A more perfect union…..

Arms and legs. Me and my Beloved.

I wake slowly and easily,  becoming self-aware several minutes before I open my eyes for the first time of the day. Morning light dimly spills through the stained glass windows and cast a soft glow around the room and across the bed. I slide one foot backwards and feel the cool emptiness on the other side of the king-sized bed; my Beloved is already up and about. Of course, I know that already.  Floating up the stairwell is soft music, not quite classical, not quite jazz, fingered softly on a hollow-body jazz guitar. It echos upwards, resonating on the plaster walls and red-oak floors, finding its way from the first floor studio, down the dark hall, up the twisty old stair case, across the tiny landing and into our inner sanctum of rich blue walls, creamy comforters, filmy drapes, sensual candles, and sexy art.

There is no discernable melody line, just a continuous, harmonious jumble of notes and rhythm that I’ve come to call “noodling.”

I lay still and smile. I always smile when I hear this music.

Beauty i$ just grand…

“HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!!!!!!!!!!!”

 Though I’m an avowed agnostic that was the only thing that came to mind as I lay flat on my back, knees apart, while a tiny Korean woman (or Vietnamese, Japanese, whatever! I cannot be bothered with those politically correct details right now!) ripped the short hairs from my, ahem, very delicate, delicate place.

“Oh! So sorry,” squeaks out with a giggle while a gloved hand covers her half-sorry smile.

She doesn’t know it but the real reason for the emphatic nature of my exclamation was not the pain (which was, indeed, intense) but rather at that moment I realized I was soon going to be paying this tot-sized terror $45 plus tip (TIP!!!!) for administering this particular and peculiar womanly rite. Fifty-five dollars to apply hot wax to my nethers and snatch it off with gusto.

Judge not, lest ye be…..

PROLOGUE — When you’re on a dogged pursuit, sometimes —  heck, most of the time! — you’ve got to get INTO it if you want results. Some of the “advice” and research I’ve found out there on the subject seems OK on it’s surface, like this one with tips and tricks to make your life better combined with pithy sayings about “happiness,” but in the end these ideas are really just about managing symptoms; sorta like sayin’ if you don’t want to have the flu don’t sneeze. But if you really want to get to the bottom of something, you – or rather I — have to dig deep to find the infection.

So with that in mind, today’s post…….

 

“You know, our friends are so nice. Nice people. I don’t have time for people who aren’t nice. Life’s too short.”

  

A totally unremarkable statement. Really. But once again, context rears it’s ugly head. The above set of short sentences was uttered by my neighbor, with whom, I was visiting yesterday. A couple in their late 60s, married 35 years; he a retired football coach, she a teacher. And he was just diagnosed last week with advanced pancreatic cancer. The prognosis is not good.

You’ve come a long way, baby…..

So I’m standing around the Maitland Art Center chatting with one of the fabulous artists, whose new show, Confluence, I’m thoroughly enjoying, when a woman approached us. 

“Excuse me. I’m Jane Patteson with the Orlando Sentinel and I have a fashion column. I couldn’t help noticing how stylish you are and would like to take a picture of you for my on-line ‘Snapped’ series. Would you mind?”

Snapped! at 'A Confluence' exhibition, Maitland Art Center

I looked over at Anna (Real name. Go see the show if you’re in the area.) and she’s looking back at me. I wait for her to accept the invitation then suddenly realize they are both waiting for MY response. WTF?! I look back and forth for a second until it finally registers – I’ve been selected out of a crowd of good-looking, stylish, artsy, classy, rockin’ people because I STOOD OUT as having my own sense of style. Check. It. Out. Seriously, click the link and see what ya think.

I almost fainted. Seriously.

Sugar and spice and everything… well… maybe not everything…

So I’m walking out the back door heading out for my standard, daily bike ride when I notice I’m doing my “jock walk,” — my thighs roll out from the hip joint slightly, making my stride a little wider; my weight seems to rest more forward in my hips and there is a swagger, but not a typically feminine “swish”; my back and shoulders are lifted and squared, but not tense; my chin is a bit dropped. When I stop moving, I’ll usually stand with my weight on my left leg and my right placed a bit in front, pigeon-toed, arms akimbo. I catch myself doing this a lot when I’m working out or at Karate.

It’s a very manly stance and apparently I am — or rather, can be — a very manly girl.

Compersion: Love, love, love…

Most of you are well aware that I am, in fact, a word nerd. I like the way words sound. I like to understand their meaning. “Semantic” arguments are worth having. Understanding yourself and the world a little better is a result of studying words.

So I was pleased and delighted to come across a word I’d NEVER heard before — compersion. Say it out loud. Roll it around your tongue. It’s just sweet! Cuhm-purr-szun. Lovely. Even lovelier though, is its definition: “the ability to take personal and sincere pleasure in the pleasure that your partner derives from either someone else or something else that is unrelated to you.” Joy from someone else’s joy; happiness at someone else’s happiness, not because you are a participant in the joy, but simply because you know that they are experiencing joy even if you yourself don’t share in  it.

I discovered this word on a blog jaunt, where I find a cool blog and then start riffing through the links, one to another.

WARNING – Some of the above links are adult sites and yes that means you may find neckid pictures and “sex talk.” One of the above links is written from a very out of the ordinary point of view, one usually judged very harshly; definitely NOT for anyone insecure in their relationship. Another has great stuff scattered throughout but also a few things that may be complete bullshit. I don’t know. There. You’ve been warned.

But here’s the freaky thing — I can’t find the word in the dictionary. Nor on MS Word, nor in my trusty Webster’s or Roget’s. The only place I’ve found it is on-line and in reference to polyamory, the idea that you can truly love more than one person at a time.

The Mystery of Zella Lee…

Note to everyone — I know I usually change the names to protect the innocent, guilty, and indifferent…. but not this time. These people were the real deal.

Zella Lee - circa 1933 - outside the Children's Hospital where she worked.

A hardy laugh floats from the open window of the old Austin Seven, a twenty-six year old, dark haired beauty behind the wheel. Her paramour Jimmie, in the passenger seat, laughs along, swept up in her enthusiasm and lust for life. It is approaching dusk as the little car zooms down the dirt roads, kicking up limestone and Florida sugar sand in its wake, daring the rest of the world to catch them.

It’s August 27th, 1936. Night falls as the lovers embrace on the landing outside of her apartment and the young man saunters down the stairs and into the warm night. Zella Lee looks after him and sees another man angrily striding across the street. He is tall and well dressed; an ever present boater hat sits jauntily on top of his black hair, green eyes flashing under the brim. ”Well, now I did it,” she says to herself. The unhappy man is Lonnie and she’s just been caught with yet another man. She and Lonnie get in his car and go for a ride, they talk late into the night and he leaves at 1:00 am.

I know all of this happened; know it for a fact – the names, the dates, the thoughts, the times — because she told me. Sort of. You see Zella Lee was my grandmother and I have her diaries.

Burn the ships….

Soooooo, the big “tattoo reveal” to the in-laws finally happened… with predictable results. Judgement, criticism, and condemnation masquerading as concern. I hadn’t told them about it because I knew what the reaction would be, mostly because my mother-in-law had already expressed her opinion on the subject in the past. But no matter really. I didn’t want to needlessly traumatize them and their approval or disapproval isn’t really a huge issue for me. Someone else on the other hand….

Let me back up: I have a tattoo. A large one. On my thigh. I got said tat when I was forty-one years old. I got it for several reasons including but not limited to: I wanted to, I’ve always thought they were cool, I wanted a permanent reminder of a big shift in my thinking, I wanted to burn my ships. The “burning ship” metaphor refers to an early explorer who, determined to journey into the Americas, upon landing in the “Indies” burned his ships so that turning back would not be an option.

My tattoo is a daily, permanent reminder that I do not want to go back to the way I was before. Which begs a couple of questions such as “what was I like before?” and “before what?”

Clowns to the left, jokers to the right….

Hiya Stasha,

I just joined this Facebook thang and I saw you and I thought I’d say “Hello.” I hope you are doing well.

Vincent

And with that I rocked back into my cushy, contoured executive office chair and exclaimed, “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“What?” said Mike, who was in my office at the time.

“Remember the kid I was telling you about a couple of months ago? The guy who called me ‘Spaceship’ and dumped applesauce on my head in middle-school?”

“Yeah, so?”

“He just sent me an email.”

The soggy road to happiness…

“What? You two are just gonna pussy out?” the guy asks, revving his Harley and backing out of his parking spot in front of the bar we’ve been huddling in for the last hour or so.

Mike and I, and the rest of our party, are soaked to the skin. Not just soaked; flooded, drenched, waterlogged, saturated, practically submerged, squishing in our shoes.

“Looks that way,” I reply. “Mike just getting over a cold and I don’t want to push it riding wet like this. When you’re self-employed, there’s no such thing as calling in sick.”

Actually, that’s the “pussy” part of this exchange. Yes, Mike’s been sick, but the real reason we’re bailing is because the guy questioning Mike’s — and I guess my — manhood is a moron. However, I don’t want to get into a honesty battle here, we just want to leave, and a benign half-truth appears to be the most efficient face-saving way to get that done.

The rest of the group nods with understanding and suits up to continue the day’s trek. I throw a leg over the back of our Yamaha, grip Mike with my thighs and he and I light out for home. As we pull past the moron he revs his engine again, shakes his head, and curls his lip in a sneer of superiority.

As we pull onto the road Mike says over his shoulder “What a dick.” I couldn’t agree more.