up your world once a month then do something about it. Maybe your solution isn’t as simple as mine was. If you’re finding your life disrupted or if you have people in your life who you find yourself apologizing to even though you knew you were wrong in the first place, please talk to your doctor. We are women, and our hormones do flux, but there’s no reason on earth to be unhappy once a month.

Some of us truly do indulge in a glass of wine, some chocolate, a bowl of ice cream, and feel better. Some of us require putting a lot of thought into when to expect it, focus on signs and signals of it creeping in and taking over, and do our best to take control of ourselves. Some actually do need to seek medical help. For me, I know that exactly every 28 days I’m going to host Mother Nature and that 4 days prior I’ll begin to experience moods that “aren’t me.” As they arrive, I have to make a real effort to keep myself grounded and mindful of the world around me and how my words and actions will affect others. That’s not to say I put myself last, not by a long shot. I just try to balance my needs with the needs of those around me, and it’s far more of a thought process on those four days than it is at any other time in life.

Today was a tough day. Worse than I’ve had in a while… but I made it through. Ain’t nuthin' but a thang.

Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby! Part V: Sex… The Final Frontier!

Ever been bored with sex? Ever thought that you’ve seen it all, done it all, had it all, and that there were no more sexual mountains to climb? No more erotic lands to conquer? Call it what you will… whether you blame a seven year itch, or a stale relationship, or if you just think you’ve done everything you ever wanted to do…whatever the case may be, at some point you may have felt that nothing was really ringing your bell the way it was rung when you were young and sex was a grand adventure. 

There’s no question in my mind that the greatest aspects of sex are all in the human mind. The body may do all the work, and the physical aspects of the act; your senses of touch, taste, sight, sound and scent may be the prominent parts of actually “doing it,” but anyone who has ever had an orgasm in their sleep can’t deny that without ever having been touched or touching your partner, those orgasms can be the deepest, most intense, and best ones you ever have. To me, that’s proof positive that sex, above and beyond the act, is in the human brain.

When you’re young and sex is somewhat new, the excitement and adventure all centers around what you’ve heard, what you’ve imagined, what you’ve thought about, heard about and never experienced for yourself. The youth and beauty of the partners, the new places and positions you do it in, and the various “new” things you try. Well… new to YOU anyway. As you try each one; naughty new things… kinky new things… taboo new things… dangerous new things… sinful new things… with all that fresh, new, exciting, hot, crazy sex, arousal levels stay pretty high. But after years and years and years of sex, one day you find yourself thinking… “Where’s that blazing fire? Where’s that orgasm that blows my mind? Where’s that arousal that’s so intense I can’t even function?” Well… I know where it is. It’s all in your head, baby!!! It’s all in your head.

Chances are that you’ve had dreams that have seemed strange to you once you’ve woken up; dreams that left you wondering “Why the hell did that turn me on?” There’s a chance that there have been things people have said or done in your presence that have piqued your interest, and maybe you didn’t understand why, or even want to admit to yourself that they did. My advice to you is this: Don’t be afraid of what’s just under your sexual surface. Allow yourself to wander into those spaces in your mind and explore them. Allow yourself to think about whatever you find strangely intriguing, and let your imagination run wild. Only you are inside your head, and only you can unlock the doors that you’ve subconsciously closed. Open them, and see just how delicious those fantasies can be.

Personally, I’ve got a head full of incredible fantasies that I can dive into and get so hot I can barely stand it. Will I share them with you? No. But I will share them with my partner. That’s the whole point of them: to enhance and embellish the great thing we already have going on. Role playing, having play dates with each other, exploring and sharing with each other in ways that we find exciting. What we want, or what we do doesn’t have to make sense to anyone else. It only has to please us. The ability to be open and share those deep fantasies is one that can lead to incredible sexual places, but there has to be a very solid foundation of trust in your relationship, as well. When you have that the sky is the limit.

Fantasy and imagination are truly the keys to really revving up your engine. The depth of your own fantasies is the only limit to how hot you can actually get, and how great sex can actually be. Now, having a partner who’s down with that would be a beautiful thing, so, obviously I’m going to tell you once again that communication with your partner is key. It doesn’t have to be weird. It doesn’t have to be ‘we-need-to-talk’ heavy and presented as a problem. What it does have to be is honest and there has to be totally open communication. You can’t approach your mate and say “Our sex life is stale” or “I’m bored in the bedroom” or anything that will make them feel like you’re dissatisfied with them, personally, or with the relationship itself. This is strictly about sex. If the relationship itself is healthy and you’re simply looking for that heat and intensity that you’re missing from your youth, there’s a chance your partner probably feels the same way, too.

Only you know your partner and your relationship well enough to know the best way, the best time, and the best angle to approach this from. Personally, my suggestion would be to bring it up when you’re already engaged in a meaningful conversation. Don’t bring it up when you’re trying to pay bills, or when you’re discussing anything stressful or problematic. Bring this up when you’re talking about the good things in life. Bring it up when you’re talking about the positive things, and the things that make you both happy. Make sure your partner knows that you’re still completely attracted to them. Make sure they know that they’re the one you want to share these things with. Make sure that when you tell them you’ve got the hots for some hot sex, that it’s THEM you want to experience it with. And then… get ready to have some of those earth shattering orgasms.

The Fear of "What If?"

It’s not an ancient and mysterious secret that fear keeps us from doing many things. It’s actually a completely well known and “duh” kind of concept, yet for some reason, a lack of willingness to take a leap persists in so many ways in life. “What if” nags at the back of your head… “What if I do X and the result is less than desirable? What if I say ABC and the response is hurtful? What if I crash and burn? What if I end up alone? What if I lose? What if I get hurt?” What if, what if, what if…

Some people seem to have more ambition and drive than others. Some people seem more willing to take chances, to take leaps; some people seem to have a fearlessness that the rest of us can’t comprehend. Some are brave in some areas of life, and not in others. There are so many times when fear can stop you from doing what you need to do, want to do, or dream of doing “someday.” We admire piss and vinegar in people who seem unafraid to do things that, to us, seem to be a high wire act, and, one that we would not be willing to perform.

Intestinal fortitude can be a fine line kind of thing. I look at someone willing to attempt to jump the Grand Canyon on a motorcycle as a completely suicidal moron, but some people may view that kind of thing as daring and gutsy. When I was younger, I remember thinking a friend of mine was crazy for quickly shedding all of his large belongings, packing the rest into an unreliable vehicle and moving across the country without any kind of landing pad, plan, or even a job lined up. Now, I see it as brave as hell and I wish I’d thrown caution to the wind and gone with him. Interestingly, he recalls being frustrated with me back then for my lack of drive and ambition in life. Truly, what that lack really was, was a lack of backbone. I feared the unknown. I feared the “what ifs” and I feared falling on my proverbial face.

But that aspect of bravery in me seems to be limited to things of that nature. Where emotions are concerned, however, I am fearless, though some see me as reckless and emotionally suicidal in that arena. I believe from the depths of my soul that taking chances in this part of life is one that we cannot fear. I believe that where our feelings are concerned, we MUST be fearless and determined. We must be willing to take the chances that could make us the most happy, or leave us the most sad. If we don’t, then we actively cultivate regret.  Perhaps in business ventures or extreme sports you are ballsy, but in spilling your guts you’re chicken.

Think back to the worst emotional hurt from taking a leap that you’ve ever had. Maybe you’re in the midst of it now… or maybe it was years ago. Either way, you lived through it. Painful though it may be, there was life experience in it; there was learning. Most times, where a hurt comes into play, there are good memories as well as bad in whatever the situation was. When the pain is at its zenith, even the happy memories are painful. Everything is painful during that time, but slowly you emerge from it. You learn from it. You honest to God do get stronger as annoying as that cliché is: That which does not kill you truly does make you stronger. (*yeah, you’re not getting out of my blog without a cliché. Sorry.) I think for me, it may be this aspect of getting hurt that keeps me willing to take emotional leaps. I know that if I don’t take the leap, I’ll regret it later. I’ll wonder if it could have been the thing that made a really positive difference in my life, and I know in the back of my head that even if it ends up hurting me… somehow… I’ll still gain in the end.

I get completely irked when I’m watching a movie and a character wants to say something and holds back. It makes me crazy. I scream at the screen, I get so frustrated that I have to remind myself it’s only a movie. In real life when I see someone who has something to say and won’t spit it out, it’s all I can do not to smack them on the back of the head, especially when I know it’s something they need to say to ME. There is only so much guessing you can do in life, and only so much you can coax someone into a comfort zone where they can tell you what’s on their minds. Some people just never find the place inside themselves where they can say “I have to tell you something” take a deep breath, and leap. Even if they open their mouth, sometimes they just can’t get words out. In my eyes, these are the crippled people in the world. I don’t believe you can achieve personal happiness until you’re willing to take emotional risks.

Hurts heal; they’re temporary, believe me. But risks we don’t take can nag and fester for a lifetime at the back of our heads, wondering what might have been. You have one chance at life. This isn’t a video game. If you screw up, you don’t get another guy, and there is no bonus round. If you love someone, TELL THEM. If you tell them and they don’t say it back… yes, you’ll get hurt. But if you love them and you take that leap, and they love you, too, then what wonders you’ve just entered into. There are going to be times you’re going to get hurt. It’s a fact of life. This is not a fairy tale, this is a sometimes incredibly cold cruel world we live in, but it’s the risks you take that pay off that bring you the joys that life is all about. It’s the risks you don’t take that breed regret and unhappiness. So take a leap from time to time. Let go of your fears and say what’s in your heart, even if you fear the outcome. And, if you get hurt, know that this is part of life. We don’t stop having growing pains when we get our diploma. We don’t ever stop having them. Leap, and when you’re hurt, learn. But leap… because some of those leaps will land you in places more glorious than you can imagine. Some of those leaps will land you in the heart of someone amazing and you wouldn’t want to miss out on that, now, would you?

Counsel of The Foolish Souls

For those I love.... ANYTHING.

Believe it.

So many foolish souls...

If you must stay in your cave,

I hope the fire is warm

and the wood pile endless.

When you emerge

Hunt

I’ll not interfere

Merely watch from the forest

Until you’re strong enough

Sure enough

I leave offerings

Anonymous

Foolish souls…

Now in your tribes

Fighting off those who seek to overthrow you

Looking back to days when I hunted by your side

Fondly

Sadly

Yes, there you are,

Still in your cave

Frightened that you may end up

One of the many

Foolish souls

Warm yourself.

Feast well.

Call to the Gods,

Seek their council.

How long does she wait for me?

Rest well in your cave,

Dwelling

Planning

Letting time steal everything

But do not endeavor to join them

Foolish souls

Wishing I still hunted at their sides.

Settling for offerings at the feast

That I have left as gifts

But never knowing the safety of my tribe again.

Mental Spam

This morning, as I was waking up, I was in that sort of half asleep / half awake place and I had a surge of writing energy, which, obviously I couldn’t do anything about because I had to go to work. Also, in the shower this morning I had about a half dozen ideas for blog posts that escaped me by the time I was done drying off. That REALLY perturbs me, how ideas can just leave me like that. How does it happen? The same way that we all have those moments when we say “Oh, crap…. I totally forgot what I was about to say!” It’s because my head is filled with nonsense. You know… every day bullshit that takes up hard drive space? I hate it. I think that as kids, that’s why we have so much pure and fiery creativity and imagination. Our brains aren’t full of spam yet. Now, in adulthood, my head is full of account numbers and driving directions and to-do lists and names of people who aren’t even a part of my life and news stories and all of that horseshit, and there’s really no way of clicking on “delete cookies” … which… by the way… I’d also like to be able to do to my fat ass.

I mean really, is it necessary for me to know that Lindsey Lohan pleaded no contest to stealing a gold necklace? Is it necessary for me to know the names and ranks of the Royal Family or what they wore to William and Kate’s wedding? Is it really going to benefit my life to know that crap? But I know these things. I can’t get away from that sort of useless information, and it’s taking up space in my cranium that I want for other things. I’d much rather be able to remember the recipe for Toll House Cookies or any ONE of those six ideas I had this morning in the shower than to know any of that other garbage that has no bearing on my life or my goals or my family or my health or my happiness.

It’s frustrating as hell that my head is full of this mental junk mail, construction debris and plastic. There’s basically a landfill in my noggin full of shit I’d really like to throw out. When your computer gets slow you delete files to make room. When your house gets too full you have a yard sale. When your closet gets overstuffed you give things to the Good Will. What do you do when your brain is too full? Can I see a hypnotist and ask him to “delete cookies?” Can he make me dump all the useless information that’s causing me to have a system crash whenever I come up with a great idea for writing and then 20 seconds later it’s just… GONE… like I accidentally hit the delete key and there’s not a damn thing I can do to get the file back?

At one time I thought… meditation! That’s it! I’ll clear my head… I’ll make all of that every-day baloney that makes life in the 21^st century stressful and makes it impossible to pull up the files I actually want to use line up and march single file into a little prison cell in my head and I’ll lock the door… meanwhile the creative thought process and all of my wonderful ideas and my happy, intelligent, imaginative thoughts will come out and play and when I return to an upright and locked position it will just flow out and I’ll write like wild fire!!! Unfortunately, as fab as it was in theory… it didn’t work. There was this giant bouncer standing there with his arms folded, looking at me like “All right, lady, you’ve got exactly one weekend to accomplish this, and then it’s back to reality.” I have never been good with deadlines.

Thankfully, my frustration and anger at this situation prompted me to vent to a friend via email. There’s something about writing an email to a trusted friend. It brings out an unedited flood. I guess it’s the fact that he is there to be my friend and listen and understand when I’m being a raving lunatic, so my email is just a stream of ferocious aggravation that, when complete, makes me step back and figure out what’s really bothering me or at least purges some of my mental garbage. That’s how writing is for me. I’ve described it before as a bucket you’d put under a leaky roof. The roof drips, and the bucket fills. Every so often you have to dump the water or you’ll have a flood. That’s why I write. I fill up with words, thoughts, ideas, theories… eventually I have to empty the bucket.

Writers block is horrible for me. It’s like a drought, I guess. When crops don’t get water, things start to shrivel and die. The roof doesn’t leak. I have no ability to function when no words are slowly filling the bucket. However… a tsunami is pretty friggin’ frustrating, as well. I can’t write fast enough, I lose half the ideas, I sure as hell don’t have enough hours in the day to devote to it even if I manage to notate all of them for later use… and that brings about a whole other aspect of 21^st century life that infuriates me…. But that’s a post for another day.

For the moment, I’d like to thank my best friend in the entire world, Jay, for helping me out by being there for me and always being the giant wrecking ball that obliterates that insurmountable wall. Writer’s block literally feels like a wall has been built between me and my creative process. So many brilliant writers have given the advice that you should write every single day, even if you think you have nothing to write about. Entire books have been devoted to ideas of things to write about when this happens. Today, I had to write about writer’s block. It’s amazing to me how much I actually had to say, most of which I spared you from, and how the subject itself actually poured out like that proverbial bucket being dumped. Maybe now I can get on with things.

So, you ask, why bother posting this? I mean, really, what’s the point of making it public? I guess it’s this: Sometimes you have to vent. And by you I mean YOU. Maybe you don’t purge your issues through writing, but whatever it is that seems to be blocking your path in life… kick the hell out of it, whatever it takes. Ready for my cliché of the day? Here it is: We all have our crosses to bear. The thing is that each one is different but no matter what the cross you’re carrying around is, it’s just has heavy and cumbersome to you as this is to me. So get rid of it. Holding it doesn’t help. Leaving stuff that isn’t working alone doesn’t help. Continuing down a path that you know is leading to nowhere doesn’t help… and worse… continuing down a path that you know is leading to  your own annihilation is just… NOT GOOD. So don’t do it. Rise up and fight!!!

Taking Care of YOU

I know the whole world is sick of the saying “Life is too short.” But, it is. Especially in adulthood and in this society that’s paced at warp factor nine. Days fly by in a blur; weeks are gone before we know it, and months slip away at what seems like an impossible speed. When I think of something that happened ten years ago, I can scarcely believe a decade has passed since … well, in the case of the current year, can you honestly believe it’s been a decade since September 11^th? I can’t. Also that year, Lifehouse’s “Hanging By A Moment” came out and the remake of Lady Marmalade by Christina Aguilera, Lil’ Kim, Maya, and Pink was in the movie Moulin Rouge. Doesn’t seem like a decade ago, does it?

As time ticks away we work like ants in an ant hill, going about our tasks almost robotically… get up, shower, get dressed, leave on time… fight traffic, park the car, get to your desk, check email, answer phone calls, attend meetings, meet with customers… before you know it the day is gone and your “to do” list might not have been scratched. Fires sparked up and had to be put out, interruptions happened, things were unavoidable. Meetings had to get moved; personal appointments had to be cancelled in order to accommodate business. And when 5:00 comes each day – are you able to head home to your family? Do you have to work from home in the evening? On weekends?

I call the difference between work and home “The separation between church and state.” Honestly, it’s the best way I can describe it. When talking about the concept of over-eating, people will often say “eat to live; don’t live to eat.” It’s good advice. Simple, to the point, and makes perfect sense. When it comes to separating church and state (or, if you prefer the corporate American term “work/life balance” which I happen to hate,) the same rule applies:

Work to make a living; don’t live just to work.

When was the last time you did the things you’re supposed to do in order to take care of yourself? Not your spouse, not your kids, not the dog, or the house, or the bills… but YOU. When was the last time you had a full physical? When was the last time you had a dental cleaning and check-up? When was the last time you had a night out with your friends? When was the last time you engaged in whatever your favorite past time is? When did you last eat at your favorite restaurant? When was the last time you spent time by yourself doing absolutely nothing? When was the last time you went shopping for yourself? When was the last time you bought something you wanted just for fun? Not something huge; maybe a music download or a favorite old movie on DVD… but for yourself.

Do you ever go into a bakery? Not the one stuffed into a corner in the supermarket, but an actual bakery. Not for any specific reason; not because it’s someone’s birthday or because you have a dinner to go to and need to pick up a dessert – but just because it’s a bakery. Just to look at the gorgeous confections and maybe get a cookie or a really good loaf of bread that’s still warm from the oven. If you don’t: THEN DO IT! Walk into the bakery, inhale the delicious smells, look at all the enticing things in the case, and pick out just one small treat for yourself. Something that looks amazing in its decoration, or something that looks so scrumptious that your mouth waters, or something you haven’t had since you were a kid.

Do you ever go into a pet store? Not because you’re looking for something to take the smell out of a sofa, but just to look at the tropical fish? Do you ever blow off the housework in favor of doing something relaxing and fun? How often do you make it to the beach in the few months we have to enjoy it here in New England? Do you play in the sand? Do you jump in the waves? Do you take walks with no destination, and no purpose other than to be outdoors?

Maybe none of these things appeal to you, but I guarantee there’s things that you love that you haven’t done in a dog’s age. The bakery, the tropical fish tank, the beach… these are all things that feed the soul. Things that get your brain out of that stagnant work mode and remind you that you are alive. If you don’t find the things I’ve mentioned here appealing then do something YOU love. Even if it’s only for a half an hour.

And hey...call your doctor, and your dentist… call the optometrist if you go there, too. Make appointments and keep them. Bring everything up to date. Take care of yourself and feed your soul. When you do that, you’ll be happier and healthier, and it will carry into every aspect of your life. It will rub off in your relationships. It will make the sunshine a little brighter, the food taste a little better, and the absurd in life a little funnier. We all have to work. We all have to take care of business, but life is a gift and when it gets tedious and stressful and frustrating… that’s when you have to step away from the ordinary routine and remember the small things that bring an enormous smile to your face and actually go and do some of them. You weren’t put here on this earth just to be an ant in an ant hill. So, get out in the world, and remember why you’re really here. Remember why you have a job in the first place: To support yourself so that you can have a life.  

The Sex Was Great! Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby! Part IV

Remember Kelly Lebrock’s annoying Pantene commercial in the late 80’s? “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful!” It was a great line, and we all used it… picking on each other, laughing at ourselves, and basically taking it for what it was; a joke. But there are women out there who will tell you that beauty is a curse. Being really, truly, drop-dead gorgeous … the kind of gorgeous that turns heads when you walk into a room, the kind of gorgeous that doesn’t require make-up, hair styling, or flashy clothes. The kind you can’t get away from… it can be a major curse. I do understand that. I mean, imagine trying to talk to someone; trying to make a point about something, and having them so mystified by your appearance that they couldn’t hear you. That’s got to be severely frustrating. So, too, I find, is being “great in bed.”

Yeah, that’s right… I’m bragging… I’m great in bed. Deal with it. If you want to think I’m telling you I rock the house down because I want you to be jealous or because I’m trying to get attention, think again. (For the record, I’ve been celibate for the past year. The reason why, at least at first, was a heart so horrifyingly broken that the idea of anyone touching me was just too much to bear. I couldn’t even deal with dinner, much less deal with sex. I did go on one date a few months back. Nice guy; pretty easy on the eyes, polite, articulate, we had a lot in common… but when the check came and I realized the date was coming to a close, the idea that he might try to kiss me chilled my blood so cold that I couldn’t even fake a polite excuse. I haven’t bothered with attempting another date. If you’re out there, Jim, sorry about that. I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but it’s the truth of the matter: It wasn’t you, it was me. Lately, though, the celibacy has been because I haven’t met anyone I want to sleep with, and, as far as sleeping around goes… been there, done that.)

I’ll be the first one to tell you how much I adore sex. The pleasures of a man’s body are positively boundless. There’s a reason why, when people have incredible experiences in life, they compare them to sex. It’s because sex is the be-all, end-all of our existence. You can argue that point any way you like, but great sex is better than great anything else. In my early twenties, I went through a period of unabashed promiscuity that would make a hooker blush. Don’t ask me how many men I’ve slept with because I honestly don’t know. And, FYI, I’m not ashamed of that. I’m not proud of it, either. It just is. I was young, I was pretty, I was built, and it seemed I could have any man I wanted…so I did. I loved the first time with each one so much; it was such an exhilarating feeling. I don’t know about anybody else, but for me, first times are just about the height of physical sensitivity. There is no more erotic feeling than that of the first time you touch someone and feel their body temperature, their heartbeat, their skin against yours. The tension, the nervousness, the newness of it all is something you can never, ever recapture.

I just wasn’t someone who was ashamed of my body, or uncomfortable with my sexuality, or even concerned with lady-like modesty. I never quite understood the concept of Catholic guilt, even though I was raised Catholic. I wanted to experience the men I dated, not just run down some scripted small talk, be paranoid about spilling salad dressing on myself and then sit by the phone hoping he’d call the next day. I still can’t stand the thought of that; it’s so phony. I’m a passionate person and when I met men I think it was obvious that, although I wasn’t throwing myself at them, I wasn’t like most women, either. Maybe it has something to do with being raised predominantly by my father, but for whatever reason I’ve always identified more with men than women. I just find that men are easier to talk to, easier to get along with, more easy-going in general. So, I spent a lot of time with them. Men are so terribly attractive to me. The way a man’s body feels, the sensation of the muscle tone underneath their skin, the smooth yet slightly abrasive sensation of a freshly shaven face, the deep gravelly tones of a male voice, the Adam’s apple, and honestly, there is nothing like a pair of big, strong hands on a man. Testosterone just makes me weak in the knees.

Aside from the sex, each one of those men had some kind of impact on me. These dates weren’t just a pick up followed by a tawdry one-night stand. I didn’t see each guy one time and say “See ya!” I dated them, just nobody serious and nobody for any extended periods of time. The dates always involved a lot of conversation, most times on a pretty deep level. Beyond the bedroom, there was a lot of learning and sharing going on with them, and it was equally as satisfying. I never slept with anyone I didn’t want to sleep with. I slept with all of them, and it was because I wanted to. If that makes me anything less in anyone’s eyes then they’re shallow and they don’t know a whole lot about life; and dare I say, they’re somewhat repressed. This was a period of exploration in my life and one that I enjoyed and wouldn’t trade. Dating all of those men was wonderful, and yes, sleeping with them was, too. I don’t apologize for it, I got a lot more than sex out of those men, and anyone who uses anyone else for just sex isn’t having all that great of a time.

One of the greatest things I learned from them was that what really, truly turns a man on above and beyond anything else, is a woman who is confident enough in herself, comfortable enough with herself, and has the self esteem to let go of her inhibitions in the bedroom. In a committed relationship, men do equate sex with love. They do see how you relate to them in bed as a sign of how you feel about them. Whether you trust them, whether you’re honest with them, whether you feel bonded to them; they seek that out physically. Whereas women want open, honest, intense conversation and think that relationship bonding  develops from that, and want to know what men are thinking, what they’re feeling, what they dream about… well… men simply aren’t as complicated as all that.

Men want open, honest, intense shared sexual experiences. Men want that from you because when you let go, when you share yourself, your fantasies, your inner trollop with them, (hmm… how do I put this delicately?) it makes them cum like a goddamn freight train from hell. Truly, that’s what they want to share with you. They want to give you that same thing back. If you want to have that open, honest, intense conversation that will bond you with your man, try starting out by talking about sex. It’s not to say that’s ALL that men want, but it’s a definite crossroads between the sexes. And if you open up to him about sex, he’ll open up to you about other things.

Now then, I told you all that so I could finish telling you this: There are times, for me anyway, when being great in bed has come to haunt me. Men I’ve slept with in the past, old flames and men who broke my heart so badly I can scarcely believe it will tell me how amazing I was in bed, and although the logical side of my brain knows that it’s meant as a compliment, the feminine, more emotional side of me remembers the conversations, the laughter, the inside jokes, the shared experiences that took place outside of the bedroom, and just wants someone who once made love to her to say, “more than anything else I remember your heart.” And leave off the “and the sex was great!” Somehow, though, I suppose that knowing I gave them my heart when I gave them my complete and honest, uninhibited self in bed, I should be flattered that they recall the physical aspects of our relationship so fondly. Those men who’ve broken my heart, they remember a woman who was a hellcat in bed. A woman who was willing to explore, a woman who indulged their fantasies and made them feel like mighty Zeus – and they all made love to me that way, too.

After all, I loved each and every one of them with everything I had. Each of them brought about physical and emotional sensations with their very existence; first with the way they looked, their smile, their voice and their scent, then with the way they spoke and expressed their thoughts, and then the feel of their skin, the texture of their hair, the vast differences in the way each of them laughed and touched and kissed and made love. And each of them, each of these very different men never ceased to surprise me in their minds, or in their hearts. They were never what I expected but they were all great, and I wouldn’t trade one single experience, broken heart or not. But please, boys, remember, though I may have torn the roof off of your bedroom, and yes, the sex was great, I am a whole person with a lot to give, and aside from sex, I also gave you my heart.

The Side Effects Of Blogging

Writing The Power Of ME may cause: altered friendships with men, feelings of being ostracized by other women, frustration over people’s misinterpretation of your intentions, mouse shoulder, carpal tunnel syndrome, eye strain, unwanted advances, back ache, headache, loss of anonymity, writers block, objectification, unfriending on Facebook, fear of parental readership, sudden uncontrollable bursts of creative energy at inappropriate times, secretarial spread, neglected housework, lack of gym time, burnt food that you forgot was in the oven, random sentimental blubbering, a feeling of pressure to deliver articles on a time schedule that doesn’t actually exist, obsessive checking of “blog stats,” a permanent case of sore neck, strange emails, and an intense desire to write a book.

I’ve been pouring my thoughts out in this blog for a few months now, and I have to say, I really do enjoy it. I mean, aside from the side effects, some of which I anticipated and some of which I didn’t, it’s really been a great experience for me. A couple of years ago, people were suggesting to me left and right that I should start a blog. I was dead set against it. (Honestly, I can’t remember why.)

It took me a long time to finally decide that I not only wanted to start one, but what it would be; what it would contain, what I would call it, and what my goal was in doing it. I thought and though about it. I asked people questions about their blogs, I read blogs, I wrote things I thought I might want to post at some point, all of which, incidentally, I ended up deleting. Finally, one night late last year, I realized that the blog had to simply be called The Power of ME, and that it had to be about not one thing… but everything. I realized that what I really wanted to blog about was life, and life is a wide range of subjects.

Since then, I’ve written about quite a few different things, and had quite a few different reader reactions to what I’ve written. Most have been good, but there have been some things that have surprised me. I fully anticipated a little weirdness to come up over the posts that are about sex, and a little weirdness did happen, but sadly, I have seen some people bow out of my circle of friends over the past few months. Is it directly related to what I’ve written here? Well, I can’t honestly say with 100% certainty, however it seems rather ironic that each time I post something like that people have backed into the shadows and disappeared.

I don’t know if there’s a misconception about why I write about sex, in addition to the other topics. So, although I did do my best to explain why I wanted to write about it in the first post I did (http://thepowerofme.blogspot.com/2011/01/not-to-frighten-you-butlets-talk-about.html ) it seems to me that people may be under the impression that I’m writing about it for the sake of “getting attention” or for “shock value.” I can assure you, neither of those reasons are the case. It is honestly because I think that sex needs to be talked about in an open and honest way without shame or fear between partners. It is honestly because I think it should be taught to pre-teens and teens in school, in church, and by parents. It is honestly because I think everyone should be able to discuss issues with their doctors without tripping over their tongues. It is honestly because I think everyone should be able to relax and enjoy their sex lives and not feel inhibited or as though they’re wrong, or bad, or weird. How can I honestly expect you all to be open and honest with yourselves and each other if I’m afraid to be open and honest with you? I’ve never believed in “do as I say, not as I do.” I believe in putting my money where my mouth is. (*Thought you might get out of this post without some of my beloved clichés, didn’t you? Sorry! Never gonna happen!)

As for some of my other topics… I post whatever’s on my mind. Some days you may like what I have to say, other days you may not. Some of my opinions you may agree with, others you may not. No matter what, though, many of you have told me what you think, and whether that feedback is about my subject matter, my opinions, or even my writing; I appreciate it all and I respect it all. I write because my head is always filled with words. I write it all down here in order to share opinions, to make people think, and to entertain. So, please keep reading. Please feel free to share your opinions, and please know that despite the side effects, The Power Of ME is a pill I intend to keep taking.

Laverne Wore An 'L'

Once, in a fit of outrage and confusion, blubbering and screaming in a fashion that jilted, heartbroken people sometimes do, I sought an explanation from a friend. I thought, “He is the smartest person I know. His is an opinion that I respect more than I can say. If anyone on Earth has the answers … it will be him.” Through tears and hyperventilation I demanded to know: “What in the hell is so goddamned scary about letting someone love you?!” His reply was simply this: “The fear of letting that person down.”

I am a Gemini. Some say Gemini is the sign of “dual personality.” (That’s a nice way of saying “freaken ‘schitzo.”) In my case, I guess there is a deep truth to the idea of duality, at least in some ways. If I were meeting someone for the first time, I would describe myself as “intensely private.” It’s true. Those of you who know me, and those of you who are reading this blog regularly… stop giggling! The fact is that I can be a very guarded and reserved person. I’ve been accused of being outright snobby at times. I would say that aspect of me comes into play over the idea of anyone being “in my business” so to speak.

But the other side of me is totally the opposite. If you were to ask any of my closest friends what my biggest personality flaw is, they’d probably tell you that I wear my heart on my sleeve entirely too much. That I say too much, share too much, and that I don’t guard my heart at all. That I leave myself open to getting incredibly hurt, and, often times that is the exact result. I admit, there are times when I  open my emotional veins and bleed out to someone and I would venture to guess that this is why people sometimes find me “scary,” or “intimidating,” or just “too much.”

I have told many, many people that with me, they will never get bullshit. I honestly believe that life is too short to hold back. The last thing I would ever want in my life is to have held back from someone, and then find that I could never speak to them again. Never tell them what I felt. I suppose most people know what I mean by that. For me, though, this extreme need to be open and honest is deeper than your average never-go-to-bed-angry theory. For me, the idea of holding back what’s really inside of me feels like playing games with another person’s head, and I refuse to do that. That’s not to say I have no tact. I wouldn’t walk up to a friend and say something mean and hurtful; that’s not what I’m talking about here.

What I’m talking about is the expression of emotion. I’m talking about telling people what you treasure about them. I’m talking about expressing love, respect, admiration, and passion for someone. While that may not seem like such an out of the ordinary thing, it seems that when I do it, I’m perhaps a little more over the top than people are comfortable with. It also seems that when it comes to loving people, my deep-end is maybe a little deeper than some are willing to swim. I would describe myself as a passionate person. Others describe me as “scary as hell.”

I guess that’s what my friend meant. It seems to me, lately anyway, that there are people who literally feel burdened by the love of others. Like it’s a responsibility; like it’s something they have to live up to. Like being loved is some emotional birthday present, and when it comes time to reciprocate, they aren’t sure they can afford to match what was spent on them. And here’s where being loved by ME gets really scary. See, I won’t tell anyone that I love them unless I honestly, truly love them. What does that mean? It means:

Unless I can accept a person for exactly who they are, flaws and all, faults and all, quirks and all, then I will not tell them I love them. And… if I tell them I love them, although I’m still capable of being angry with them or being disappointed in them, I will still love them even if something should force one or both of us to walk away. And if I walk away, or if they walk away from me, I will still love them.

This applies to everyone; relatives, friends, lovers, little green men from space and pink elephants. So why is that so scary? Well, evidently because most people are used to getting lied to and screwed over. It seems that most people are used to the word “love” being handed to them like a tissue, to be used and disposed of. They are accustomed to people saying it and not meaning it. They expect to be disappointed. They expect to be hurt. They expect to be treated as though they’re loved for a little while, and then kicked like a tin can. When they hear it from ME, at first, it’s great. But, then the words, the meaning behind them, the truth of that love all become crystal clear and undeniably real… and it gets heavy. It shines like a diamond and they wonder how costly it’s going to be? They test it; perhaps it’s only a cubic zirconium! When it cuts glass, though, some find that they can’t write an emotional check that big, not that I’ve ever asked them to.

So what happens to me? ME, with my big red velvet heart embroidered on my sleeve, bleeding love into the streets like some overly-sentimental idiot? Well, as I said… often times I get hurt. And here’s where my friends tend to really get pissed off, both for me, and at me. When I love someone, and they hurt me, I refuse to hate. I refuse to seek revenge. I refuse to become hardened and soured on love. I insist on forgiving. There are times when, hurt as I may be, I will even love deeper. “Why?!” they demand to know, “Why are you telling this person it’s ok to have hurt you?! Dammit, protect yourself!” But you see… that’s just it. It doesn’t matter one way or the other what that person does or doesn’t know. If I love them 20,000 leagues deep then that will be the depth of my hurt, regardless if I tell them I still love them or not, my hurt remains the same. There is no “protecting myself” from that hurt.

And why forgive? Why love deeper? Why not let the anger phase of grief settle into your marrow and harden you into stone? Well, I’ve tried that, to be completely honest. I’m not exactly sure why, but it just doesn’t ever set. I may burn with rage and fury for a while, but ultimately, (and sometimes, unfortunately for me) love tends to conquer all. It may change; it may turn from a love that I felt for a lover to the love that I feel for a friend. But it will always be there. I can’t change it. I can’t make it go away, and I can’t hold it back. I believe that anyone I love is worthy of it. Worthy of having that love, worthy of respect, worthy of admiration, and, as such, I will tell them so. If that’s scary, well… then I will always be the scariest woman alive.

Life is too short. I have said it a thousand times and I will say it a thousand more. If you love, then love with everything you have and if you get hurt, well, that’s part of life and you cannot hide from it. Ah, yes… time for a cliché. If a tree falls in the woods, and there is nobody around to hear it, does it make a noise? If I can judge by heartache, then yes, it does make a noise. Because no matter what I say to you, if I love you, and you hurt me, but you don’t know the extent of my hurt, I’m hurt just the same. There is no protecting ourselves from that hurt. But a life without love… might as well not be a life. So LOVE BIG. Love strong. Love unconditional and don’t fear heartbreak. Hearts heal. I promise you. Mine has, and I will love again.

Meanwhile, I will proudly continue to wear my heart on my sleeve, just as Laverne wore that 'L' on her lapel.

Speak Low

I’m a very firm believer that it is the simplest things in life that bring the greatest joys. It is the small, simple gestures that mean the most in relationships. It is the basics that we always come back to in life because basics aren’t boring; basics are needs. There are times in life when we forget how awesome the simple, basic things really are. We begin to concentrate on bigger, shinier, brighter, more complex, multi-faceted, over-the-top rather than tried and true. It’s a sad thing, in my opinion.

I’m quite sure that somewhere in female DNA there is something hard-wiring us women to love the depth of the male voice. There’s something so… ‘meow’ … about a really low, really growly voice on a man that we can scarcely contain ourselves when we hear one. It’s almost a universal quality that women like about men. Some women may say they don’t like big muscles, or some women may like a man who’s really tall and shun the shorter ones but you never, ever hear a woman say “Hmmm… no…. his voice is too deep. I don’t like that.” The fact is that a deep voice on a man is sexy as all hell. I don’t know the science behind that fact, but I’ll tell you this: When a man with a really deep voice speaks low and slow to me… whatever it is in our feminine wiring that makes us want to attack like a wild lioness takes me over and won’t let go.

Tonight, as is the case on many nights, I drove home listening to the soundtrack from the most recent Rambo movie. I love that soundtrack. It has balls. There’s a wild, intense fearlessness to it. I also have a CD from a Scottish band called Albannach that, although not quite as ferocious as Rambo, brings up that same primal, battle-ready feeling and I listen to it quite often, as well. I also have a disc of wild thunderstorms and rain, again the sound is deep, rumbling, intense… nature at its angriest. And finally, a handful of discs filled with Native American inspired music, all of which are predominantly the sounds of drums and warriors singing proudly. The common thread through all of these discs are their link to the masculine voice.

If you’re a man, I wonder if you’re aware of the intense power you have over women with the depth that resides in your tone? Do you know that you can give us goose bumps just by speaking a certain way? I firmly believe that the concept of “whispering in someone’s ear” as a turn on came not from a woman whispering to a man, but from a man… one who knew this power well, and didn’t whisper, but spoke low and soft into the ear of a woman. When it is done correctly, as a select few of the men in my life have figured out, the claws of a wild lioness could do no more damage than mine, and yet for all the raging passion it brings out… carefully chosen words will turn the lioness into a purring little kitten.

Shall I tell you which ones? Hmmm… no… the select few who’ve figured it out may hold the secret of what makes ME purr… but each woman is different. We are mysterious creatures, yes, but always come back to the simple, basic things that make you male. Always appeal to the simple, basic things that make us female. Speak soft and low … it is primal, sexy, irresistible, and it’s so, so delicious as a woman to hear the depth of the male voice in an intimate and sensual way. You needn’t go overboard, just be your sexy as hell male self. It is the simple fact that you are Y and we are X that turns us on.

Backbone: Part I

Having a backbone is really a beautiful thing. I remember when I got mine… it was 1988. I had just graduated high school and I was working for this woman who was… well… without getting too catty or derogatory… an over-made-up, tacky, obnoxious, self-important, classless, tasteless, bitchy bottle-blonde who thought her shit didn’t stink. (Ooh, was that out loud?? It was?? Aw, what the hell…) She had one of those names that just sounded that way, too, you know? I won’t say what it was… but you all know the type. Even her signature was a wildly flamboyant always-too-big-for-the-space pile of loops and swoops. And of course… she only signed documents with her own pen. You know the kind… one of those silver ones that looks like a javelin.

I worked for her for about three months. The entire time I endured insults, snide remarks, probing questions about my personal life that were none of her business, and, my favorite part, late evening run-ins with her alcoholic husband. He would show up at the establishment stinking drunk and proceed to move things around, mess with the cash register, bump into things with his lit cigarette, and in general be a pain in my ass. I knew that the next day, she’d want to know why each and every thing was moved, how items had gotten burn marks in them, etc… and if I ratted him out he’d show up drunker the next time. If I didn’t rat him out, even though I’m sure she knew it was him, she’d blame me. In fact, many times when things were broken or missing, she would question me with those fake fingernails in my face, accusing me of being a clumsy idiot who didn’t care about her shop.

There was a pizza place across from her business, and I would go there for lunch. That is, at least, I did for the first few weeks I worked there. They seemed nice enough, the pizza guys. Until one day, one of them said to me: “You really work for those crazies over there? How can you stand it? I don’t know if you realize how messed up they are since you just started, but if I were you, I’d get out of there.” The next couple of times I attempted to get lunch there, they’d heave sighs and look at me as if to say “If you like it there, you must be one of them.” I started bringing my lunch.

After those three months, things finally came to a head. I was standing at the cash register, and she came up behind me and made a face which I clearly saw in the mirror. Then she started sniffing, and finally said “What kind of shampoo are you using?” I said “I don’t know it’s whatever’s in the shower. My parents buy it.” She wrinkled her nose and said “Well, it smells awful. You should buy your own.” That tore it. I shoved past her into the back room, pulled my keys out of my purse and started twisting my copy of the store’s key off of my key ring, the whole time muttering to myself that I’d had it, screw this, no job is worth it, and probably calling her every name in the book, I can’t really remember. What I do know is that she heard me, came into the back room, and demanded to know what I was doing and what I was mumbling about. “If you walk out that door right now,” she tried to warn me, “don’t you think you’re getting a reference from ANYONE here!”

Now, in order to truly appreciate what happened next, you must understand that in my life, up until this moment, I had been the kind of person who would quietly walk away. I’d only ever raised my voice to siblings, and we all know that doesn’t count. I was always the type who, when faced with confrontation, might say a word or two, but generally in a calm manner, and mostly in the hopes of diffusing the situation. See, I was born with broken hips (that will be a post for another day) and because of that, my family had always been super-protective of me. I was something of a chicken because all I ever heard in my life was “be careful,” so I guess I thought something catastrophic might happen if I wasn’t. Still though, I was half Italian, and this day, I found out that I sure as hell had the temper when I was pushed far enough.  

I wrestled the key off the ring. Her annoying voice was ringing in my ears and I felt something inside me just pop. It was like the lid had come off a pressure cooker. I saw that happen once; it was a loud, scary BOOM and the lid hit the ceiling in less than a split second. The food that had been inside the cooker went everywhere all at once; I had never seen anything like it. That was how I felt. Yet, in my red-visioned rage, somehow my brain slowed its thought process down enough for me to get out every single thing I’d wanted to say for the past three months. The voice I heard coming out of my own mouth was not mine. It was deeper, it was almost a growl; it was the voice of someone who might bite into you and tear you into shreds like a rabid animal. I was walking towards her… slowly… determined… shaking that key in her pudgy, clown make-up face the way she’d always shook her finger in mine with those ridiculous fuchsia acrylic nails.

“Are you kidding me?!! I don’t WANT a reference from you, you rotten, miserable, bitch! A reference from you would be an insult!!! Just who the hell do you think you are, anyway?! What makes you think for even one second that ANY of the things you’ve said to me since the first day I got here were ok?! You are such a nasty, conceited, rude, insulting, TACKY bitch - I don’t have any idea how I’ve managed to stay here as long as I have! Do you know that the people across the street think you’re crazy? They do! I’m ashamed to go get lunch there because they ask me why I work here. Did you know that? I’M ASHAMED TO WORK HERE!!! I’m ashamed that people see me come in and out of this place because they probably think I’m like you!” I had backed her into the bench against the wall at this point, and was still shaking the key in her face as I continued, “You really think I’d do two weeks notice? You really think the way to get me to NOT walk out the door right now is to THREATEN me?! THIS IS WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT! You think you own me; you think you own everybody but you don’t. You think you can scream and yell at everyone and treat them like shit and they’ll do whatever you tell them to do, but I WON’T. I’ve had it with your shit. Here’s your fucking key. Good luck finding ANYONE to take this job and last as long as I did around here. You better figure out how to treat people!”

I honestly don’t remember driving home. When I got there, my father, who is my absolute hero in this world, my mentor, my rock, and the person I probably respect the most in life (along with my mother) was standing in the front door waiting for me. Obviously, the bitch must have called. I didn’t know if he’d kill me for quitting my job, but as I got out of the car and saw the look on his face, it was clear he wasn’t angry with me. Two simple words: “What happened?” and I told him my side of the story. He listened, and, when I was finished, he said, “Well, she called and she asked me to have you call her back. I think you should call her, but, why don’t you go take a shower first. Then you’ll calm down and you’ll be able to talk to her.”

The shower did calm me down considerably, and I did call her. She apologized up and down; clear back to my first day on the job, and asked me to please at least work two weeks notice so that she could find a replacement. I agreed to do so; after all, I had to find another job, too. In the meantime, I needed the paycheck. When the two weeks were up, she bought a chocolate cheesecake for my last day, which is my favorite thing, and gave me a nice letter of reference. Maybe my freak out taught her a little something? I like to think so, anyway. But even if it didn’t; it taught me something.

It’s not only OK to stand up for yourself, it’s imperative. You all know I love clichés, so here’s one more for you. IF YOU DON’T SHOW PEOPLE THAT YOU RESPECT YOURSELF, THEY SURE AS HELL AREN’T GOING TO SHOW YOU ANY RESPECT, EITHER.

…..and… once you stand up for yourself that very first time, you realize it’s not all that difficult to do, and you walk through the world with a kind of confidence that you just can’t fake. People can sense that. The inner confidence you have will be enough in almost every situation to keep people from trying to stomp on you, believe me. As for those who take it as a line in the sand – well… let them try and cross it, and then show them what’s on your other side. Treat others as you’d want to be treated, but don’t take crap from anyone. There are people who will cross you in this world, believe me. It’s how you allow them to treat you that determines your situation.

Peace first, and if all else fails, show ‘em who’s boss.

Being Your Dirty Little Secret

I remember back in the early 80’s when David Lee Roth was still the front man for Van Halen, and I read an interview with him where he said (and I wish to God I had the exact quote… but I have to paraphrase this) that whatever you fantasized about in your dirty little mind was probably way better than anything he could give you in the bedroom.

I have always loved the concept of fantasy… role play… letting your mind wander into places, situations, and scenarios that may, or may not actually happen. I suppose that as a writer, that’s somewhat natural. But one of the things I’ve found most interesting about writing this blog is people’s reactions to it. Thus far, I’ve entered some topic zones that you don’t generally read about every single day. Some find my openness gutsy and bold; some find it sexy as hell, and others… completely creepy.

What’s been interesting, though, is that not many people will comment on what I write publicly. Some do, but for the most part, I get private emails that whisper, “Psst… I really like what you wrote… I feel that way, too! But PLEASE don't tell anyone I said so!” You know what? That’s all right with me. It’s those private messages that people send that are usually the most telling. It’s the people who don’t dare to step out into the sunlight carrying signs that declare their innermost feelings that I really write for. Don’t get me wrong, I write for everyone, but I love it so much when someone identifies with what I say and finds the courage to whisper to me that they found out that they weren’t alone; because if you can whisper it to me then someday, you can shout to the world.

If you read my blog and you find a way to express your bedroom fantasies to your lover, or if you read my blog and you find a way to tell your friend that something’s bugging you, or if you read my blog and you figure out that you’re not alone on some thought, feeling or opinion that you thought you were alone on, then I’m elated. If you read my blog and find yourself turned on, then I’m flattered. If you read it and you’re creeped out, well, I ask that you keep an open mind and keep reading, but I’ll understand if you don’t.

If you read my blog late at night, with the lights off, when you feel certain nobody’s looking, (and I know by my blog stats that many of you do) then I am honored and happy to be your dirty little secret. I’m glad to be your guilty pleasure, for it is when we’re alone with ourselves and our thoughts that fantasy begins to bubble into the forefronts of our minds… and fantasy is positively decadent. Fantasy is a great stress reliever. Fantasy is the one thing nobody can take from you. In your dirty little mind, you can be anywhere, doing anything, with absolutely anyone, and that’s as it should be. It’s from these wishes, hopes, and wildest dreams that we set our personal goals and figure out what makes us happy.

I encourage you to take the quiet moments when you find them and let yourself drift. Fantasize, dream, and indulge your senses in every pleasure you’ve ever found enticing. Inside your mind… you are the lord and master of all you survey, and the rest of us happily indulge your desires.

Well, good night, and … thanks for clicking on my link… it felt soooo good.

Beauty

Is beauty on the inside or the outside? From one of my all time favorite movies; Liar, Liar:

Max: My teacher says real beauty’s on the inside.

Fletcher: That’s just something ugly people say….

The fact is: it’s both places. But the thing about beauty is that (and I apologize for the cliché in advance) it is in the eye of the beholder. Everybody has different taste. We all have our own unique ideas about what’s beautiful. The key to being beautiful, really, is in being yourself, having confidence, and in liking what you see in the mirror.

I’ve mentioned in previous posts that I’ve never really had an issue with my looks. I’ve always liked my face, my hair, my figure… and never thought of myself as “ugly” or been one to get green with jealousy over how other women looked. Sure, I very was over-weight for a while, but even then I knew what was underneath the weight and though I wasn’t thrilled with how I looked in clothes or the fact that my waist was non-existent, I still saw “me” when I looked in the mirror and I knew that all I had to do was lose the weight and I’d be curvy and sexy again.

If you take a look at women, (and I know you do,) you’ll see that there’s a wide variety of flavors there. Blondes, brunettes, red-heads… tall, short… and everything from whisper thin to dangerously curvy. Most men see this as a luscious, tempting, endlessly delightful buffet of femininity. And, just like a giant buffet, they have their favorite dishes, but that’s not to say they’re all going to go for the exact same thing and leave the other items lonely for a patron. Too much symbolism?

OK, what I’m saying here is that not all men want a stereotypical Barbie doll. Sure, some men do like tall, slender, blondes with blue eyes. Personally, I have only ever dated one guy who would state that as his preference. That’s more than likely because I happen to be short, extremely curvy, and have dark brown hair and brown eyes. Guys who want Malibu Barbie don’t ask me out, and that’s as it should be. So how did I end up with that one gentleman who preferred blondes? The poor guy had a conversation with me and found out that real beauty’s on the inside. Oops.

Ultimately the relationship didn’t work out, but it wasn’t because I wasn’t pleasing to his eyes. In fact, although he did still ogle random Barbie types in public, it was clear that once he got to know me and looked at me with the eyes that liked ME for ME that he did actually find me very attractive. He would tell me as I changed clothes or stripped down to crawl under the sheets with him: “God you’re so hot… you’re so sexy!” Aside from him, though, most of the guys I’ve been with have been more into the dark-haired, dark-eyed, smoky, sultry, Salma Hayek types and that’s just FINE with me. Incidentally, I think she’s one of the most beautiful women alive, just so you know. Barbie never held any charm for me. How can you possibly look at Salma and think anything other than “Wow?” She’s exotic and curvy and everything about her just screams “WOMAN!”

There are billions and billions of men on this earth, and the ones who will be attracted to ME are the ones I’d rather hang out with. I just can’t see getting jealous of other women and wondering “What does she have that I don’t have?!” The fact is: Nothing. Attraction is just a funny thing. It doesn’t make any sense, there’s no logic to it. There’s no formula to it. There’s no code to crack. I know everyone’s mothers have said it but really, just be who you are. Just be the best YOU that you can be. In that way, you’ll attract someone who really wants you for YOU.

See, it’s not JUST looks that count. It’s about personality, too. This is why you can’t get bogged down in your appearance. This is why it’s so damn difficult to make a connection out there in the dating world. There’s a TON of factors that go into connecting with someone. Obviously the first thing is the involuntary “HELLO!” second when your eyes catch a glimpse of something pleasing. You take a second, more careful look… “What do we have here? Is that person as attractive as I think they are? Why, yes! They are!” Next, there’s a moment or two where you attempt eye contact. Your prey could lock eyes with you and smile… indicating that the initial attraction is mutual. Or, they could gloss right over you. It’s a crap shoot. Lots of people are attractive, but not everyone that you find attractive is going to find you attractive. But, if eye contact is made and the prospect looks good, then you can attempt conversation.

Even then, though, you could wind up disappointed. Maybe they’re an idiot. Maybe they’re an arrogant jerk. Maybe they have body odor. Who knows… the point is that you can’t worry about your looks, and you can’t be jealous of how other people look. You have to be you. You have to not worry about the ones who don’t find you appealing, and stick to the ones who do. Because the reasons why we want to be attractive to the opposite sex are… in the short run “in order to get laid” and in the long run “to find someone to love and to spend your life with.” Believe me, in the long run… it doesn’t matter if another woman has a different hair color than you, a different eye color than you, a smaller pair of jeans than you, better clothes than you, a cuter nose than you, or any other silly thing you might think makes her more attractive than you are. In the long run, the guy who’s looking for YOU isn’t going to give a shit if your friend has killer eyelashes or longer legs than you, because he’s going to be attracted to everything about YOU.

I’ve been known to say “Love is like Rambo” on many, many occasions. I believe that right down to my bone marrow. In the movie (not the novel… I’m talking about the 1982 screen adaptation of the novel here) “First Blood,” as the deputies are trudging through the woods looking for Rambo, Mitch makes the observation that “We ain’t huntin’ him… he’s huntin’ us” and he’s absolutely right. The fact of the matter is that you can’t hide from it. If Rambo wants to find you, he’s going to find you. It’s the same with love. There’s no running, no hiding, no keeping it out of your life. It has nothing to do with your looks, and it can’t be hunted down. When two people connect, it’s not about what color hair you have. It’s not about your facial features. Those things may be the initial attraction, but they are only skin deep, and what will hold you together will sure as hell not be beauty. So, be yourself, and be the best YOU that you can be, and never, ever be jealous of anyone. Appreciate the differences in people and celebrate them, but don’t wish to be anyone but YOU, because YOU are perfect just the way you are.