I'd like to take a break from writing about boyfriends and aging vaginas to talk about parenting. In particular, I want to address the issue of how to father a daughter ... and how it inevitably leads to anxieties about boyfriends and aging vaginas.
Well, it doesn't have to. It could actually lead to no anxieties or issues whatsoever, if done with great love and care. So maybe we should start this discussion with how to steer clear of some of the potholes that could lead your little girl down some dark, otherwise avoidable paths.
#1 - Love her mother. The woman who will be your daughter's first female role model, like it or not, is her mother, and your relationship with her mother is going to set the tone for many, many, MANY of her future romantic relationships. If you're still lucky enough to be married to her mother, just love her with everything you have, and don't be afraid of PDAs. You want a man to come along one day who treats your daughter that way and nothing less than that, right? Then model that behavior for her, so she can recognize it when she sees it ... and more importantly, so she can spot it when it's absent.
#2 - Respect her mother. You'd think this would go hand-in-hand with loving her mother, but you'd be surprised at how many people say or do disrespectful things in private. This kind of talk might seem funny or a way of letting off some steam to you, but your daughter will first identify with you when she's little, then she'll identify with her mother once she's past her teens. If you're divorced and can't think of anything nice to say about your ex at present, then talk about how smart and beautiful you found her mother when you first met ... and milk it. If there weren't any good qualities (c'mon, everyone has something good in them!), then make some up! Mold your daughter into the image you want to see her someday, don't send her down a path of self-loathing. If you're still married, although this should go without saying, DO NOT sneak around on her mother ... especially do not be a repeat offender, while accusing her mother of jealousy. You do not want to see your adult daughter going from one lousy relationship to another, right? If your daughter forms the impression that women in general, or her mother in particular, are irrational, stupid, or otherwise incompetent, how do you think she's going to be able to stride confidently out into this world? Just remember this: if you undermine or belittle her mother's decisions, you were one of them. Let that sink in for a minute.
#3 - Adore your daughter. You don't like princesses? Too bad! Treat her like one anyway. You don't like ponies? Too bad! Buy her every toy pony you can and let her ride as many real ones as possible. When she's a teenager and you don't like her room a mess ... TOO BAD! Tell her that you love what she's done with the place anyway. She gets embarrassed when you try to hug her in public? TOO BAD! Hug her anyway. She will love you for it someday, even if she doesn't realize that in the moment she's trying to squirm away from you. Never ever ever tell her she's gaining weight, dressing weird, awkward, moody, or, heaven forbid, that she's "living her life all wrong." She's not you. She's a better version of you already, because she hasn't been all messed up in the head by anyone else yet. Don't you dare be the one to mess her up first! Along these same lines, never ever say any of these things to her mother either (see #2). You have the power to make or break your daughter's self-confidence ... this is your prime super power. Use it only for good.
#5 - Show interest. Encourage her to explore and try new things by being the sounding board to the things that interest her. What things does she dream about? Where does she want to go? What does she want to do? Who does she want to become? What boy does she have a crush on and why? Ask her to list his good qualities, even if that makes you squirm. If you take an interest, she'll open up and let you in even more, and hopefully come to you whenever she needs advice, rather than her dumb peers. This is especially important to her in regards to boys ... again, even if it makes you squirm. You are the oldest boy in your daughter's life, and you can give her insight in ways that her mother can't. This is your second super power. Use it only for good.
#6 - Be present! Do not, under any circumstances, abandon her. This includes emotional abandonment by just never being there for her when she needs you, as well as actually never being physically present for her. She may seem strong and unaffected by your influence, but trust me on this, she's far more delicate than you know. Basically, treat her blossoming personality like fragile cargo: HANDLE LIKE EGGS and DO NOT DROP. That doesn't mean she needs to be treated like a China doll; she just needs you to think before you act or speak.
If you ...dad-to-be or dad-to-she ... choose not to heed this list of suggestions, well ... that's okay, I suppose. Maybe you'll imbue her with just enough dysfunction to make her funny and interesting. And maybe she'll thank you publicly from the pages of her wildly successful book (or mildly successful blog).
Somehow my brain started rewriting a blog that I wrote exactly five years ago, but it didn't tell me that's what it was doing. No, instead it started cryptically like it always does ... waiting for me to finally catch up to the place it's leading me. It seemed to start last night.
First, it made me think about how I don't care about politics this election season, and instead would just prefer to write in "Tom Waits" on the ticket ... then I decided that a Tom Waits/Neil Young combo would be the most awesome White House ever ... then I decided I needed to Google "Waits Young" to find that picture of those two when Tom got inducted into the Music Hall of Fame ... then I found a picture of a young Tom Waits ... and then I had to post both of those pictures to Facebook, of course.
All of this made my brain dj start playing "Picture in a Frame" off of Mule Variations on repeat in my head ... which made me think of that first date video that I made with Dr. Jekyll Donkeybundle, also from nearly five years ago, and of how sweet that seemed at the time, but the camera does hide a different picture that is just outside of that "frame" ... all of which made me think of how I'd truly love to hold myself in this place of love where I'm at right now with Scott. Indefinitely.
(No, Scott doesn't have an awesome nickname just yet, although I have tried out "sexy pied piper" and "sexy vampire boyfriend" and "sexy helper monkey" (actually, I think he added the "sexy" part to each, but that doesn't make it any less true), but those are more like in-the-moment descriptors ... one that sticks will present itself soon, I'm sure of that.)
Where was I?
Oh yeah, so I was thinking of holding on, but that also brings up thoughts of letting go. Not letting go of Scott! Heavens, no! I was thinking of how I'd been letting go of the past, but there is always more to let go of ... which made me think about letting go in the past ... how and when and why I let go, and what I took away.
Then in a moment of pure inspired whimsy earlier today, while my brain dj was spinning Sesame Street's "Sing" (in particular, the lyrics, "Sing of happy, not sad. Sing of good things, not bad."), I posted another picture to Facebook that I thought was super sweet and reminded me of the same kind of gaze that I so love between Scott and I, regardless of however dissimilar to "reality" it is (we don't necessarily look like those two icons, nor did those two icons ever gaze at each other like that), only to be reminded that others nearby seeing the same image may see bitterness and sadness in what I only saw as sweetness and light.
Rather than find that curious, I understood fully, as I'd been there, too.
My brain was then immediately transported back to my reaction to the first time I saw Roberto Benigni's movie LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL ... and away went the brain blog ... switching from dj to writer just like that! And little pieces of that bygone time started floating back, while I attempted to focus on a complicated spreadsheet task at work.
It was early 1999, what would eventually become the last year of my first marriage. I was just barely holding on, thanks to a very rocky, emotional experience that began with my husband hiding a case of thyroid cancer from me, me getting him through it anyway, and none of that bringing us closer together like I'd always imagined something scary might finally do. It was also repeatedly being pointed out to me everywhere I went that perhaps our marriage was an empty shell ... that maybe there was more to a relationship than just getting through another day together.
I'd been putting off seeing LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL, mostly because he and I never agreed on any movies. Despite our first movie date being DELICATESSAN, suggesting he had an interest in foreign and/or artier fare, my husband refused to watch anything that didn't have a body count, once the relationship got rolling. As a result, we only went to a total of 9 films at the theater in the course of our seven years together. And I was a film major!
On the heels of a lot of stress and still waiting on the results of my husband's biopsy, I had decided that I wanted to see as many of the Oscar contenders as possible on the day of the show because I was tired. I was tired of not being true to myself. I was tired of feeling empty. I was tired of giving him and my children everything and not leaving anything left for myself. I was going to leave my kids with my mother, and I was going to see these movies, dammit! I had already seen one or two of the other contenders, and I was going to see three nominees on this day ... ending the triple feature marathon with the sappiest, darlingest one of the bunch: LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL.
For some reason, this time my usually reticent husband decided to go with me. Maybe he didn't believe I was actually going to be spending the day at the movies? Maybe he didn't want to get stuck with babysitting duty? Maybe he genuinely wanted to see those movies and spend time with me? I don't know, but there we were ... seeing three whole movies together ... one-third of our entire theater experience was being accumulated in just one day!
I no longer even recall the other two movies that day, but I do remember being in awe of Benigni's film at the time ... of its charm and its sweetness. Something else struck me: the fact that Benigni truly loved his real-life wife, whom he cast to play his character's wife in the film. The way he looked at her resonated volumes through the camera lens ... so much so, it made me make an audible shudder-sigh sound when I witnessed it. I mean, as unconventional looking as he is, who wouldn't want to have their beloved gaze at them the way he gazes at her?
It was making me long for that look, that feeling. It made me realize that not only had I never received that look from the man who was sitting to my left in all of our history together, not even after the births of our children, but I had also never been able to gaze upon him in that awesome manner. It just wasn't there for us.
For years, I unfairly mentally compared him to a couple of boys I'd carried torches for since high school ... ideals that even the real boys couldn't live up to ... and he constantly reminded me that he still had a crush on a girl he'd only had a couple of dates with before he met me. She didn't give him a chance before she moved away, but he always felt a strong bond to her, and he went looking for that bond in several other women as the years passed, having not found it in me, I suppose. (She drew robots for him, I was told. I could draw robots, too, but he never seemed to see that ability in me.)
I began to squirm and shake a bit, while watching Benigni and his wife on the screen. Had I cheated myself out of the chance to be with someone who'd see only me, like he saw his wife. Had I prevented my husband from finding that robot-drawing girl, and finally feeling everything he'd wanted to feel with someone? I was watching a movie, but it felt more real than the empty life of lies I was living.
That's when it happened.
It got to the part of the movie where his character's wife, who is not Jewish, chooses to get on the train to be taken away to the concentration camp because her life means nothing, if her Jewish husband and son are gone. She was willing to die for them, rather than live without them.
I began to sob. Not just sob ... I was wailing. I had to muffle myself as best as I could, since we were not the only people in the theater, but otherwise, I could not hold back the waterfall of emotions that was pouring out of me.
Let me say this: up to that point, save for when Bambi's mom was shot, I'd almost never shed but a tear or two in any movie. Nothing had prepared me for this.
I continued shaking and sobbing through the rest of the movie, leaving my shirt literally soaked with tears, snot hanging like silky veils from my nostrils, and nothing but a sleeve with which to wipe my nose. I heard nearby patrons exasperatedly saying, "She's STILL crying?" And yet, I couldn't stop.
When the movie was over, I still could not compose myself. I sobbed through the credits, while my husband was completely flummoxed. I was embarrassed that I was going to have to manage a walk of shame through the lobby and parking lot, while still shaking and sobbing, shirt soaked and snot hanging. And I did just that.
I continued to cry for another two hours after the film was over! I was sobbing to the point that I was coughing and nearly throwing up. I thought I might not be able to stop or ever catch my breath. I wondered if anyone had died of dehydration from crying. I pictured that on my death certificate, and my children in therapy years later because of it, which just made me cry more! Man, had I built up a lot of resistance to keeping the good stuff from flowing in! But boy howdy, was the bad ever stuff flowing out of me!
I can't remember how it finally stopped, but I think I may have simply ran out of tears. The well that I had been filling for all those years with all of my sadness had run dry.
Not wanting to anger or upset my cancer-stricken husband, of course, I told him that I had been overcome with how beautiful I found that movie, which caused all of those emotions to pour out of me ... but the reality was that I knew something had to change. The lights were finally on, someone was finally home, and she was lonelier than she'd ever been in her entire life ... even being raised as an only child hadn't prepared her for the depths of this kind of loneliness.
I later took my mother to see this very same movie, expecting her to have buckets of tears, expecting myself to revisit those same tears. Instead, nothing like that happened at all. My mom sniffled a little, as did I, but no waterfalls or snot streamers in the slightest. That's when I realized it really did have to do with the person with whom I'd seen the movie ... with whom I'd chosen to have a life and children ... with whom I'd thought would one day be my best friend and my most treasured possession. There was no way that I could die without him, when I was already dead inside with him.
It's amazing how a film, or a song, or a book, or a piece of art can tug at the deepest part of your heart, pull out the one or two loosest strings, and unravel your whole world.
In the weirdest form of irony, however, when I wrote that previous October 2007 blog, I was exactly two months away from meeting the man who would offer himself up as the contrast with which I would clarify myself to who I am today. And in that tumultuous roller coaster of an 18-month relationship together, I would learn more about what I wanted ... in a relationship, and in myself ... than I'd ever learned even in my marriage.
That roller coaster relationship began with a song ... the song that I referenced in 2007 blog ... with the phrase, "I'm going to love you 'til the wheels come off ... oh yeah." And oh yeah, the wheels came off.
That relationship also ended with a story ... a story in a book ... a book that had already been recommended to me at the time of that blog post, but that I refused to pick up for another two years ... until I was at a lost enough place and needing a lighthouse to show me another way home. Coincidentally, that book had been written by a woman who had once interviewed Tom Waits.
I'm no longer saddened by any of these endings or misdirected attempts at grasping for love, however. They've clarified my choices to the place where I am today. A place that got me to create an imaginary relationship with a vibrational version of a guy with whom I could share that fantastically beautiful gaze experience. All I had to do was hold myself there, and there we were.
And today, when I sit and wonder how I can hold on to this sweet and marvelous resonance with a real version of that vibrational boyfriend -- a version who surprises, delights, and melts me in ways that leaves me weak in the knees, that even I could not conjure with my very active imagination -- I have the contrast of those past misguided attempts as trail markers, keeping me from heading in directions that I do not wish to go, or do, or feel again ... all under my control. And I have the imaginary, vibrational version to show me that I've always had this power to hold myself here all along, and I could have shared that with any of those past "mistakes" ... or with anyone else before now ... but it's just extra nice that this particular man makes it so easy for me to resonate with the happy me, the fuller me.
Maybe this brain meandering isn't quite done yet. Maybe this blog will, like others before it, uncover more layers of understanding as time progresses and as I catch up to the place my lovely inner dj keeps trying to lead me. I do know for sure, however, that I can hold on to this feeling and hold this gaze for as long as I choose to do so. And I can hold on to knowing that everything is always working out for me.
Stuck on repeat in my head tonight is yet another Mule Variation...
A month ago, I was nervously sitting in the midst of an awkward situation, the all-encompassing power of which left me not knowing how to act anymore. I was on a first date.
"Don't be familiar..."
Not only was it a first date, it felt like the first first date I'd ever gone on ... making me forget how things are supposed to go on a date, even after years and years of practice. In comparison, those other first dates now remind me of all the times that I diligently practiced for my first piano recital as a kid, but that never prepared me for the actual moment of sitting down to a piano on a stage.*
Sure, there was a huge build up to this date. Previously, casual acquaintances were assuming he was my boyfriend or husband, while closer friends were demanding that something be done about that "palpable" thing between us during an all-day/all-night Yacht Rock concert ... a "thing" that neither of us had even addressed yet, mind you, because we were so incredibly shy around each other.
Aside from that first all day adventure in awkward town, we had also spent the whole day before this date together with other friends present, sometimes uncomfortably sandwiched into a visual nerd feast called Dragon*Con. Still, we never managed to do more than shyly sit next to each other while sipping out of a rum-filled bucket and occasionally make eye contact so potent with chemistry, I had to break my gaze away quickly for fear of lustfully licking his face.**
So here we were spending the day together ... alone ... terrified, yet riveted. What could happen, we probably sort of knew, but we probably were both afraid of instant combustion or something.
I knew we were going to need some "liquid courage" after I'd posted this image to my Facebook page a few weeks earlier, and he "liked" it:
True story.
We started our date excursion by hopping into Mothra and promptly getting lost on the way to hunting down a liquor store. His jealous GPS lady voice actually tried to run us into a wall, and then when that didn't work, she tried to send us in the complete opposite direction of the store. Somehow we found it, despite her attempts at killing us, and about an hour into our date we were returning to our starting point, because we'd forgotten some much needed beach chairs in the trunk of his car.
But THEN we were off at last! First stop, a Caribbean Jerk Festival (they're actually very nice people, those Caribbeans). Seemed like a quirky way to get some chow, and it really was. We spotted pineapple drinks and paid way too much to drink non-alcoholic smoothies out of them, but ... PINEAPPLES! Suddenly, we weren't just on a date ... we were like the Howells on GILLIGAN'S ISLAND! They also added to our awkwardness, as we randomly dropped pieces of decorative fruit and got stickier and stickier by the minute holding them. But PINEAPPLES!
Did the Howells drink out of pineapples, or just bamboo cups?
When it came time to choose what to eat, we had a veritable cornucopia to choose from ... if you had like 20 cornucopias all serving basically the same foods in just slightly different ways. I, of course, chose the thing that took the longest to make and was the most awkward to eat: a whole, huge fish ... head on, eyes still in it ... which I had to figure out how to eat with a plastic fork that would have bent if pushed through Jell-O.
I managed to get some on my fork at least a couple of times, and awkwardly offered some to my date. To my secret delight, he took the bite right off my fork, like we were already being all coupley ... even through the gathering swarm of gnats! It was adorable ... two nervously awkward, middle-aged white folks having a first date at an all-black festival, eating unfamiliar foods while surrounded by swarms of gnats and getting blasted with digital-laser enhanced reggae music playing across an open football field.
And that was just the beginning!
By the time we made it to the Drive Invasion (bands all day, movies and camping out all night at the drive-in), we were still nervous, but I think we'd both just accepted this as the new norm. We spent the rest of the day walking and chatting and trying to get pictures of people riding mini and/or double versions of things, like a baby Grave Digger or a welded one-on-top-of-the-other double bicycle. We also witnessed what was possibly the most amazing karaoke rendition of "Purple Rain" I have ever witnessed, and I saw Prince perform that live during the Purple Rain tour! This version was far more beardy than Prince's, however.
If you squint, you can see tiny, background us there in someone else's pic.
As it got dark, we decided to break out the liquid courage (vodka, straight; chased with whatever fruity cider I had been drinking) and beach chairs, along with grabbing some concession stand grub: corndogs (no sexual references were made, but plenty were thought ... by me) and more nachos than anyone should ever try to consume. We discussed movie points here and there, but we really spent the evening telling tales from our lives up to that point, and a lot of laughing.
When I got up to go to the bathroom sometime after Midnight, I came back to find him needing to go, which he did, and our beach chairs suspiciously several inches closer to each other. I laughed, because I'd been turning and moving mine closer by degrees all evening, but you would have needed time-lapse photography to see it move. This was a bold move on his part. Or maybe he didn't realize how obvious he'd been about closing the gap. I moved mine even closer then.
We still sat watching the movies and talking, and someone was periodically lighting off fireworks behind us, to which I would "WOOO!" really loud in appreciation, regardless of the fact that no one else was making a sound. That might've been the vodka.
It wasn't until the 4th movie ... a full 15 hours into our date ... that something changed. He put his arm on the back of my chair! Just rested it there, like it was casual, even though I'm sure it wasn't. And I sat there hoping and hoping he'd put it around me ... which he finally did, and to which I was so stunned that my wishing had worked, I forgot that I should be doing something. A voice shouted in my head, "LEAN INTO HIM, FREAK!" Actually, it didn't call me a freak, but it was a thought that came in loud and clear, so I leaned in.
I'm not sure how long we sat there cuddled up like that, probably not that long, but it seemed like forever, when he or I or both at the same moment made the cuddle an actual hug, and the actual hug became an actual first kiss. Talk about fireworks and woo! On the record of all of my first kisses, and as awkward as our lead up was, that kiss was perfection and the top of the charts. I was floored by how it felt like I was kissing myself, every move matched ... not a trace of awkwardness to be found between us there.
Also, as soon as that kiss happened, I knew the clothes would be coming off ... it was just that good. And they did. We spent the rest of the evening until sun up in the back of my little Mothra, doing things that I cannot write about here (**in my enthusiasm, I did indeed lick his face, just like I knew I would; he giggled), while listening to a cd of Wire's Pink Flag + Extras. There were moments, while staring into each others eyes, where I could feel every emotion possible, and the positive energy of something so fantastic it took my breath away. The world around us dissolved.
We felt incredible ... like teenagers ... until we tried to get our clothes back on and get out of the car several hours later. Then we felt like middle-aged people who don't practice yoga and should never try to play marathon Twister in a tiny space. But we had giant grins on our faces even through the stiffness and pain!
When asked later how the date went by one of the friends who'd been trying to push us to go for all that "palpable" energy, I replied:
"There were fireworks!
Also, we did it. :)"
As adolescent as my reply was, I was in deep. The thing had taken over, and I haven't let it stop. This has been the most fantastic, easy, nerdy, delightful, sexy ride I have ever been on, and I don't see it stopping any time soon ... nor do I want it do anything but keep going and going. I get excited at just the thought of where such potent, positive energy will take me. Correction: where it will take us!
Earlier today, I received a text message that made me make a tiny, audible squeal at work when I read it:
"One month ago at this time I
was drinking from a pineapple
with a girl I had a sizable crush
on. I was excited and nervous."
As fun as that first date was, every moment since gets better than the last. It's like I placed an order (I did!) and got exactly what I wanted. And I would not trade a single, awkward lead-up moment (and there are many more than I've written here), as each makes our story all the more endearing and adorkable.
I have made it my habit over the years to not name names in this blog ... not even first names whenever I can help it. I'm going to end that here and tell you his name is Scott. I may still refer to him as "my boyfriend" in the future -- or possibly a pet name, if one sticks -- but since this is a different experience from all the rest, he deserves a credit! And maybe a medal or a trophy or a ribbon. Something for making it so easy for me to be a happy, happy girl.
---
*And what did I play at that first piano recital? A number one hit on the radio in 1981 was chosen by my teacher, who only cared that I'd heard it before, not whether or not I liked it (I didn't). I remember nervously sitting down at that stage piano, feeling like I was about to throw up, knowing this was more for the adults than for me, so I better make it good ... taking a deep breath, and then the song just flowing from my fingers almost without effort. When it was all over, a parent said to me backstage, "I like your version better than the original, and I love that song! You played that like you truly felt it!"
My recital version of this song was much less beardy than the original, however.
I don't know that I really felt it back then, but after I received
that sweet text memory earlier today, this blog started writing itself
inside my head, along with a loop of these lyrics stuck on repeat in
there, too...
"Baby, you left me defenseless.
I've only got one plea.
Lock me away inside of your love.
I'm guilty of love in the first degree."
And in making sure I had the lyrics correct just now, I discovered the title to this blog that had been eluding me the whole time I've been writing ... it's the title to the album that "Love in the First Degree" was on, and it made me grin from ear to ear. Thanks again for the giggle, you kooky, crazy universe, you!
One of my favorite stories that my grandmother used to tell is the one about how I was almost never born because it gave me a chance to really think how I almost became George Bailey for real.
Well, okay ... maybe not exactly like George Bailey, since I wouldn't have even had a life up to a certain, desperate adult moment when an angel finally decided to make me his pet project. I would have just ceased as the DNA of a future me right there in my great-grandfather's scrotum. Bet you never thought you'd read those words ever; bet you'll never get that image out of your head now either!
And it wouldn't have just been me trapped forever in my great-grandfather's scrotum, no siree! My grandmother, my mother, both of my mother's brothers and all of my grandmother's brothers, along all of our combined descended progeny. That's quite a crowd, when you think about it. No wonder dudes are always trying to lighten that load!
Anyway, it all almost never started in Ireland around the turn of the last century...
When my great-grandfather Michael was just a lad of about 12 or so, he had a chance meeting with a buddy's cousin, whose name was Honorah. She was visiting from a far off county (or at least things seemed far off without cars and internets and shit), but Michael was instantly smitten, and he confided to his friend that he would marry the beautiful Honorah someday.
A few years went by without the two meeting again, when Michael's buddy received a picture of his now quite mature cousin, Honorah. Michael insisted on having her address, so that he could begin his courtship at last. The only problem was that they were poor and the distance between them seemed huge, especially when you don't have money, or cars, or telephones, or high speed internet, or hoverpods and teleporters (for those of you reading this in the future).
Michael and Honorah
Even through the distance, Honorah remembered the charm of the boy she met years earlier, and fell hard for Michael's devilish good looks (as seen in the picture above) and his mischievous wit (probably not seen in that same photo) that came across in his letters to her. They corresponded for many months, with Michael eventually proposing via letter (paper, pen, ink, envelope, stamp, mail currier - for those of you still reading from the future), and Honorah accepting.
One thing remained: they had not met face to face since they were kids. Knowing that had to be remedied anyhow, if he was to marry this fine woman, Michael scraped together all the money he could to afford to travel to her home town.
When Honorah finally laid eyes on the man of her dreams, she was devastated to discover the one thing they never discussed in all their missives: Michael was a good two inches shorter than Honorah! She was heart broken. How could she face her friends and family with this news? And how could she ever consider marrying a man shorter than her, when she was such a handsome woman with so many other, taller (but less hilarious) suitors lining up to make her their wife. She refused his offer and sent Michael away crushed.
With much time to kill before he could use his return ticket home, Michael spent a good portion of the day wandering around Honorah's town and thinking of all the things about her that brought him there. He loved her, that was still very clear to him, and he resolved to not leave without winning her back. But how?
In a small shop, he found his answer: a novelty postcard (for kids reading today, that would be like someone sending a Someecard to your smartphone; for those reading in the future, it would be like when the holographic LOLbot triggers a digital mind modem tingle, which in turn brings forth a giggle and one, sometimes two drops of pee from you).
He would win her back the same way she fell for him before -- by making her laugh without even being there.
"A Curious Love Letter"
The great love I have hitherto expressed for you
is false, and I find my indifference towards you increases daily. The more I see of you the more
you appear in my eyes an object of contempt I feel myself every way disposed and determined
to hate you. Believe me, I never had an intention to offer you my hand. Our last conversation has
left a tedious insipidity, which has by no means given me the most exalted idea of your character.
Your temper would make me extremely unhappy, and were we united I should experience nothing but
the hatred of my parents, added to everlasting dis- pleasure in living with you. I have, indeed, a heart
to bestow, but I do not desire you to imagin it at your service. I could not give it to any one more
inconsistent and capricious than yourself and less capable to do honour to my choice and family.
Yes, I hope you will be persuaded that I speak sincerely, and you will do me a favour
to avoid me. I shall excuse you taking the trouble to answer this: your letters are always full of
impertinence, and you have not a shadow of wit and good sense. Adieu! Adieu! Believe me
so averse to you that it is impossible for me ever to be your most affectionate friend and humble
servant. P.S.-After reading the above commence again, and read every alternate line to the end.
Without knocking at the door, he slipped this postcard into the mail slot, then waited. And waited. And waited. And when he couldn't wait any longer, that's when the door opened. She was beaming, and they fell into each other's arms, then she brought him inside to meet her family ... which was just in time, since he really needed to find a toilet or an outhouse or whatever they were using back then.
Today, some of Michael's DNA is the proud keeper of that very postcard that united those two lovebirds, and I'm very grateful to be able to recount this story for you from outside of that scrotum!
Life's interesting twists and turns and ups and downs can be the darnedest things, and many of us probably sit and wonder "what if" for many moments of our lives. I know one small, lovely snippet of how I almost didn't come into being*, and I look at how I'm still coming into being, and at all the wonderful ways people come together.
I don't have an ending to this piece because, at this point in my newly redefined/defining sense of love and place in this world, understanding it all is quite beyond my abilities -- hence the title!** This is merely a chance to celebrate how funny, seemingly random, but really magical love truly is!
*Along with knowing far too much detail about how I directly came into being via the cramped, sweaty moments my parents shared at the drive-in, while conceiving me either during a screening of AIRPORT or MASH. I will refrain from drawing any conclusions between my life and a disaster movie or a war film with the theme, "Suicide Is Painless." **Mostly, I've just been looking for a chance to work in "a huckleberry over my persimmon" anywhere I can.
Also, I am going on record to officially admit that I do not know a thing about dating, relationships, chemistry, kissing, love, sex, or other stuff that I could itemize specifically, but then get some really weird comments and spam from freaky traffic searches. Not a thing of any of it. Zero. Zilch. Zip. As a matter of fact, everything I've ever written about any of those subjects previously in this blog or anywhere else is 100% wrong.
WRONG, I SAY!
All I know is that something happened this weekend that made me realize either I leveled up in the dating game, or I was never playing the game for real before. I think the atmosphere has gotten thinner, too. I'm all spinny and light-headed ... like you-should-seriously-consider-seeing-a-doctor spinny and light-headed. But I don't really need a doctor because it's merely how the super powers begin to manifest with this new level, right?
All I know for sure is that this is the loveliest, funnest, awkwardest, funniest, cutest, silliest, sexiest, geekiest, sappiest, floatiest, fallingiest, clickiest, amazingiest, magically-deliciousiest, supercalifragilisticexpialidociousiest thing to ever make insanely perfect sense in my life.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm just going to allow myself to bask in it and marvel at where it takes me.
Those who know me are aware that I regularly have a song stuck in my head. How they know this is that I subject them to the song by posting it on Facebook -- no matter how awesome or awful it may be -- to exorcise it out of my own head. It works, too. After I post it ... and then force myself to listen to it about a dozen times in a row ... the song begins to slowly fade out.
Most days I wake up with a song already playing in there, like I have a crazed brain dj who spins just the loops of certain parts of songs over and over to get my attention, except when I start paying attention I don't usually find a message; rather, I just find that at some point I must've heard or said a snippet of, say, some ABBA ditty (like, "Knowing me, knowing you") and my good old brain dj thinks it was a request.*
Occasionally, my brain dj is so adamant that I hear a song, s/he wakes me up in the middle of the night to play it for me ... like tonight. This time, I got really lucky, because it was Neil Young's "Only Love Can Break Your Heart" ... and given that I have a huge soft spot for Mr. Young, I cannot be angry that he or my rabid brain dj woke me up at the crazy hour of 2:15 AM on a Tuesday night ... or I guess it's Wednesday morning now.
To get myself back to sleep quicker, I decided that I should slip over to my computer and pull up said stuck song in an attempt to exorcise it early ... or at least get the lyrics right, so I'm not going around all day singing:
I have a friend I've never seen. He hides his head inside a tree.**
The first video that Google presents to me in my search is one that has been put together with very old black and white footage of a wedding, so not only is the song mesmerizing, so are the images. I am, of course, immediately entranced...
Then at about 2:15 into the video, something jars me out of that trance. It appears to be a boy jumping up on the left side of the frame so that he can get on camera as it's slowly panning the crowd. Time telephone!
No, I'm not dream blogging. I'll explain...
See, I once made a little movie using found home movies that I'd purchased off of Ebay ... well, mostly made up of found movies. At the very end, however, I also inserted a segment of all of my own home movies from growing up, edited just to be the parts with me -- turned out to only be a total running time of just 10 minutes worth of film, if you can believe it ... and I was an only child! Sheesh! Where was I again? Oh yeah...
To be practical, I compressed that 10 minutes into just 2 minutes by speeding it up; to be artsy and weird, I presented it all in reverse chronological order. It made sense when I was editing the film (running on very little sleep and nothing to eat but bison summer sausages and Diet Cokes for 8 weeks straight), as I was trying to find the origin of a thought ... a thought shooting a home movie, a thought being a woman, a thought on the responsibility of collecting long-dead strangers' personal things, etc.
The main thought that I was pursuing -- the film itself -- actually was born in a moment when I was just a Wee-Creature ... heck, I was merely a She-Tadpole.
An actual picture of actual me from around that actual time.
Yes, that really is me. Whaddiya mean, "What happened?"
I couldn't have been more than 6 or 7 years old, when my father was doing his annual "film the Christmas decorations for posterity sake-- Dammit, the kid's in the shot! I'll just tell her to hold the dog to make her useful" thing. (Yes, the reason there was only 10 minutes of film of me was that there were 45 minutes of film reels of furniture, Xmas trees, parades, and other "important" stuff. Again, I was his only child.)
In that moment that I was supposed to be helping to feature the dog and Xmas tree like some sort of PRICE IS RIGHT model, tadpole me got a thought:
What if there was a way to send a message to yourself in the future through a movie camera? What if the lens could act like some sort of time telephone, and if I can look into it while I'm thinking that thought, I can project that same thought to myself in the future ... like 21 or something old like that?
The only problem was, my dad wasn't interested in shooting me in that moment. He needed to capture that new Santa house my mom created in her ceramics class ... capture it good, for posterity's sake! I had to take matters into my own hands ... or in this case, feet.
I began jumping up to get my eyes in line with the lens. If you're watching my film FOUND, around 7:17 you see just a spazzy blur bouncing up and down for about 3 seconds, totally messing up the shot of the lovely red ceramic Santa house atop the giant console television set.***
The good news is the time telephone worked! The thought got through, and I made the experimental art documentary short that made me the nillionaire I am today!
The strange news that jarred me alert over an image of a jumping boy in an old home movie that reminded me of my own jumping self in my home movies was the uncanny moment not 6 hours earlier, when I was telling a friend about that little film of mine for the first time because the subject of copyright law came up ... a topic I happen to know a little something about firsthand. And I'm not bitter in the slightest. Nope.****
Wow. I stayed awake for an extra hour to essentially write an ode to coinkydinks.
Yeah, I basically live for this shit.
*A quite lovely former co-worker of mine told me that this song or phrase looping is actually a brain defect and is related to schizophrenia. That information only looped in my head for about 3 weeks before it finally dissipated. **It's actually, "He hides his head inside a dream." Good thing I caught that. ***If you know where my film is to watch for that, good for you! If you don't, I'm not posting it here for you to track me down on Facebook in order to "friend" and/or date me, just because you've been stalking my blog. Not again. ****Copyleft, people. Google it.
I told you guys all about how awesome myimaginary boyfriendis ... was ... whatever ... sure, but I never expected any of youto actually start seeing him with your own eyes. I honestly don't know how any of this phenomenon happened, but it is uncanny!
Here's where I describe to you in great detail some delicate matters of the heart that most shrink from, likely outing yet another oddball side of myself that will make you all think, "Oh crap! She's doing it again!" Or maybe just, "Oh crap. She's doing it. Again."
This time, however, it's not me; it's you! Yep, all you.
Well, okay ... it's a little bit me. And it's a little bit you, too.
Why am I singing this blog now?
At first it all started out like just your typical outdoor concert, where friends and strangers gather wearing captain's hats like a "Tenille got too much credit!" convention, get completely blotto in the hot August evening, and pretend it's the 70s again, while singing songs they probably only remember choruses to and gyrating around with said friends and strangers. There does or does not have to be a giant inflatable shark nearby with kids sliding out of it, and a she-male passerby giving his/her own dance show with a Shakeweight while her/his tank dress keeps allowing full-on nipple slips.
Yes, I am (almost) entirely certain that we concertgoers were merely tipsy and a little overheated ... nothing else. We all saw these same things and have (varying degrees of) memories of these sights, so therefore we can come to a consensus that these things were real. Right? Right.
And yet I have no explanation for the multiple, independent hallucinations of me in a relationship.
The first reported sighting came when I was flagged away from a great conversation with guy friends about movies and music and farts (I'm adding that last one in, but I'm sure they were mentioned or snuck at some point) by a group of female friends and strangers, who felt they needed to "save" me from the boy talk.
Among these ladies was a drunken former cheerleader, who proudly told us all about how she's angry that her once robust arm muscles turned to pure flab, how her husband is the only man she's ever had sex with, how he ended up with only one testicle, and other topics that I've since blocked. She turned to me in a breath between talking about how long she'd only been having flabby-armed sex with this one man and his one testicle to ask me, "So how long have you two been together?"
I looked next to me ... no one there ... before replying, "Me? I'm single." Then she sloshed her drink in the general direction of the boys and asked, "Isn't that one yours?" I laughed it off, explaining, "Oh no, I'm divorced. He's divorced, too. Not from each oth-." Interrupting me, she slurred, "Well, what are you two waiting for? Get on that!"
I laughed uncomfortably again, as yet another gal from our group walked up, asking if anyone knew how to find the restrooms. I jumped up, exclaiming too robustly, "I do! I have to go, too!"
I really didn't have to go that badly; I just needed a convenient escape.
I trotted off with the second gal -- who was having far less foot-in-mouth issues than I remember her having -- until we rounded the corner to find the line to the women's restroom was three years long. Opting for the much shorter, but more disgusting Port-a-TARDIS option, we joined the other desperate "wizzards" there, where she pointed further up the queue, noting the very same male friend.
Female Two: "There's your hubby going in!"
Me: "Heh, no. We're not mar..."
FT: "Oh, okay. Your honey."
Me: "Hee. Er. No. We. Not. Couple. Er. I..."
FT: "Wow. I didn't mean to embarrass you."'
Me: "...I mean ... he's a friend. Friend of friends. We're both friends. We've many friends."
What was happening to me!? Somehow, English had become my second language! Luckily, my own embarrassing moment got sidelined by that same male friend getting an embarrassing walk-in from another dude because of an unlocked door.
Oh, yes! Let's talk about how important it is that we remember to lock the door! Yes! Whew. Handled that diversion like a champ.
I managed to survive the TURDIS experience only mildly mentally challenged, and avoided the overly inquisitive ladies by returned to hang out with the boys. At least they don't want to ask me about other boys. Or shoes. Or cheerleading. Or flabby arms. Or missing testicles. Well, not usually. Even though I may have said something embarrassing about a pipe fetish, it was still a much more comfortable conversation than the psychological minefield the girls were sure to dredge.
Somehow our group of drunken sailors finagled their way around a table that belonged to an older woman and her son -- befriending them in order to commandeer her table, I believe. At some point, the drunken ex-cheerleader decided to start talking about my boobs ... to the very same person she'd previously thought was my significant other ... or maybe she still did think that? Either way, in my mildly buzzy, but still uncomfortable state, I may have uncontrollably blurted something else embarrassing here, too -- like my cup size -- which may have inadvertently fueled the discussion further. That was my cue to hightail it to the bar and escape awkwardness again. I never set out to order that many vodka tonics over the course of the evening; it really was all the fault of socially awkward situations. Just like high school all over again.
When I returned, the boob talk was over (thank goodness), and only managed to be brought up again 5 or 6 more times that evening. During a lull in the boob and testicle talk, the table-mom/new stranger leaned to me and quietly said, "Your husband is really nice."
[press play; start singing until 0:46]
...It's a little bit me. (A little bit me.) It's a little bit yo-
[press pause; insert record rip sound.]
What? No, I ask you... what? As in, what is going on here?
I momentarily considered that I was being punked ... that everyone was in on it and secretly giggling over how more and more befuddled by this same question I was getting. Then I realized that everyone was genuinely hammered, and it would take someone a lot more sober to pull off that prank. So I decided to relax about it.
How I got next to the one-testicled husband of the drunken ex-cheerleader, I don't know. And how he became almost as obsessed with touching my boobs as his wife was obsessed with talking about them, I also don't know. What I do know is when I turned the grope down, he leaned in and slurred, "Will it make your guy jealous?"
Hey now! Wait. What? How did...? Where is that hidden camera!?
He swore he just assumed we were a couple, that no one said anything to him, but he also added that, since I was in fact single, I should just go with it. The boob grope, that is.
Really? Does this work on anyone?
Time for an escape (not the Pina Colada Song which ironically was never covered, despite it apparently being my theme song for the evening). Another trip to the bar had yet a fourth tipsy gal from our group cherrily saying to me as she passed by with drinks, "I like your new guy!" At this point, I just went with it and chirped back, "Thanks!" If they were going to insist on he and I being an item, I was no longer going to contradict anyone.
I returned to the table -- or rather, was hailed over again -- by two more female friends who do actually know me well enough not to ask the question the others had asked. They did, however, have questions of their own, and they got right down to business.
[highly edited version follows]
Ms. Thing One: "What is going on between you two?"
Ms. Thing Two: "Seriously!"
Me: "Unless you know something I don't know, nothing. Honest! Why is literally everyone asking me?"
Ms. T1: "Because there's a thing between you. It's huge."
Me: "I'm not denying it, but are you sure it's not just coming from me? I have that imaginary boyfr-"
Ms. T2: "It's BOTH of you! That's why everyone sees it. It's PALPABLE!"
Speaking of palpable, if you ever want to feel the simultaneous thrill and terror of what it's like to be in one of those shark cages while the sharks look at you as their overly prepackaged snack, just have some juicy tidbit floating around in your psyche that girls will want to sink their rows and rows of sharp, toothy questions into ... and they will. Oh, they will. All I could do was give them what they wanted. I was more amused at this point than scared, as I realized that everyone was now seeing me with an imaginary boyfriend! I am just that good! Huzzah!
That was my own inside joke. The reality is that once I got over trying to dissuade anyone of their assumptions, I enjoyed being seen as part of a couple. Why wouldn't I? He's cute. He's funny. He's smart. He's my highest match in a 500 mile radius, according to a certain dating site we both use. If he's my imaginary boyfriend made manifest ... even just for one evening ... even just fleetingly as images in other people's minds ... what's not to like?
And so with that lightsaber fanning the flames of passion and drunken desire, of course you know how this evening ends.
Yes, in traditional She-Creature fashion, I brought him home with me! Wanna meet him? I don't normally mention anyone by name, but I feel this one's going to be around for a while. Meet John...
Me to John: "You make my dreams come true."
I introduced him to the dogs, but they didn't really warm up to him very quickly...
Millie to John: "I can't go for that. No, no. No can do."
Bacon to John: "My private eyes are watching you."
Then things went from bad to worse!
John to me: "She's a maneater!"
*Where the real events ended. Only the lightsaber got any action.
