Full Beaver Moon

a.k.a. "My Vagina's Monologue"

Is this thing on? Check one, two. Check! Check!

Yes, okay. Hello. Hi. How is everyone on this lovely, and quite appropriately named "Full Beaver Moon" evening?

Whew! I've been a very busy gal lately. My "handler" (she thinks she's in charge, but we all know who's running this circus) has done a great job rejuvenating me and taking me on interesting adventures!

What I gathered you all here to tell you is ... and this is just between you and me ... I'm not actually secretly trying to get my handler pregnant! Shhhh!

Oh sure, she thinks I am. She's been accusing me of that for going on 3 months now, ever since she met my awesome new boyfriend's "handler" (he also thinks he's in charge, but really isn't). She thinks I don't know she's had me "fixed" ... oh, I know, trust me. I know. Who do you think gave her that idea?

Yeah, it's true that I've been allowing Aunt Flow to visit me more often ... four days sooner than her trusty lifetime of perfectly timed 28-day visits. Honestly, I don't like her anymore than any of you do. I get better attention and service when she's not hanging around, throwing a damp rag over things, so I'm not exactly thrilled that she'll be arriving two extra times in the coming year at this more frequent rate.

I'll let you in on the bigger picture that my handler is missing here: You know that fantastic, high testosterone, mid-cycle time? Yeah, the time when a gal *could* get pregnant. Well, I'm getting more of those in the coming year, too! (Pun intended.) Everybody wins! (Especially me.)

And to tell you the truth, I'm not in control of this. And neither is he. It's those magical, mystical, chemical properties in our pheromones causing all of this. It's probably also the same thing that makes my handler regularly not pay attention to her surroundings, so she will trip and fall, and makes his handler absentmindedly mistake fancy hand dryers for urinals.

Together, this dynamic--albeit distracted--duo are a chemistry tour de force. His handler probably doesn't feel the effects of this as jarringly as my handler does, because his hormones let him bathe in it more constantly, letting him get fully acclimated to it. Unfortunately for us over here at Team Vagina, we have to surf with the estrogen tides.

I am here, however, to apologize for not letting my handler know that I'd be letting Aunt Flow make earlier visits, thus throwing off her ability to understand when she was suddenly feeling angsty or needy or forlorn or extra horny, even. When you throw a curve ball more than half a week in advance with no warnings, there isn't time to know when to take a swing at it or duck.

Last night I inspired her to get out of bed just to look at the calendar, after my favorite guy's handler said, "Didn't you fall apart like this last month?" She thought he was wrong for suggesting that monthly anniversary milestones might be the cause, and he was ... but he wasn't wrong on there being a pattern. She saw the "4 days early ... 4 days early ... 4 days early there, too" pattern last night, however.

Sorry about not letting you know about this sooner. If I simply started talking to you out loud, you might not handle that too well either. But now we're finally all on the same calendar page! Isn't that great!?

Okay, yeah, my handler had to have a couple unexpected meltdowns a time or three--and maybe even bum my boyfriend's handler out in the process a bit--but knowledge is power now. Yay!

Heck, even just having spent an evening with him once in June and again once in August, before any of the real fireworks began, made Aunt Flow think she needed to arrive two days early each of those times ... just in case. The mere hint of the pheromone chemistry is just that good.

Also, sorry to tell you this, girlfriend, but I'm probably going to ruin some of your fun this coming weekend, too.

Yes, four days early.

Yes, again.

I promise I'll make it up to you both very soon ... like four days sooner! See, everybody wins!

Okay, I think we're done here.

Play me out, Cat...

No, not Keyboard Cat! C'mon, everyone knows vaginas love Cat Stevens.

The Astral Factor

Two weeks ago ...and damn, I should not have taken so long to write about this... something weird was up with my usually laid-back, nonchalant boyfriend. He got really, keenly interested in whether I was working late or not, and specifically wanting to know just how late I might be working, and where I'd be going after that. Now that's not to say he isn't normally interested in my daily activities, because he is, but not to that precise level of detail. After a couple days of this, I learned why.

When I returned home late one evening and checked my mailbox, I spied an envelope among the bills and junk mail that had handwriting scrawled on it. That, along with a street name with which I was intimately familiar, made me realize who sent this missive.

No, not that. It was the word "Astral" that I recognized.

"(Gasp!) A letter from Scott!?" I squealed giddily, forgetting that my middle dorkling was in the car, too.

"Who's 'Scott'?"

"My boyfriend ... you know ... Scott!"

"The guy you're dating NOW?"

"Yeah, who else would I mean?"

"But you talk to each other ALL THE TIME! Why would he send you a letter, when he could text or email you?"

"Because HE'S AWESOME, and he thinks I'M AWESOME, too! That's why!"

He shot me this look, as if he were about to argue with me...

...but then just turned, shook his head while muttering to himself, "old people are weird," and slammed the car door behind him.

I immediately ran past him, nearly pushing him over to get inside the house, and giddily sequestered myself in my office like a rabid teen with her first love letter ever ... ignoring dogs and dorklings alike all clamoring to get my attention.

Pulling the hastily torn, yellow legal pad pages from the envelope, my eyes immediately filled with stars ... sort of like this:

It was just too damn cute to stand! First he apologized for writing in his own pen versus a computer printer, as if he didn't realize that I would find the fact that he still uses cursive incredibly quaint and adorable. Then everything began to make sense--all of his nervous questions of the previous days--as I read the line, "I wanted to surprise you with an actual, old tyme letter."

After that, the wording gets too steamy to repeat here, and continues that way for a whole page. If I show you, this might happen:

I can only share with you the last page, but that's the part that made me well up with happy tears...

Okay, turns out I couldn't share the whole last page with you, as there were more steamy bits, but you can get the gist in that last part as to why my eyes would start leaking.

With happily blurred vision, I immediately had to crow to friends about this delightful surprise in a status update, which in turn set off a flurry of "oohs" and "ahs," with people lighting up hither and yon. 

Then I believe my body turned to sparkles and floated on a cloud for days afterwards, like this: 

... heck, my body is still all sparkly-floaty like that. Don't get too close to me, or it'll look like you've been using glitter, the herpes of the crafting world.

To this day, I'm still delighted by the thoughtfulness, the tangibleness, the nervousness, the cursiveness, the sexiness, and the sweetness of it all. Honestly, he says these similar things to me on a daily basis, always has, and there was not a special occasion for him to express these words to me, so it's not that he surprised me with how he felt. He just purely touched me with his ability to follow an inspiration to take the time to write his feelings down, and to surprise me with it the way he did, when he did. 

It's just further proof that I did a damn fine job lining myself up with that imaginary, placeholder boyfriend, because the real deal who stepped into that place is everything I wanted and then some.

I don't think I've ever loved or felt loved as deeply as I do right now. Every time we part, I feel more in love than when we came together; every time we see each other again, I somehow feel even more in love than when we last parted. I don't know how it keeps expanding, and I don't care ... I just want to see how far it can go. As I like to tell him from time to time, I was happy before I met him, but he makes it so easy to stay there. 

I also tell him that I often feel like I'm about to burst into Skittles ... and that might happen, dear readers! So don't be surprised when it does, okay? You heard it here first. Please alert Weekly World News should that happen ... I hope it gets me a mention next to Bat Boy.

Right before he sent me a friend request back in January, I had a quirky little guitar song stuck in my head for a couple of days. Now I see my inner brain DJ was letting me know I was on the right track. I thought I'd close this random ode to my awesome boyfriend with that fitting ditty: "Heart of My Heart"... 

...along with some interpretive dance. 

_______________________________

Author's note: 

Many of the pictures above--though not all--were lifted from a truly terrible 1976 movie called THE ASTRAL FACTOR. Do yourself a favor and don't watch it sometime. And while you're not at it, don't watch the 1984 release of it, where they added extra awful music, and possibly changed the title to INVISIBLE STRANGLER or some nonsense. 

Remember, watching at your own risk could cause this: 

And this!: 

And THIS!!!: 

You've been warned!

Bestial Acts

Earlier today, while listening to random songs that Spotify chose for me while my brain toiled away at spreadsheets and boring website data lists, a Tom Waits song came on that I hadn't listened to in a while. As he growled and sputtered, the image of a cartoon eel floated into my head, followed by the sound of him growling out the words, "Chomp, chomp, chomp!"

Then I somehow recalled a toddler-me making my parents roll with laughter over my impersonation of that same eel over and over in what they would refer to as my "truck driver voice," often begging me to perform it for other people (which would send me running for my bedroom, where I'd hide for the rest of the night).

It's amazing what comes out of one's memory vaults over the slightest provocation ... usually a smell, or an image, or, more often for me, a sound.

A vision, however, made me recall something more recent, but no less buried, later in the evening of that same day. Leaving my gym, I caught a glimpse of the Waffle House way across the parking lot and on the other side of the street ... one that I completely forget is even there, despite driving past it at least 3 or 4 times a day. A flash of a drunken first and last date flitted through my head.

Did I really do that? Yes. Really, you ask? Yes, really.

One, I'm guessing, particularly masochistic night, after returning home from an evening with a man whom I'd been dating and having relations, but who was still keeping his "options open" and had just told me that I needed to date "more like a man," I came home in the wee hours of the morning and got right back on the dating site where I'd met him, figuring I'd see him online there, likely chatting with someone new.

And I did, of course, which made me think, "Well, fine! I'll just do the same!"

I made myself available for instant messaging and waited. Within minutes, another gent was chatting me up. At 4 in the morning.

It turned out that he was local ... very local ... like 5 miles from me local ... and he suggested we just go for it and meet somewhere. Yes, at 4 in the morning. And I said, "Sure, why not."

What? Wait, it gets better ... and by "better," I mean more ridiculous.

I actually got in my car, with a few too many Stohli vanilla and cokes in me and drove up to our agreed "date" location: that Waffle House around the corner from where I live, and across from where my gym is now.

At 4 in the morning.

Pulling into the parking lot, it was blue light specials everywhere. About half-dozen cop cars, lights flashing, had descended upon the parking lot, and there was no in or out.

I sat there a minute thinking, "Is this a sign?" But then instead of turning around and going home, I sat there longer, until one of the cops approached my minivan.

Cop: "Are you a family member of the victim?"

Me: "What? No. I'm meeting someone. What victim?"

Cop: "In the middle of the night? That's a little odd."

Me: "I like odd, but what about a victim?"

Cop: "Oh, it's nothing. Stabbing. Should be clear to go inside now."

Me: "Shit! I'm going home!"

Hehehe, no, I'm not that bright when I've been drinking... and yes, I'm having this whole conversation with a cop while smelling like vodka and sitting behind the wheel at 4am like it's totally normal. Instead, I said something like, "Awesome! Thanks!"

So I parked among the flashing blue lights and went inside, finding my "date" already in a booth. Did he witness the whole stabbing? Had he been party to it? Did I consider any of this? No, because apparently I wanted a spot on UNSOLVED MYSTERIES.

He was probably 15 years older than me and the pictures he'd posted online. Also, he was wearing a long-sleeved polo shirt covered in Winnie the Pooh pictures. I don't remember much about our conversation, but I do remember that shirt. And trying not to laugh. I think I focused on the grim possibilities of the stabbing, and got the server involved to give more details (it happened in the parking lot, but started inside as a fight over one of the dudes playing a song on the jukebox a dozen times in a row ... so don't do that, no matter how funny it seems at the time).

The only things I do remember from the conversation were the parts about him never having been married, nor did he ever have a long-term relationship, despite being in his late 40s, and that he still lived with his mom. Actually, I think I put it in those terms, like, "You live with your mom!?" He corrected me with, "No, I live in an apartment above her garage, with its own kitchen and everything, so I'm not dependent upon her." I think I amusingly slurred, "And hey, no curfew, so that's a bonus!"

I seem to recall the conversation winding down considerably after that.

I don't remember his name or anything else about the guy, and I don't think I've done anything nearly as stupid as that night/morning, although I did come close a couple other times. It was always "for the story" in the early days of this blog ... and yet, I never blogged this one. Probably because I couldn't remember any of it the next day, until something jarred the cobwebs loose tonight.

Memory is a funny thing, isn't it? A buried early-childhood memory and a blurried early-thirties memory coming back in the same day. Once again, I think Mr. Waits was somehow responsible for both.