All by myself

Maxearnest finally got a web cam, so we are now skyping with both of us seeing each other, which is really nice.

I really wish, however, that I had one good female friend who I could talk about kink with.  Some of my gay male friends know some of the details of my life, but more in the general than the specific.  But my female friends, well Dotty knows I'm kinky (and she knows that Maxearnest reads my blog--I sort of led her to believe that was how we met), and another friend knows I'm "not vanilla."  But the other friend thinks "not vanilla" means anything other than missionary position.  I haven't had the heart to tell her that I consider her "not vanilla" to be pure Madagascar vanilla bean.

The funny thing is, I think in another life, Dotty would be kinky, but sex just isn't very important to Dotty.  Her last boyfriend was clearly much more vanilla than Dotty liked, and that was clearly not an issue for her.  They didn't get married for other reasons, but it was clear that Dotty would be perfectly happy with boring sex once a week.  I sometimes wonder if she found a kinky guy (purely by accident, because she'd never look for one) if she would be submissive and far more into sex than she is now.   But that is totally conjecture, because we just don't talk about it.

Part of that is because I don't talk about it.  I don't mind talking with my gay male friends whom I have known have been (or are) promiscuous.  (My gay male friends who have not been open about promiscuity with me, don't know.)  My friend that knows the most worked as a sex worker for a while, so I just don't feel any judgement from him.  (Interestingly, my friend who is the most promiscuous of all my friends was quite judgmental when I sort of hinted at it.  He said it was 'gross.'  Actually we sort of stopped being friends after that point.)

But I wish I had a girlfriend I could really, truly talk about this stuff with.  The kink world does operate on different rules, but sometimes I wonder if I'm being too risky.  I feel really good about Maxearnest.  But I'd still like someone to bounce my world off of.

Cook and coach

Maxearnest and I had another long talk today, and I'm a little trepidatious about things that seem completely illogical.

Maxearnest has said, if we get to the point of sharing a hotel room, that he will want to inspect me.  And this scares me.  All the fears about my body come flooding in.  And Maxearnest reads my blog--he knows way more about me than anyone I've dated knew at the time (with the possible exception of John, but I think I'm much more self aware than I was when John and I were involved).  And Maxearnest said that he has never been with a 'larger' woman before, which made my heart sink a little bit.  I've worked so hard to escape the 'larger' label.  But in Europe, I'd totally be a plus size.  That's just that.  And Maxearnest basically said that I have a beautiful face and that is more important.

Maxearnest, in many ways, says the things that I always wanted men to say.  And my heart sinks a little.  It is odd.  But in the last 10 years, I've come to believe that men care more about looks than most other things, and if a guy doesn't like how I look, lust after it, it just won't work.  And here is Maxearnest saying "your figure isn't the most important thing."

Maxearnest reads my blog, so he knows how conflicted I am about weight.  And I get the sense that he would like to nudge me towards a little smaller size.  And, in all fairness, if I'd stayed with Nate, I wanted to nudge him off his diabetes medicine.  Hell, part of me would like to be a smaller size--I just can't seem to pull it off and, right now, I'm trying to be happy with the way I am (in part because I have such a fear of gaining back the weight I lost.)  So I'm being completely irrational.  But it scares me.  It scares me if he isn't attracted to how I look right now.  It scares me if he wants to control my food, that I'll turn into the rebellious kid who snuck food so her parents wouldn't see.  

Maxearnest loves food, and he is, from what I can see, a gourmet cook who cooks the most beautifully and lovingly crafted meals.  And he has made it clear that he would like to cook for me.  Which seems lovely.

I don't know why his views on my body scare me.  He is basically saying "you're not perfect--none of us are--I'm prepared to enjoy you as you are."  Which is a totally lovely thing to say.  I would just like him to find me really sexy as I am.  And if I don't change at all, I'd like that to be OK.  And if we find a way for me to change, that should be OK too.  I've just tried and failed at so many things in that area;  I don't want to fail again, and I can't imagine love being tied to success in that area.

"Real;" Topping from the Bottom; and Abuse

I can't sleep.  I have a cold and took pseudoephedrine which I meant to take Benadryl.  

Maxearnest and I had a nice long talk (7 hours total on Skype yesterday!) and one of the things we talked about was "Topping from the bottom."  He had made it very clear that that is not OK with him.  I, on the other hand, have come to view men in 'the scene' here use that as an excuse for abuse.  So I really wanted to get to the bottom of what Maxearnest meant by it.  And I get the sense that Maxearnest is earnest, and that the things he would consider topping from the bottom are things that I wouldn't do.

I read this article and I'm coming to realize how very toxic the local "scene" is.  I think that there are a lot of people who are doing a lot of on-line fantasizing, and then go to munches or the local kink group's educational meetings that are, in my opinion, crazy.  And there is this culture of "your kink is not my kink but your kink is OK" when some things are just not OK.  I first left the local scene after a conversation about whether a Dom had a right to cut off a sub's ear.  Now, 75% of the men were saying "No."  But 25% were saying yes, unless a sub clearly negotiated that as a hard limit, then he would have a right to do that.  And no one was saying "that is crazy and wrong."  No one was saying "wait--isn't this, ultimately, supposed to be really fun for both people?  Isn't this supposed to make us more joyful in the long run?  How on earth is that healthy?"  No, everyone was too scared of being seen as judgmental or too vanilla or not 'real.'

My local scene takes the not-judging way, way too far.  Some things should be judged and found unacceptable.  And when that is the standard, other, 'more vanilla' (i.e. saner) limits become seen as "why are you here? You aren't kinky enough."  

The worst thing a man ever did to me, I've never written about and the reason is that it was so horrible and so easy.  I don't want other men to get the idea and do it to other women, and so I've never written about it and only tell someone when I'm trying to justify my care of my privacy.  (When I meet someone on-line, I give them a fake name--it is pronounced the same as my real name, but it has enough changes that I'm not googleable with it until the 11th page of hits.  They get a google-voice number (and only after I've called them with a blocked number first).  I won't tell them where I work, and I'll only give very general geography of where I live. I have a very large google-footprint.  I'm the only lawyer in my area with my first name.  So with my first name, and "lawyer" you can get where I live, how much money I gave to each Democratic candidate, how much I paid for my house, etc. Google my real phone number, and you get me.  With all the coverage of google's privacy issues, the real one, for me, isn't what google knows about me, but what google tells the world about me.)

I've broken all these rules for Maxearnest.  I didn't want him to call from Europe and get stuck in the google-voice rigmarole, and once I gave him my real phone number, there was no reason not to give him the other info as well.  But I think I'm not being foolish.  

I get the sense, based on a sample of 1 and broad, broad over-generalizations, that maybe 'the scene' in Europe is better than the United States.  Maxearnest was, I think, surprised at my concern about his concern about 'topping from the bottom' but I think if he had been from the U.S., he would have viewed the term differently.  Maxearnest really, clearly, wants me to enjoy myself in the long run.  He sees being the dominant as a responsibility, and recognizes that he can't push me to the point where it is damaging to my soul.  He also, clearly, wants me to have a lot of fun.  It is what I, in my naivete 10 year ago, thought kink would allow. Based on everything I've seen, Maxearnest will cherish me.  

It is funny--I used to think (and with Maxearnest, I'm pretty sure there would be) a meeting in the middle.  I have what a lot of men claim they want: a pretty insatiable sexual appetite (maybe not insatiable, but when work isn't crazy, I'd be very happy having sex twice a day on weekdays and more on weekends--the joy of not having kids at the moment), and I'm game for a lot.  But I'm not masochistic; while I will endure some to please someone I love, it can't be all about that for me.  And for a lot of men here, they would say I'm not a 'real' submissive, because I have limits. But my biggest limit is "does this make me more joyful in the long run?"

That sense of cherishing a submissive, instead of seeing her as a disposable commodity in a materialistic, consumption, disposable culture, is, I think, at the heart of healthy kink.  There's no easy way to measure it and I don't know how one negotiates it.  But without it, kink can be a dangerous and soul-numbing endeavor for me.

Saving Myself

So Maxearnest and I had a nice conversation about the parameters of Iceland.  I wanted a sort of Ulysses option, committing us to not having sex (which I define in very Clintonian ways), and he wasn't willing to do that.  

We agreed, and I think this is fair, mature compromise, that we would not have sex until we have had a conversation, over tea or coffee (not alcohol), in a public place, with our clothes on, and I saw I'm willing and wanting to.

But, of course, I expect if we like each other as much in person as we do on Skype, that part of me will be willing and wanting, and part of me will be desperately trying to protect myself.  From what?

I'm aware that I have the capacity to become burnt out, brittle, angry, with dead eyes.  I seem women like that in 'the scene' and I know I was on the precipice of going there.  I gave myself away and didn't have enough left of myself.

I've been very aware the last few years of wanting to take good care of me, so I'd be in good share if I met the right man. (I've also been wanting to take good care of me so that if I have kids, I'll be a really good mom.)  I am 'saving myself.'  Not in the traditional sense of that out-dated term, but it has been useful.

Maxearnest and I are having what feels like a whirlwind romance, and if it is a fairy tale, well, then I've been saving myself for him.  And I think he will appreciate, very much, my "bounciness"--my ability to find joy, be emotionally open and vulnerable, and laugh spontaneously.  But if it isn't, if we go to Iceland and then that is it, well, I need enough reserves to find some inner resilience.  I want to be able to look at the weekend and say "wow--that was a crazy thing, but I'm glad I had an adventure" and not spend a year trying to figure out what I did wrong.

I don't know the right balance between trusting the future and trusting someone else and protecting myself.  I don't actually regret any of the men I've slept with after I was 18. I slept with 2 men when I was 17 that was just me being a foolish child, but people do that.  There are 2 men I have regrets about what I didn't do with them--John (although my biggest regret was not being more self-aware about how desire worked for me, because he took my reluctance as a breach of faith, and not as "I get reluctant because it is really hot for someone to kiss that away) and another man in college who was so sexy (and so very interested in me), but was clearly seeing multiple women, and I just wasn't mature enough to handle that.  I think I probably made the right decision, but every year or so I have a sexy dream about that man, and I wish I had been a different person).Since high school, however, I've been quite careful with who I've had sex with.  Probably too careful.

And, again, this is Clinton's definition.  I've probably given oral sex to over a dozen men; that doesn't have the emotional intimacy that vaginal sex does.  (Interestingly, I've only received oral sex from a very few; it isn't some be-all, end-all for me, but it is more intimate.  Much more intimate.  It is kind of scary, actually.  And I've never come from oral sex alone, so I always feel a little bit like a failure at it.)  I don't know why vaginal intercourse is so closely tied to my emotions and oral sex isn't.  But that is true for me.

So on one level, I'm quite clear that I don't want to have 'sex' in Iceland.  And yet, when I'm kneeling at Maxearnest's feet, I will want to please him.  I know I will.  I will want to let go of having to be the one that protects me all the time, and trust someone else to protect me.  I know I've gotten in trouble in the past by trying to let go of my protector-side too quickly.  There has not been a single warning-flag with Maxearnest. Not one.  I'm pretty darn sure he can't have another gal, because he doesn't really have time for another gal. He has told me where he lives, made himself googleable, and talked in a way that has been emotionally open.  He hasn't told me everything I've wanted to hear, but when he has told me areas where we differ, we've been able to talk about what it means.  He is interested in quotidian aspects of my life--he says it is because he is interested in me, and I believe him.  

I truly hope he is the man I've been saving myself for.  But if he isn't, I need to keep enough reserves to stay bouncy.  If not a week after Iceland, then this summer.  I don't know how to do that.

Acceptance and Rejection

I had a big work thing rejected yesterday.  I am so passionate and committed to this idea.  I've worked on it for 6 years now.  I think it is a great idea.  And they rejected the grant.  

And I told Maxearnest, and it was sort of OK.  Like, obviously, I still wish that it had been accepted, but having someone who understood (Maxearnest doesn't have the same profession as me, but he explored it enough to understand the big things, and he was so kind) just made a really, really big difference.  I was sad, but I wasn't grasping and clutching.  Sometimes when I deal with rejection, it feels like the rejection is of  "me--Connie" not "this idea that I had."  It makes me a little frantic and trapped and I'll try anything.  Approval--someone, approve of me!

I'm going to reapply, and I have a feeling that when I have a draft of the new proposal done, Maxearnest will read it.  And he will cheer me on.  I also have a feeling that Maxearnest would be happy to nudge me, in a sexy way, to actually finish the things that I procrastinate.  Maybe if I finished more, I'd be less invested in each individual one.

I'm not saying I accept the rejection.  (I care about this idea of mine way too much to just drop it.)  But there was a serenity that was a welcome change.

And today, I bought my ticket to Iceland.  I can hardly wait!  On one level, this is probably the craziest thing I've ever done.  But I like him.  And he likes me.  And we can enjoy a 4-hour phone conversation.  So why the heck not?  I mean, would it be any crazier to talk on the phone for 6 months and then meet?  We like each other intellectually.  We think we're sexually compatible.  We've talked about where to live, whether we're open to kids, birth control and abortion.  We've talked about HIV and the G.O.P.  We've talked about my bifurcation and he seems amazingly integrated.  Worst comes to worse, I get to Iceland and one of us doesn't like the way the other smells, and we have a very, very awkward morning and then I explore Iceland for 4 days.  But doesn't that make more sense to do now than wait months?  (I got a super-cheap ticket.  Insanely cheap.  And I've always wanted to go.  We'll have a youth hostel reservation.  If we want to go our several ways, there's over 30 youth hostels.  Of course, if I adore him and he doesn't like how I smell, or something like that, I'll probably spend at least a day crying in bed.  But then I'll make myself see Iceland.)

He is so caring--he's arriving the day before and getting a hotel at the airport.  He said I could shower there and take a nap and he'd wait in the lobby!  He is leaving after I leave so he can take me to the airport.  He has been so thoughtful; I feel like he cherishes me.

This is crazy.  Crazy.  Crazy!  I keep expecting there to be something major.  I know he isn't a Republican.  I know he doesn't smoke.  I know he has 2 legs and 2 arms (not that I would really care about a  missing a leg or an arm, but the Republican thing...).  I don't think he is front for a new Nigerian scam.  I don't think he is associated with the Russian mob.  How can things be going this right?  And yet, maybe, as crazy as this sounds, but maybe breaking some of the strings with my dad leaves me more open.

This is crazy.  But it would be even crazier not to run with it and see what happens.

2-D

Maxearnest and I spoke for about three and a half hours.  It was a nice call--he speaks English amazingly well, and has a sexy voice.  

We talked about a lot, and I did start to surrender, but then he noticed the shift in my voice (and liked it) and I blushed a bright shade of pink, but it made me very self-conscious.

We had erotic conversation, but not sexual, if that makes sense.  It was definitely on the edge, and I was kind of shocked (OK, I'm blushing writing this here because I know that Maxearnest reads my blog, and I know he liked me blog and I don't think he'd want me to censor here), so I was kind of shocked at how wet I was.  I could feel myself getting wet (and there were times I worked hard to not push it into a more sexual conversation--we talked about sex in a hypothetical way, not a phone-sex way), but when I went to the bathroom after, it looked like an egg white in my undies.  

He liked my voice as well, so. 

President's day weekend--I'm headed to Iceland!  And I can hardly wait.  I really want to meet him in 3-D.

Anticipation

I can't sleep.  Maxearnest is calling me at lunch, and I feel like a little kid before Halloween.

God, I hope we click on the phone!  If we do, I'm going to pack up my things and fly to Iceland--just for a few days. 

Part of me says how absolutely crazy this is.  Part of me keeps waiting for something to go wrong. I'll tell him something, or send him an older photo, when I was heavier, and expect him to think "Oh, now I'm not interested."  But let's be honest, he knows all the stuff I tend to hide from this. So when I've told him all the things that I usually hide, he is probably more likely to think "duh" than "uh oh."  We've talked about some of the big things.  I think there is a possibility we could make our lives compatible. We certainly have trod the areas that I feel like matter.

I can't quite understand why someone that cool, on so many things, is single.  But then I am.  :)

Blogging, communication and relationships

I'm blogging less at the moment because Maxearnest and I have been e-mailing a lot.  Tonight he said something that originally through me for a bit of a loop.  I was over-reacting, assuming that one piece of information meant something else, when it didn't.  Fortunately, we clarified, and I think it was fine.

But, my first response was to freeze, want to cry and then run to my blog for comfort.  Now, I know that Maxearnest reads this, so it isn't exactly like I was shutting myself in a room with only an iPod to comfort me, but it is, I think, important to notice how much I go introspective when something bothers me.  I think part of it is good--figure out what the issue is before you bother someone else with it.  But part of it, I think, can be isolating--no one will understand your emotions.  Deal with them on your own and only bother other people when you can be logical about it.

One of the things my dad did do over Christmas, which was lovely, was try to empathize with how hard his criticism of me was for me growing up.  (I think, in fact, that my dad might have felt enough shame over it that that is what pushed him away from it and he went back to his 'genuine' explanation for not wanting to empathize.  It is funny--I am so much my father's daughter in so many ways, but I automatically try to empathize with the people I love.  I may do it all wrong.  It is important that I ask more questions and I listen to what people are actually feeling, and not assume they are feeling what I would feel in that situation, but I'm constantly putting myself in other people's shoes to monitor how something I do might affect them.  The difference between my dad and I is huge here.

The downside (in addition to needing to listen more and assume less) is that I don't always honor my feelings.  

I think this blog (and a document on my computer titled "If I had a Blog"  It has all this stuff that doesn't seem interesting enough to blog about.  Although lately, most everything goes here.) are fundamentally useful to me.    They are a lot cheaper than therapy, and can't betray you the way a therapist might, and it is free.  The disadvantage is that there is no relatedness.  It is, in a weird way, public loneliness.   I like the fact that people read it, both because it is nice that people find my meanderings interesting, but also because it makes me go farther in exploring connections.  But there is no relatedness with the blog.  With Maxearnest, there is relatedness.  It changes the entire dynamic.

The thing with Maxearnest today was I probably want something in the future (although not for a few years, and life changes, so who knows how I'll feel in 3 years) and he said something I interpreted as saying "I don't want that."  I think what he meant was "I would not do that casually.  It might be a possibility at some point in the future, but a lot of things would have to fall in place for that to work out."  Which makes sense.  I think that is my view too.  But it took me asking a question to clarify what he was saying, instead of assuming that A must equal B.  

I'm loving e-mailing with Maxearnest.  And I kind of love that he knows so much about me from my blog.  I tell him things, and he says "yes, I know."  And he does know.  Yesterday, I was checking e-mail on my phone, and the connection was super-slow.  The headline said "No Funny Games" and I thought he was upset that I said something.  Actually he was saying that I wouldn't enjoy a movie called "funny games."  He is amazingly accepting of me.  I'm a little excited.  We can't meet for nearly a month but I'm beginning to build castles in the air.  I'll try not to move in, but I'm certainly enjoying the real estate listing.  

(And, for what it is worth, Nate hadn't called me for over a week and I haven't seen him since before Christmas.  I know he is having a stressful life, but he never let me be part of his support network.  I can't be with someone who only wants to see me when things are easy.  Life is too crazy for that.)

Children or Art

I'm in NYC for work--so I went to hear two of my favorite living artists have a chat.  In fact maybe that "of" doesn't belong in the sentence.  I think Tony Kushner and Stephen Sondheim are my two favorite living artists.

I have refused to read Sondheim's recent books (although I have beautiful copies sitting on a bookshelf--a gift) because he is too mean to other people and those rare pleasures I get from art I seem to protect as vociferously as I protect my vulnerable, private self.  (In fact, one of the many small arguments my dad and I had were when he started talking to me during a performance of Billy Elliot and I was outraged he would want to know the name of the lesbian talk-show host during the show when it is one of the rare things I've enjoyed in the last few years.  I was abrupt (and pissed he would talk during the show--he never used to do that sort of thing).  He was furious I was abrupt and even though I apologized (3 times) he brought it up the following week and months later.  

While I love Sondheim's work, I don't really care what flaws he finds in "It's alarming how charming I feel" or "to make two lovers of friends."  I just want to enjoy those few transcendent moments when they come.  Why look for the flaws in things of beauty?  (FWIW, I saw Porgy and Bess this weekend also; some amazing moments.  Audra McDonald is my favorite stage actress, but the whole was less than the sum of the parts.  The overture is thrilling and several other moments were as well, but it didn't add up for me.  I think the story is just so weak, compared to the music.  I care about characters, and I want a character I can identify with who comes to some revelation during the show.)

Much of what I learned about the world, I learned through the scores of Sondheim.  It became a way of understanding that other people felt left out; that I was not such a freak.  I would say from the time I was 18 until I was, maybe 25, Sondheim was the lens I used to try and understand myself and my world.  This blog would never exist if that lens had been the Brontes, or Jane Austen, or Katharine Hepburn. 

It was so interesting to hear Kushner and Sondheim's discussion about writing; Sondheim writes lying down, like being on a sofa at the shrink, because that is where the soft underbelly is.  Kushner said he couldn't and did almost an imitation of a hedgehog to show how protected he needs to be in writing.  (Now, Kushner clearly writes in amazingly beautiful, vulnerable, multi-layered characters--, not only did he write Angels in America;  he wrote Caroline or Change.)  

At the end of the evening, Kushner asked Sondheim to read a poem he recommended: "Love Note to a Playwright."  Sondheim said he couldn't read the end without crying.  Kushner said "I know."  Sondheim read the poem and cried.  It is a comic poem about how great Sheridan was, because he blew off all his friends to conserve his energy for the writing that matters.  It ends:

Who, using up his mail [n.b. correspondence from friends and others] to start
   An autumn fire or chink a crevice,
Cried, "Letters longer are than art,
   But vita is extremely brevis!"
Then, choosing what was worth the candle,
Sat down and wrote The School for Scandal.

Sondheim wept.  I've seen him speak in person maybe a dozen times.  I've seen and heard many more interviews.  I've seen him sort of get shiny eyes, but I've never heard him sob.  And I wondered if Sondheim is using this poem the same way I use Sondheim's work--to realize that he is not alone, and other people made the same sacrifices he did.  And it was worth it. So basically, the way I read it is that Sondheim identified with this because it said "an artist has to make choices to put his (and it usually is a he) art above the people who care about him."  

I loved Sondheim because he showed me how you can let down your persona with people you trust, but I think I adopted other things from his work as well.  I sort of adopted this way of viewing the world.  But, in truth, I'm a pretty mediocre "artist."  Maybe Sondheim wants to sacrifice the people who care about him.  And he wrote Sunday in the Park with George and Company and things of transcendent beauty.  I, on the other had, can't sell my novel.  And even if I did and it became a best seller, it is about as meaningful as a Katharine Hepburn movie.  It deals with issues of substance in a sweet way;  but it is no Das Kapital. And I sometimes wonder if that was the choice I wanted  to make, or a consolation prize: 'fine dad: if no man will ever love me, I will make something of myself in the world.'  Maybe I latched onto Sondheim's work because it affirmed what I saw as my only choice.

Sondheim wrote a song called "Children and Art," which basically says that those are the only choices worth choosing.  But there was an undercurrent--you have to pick.  I consciously chose "art" (whatever that means) for a long time because I didn't see how to make a relationship that would work for me, when I didn't even know if I was lovable.

In both the novels of the Brontes and of Jane Austen, the characters force themselves to avoid wallowing in angst or self pity.  And sometimes, I wonder if they are right.  Does having this blog, where I do an awful lot of navel gazing (but for the record, I do this in lieu of therapy, except when I'm working with the counselor my parents work with, and this seems to work better than therapy for me, because, honestly, I'm always honest here--but the rest of my life is not all-angst-all-the-time) make me better able to be out in the world?  Or does it make me wallow?  I never trust men who say "no baggage" because I can't really believe that anyone over 17 doesn't have baggage.  But I do think we should pack lightly.  When I travel (aside from Christmas), I never check a bag.  (OK, there have been some exceptions--a month in Turkey involved 3 carpets on my trip home.  I rarely check a bag).  My bag is small enough that I can carry it myself and I never avoid doing something because of my luggage.  Even when I went to Troy, in the summer, and it was over 100 degrees, I had a bag small enough that I could carry it with me and not go back to the city I left that morning.  And I think this blog is the equivalent of those Eagle Creek packing cubes--I can travel light, with well organized luggage.  But I don't really know if it works that way.  Or if it is just more navel gazing.

Scolding

Maxearnest scolded me for something.  I asked him the same thing twice in 2 e-mails, and he scolded me, and I just felt horrible.

Maybe I'm just not strong enough to do something like that. I was already blue.  After Dotty left I went to visit a friend I rarely see because I get affluenza whenever I visit her.  The TV is always on.  I've watched more television in the last 4 days than in the previous 4 months. We go shopping a lot.  She gets stressed out about crazy stuff she reads on the internet, and has a bad temper.  (I should also say, she is generous, kind, smart and I have a lot of loyalty to her; I don't think I would have gone to grad school if it hadn't been her influence.  She taught me intellectual excitement.  But I don't see her that often because I have a hard time at her place.)  So I'm already stretched thin. And I just totally over-react.  But I do that to criticism, from anyone I allow into my interior circle.  I'm strong with most of the world, but there are few people I allow myself to care what they think  And when I do, I am much too vulnerable.  Even a gentle scolding (and he was gentle in his scolding) and I totally over-react.  

 My friend was in a vile mood--slamming doors, yelling at her mother, demanding the conversation go exactly as she wants at all times.  So I went shopping because my friend doesn't like my favorite store.  I didn't want anything, but I just needed to get away from her for a little while, but I didn't want any crap.  I just wanted to read a book or pet my cats or ride my bike.  And there I read Maxearnest's e-mail on my phone.  I could feel how blue I became.  Like the bottom fell out.  I can't think when I have to type on my phone.  I type like 2 words a minutes there. I have to think about the letters, not the thoughts. I had enough awareness to notice it, but not enough awareness to do anything about it.  I didn't even have an iPod that would allow me to manipulate my mood with music.  

I adore approval from a man I care about, but disapproval makes me blue, almost frantic, like a deflating balloon, trying to push out air is a few spots, to feel full and accidentally popping herself.  I think that most disapproval in the world Public Woman handles with aplomb, and that part of me protest private girl from anything like that, but someone who knows private girl can bypass my persona side and I have no defenses.

A little more than 2 years ago, my dad got made at me for something I was going to submit for publication.  He said I was shaming my mother and publicly humiliating her.  It was a voice mail, and I listened to it while I was on a date.  I became frantic and agreed to never publish the piece, just trying to undo the horrible damage I had wrought.  And then I re-listened to what he said, and re-read the piece (and my brother, our family counselor and several close friends read it) and realized, there was nothing critical about my mother in the piece.  Nothing at all.  3 months of therapy later, my mother and I were on stronger footing, but if I hadn't had everything either in e-mail or as a recorded message, and other people, whom I really trusted hadn't weighed in and said "there is nothing like that" I would have just assumed I'd done this horrible wrong.

My dad only ever said I betrayed him once.  It was when he didn't like a movie I had recommended.  So, yes, that sense of needing to be perfect runs very deep.

After we got back, I wrote Maxearnest and he sent me a lovely e-mail and I just started to feel calm again.  But I do just completely over-react.  I see how much I was over-reacting.  But I do.  I don't know how to get that under control.

American Crossroad

I hate Karl Rove, but I seem to be entering an american crossroad.

I have had a fairly clear rule: any man I might meet in real life does not get my blog information.  And I have pretty much stuck to it.  Bobby and John have been the main exceptions, but it has been after we became intertwined, and one other man--I forget the name I gave him here, it might have been Stephen, but I'm not sure.

But there is a gentlemen; he told me to call him Maxernest on the blog.  Which means he know about my blog.  He lives in Europe.  We e-mailed.  I gave him my blog.  He read it vociferously.  248 hits from his country in the last month. We e-mailed more and more, and I began to wish that geography weren't such an intractable mistress. We e-mailed some more.  I sort of assumed it was theoretical; the Atlantic is smaller than the Pacific, but....  But Maxernest wants to come visit.  He has geographical mobility, and even though to a Europhile like myself, he seems to have a perfect life, it seems like that he would consider actually moving to the U.S., if we liked each other as much in person as we do on e-mail.

I'm not sure if I'm a little numb from shock or a little hesitant, because he reads the blog.  I can't imagine giving up my life in "Seattle" for another country.  In part because I have a a good job, with a defined benefit pension. If something went wrong after a few years, I couldn't get a job like this again.  But also, I hate feeling like an outsider.  I would make a lousy expat because that sense of not fitting in is so very strong for me, and I know if I moved to a country where I didn't speak the language, or didn't speak it well, I would feel like an outsider.  My grandfather was born less than 100 km from where he lives now, but when I visited (my grandfather's birthplace--I've never met Maxernest), I felt so lonely there.  I knew I was a 2nd generation American, and didn't belong in Europe any more.  Even though I still sort of fetishize Europe.

I couldn't imagine "Just Me" being enough to make up for someone else feeling like an outsider.

I suggested we move to Skyping.  I want to get to know him better in voice, rather than e-mail.  I hope I like his accent and he likes mine.  I have a great voice, for an American.  But an American, with a slight California twang is what I am.  But I do like him.  Dotty is going to Belgium for another friend's wedding.  She met him last year, and it has been a fairy tale.  I was happy for Dotty's friend, but wishing for a fairy tale of my own.

I feel slightly removed from the situation, like I'm watching someone else's drama.

Post-Dotty

So I have to figure out how to organize my life now, and I think looking at the ways Dotty and I supported each other and figuring out how to keep some structure is important.

Dotty and I will obviously continue to be friends.  We will talk on the phone, but it is going to leave a huge hole in my life.

Dotty and I got together about 6 times a week.  None of this was quantified, but this is about, an average, of what happened.

• Twice a week to work out.
• Twice a week to write.
• Once a week for 'culture'
• Once week for something else.

• expanded my social circle.  She has a lot of friends (most of whom wouldn't make my list as friends).  Maybe I need to be a lot less selective in my life.
• Supported me being healthier in more creative ways.  We did a CSA (where we got a share in a local farm, and then each week we'd get together and cook all our veggies for the week, throughout the summer and early fall).  We were going to get community gardening beds together. We did lots of hikes, went kayaking.  I tended to suggest more conventional exercise; she tended to suggest paddle-boarding, driving out of the city to pick apples or getting together to cook.

I think I have working out covered.  

• Sunday: running class (for the next 6 weeks)
• Monday: A neighbor is coming over to do an exercise tape
• Tuesday: Nothing
• Wednesday: Running Class (next 6 weeks)
• Thursday: Small group 'boot camp' class.  I've paid for it for the next 4 months.
• Friday: Spin class
• Saturday: Possible spin class (OK teacher, but I don't like her like Fridays)

Writing:  Dotty and I wouldn't talk that much during this time.  We'd just meet at a common place and write together.  I had a tendency to procrastinate.  (I'd even been known to write a blog entry when I should have been working on an article.)  But it was important.  It is possible I should schedule going to the coffee shop or library a couple of times a week.  I know I need to get out of the damn house now that Dotty won't be here.

Social Life:  I don't know!  Honestly, several of Dotty's friends would like to be friends with me, but I don't really click with them.  I tend to be highly selective in my friends.  It's weird because I'm intellectual extroverted, but I tend to be introverted on everything else. 

Culture: Honestly, I don't know.  There's so few good things I see.  I'm scared if I quit going to the symphony, opera and theatre, my world will get a little smaller.  Occasionally I see something heart-breakingly beautiful.  But it is pretty occasional.  I don't know if I'll keep going on my own.

Creative healthy things:  This one will be hard for me.  My tendency is to think a little grimly.  I LOVE ice-skating and tolerate spinning, but I make time in my life for spinning because it makes me sweat and not for ice-skating because 'all' it does is make me smile.  (Skating really isn't very good exercise.)  On one level, I think it is really important, but I haven't made that a priority, and I think I need to figure out how to do that.  I won't do a CSA without her (I travel too much).  I probably won't do a community gardening bed either (ditto).  I don't think I'll go on long hikes (aside from some groupons) or pick apples or visit a 'local' farm.  I think that is OK.  I think I will miss the company more than those activities.

Restaurants:  Dotty and I went out to eat a couple of times a week.  I think I can live without that.  It was her company that was way cool, not whatever restaurant we happened to find.

So I guess my resolutions are:

• Find a couple of new friends
• Write at the library or coffee shop at least once a week (preferably twice)
• Make space for some creative, healthier things.
• Get out of the fucking house!  Even when it is raining.

Dotty (who is naturally thin and an MD) thought I was in great shape.  She never let the fact that I was a size 14/16 upstage the fact that I tended to have an easier time than her in whatever exercise we did.  It was really important to me that she affirmed that I wasn't lazy or in bad shape.

Dotty encouraged me to be more playful and less grim with food and exercise.  She wanted me to enjoy food.

Blue Nights. And Days.

I'm re-reading The Year of Magical Thinking so that I can be up to date when I read Blue Nights.  This should help cheer me up, in a weird way.

Right now, I'm so sad.

I said goodbye to Dotty tonight.  I cried a little, then went to the elevator of her building and wept like a crazy lady, because I didn't want to make things harder for her.

Of course, I usually hide how I'm feeling from other people to try to not make other people uncomfortable.

But I'm so sad.  It is funny reading Joan Didion, because I'm like "oh, yes--I did that!  And my John's death obviously didn't affect me as extremely as her John's death, but they were variations on a them.

Tomorrow, I will try not to feel sorry for myself, but tonight, I just wish I could wave a magic wand and these 2 years will be over and Dotty will be back.  What could possibly happen that could make these 2 years worth while?  I feel like there is nothing to look forward to.  Which is silly--hopefully I'll meet new people, make some new friends.  Maybe I'll fall in love. I doubt it, but I hope so.  Wouldn't that be lovely?

I just hope my life doesn't end up like a Chekhov play.

Ephemera

So, I’m sitting with Dotty in our favorite coffee shop.  We have met here a couple of times a week to work.  But this is our last time, and I’m trying not to cry but the tears are on the surface.  I'm trying to keep them from falling.  Cherry blossoms clutching the branch.



Dotty no longer has wifi because she packed her router.  The last couple of days I was with my dad, he no longer had wifi, because my mom had packed her router, so I can’t help but see a parallel.

I guess life is moving on.  I know I’m not stuck.  Unlike Dotty, I have a great job in the city, and Dotty only left because she had a really lousy job and her new job will be great (and this is a wonderful adventure for her, and she thinks she’ll come back in 2 years--god I hope so!).  But it does seem that people come to the city to be young, and everyone our age is leaving, except me. It feels like people are growing up, growing older, settling down, and leaving me behind.  The city is for the young or the rich, and we’re not either.  (Now, I should say, I have a great home, which I own, when none of my friends have ever managed to pull off in the city, and a great job, with health insurance and a pension, so it isn’t exactly like I’m this perpetual adolescent and all my friends are growing up--most of my friends would love the situation I have.  Two of my close friends are living with their parents and they talk about coming back to the city when their finances stabilize.  So my feeling doesn’t exactly match the objective reality.  But it still feels that way.)

The undercurrent with my dad is that I hate losing a year or two with him, while he figures this out, because I don't know how many years he has left.  I hate losing a couple of years with Dotty because, honestly, in 4 years, I intend to have children, and so we only have a few years left and single gals in the city.  I want to travel as much as I can right now, because I'm aware of not having much time left.  (Yes, I could travel with kids, but it would be a lot harder.)

Van Gogh painted this, his, in my opinion, most beautiful painting, right before he killed himself.  How could he despair when he saw such beauty?

The table next to us is filled with 6 lovely, older, Japanese women.  They don't speak English, but they are very sweet.  They are enjoying rice balls and oranges and I'm reminded of cherry blossoms and how quickly life goes.  Obviously, I need to climb out of this funk and not just numb myself out for the next 2 years.  I want to clutch to this moment and not let the blossom fall.

Stuck and Blue

When I was with my dad, it was really painful.  I was counting the hours to getting home, and it was such a relief to get home.  But last night I stayed up pretty late helping Dotty pack and the movers are gone and she is here for a few more days, and then that is it.  Dotty is my 6th close friend to leave the city, and I feel like I'm the last one left.  I don't want to make more friends that are just going to leave; all of my close friends have moved away.

But truth be told, I miss hoping things would get better with my dad and I.  Now, there's just the status quo, which is intolerable to me.  Until he is willing to accept that not hurting me is just as important as being "genuine" I don't really see how I can have a 'friends' relationship with him.  And I miss that.  I saw THE ugliest public art sculpture ever yesterday.  It looked like a trash dump.  My dad loves to complain about bad public art, and I wanted to share it with him.  Without my dad, the truth is, I don't really have any men I'm close to.  I have a number of gay friends, whom I really love, but somehow, we've gotten less close with time.  I see one guy about every-other month and the others a couple of times a year.  (Nate's mom had surgery on Friday, and she is still in the ICU, so it will probably be 2 weeks before we get together.  Between his mom and his daughter, he is stretched very thin.  I made soup and offered to take him some, but I think it would have been more stressful than helpful.)

I'm really, really sad.  And I'm really lonely.  I feel stuck.  And I don't feel like working through all my emotional shit is making it easier to meet new people--it is just leaving me really raw and vulnerable.

Accepting What Is

So Nate and I couldn't get together tonight, but he gave me an assignment: play with myself while thinking about  him going down on me.  So I texted him: " It is much hotter for me to think about pleasing you, then to think about you pleasing me. I like the idea of you using me. (I love that you want to please me sometimes--when I'm with you it is hot, but when I'm not, I'd rather think about you)." He texted me: "I know" and repeated his original instructions.

I can't figure out if I really like this, or really don't.

I'm pretty clear in my mind that I have a fucked up view about relationships and my role in them.  I think I gravitated towards kink as a way of making a set of controllable rules around love.  (I really think that the sub in kink should be able to not be punished by always being obedient, and that's what I want.  I want to know he could, but that I please him enough, he doesn't need to.  I want to know that I'll have a reason for not pleasing him, and I want to know that I'll know when he is upset by something, I'll know what it is, and he can punish me, and then forget it.)  And that is rather fucked up.

But, in a way, kink is the prize that came with my fucked up cracker jack of a world view.  If I didn't have kink, I would be one of those women who wants sex once a month, rather than once a day.  If I didn't have kink, part of me would die.  The reasons that kink are in my life are probably in the DSM.  But "treating" kink doesn't affect those underlying reasons, and I would lose a lot if I lost kink.

I would like to figure out my big-picture crap about relationships (I will be loved for what I do, not who I am; men are mercurial and will only be with me when it is fun for them; as soon as anything gets tough, they'll leave) and still have the kink side.  Somehow, making it from an intellectual analysis to a visceral state of feeling/knowing seems very hard for me.

I can't tell if Nate is trying to change my sense of desire "want something more normal" or if he is trying to give me a little more agency.  Or maybe he gets off on the thought of him going down on me.  I suppose that is actually possible.  Ocram's Razor....  Deep down, though, I think he wants me to want things for me. He has finally stopped trying to buy me stuff every time we go out; I'd much rather he wanted to go down on me than buy me shoes.  I'd still rather please him, though.  Less pressure.  I'm better able to control the results and do what is demanded.  I really hope I'm not just so fucked up I can't be in a relationship with a stable man because he wants to be nice to me (when I'm nice to him).

Just another post about a woman fretting about her weight

I gained 3 pounds over Christmas.  I was doing so well for the first 4 days and then my travel scale died.  (I think it is just the battery, but it is one of those button batteries, and I didn't get another one.)

I gained 3 pounds last Christmas too.  That was why I bought the travel scale.  I never got those 3 pounds off last year, so I want to love all 6 of those pounds, please.  (The funny thing is that everyone thinks I've lost weight this year.  It may be that I'm a little leaner and my posture is a little better with all the pilates, but it is very odd because I have had multiple people arguing with me.)

In addition to my spinning classes, I've signed up for a running class and a weekly bootcamp class.  I will also be taking a variety of other classes.

But I'm also coming to a very different place in my sense of self.  While I want to lose those 6 pounds, I think, maybe, that's it.  Ideally, I'd like to lose 8 pounds (including the 6) because that would make it an even 60, but who am I kidding?  If I lose those 8, I'll want to lose another 10, and another 10.

This article really hit me hard.  I guess I can't really say I've maintained my weight loss, because I'm 6 pounds from my thinnest, but that still means I've lost and maintained 52 pounds.  Which is something I really don't give myself credit for.

I try to imagine what my life would be like if I actually accepted my weight as it is.  I would stop buying all these clothes that almost fit (and they fit everywhere, but my bust, which is not a place I'm carrying a lot of extra weight).  Would I actually be able to be comfortable in my own skin?  Can I make a goal of losing those 6 pounds, but not trying for more, and also really being comfortable in my own skin?

If I didn't want a partner, I'd be happy the way I am.  Nate thinks I'm gorgeous, which is lovely.  I'm still comfortable wanting to lose those 6 pounds, but maybe that's it.  Maybe my real goal for this year is to be physically active in ways that are joyous and enjoy myself the way I am.  And world peace and an end to climate change....

Defining Love

I'm finally home, and glad to be home, even if I am home alone.  It is good to have autonomy, which I really do lose at my parents, with no car and no public transit and just life.

I've come to the conclusion that my dad and I define love differently.

For me, when I love someone, I want them to be as happy as I can.  If I do something they don't like, I get kind of frantic and hysterical, trying to make it right.  I'm meeting a guy from CM for drinks tomorrow and he wants me to pick out a place and I'm so flummoxed, because I so want to pick a place he'll like, and I have no clue!  (This is not a potential partner--he lives farther away than Bobby; we've been corresponding for a year, casually, and he is in town, so we'll have drinks, but nothing serious.)

My dad feels like being kind and careful with me is currently in conflict with his sense of inner, genuine self. This is so foreign a concept to me, I can't even understand it.

So how the hell do I deal with it?  How can I have a relationship with my dad where I have to do the taking-care-of me, rather than expecting him to try not to be mean.  (I should say, that he has said, at times, that he really doesn't want to criticize me, but he will mess up; at other times he seems to be really resistant to agreeing to censor himself.  I have told him that if I have kids (which I will probably try and do in 3 years), he cannot be critical of them and he has to follow through on what he says he'll do.  No telling them a drawing is lousy and no promising a trip to Disney Whatever and then changing his mind.  And he gets that for kids.  But he didn't get that for me when I was a kid and he doesn't get that for me now.)

I got a book on the "High Sensitive Person" (which is boring!) and hopefully I can look at some coping strategies.

But the other fact is that I'm not planning on going to my parents' house for Christmas next year.  I don't know where I'll go.  Maybe Bruges. Maybe I'll have someone I want to spend it with. But not my parents'.  And I really don't know when I'll see my dad again.  It may be a while.  He is not in my calendar for the next 12 months, and I seem to be scheduling my vacations out pretty far.  This last year, we got together 6 times (sometimes just for a weekend).  But I'm really thinking a break is in order.  We can love each other from afar for a bit.  I'm hoping this is a stage.  But he couldn't even be consistent with me in therapy.  The last session felt like it really erased much of what we'd done.

So I guess it is on me to protect myself.  Exactly what I'm so tired of doing.

Coming Home

It is midnight on Tuesday night and I am sitting in my childhood home, with all the lights off, except on our huge Christmas tree. It is probably 12 feet tall--nearly touching the beams, which are covered with cedar boughs. There’s no cornucopia of holly on the chandeliers this year, nor are the angels descending from each of the cross beams because my parents were really stressed, and I didn’t get home till late in the year, but it is a lovely Christmas scene.

Of course, there’s no internet, because my mom has already moved to their new home and taken non-essentials, like the modem and router with her. (I define non-essential differently than my dad.)

So, this is the last time I will sit here. This is the last time I will refer to “home” as some place other than my house.

I don’t know why I remain so sentimentally attached to Christmas.  Mostly, I hate it.  But the new house only has 8’ high, flat ceilings, instead of the 14’ high vaulted ceiling I grew up with.  (It really isn’t as grand as it sounds--this house is small and has no attic, but it is nice lines and beautiful light.)  The thought of never again having a big Christmas tree makes me so sad; but I’m not planning on spending Christmas with my family next year, and maybe not for a bit.  I suppose once the niece or nephew is old enough to enjoy Christmas, it will be a different deal; Christmas is for children.  It will be nice to have someone I can give presents to who won’t be pissy about materialism and capitalism and what not.  I love giving presents.  I don’t care if they are handmade, or vouchers for services or tickets to an event; I love giving presents.  I don’t shop much; god knows I don’t need more things.  But when people I care about take the time to think about my life and give me something that would make it richer, I am so grateful. Not just when I receive it; most whenever I use it.  My sister gave me her old iPod docking station, and I don’t care that it is used.  Every time I use it, I think of how thoughtful it is.  I love giving gifts and I love getting thoughtful gifts and the fact that my family (sans mi maman) is too fucking enlightened to deign to accept some material object on a commercialized holiday, hurts me a great deal.

Today was my last therapy session with my dad for this trip (I have a feeling we won’t be done with therapy forever, however).  I wanted to do a do-ever with my dad, and so we met at our house, instead of the therapists office.

This weekend, my dad and I were doing much better, but he came today in a different place, a more stubborn place and talk of “genuine” stuff was back. And I became more and more hysterical. I felt so foolish for thinking I could trust my dad with my vulnerability enough to have him do a do-over. 

For a while, I just knew it was stupid to trust him with how badly it hurt me, or try. And as our time went by, I got more and more hysterical.

When I was in the 7th grade, while I was walking up the stairs, my dad said “No man will ever love you if you don’t lose weight.” And that was pretty devastating to me. So I wanted him, in that place, with me on a stair below him, looking up at him, to say something lovely, to replace that image in my mind.

But even telling him how painful that was for me was incredibly scary. I learned to not be ‘fun to tease’ but the cost was that I don’t share vulnerability with my dad. Vulnerabilities make you, well, vulnerable. It has not felt safe for decades, even if it was.

Well, with time ticking away, I was getting more and more hysterical, and finally the therapist pushed us to go ahead and do the do-over. Dad didn’t say quite what I wanted him to. He apologized for the first time, instead of telling me I was beautiful and lovable, but there were tears in his eyes, and I could tell he meant it. I told him “Now, tell me I’m lovable and beautiful” and he said “I don’t want to have to do that when I’m prompted. I want you to know it and say it spontaneously.” (Of course, the funny thing is, I was waiting all week for him to initiate a do-over, and just tell me, when I was coming up the stairs, that I was beautiful, but he didn’t. I had to ask for what I wanted, which made it mean less, but it was still better than nothing.) And I said “But I need an image to replace the one in my head” and so he said “You are beautiful and lovable. As proven by how much I love you.” And then we hugged, me still standing on the steps, with my arms under his arms, like I was a little kid.

I think it make a difference. I don’t know, and won’t for months. I’m working really hard on moving from the blog to life, from my intellectual knowing, to my visceral feeling. But I seem to be aware of things long before I can actually feel differently about them, and oftentimes I don’t make that shift at all. But doing that with my dad, having a redo of one of my strongest childhood memories, makes it easier to say goodbye to this house. I’m so exhausted though. And I’ve been counting the hours until I can go home.  Until I can curl up with my cats and enjoy my bed and maybe make out with Nate.  I am going home.  Which now has only one meaning.

Happy New Year

It is 12:03, on January 1st.

I’m am sitting in an overstuffed chair, in a little nook, in my favorite room in my favorite hotel, overlooking the ocean.  (They don’t have wi-fi, so I don’t know when I’ll post this.)

2012.

Maybe the Mayans are right and this will be a new cycle.  I hope so.

In the last couple of days, I realized, perhaps, why I am single.

I love my dad.  There are many things about him that give me great joy.  But I cannot depend on him.  I think, to some extent, I have always felt that I have to please him for acceptance.

Long before I came on the scene, my parents had an agreement.  When my mother found out she was pregnant with me, she broke that agreement.  She broke it without consulting my dad, without apology, with a fierce certainty that I was a child, and that was that.  (I should say, both my mother and I are fiercely pro-choice, but I have already made that choice for me, and I do believe that informing several men that that taking that choice out of play made them make a choice not to be with me.  But that is for another posting.)

My dad deeply resented that, and deeply resented me, until I was old enough to smile at him, and then he adored me, until I was old enough to disobey him.  (I should say, I only know this because my dad felt deeply remorseful and shared it with me in hopes it will help me work through that stuff.)  In other words, I was not loved by a man just for me, but for what I did, and I was only loved as long as I was obedient.  Which sounds an awful lot like the paradigm I have re-enacted with bdsm.

Nowadays, my dad is wonderful in many aspects.  Really extraordinary.  But he isn’t consistent.  His word doesn’t really mean much.  He will be critical of me, often out of the blue for things that I never considered (like too much eye contact--what father does that?)  He will make plans spontaneously, and when I plan around his spontaneous plans I'm hurt when he breaks them just as spontaneously.

So, while I want a partner, I somehow or other expect more than my dad could ever offer someone.

My ex asked me to marry him. Twice.  And thank god, I said no.  It took the thought of being stuck there for the rest of my life for me to get out of the situation.

I think that I yearn for all the good things my dad has to offer, but I would never settle for someone that would treat me as my dad has treated me (or as my dad has treated my mother).  With Bobby, I had this instantaneous connection.  And Bobby was inconsistent.  In my experience, he implied things he wasn’t ready to follow through on.  I don’t feel that instantaneous connection with Nate, but he is consistent and loving and, within reason, follows through on what he says (and apologizes like hell when life means he can’t do what he said he would).  And maybe that is why he doesn’t ring the part of my soul that Bobby rang.  And maybe my task for this new cycle (if the Mayans are right) is to find ways to access that part of my soul.

My favorite hotel has blank journals in every room, and guests fill out the pages.  A couple stayed in my room before me; the man wrote:

Today there is much to be thankful for: the white surf on the gray sea and an open window. 

The ring on my finger means I was married yesterday. 

I see my bride running on the beach, the hood of her coat falling back.

And I imagine that I hear the laugher of the child held within. 

I am happy.

Dear universe: please send me someone who will hold me in his heart the way that Philip held his bride. Let me meet that man this year, and let him be the kind of man who would cherish my favorite hotel, and introduce me to all his favorite spots.  Let him be introspective enough that I can share my meanderings, if not this blog, and let him be dominant enough that we can let go of the meanderings and have incredibly passionate, hot sex.  And let him be a good father to our future children and a good playmate for our inner children.

I don’t know if there is a god (well, I’m pretty sure there isn’t a personified deity; but maybe there is some force in the universe that us humans can only understand through personification), but if there is, god, I beg of you to send me a partner.  I’ve prayed it in my head for years, to no avail.  I beg of you to help me find someone to match me, tame the little animal inside and play with my child.