Monthly Archives: January 2007

The White Cliffs of What?

I’ve been playing with Pandora.com for a few weeks because a) I need much music and b) I’m poor. Also, I’ve started using it in massage sessions with clients.

Yesterday Lilith, my 59-year-old client was here for her weekly appointment. I normally use my R. Carlos Nakai station for massage (Check it out! Native American flutes! Fucking universal Zen, man!), but for Lilith I switched.

Because Lilith likes Enya.

Which is fine, but the words distract me, and even the Celtic ones do (Thanks, ear for obscure languages.).

So, I’m working away and the station is playing Enya and songs by artists like Enya and it’s all very full and synthesized and dreamy wa-wa-wa.

Then the key changes and it’s straightforward and mellow and Shenandoah, I loved your daughter and I’m thinking, shit, this is not Enya, and it doesn’t sound like Enya, but my, what a clear, lovely voice.

The voice. I know it. I know I’ve heard it.

Lilith remarks on it, “Who is that?” she queries.

“I’m not sure, but it sounds like Connie Dover,” I postulate.

“I don’t know how you can keep all that music straight in your head. You’re like my son Michael. You remember everything.”

We finish the massage and I go to check the Previously Played.

I am so badass.

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grey

he says, “i enjoy you.”

he says it is because of my charming naïveté.

i think it is maybe my irrepressible joie de vivre, but i figured one francophism was enough.

but it could be because of the blowjobs.

his hair is silver.

he smells like grey flannel.

he has a cat named sharkey.

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Bagel and Bourbon

Is noon still considered breakfast?

It’s lunch, right?

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Vintage

Last weekend I inherited this. It’s been lulling me to sleep with its tick-tick-ticking everynight.

clock.jpg

Now, I love technology. I covet awesome computers and phones and PDAs and stuff.

But, man, there’s nothing like a clock you have to wind.

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“I’m Really Sick.”

Around seven this evening, Jack seemed to turn the corner. Heperked up. He came out of my bedroom, which was the only time he’d left the bed all day except for that 20 minute tepid bath I gave him when his fever seemed reluctant to give itself over to the absolute power of Tylenol.

He sat on the couch and requested crackers and grapes, which I provided readily. His brother even offered to bring him things, so pathetic were his spirit and countenance.

His fever seemed to break around 10 PM, when he woke laughing from a dream (Hallucination?) and then screamed for me in fright. I brought him to my bed, where he slept.

At midnight he sat up with a bolt, “Momma, I need to throw up.” I whisked him off the bed and into the bathroom (He’s never vomited in the toilet before; he’s never vomited with me before, only that one time on the floor at preschool…would he know what to do? Would he freak out?).

I sat on the tub, my hand resting lightly on his back, murmuring reassurances as the small one trembled and retched. I helped him blow his nose, rinse his mouth and brush his teeth.

Ten minutes after the vomiting Jack was again lying in my bed, surrounded by towels and a bucket, just in case. I was putting The Land Before Time into the VCR when he looked at me and said, “Momma, what if I throwed up into the toilet and then I put my head into it?”

“Ew!” I laughed.

He grinned, “That’d be pretty disgusting.”

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Filed under Kids, Parenting

Baby Bird

Jack crawled into my bed last night, waved hello to Meg on her new Macbook with the built-in iSight and snuggled up next to me. Meg and I said goodnight and I noticed Jack was hot. Really hot. Burning up.

He’s pumped full of Tylenol and I called the eight fingered professor upstairs to ask him to keep an ear out for ten minutes while I drove Miles to school as my baby bird slept.

He’s in my bed, Dragon Tales on TV, calling out “Momma, I love you” every five minutes.

And I’ve got Phantom Limb on repeat. In the land of sprayed-on tans. With no connection.

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All My Friends

All my friends,
got broken wings.
never will you hear them asking why,
the caged bird sings.
All my friends,
they know how to live.
oh so much sorrow,
so much love to give.

~Amos Lee

I don’t want for friends or companionship of the naked kind. Granted, I’m not all up in people’s business for days on end, but I don’t need to be, and yo, I have kids at home, so it’s really not an option for me.

But I have done a decent job of finding good guys with whom I can share afternoon dates and evenings out, along with pleasant conversation and other naked activities.

Here’s the problem: I’m not into them like I’d want them to be my date to the wedding I have to attend on Saturday, or to accompany me to my birthday party next month (Here’s a hint: it’s a big one).

It’s complicated introducing fuckbuddies to one’s friends. I’d rather not do it, as it leads to questions and speculation I’d prefer to avoid.

It’s complicated introducing fuckbuddies to one’s family. I’ve never done it, and I’m not going to start, even though one of my current (he of the questioning “hoe”) is an attorney and provided one of my brothers with a very helpful referral recently. He is not coming to mom’s for dinner. Those things need to stay as separate as possible. Especially since they are the same age.

Which leads me to the not-so-nice place of planning a group birthday party with two of my friends next month and having no one to invite. And wishing that my best friends–the ones who don’t live here–could come. And thinking–knowing–that I want awesome sex for my birthday, and I want to have it with someone who matters to me.

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Filed under Dating, Divorce, Fuckbuddies, sex