Let's Talk About Sex, Baby

Tonight I learned an important lesson.

It is called: When Your Son Refers To His Testicles As His Bladder, Just Let That Shit Go.

Otherwise, you will stumble into the sex talk, like THE. SEX. TALK. because, in the middle of pointing out that his bladder is actually INSIDE his body, he will say this:

"Ian said that you make a baby when a boy puts his privates into the girl's privates."

Really, would it have fucking killed you to just have been like, "Yup, that's your bladder alright, now get your jammies on"?

Apparently, you didn't learn an earlier form of this lesson when, having used the word vagina during both the 'where is your penis' and 'how does the baby get out' talks, your son somehow turned that into the word 'pachini', leading to this conversation one night when he found out you were making fettuccine alfredo for dinner:

"WHAT? WHAT IS PACHINI ALFREDO?"

"Oh my God, FET-A-CHEE-NI! NOT vagina!"

Instead, you're going to wind up feeling the same way you did when you walked into English class not having read the previous night's chapters of Pride and Prejudice and found out that, SURPRISE! ITS POP QUIZ DAY, MOTHERFUCKERS! and you had to hope that your teacher would maybe give you partial credit because, instead of just leaving blank spaces, you at least tried to be creative and make up weird answers involving Elvis impersonators.

Because having the sex talk when you're not ready for the sex talk is exactly like that.

It is exactly like a Pride and Prejudice pop quiz about Elvis impersonators.

Boston, You're My Home

I tend to wake up early; sometimes at 3, sometimes at 4.

Always while it's still dark.

This morning I was sitting at my computer, drinking a cup of coffee.  My computer sits in a small room off of my living room. It has 7 windows, 3 of which face east. I opened the curtains to watch the sun rise.

My 7 year old came downstairs. I pulled him onto my lap.

"Look at the sunrise," I told him. "Isn't it beautiful?"

He sat quietly. He rested his head under my chin. I breathed him in, even as my leg grew tired from his heavy body.

Our day went on.

And then, the world went mad here in Boston.

My hands shook. My voice shook. The tears came. I kept my sons away from the television

As night time crept closer, I began to feel the vulnerability seep in. The house made a weird noise. The light cast a scary shadow. I know I won't sleep tonight.

As I was putting my 9 year old to bed, I looked out his westward facing window.

There was the slightest glow remaining as the sun dipped below the horizon. The sky was a deep, midnight blue, not quite black. The moon stood out, a bright sliver. Venus was out.

There was beauty, even on a day as ugly as this.

The sun rose and then set, bookmarks to the madness.





Love and prayers to the victims, their families, the witnesses, and the first responders.

And to this city that I love.

This city that is home.  

10 Tips For Running The Boston Marathon (by a non-runner)

Tip #1: The marathon route is going to be jam-packed with other runners. Avoid the crowds; bring your GPS and take back roads.

Tip #2: Say "excuse me" when you'd like a runner in front of you to move out of your way so that you may pass him/her. Good manners are important and your mom will be proud.
   

Excuse me, people. You are in my way.

Tip #3: To avoid having to use the bathroom during the race, it's best to avoid all fluid intake before and during the race.

Tip #4: If you absolutely MUST have something to drink, make it whiskey, and a lot of it, as running down the street after peeing yourself is one of its widely-known side effects. Plus, you'll be drunk, so what do you care?

No to water. Yes to whiskey.

 

Tip #5: Run to win. Forget that nonsense about finishing being an accomplishment in itself because, honestly, winning makes for a way better story and is far more likely to get you laid. 

Tip #6:  If you're going to beat those Kenyans, you've got to run really, really fast. Not just regular fast, I mean like 'OMFG, a very hungry lion is chasing me' kind of fast.

"Get in mah belleh!"

Tip #7: Chafing sounds bad. Don't do that. 

Tip #8: It's not every day that you get to wear a tin-foil shawl, so you should consider wearing it through the entire race to maximize your shininess. 

Shine bright like a diamond. A wrinkly, crinkly diamond.

Tip #9:  Tie your shoes. I recommend a double, if not triple or quadruple knot. You don't want to trip.

Tip #10: Don't over-think your form. Aim for this method:



 Good luck, runners!

On Divorce

This is how you get divorced.

First, you get married.

Then, you grow apart.

One of you starts zigging while the other is busy zagging, each of you drifting off in ways that are so small, so imperceptible that when you look back, stunned and wondering Where The Hell It All Went Wrong, you will barely be able to recognize those first minuscule schisms and cracks.

You get busy with the house and the jobs and the babies and the life.

Then one day, in a matter that is not completely out of the blue, you have a thought. It is the sort of thought that, once conceived, cannot easily be unthought.

You think, "This doesn't feel right."

This thought sits with you for a very long time. You eventually share it with him, you talk about it, you even make plans to split. But then you hurl yourselves back at each other in a relieved moment of, "Thank God we didn't go through with it!" You go back to the way things were because there is comfort and safety there and you're fairly certain it's all going to be okay, that the part of you that sometimes still says, "HEY! This isn't working!" can be made to shut up long enough for you to figure out a way to smother her once and for all.

That works for a few years.

But then, it doesn't.

So you talk. You decide to separate. He finds an apartment. You tell the kids. 

Everyone cries. Everyone survives.

You get used to sleeping alone in the bed, used to a quiet house on the weekend, used to bracing against storms on your own. Everyone survives.

You fight over the house. You have cake together on your sons' birthdays. You fight over money. You sit and have a burger and a beer with him one night in his yard and hope that this is what the future holds, this friendly sort of way to be. You have big conversations that come in fits and starts, where one minute you're talking about a retainer for your nine year old and the next you're saying things like, "I'm sorry" or "We loved each other the very best we could" or "No, you're doing just fine, be good to yourself."

One night you both stand outside, beneath the light that hangs at the door of his place. It's snowing. He says, shakily, "I met someone, and I see now what you meant about this not being right because I found something that does feel right. I know it now." You're relieved over this, yet you both cry, him looking up at the light and you down at your feet.  Shame and guilt run down your cheeks, splashing and mixing with the snowflakes in your hair.  You give him an awkward hug.  This is a little bit of healing.

But it doesn't last. The accumulated hurts rise and fall over the next few weeks as you trudge toward the finish line. You take turns having at each other. Attack. Defend. Counterattack. Apologize. Attack. Repeat.

And then, suddenly, it is the last day of your marriage.

You put on some nice clothes and go to court.

You sit, composed and eager to hurry through the whole thing, even as you lose a motion to keep your house. You have just lost what you've been fighting a year and a half for and you don't even care because you know you are about to lose something so much bigger. You know it was lost a long time ago.  

They call your name. You're already crying as you take your place before the judge. You stand together one last time, your final act as a married couple.

The judge asks if your marriage began on April 21, 2001.

You're wearing a white dress and stiff shoes.  You are standing before the priest, with everyone you love sitting behind you.  He's nervous as he takes a breath to say his vows; you squeeze his hand, trying to say, "Forget all of them; just talk to me. Right now, there is only you and me."  

The judge asks if this marriage did produce two children, born in February of 2004 and September of 2005.

You're running out of the bathroom with a pregnancy test, the sweet June air lilting in through the open bedroom windows. You're jumping onto the bed, bubbling and laughing, "Do you see it?  Do you SEE IT?"  

You're laying in the hospital bed 24 hours after giving birth, hormonal and exhausted. You haven't slept in 48 hours and the baby won't nurse. He climbs into your hospital bed to lie next to you. You finally sleep.

You're driving your youngest to preschool. You see him in the rear view mirror, small in his car seat, and ask him what he wants to be when he grows up. He says, "I think I'll go to work with Daddy. I'll ride the train with him and go to work with him and then we'll ride the train home." You nod and agree that this is a good plan.

You shut your eyes, not caring who sees the hot tears washing over your face. Your entire body is shaking. You sob silently. The bailiff brings you tissues and gives you a compassionate pat on the back.

The judge says, "Is this marriage irretrievably broken?"

"Fuck you," you're screaming at him, crying, his voice yelling back as loud as your own.

You're flying down the stairs in bare feet, grasping for your keys. He's booming at you not to run away.

He's standing on the porch, turning away with contempt and saying he can't even look at you. You cringe as you see yourself through his eyes.

Yes.  It is broken.

The judge says, "Is there any hope for reconcilliation?"

He made you a mother.  You made him a father. 

You were happy together for a long time.

You loved each other the best that you could.



You loved each other the best that you could.



The answer is no.

I'm sorry.  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry. 




And then

you are divorced.

Don't Touch the Hair

This morning, as I was cruising around the internets, I stumbled upon this:

This, for those of you not in the know, is the boy band One Direction, responsible for the earworm known as "What Makes You Beautiful", a song about a boy who finds a girl's shitty self-image to be really hot.

What gets me about this picture is not the fact that they look like a unicultural United Colors of Benetton ad that I would have found in Seventeen magazine as a teenager.

It's the hair.

I just...I can't...I'm not...

WHAT is up with the douchebag hair? 

And I was all ready to make fun of them and their douchebag hair when suddenly...

I remembered the 90's:

 

Hi, I'm Brandon and I'm a know-it-all gambling addict, but chicks dig my hair.

Hi, I'm Dylan and I'm a moody alcoholic/drug addict, but chicks dig my hair.

While Brandon and Dylan certainly owned stock in a far less scandalous mile-high club, they had nothing on these guys:

We are totally hangin' tough. 

Apparently there's something about a young teenage girl that makes her oblivious to just how ridiculous the object of her 14 year old desire actually looks.

Exhibit A (or, "My Favorite New Kid"):

This is Joe.  He's a Capricorn. He regularly pleaded with me, "Please don't go, girl," but he was competing with algebra homework, appointments for spiral perms, and getting my braces tightened. Pretty sure I ruined his whole world.

However, at some point, this guy started to catch my eye (I don't know, it might have had something to do with hormones.  Just a guess.):

This is Jordan.  He promised that he'd be lovin' me forever, and boys don't ever lie about that stuff. Also, he started singing with his shirt unbuttoned while a ginormous fan tried to blow him off stage. It was very hot.  

So I suppose there's not much I can say about One Direction and their birds-could-nest-in-this-shit-and-you'd-never-even-know hair.

Except:

Style it while you've got it, boys. 

'Cause it ain't yours to keep.

 

In The Still of the Night (Part 1)

   Once upon a time, I wrote fiction.  Exclusively fiction.  Then I started writing this blog and writing satire and I sort of drifted away from the whole thing in the name of broadening writing horizons and all that.  I recently started writing fiction again and figured that, if there's already an audience, I might as well share.

     “Let’s get drunk,” her text said. 

     

     “Let’s.  Where?” had been his reply and that was how he came to be sitting in the corner booth of Foley’s Pub.   She was late, as usual, but he did not bother to wait for her before ordering, as he knew she would neither notice nor care. 

      

     She usually preferred to sit at the bar, and he knew that this was because it was easier for her to avoid looking directly at him.  “You have a way of looking at me sometimes,” she had said in the dark one night when he asked her about it.  “Like you’re looking through me. “  She was still for a moment before shifting her body and moving to lie on top of him.  Her hair spilled forward into his face and he pushed it back gently, out of her eyes, as she looked down at him. 

      

     “It’s very intense,” she said.  He felt as though that had been the moment to say something big, something important, but before he had the chance she had rolled off and was getting out of the bed, searching for her clothes. 

     

      The advantage to arriving at Foley’s first was that he could then sit wherever he chose.  He liked the corner booth, the way it was darker than the rest of the bar, the way it curved from one wall to the next like a bent elbow.   It gave him the feeling of being separate from the rest of the place with the comfort and buzz of conversation still in the background.  She would not be as close to him as she would be if they sat at the bar, but this way, she’d have to look at him. 

      

     He was nearing the end of his Jameson’s, listening to the ice cubes tumble in the bottom of the glass,  when she came in, pausing just inside the door to scan the bar looking for him.  He liked watching her look for him; it was a moment where he could see her but she could not see him.  And he liked knowing it was him she was searching for. 

      

     In a bar as small as Foley’s, it did not take her long to spot him.  There was a brightening of recognition upon her face, but it fell short of being a smile. 

      

     “Hey,” she said, placing her purse upon the table and sliding into the booth, a bundle of energy and  hair and perfume.  If she was bothered by the deviation from their normal placement at the bar, she didn’t say so.  He had considered offering her an explanation but could see now that it wouldn’t be necessary. 

     

     “You need another,” she said, pointing to his glass.

      

     “I do,” he agreed.  “And you need to catch up.”

     

     “Yes,” she said and as quickly as she had sat down, she was back on her feet.

    

     “Jameson?” she asked.  He nodded.  She turned and strode to the bar.

    

     He needed a cigarette and while this was probably the moment when most people would step outside to have one, in these first chaotic, unorganized minutes of ordering drinks and complaining about traffic or weather, he decided to wait until she returned with the drinks.   He watched her leaning slightly over the bar as she yelled her order over the music.  The side of her shirt rode up ever so slightly when she leaned, just enough that the smallest triangle of skin on her hip was exposed.  No sooner had it appeared than she straightened up and it was gone.   His mind, however, lingered at that spot for another moment as he wondered if this would be one of those nights where he would later be kissing that very same patch of pale skin, or if he would end the night watching her get into a cab, waving from the window as he stood on the sidewalk in front of the bar and finished a cigarette.  It was too early in the night to tell.

     

     “Alright,” she said as she came back to the table and put the drinks down.  This was the moment to excuse himself, he realized.  If he waited until she sat down, it would appear calculated.  He wanted her to sit, settle herself in, and then wait, wondering when he would return.  He slid out of the booth.

      

     “Perfect,” he said.  “I’m just going to go have a cigarette.  You want one?”

      

     He always asked, but only twice had she ever accepted.  The first time was the night they met, at Dave and Krissy’s wedding, where she had stood outside in the October night air wearing a sequined black sleeveless dress with heels, shivering as she puckered her mouth around the cigarette.  He wished he had thought to bring out his suit jacket so that he might offer it to her and warm her up, but he had left it draped upon the back of a chair, where most suit jackets find themselves at weddings.  The city street behind them was busy, and when she would move, her dress would suddenly catch the red tail lights of cars passing by or the yellow glow of the street light.  He was intoxicated.

      

     The second was just a few months prior, in March, and was also the only time she spent the full night with him.  Her brother had died two weeks prior and she was locked in that sticky place that is after everyone goes home and life settles back in to the daily routine, but before you’ve actually adjusted.  He remembered the feeling from when his mother died three years ago.  He preferred to smoke outside, even at his own apartment, and so they had sat on the steps under a clear, starry sky, her hair billowed up around her face as she hunched deeper into her winter coat.  She said nothing as she smoked, and he said nothing, as he felt that sometimes what a person needs is silence in the presence of another.  She let him make her eggs the next morning, over-easy.  He made sure to remember so that, if she were to ever agree to stay overnight and let him make her eggs again, he would not have to ask, “How do you like your eggs?”  He could simply say, “Over-easy, right?” and she would think it sweet that he remembered.

      

     “No, I’m good,” she said, sitting down and smiling up at him.   She held up her beer.  “Race you,” she offered.

      

     “Challenge accepted,” he said, turning to walk away.  He hoped she was watching, but knew she was not.

      

     The day had been warm and the night air carried a sweet smell to it that made him momentarily regret that he was about to fill his nose and mouth with the taste of a cigarette.  It was a clear night and he decided that, if she agreed to go home with him, they should walk to his apartment.

      

     He had never been to her place.  He suggested it once, but she simply shook her head, said, “No, your place is better,” and then stared him down, as if challenging him to ask why.  He did not.  She changed the subject and he never brought it up again.

      

     As he finished the cigarette and turned to go inside, he wondered whether to ask if there was a reason she had wanted to meet for drinks or if she had simply been bored.  He knew asking carried a risk, as she was far more likely to shrug and say something like, “Who the hell needs a reason to get drunk?” than she would be to say, “I missed you,” or “I hadn’t seen you in so long,” or even, “I just needed a friend.” 

      

     As he stepped back into the bar, he made the decision to ask her anyway.  Looking over at their table, he noticed she was not there. 

      

     He found her at the bar just as she was putting money down for a tip.  There were two empty shot glasses before her.

      

     “Guess you weren’t kidding about getting drunk,” he said, placing a hand on her back.  She turned, causing his hand to slip to his own side.

      

     “No,” she answered, her eyes bright.  “No fucking around tonight.  Tonight,” she announced, leaning in closer to him, “-tonight, we drink with purpose.”

      

     His stomach flip-flopped for reasons he couldn’t name.  Perhaps it was that, when she leaned in and spoke, he could smell the whiskey on her breath.  Perhaps it was the conspiratory way she used the word ‘we’ rather than ‘I’ to refer to the evening.  Or perhaps it was simply the knowledge that the more she had to drink, the greater the likelihood she would sleep with him later.  It didn’t matter, really.  He was excited now by the notion that, together, they were on a mission.

      

     “Well,” he pointed out, “my drink is waiting over at the table.” 

      

     “Yes, that’s a problem,” she agreed, taking his hand in hers and leading him back to the table.   She sat down before her beer. 

      

     He felt confident as he slid in, nearing the bend of the booth but not quite going deep enough in so as to invade her space.  He knew how this needed to go and it was too early in the night to move too close.  He’d know when the time was right.

      

     “So,” he asked, “for what great purpose are we drinking tonight?” 

      

     “We’re drinking to get good and drunk,” she answered.  This wasn’t an answer and it didn’t surprise him.  He decided to push for one.

      

     “And why are we getting drunk?” 

      

     She sighed.  “We’re getting drunk for all of the reasons people get drunk.  To avoid all of the thinking and the feeling and the thinking some more.  Why else do people get drunk?”  She was annoyed, but he was curious now. 

      

     “And what exactly are we avoiding thinking about and feeling and thinking about some more?”

      

     “Jesus, Ryan,” was all she said before shaking her head and taking a swig from her beer.  “Let it fucking go.”

      

     He shrugged, but his feelings were hurt.  He picked up his glass, gave it a quick swish to hear the ice clink, and then took a sip.  It couldn’t work fast enough.

      

     “Shit,” she mumbled, leaning forward.  “I’m sorry.”

      

     He was torn now, trying to quickly decide which would be the better move, to be a little cold so she would feel bad or shake it off and restore a lighter mood.   She sat back against the booth and pulled out her phone.

      

     “Here,” she said a moment later, handing the phone to him.  “This is why we’re drinking tonight.” 

      

     She had pulled up the Facebook page of someone named Adam Greene, a man with a big smile and a shaved head wearing a shirt and tie and staring back at him from her screen. 

     

     “Scroll down,” she said, the beer bottle poised at her mouth.  She gulped as she drank and slammed it against the table as he scrolled.

      

     He came upon it quickly, as it was posted that day, underneath a string of congratulatory posts.  It stretched the width of the screen and read, “June 12^th: Adam Greene is now engaged to Jenna Burke. “

      

     “Who’s Adam Greene,” he asked, suddenly wishing he’d never pressed the issue of why they were there.  His stomach was once again flip-flopping, but it was not in the same excited way it had earlier.  This was a feeling of regret; he was certain he was not going to want to know about Adam Greene.

      

     “My ex,” she said.

      

     “Husband?”

      

     “Fuck no,” she replied with a harsh laugh, “boyfriend.  Jesus, you thought I had an ex HUSBAND?”

      

     “You’re 29 years old, it’s possible,” he pointed out defensively.

      

     She said nothing, only shrugged.  

      

     “So we’re getting drunk because your ex-boyfriend is getting married,” Ryan surmised.

      

     She finished her beer, then looked straight at him.

      

     “No,” she said, standing up.  “Click through to her profile and check out the status she posted today.  THAT is the reason we’re getting drunk.  I want another shot, you in?”

      

     He felt as though the bar was spinning, but knew it was not the alcohol.  He looked up at her, standing there waiting for his response.  He fixated on her upper lip, a spot he liked to either tease with the tip of his tongue or brush a finger over, depending on his mood, but it did nothing to make him feel grounded.  Suddenly, she was a different Kyla.  She was one with a past.  Kyla, with an ex-boyfriend.  Someone who had touched her, someone who had kissed her, someone who had been on the inside of her life.  Had she loved him?  Had she whispered his name?  Had she been small and soft with him? 

      

     She was still, standing there looking at him as the bar spun behind her.  She was waiting for him to speak, he knew, but he could not seem to. 

      

     “You’re doing a shot too,” she decided and turned for the bar.  

      

     He watched her walk away, full of visions he had never had to face before.  He knew that she would have had exes, of course, but now one had a name.  He had a face.  He looked down at Adam Greene’s frozen face smiling up at him and felt a flash of anger.   Suddenly, she was naked in his mind, her back arched from atop Adam Greene, his hands grabbing her ass the way his own had, her head back, eyes closed, calling out his name. 

      

     He hated Adam Greene.   He hated that she had once loved him, that she had once fucked him, that she had once told him things she would not tell him. 

      

     She was leaning over at the bar, trying to get the bartender’s attention as the crowd grew.  He was overcome by a feeling of desire; he HAD to have her that night, he had to be sure she came home with him.  He had to reclaim her, even if only in his mind, from this Adam Greene. 

Begin The Beginning

     We've made plans to meet in public, because that's what you're supposed to do when you meet someone from the internet, someone you don't know.  I'm not exactly sure how this is different from plans you make with someone you've met in real life, in a bar or a restaurant, but I don't make the rules.  This is just the way it's done.

     I have a pit in my stomach as I drive toward the coffee shop and I want to turn around and go home.  Not because I really want to go home, but because I think I might throw up.  I'm dreading those awkward first 5 to 10 minutes before you settle into conversation, the minutes during the taking off of the coat and the getting of the coffee or the beer/wine/drink if it's already dark out.  I'm looking forward to the part after that: the talking, the laughing, the sharing of stories, the laying out of who you each of you is and what you're made of.  THAT is the fun part.  THAT is what keeps me driving.

     I'm almost 10 minutes late by the time I pull into the parking lot, and I'm glad for it.  I had texted him in a panic to apologize for getting a late start, but now I'm grateful for the shoe that was hiding under the bed and the lipstick that was wrong, needing to be wiped off and switched out for a different shade.  I know he's already there because his text back said, "Just got here, take your time."

     I sit in the car for a moment.  I can see him through the window, at the table, engrossed in his phone, a coffee before him.  The coffee is very tall.  This scores a point in my book.  He looks like the picture from his profile.  Score another point.

     I take a last check of my hair and make-up in the rearview mirror before I get out.  I wonder if he feels like he's going to throw up too.  A woman walks into the shop and I see him look up briefly, then back down at his phone. 

     He sips his coffee. 

     He looks up, looks around.

     He's waiting for me.

     I take a deep breath and get out of the car.  In a few hours I'll have put him into one of three categories: 'Umm...No', 'Too Soon To Tell', or 'Definite Potential'.

     But right now, as I walk toward the door, as I reach for the handle, as I step into the coffee shop, as I give him a smile, anything is possible.

     And THAT is what keeps me driving.