The End is Near

I stole this from a totally random blog today, but it pretty much sums up my view of the whole bailout/nationalization/financial bullshittery currently mucking up our economy.

I spent this weekend at a beach house in San Clemente with some friends from college -- some I see about once a month, and a few I probably haven't caught up with for 20 years. I was reminded why it's depressing to go back to any kind of reunion -- it's hard to see how people have changed from how you remember them. Lenore, Tish, Gene and I seem to have aged pretty well (of course, would you expect anything less?)-- the rest looked like they've spent the last 20 years eating nothing but Doritos and Crisco while lying on a couch somewhere in a dark room. And it's really unnerving when people's kids start to resemble what they looked like in college. I might have welcomed a nice little bong hit or two for old times' sake, but god forbid I should end up hitting on someone's eighteen year old son.

My parents graduated college in 1961 -- I wonder if they thought the world had gone to hell in a handbasket 20 years later? If it weren't for the fact that if I think too long about what may transpire in 2009 I feel the need to drink heavily, I would welcome the end of 2008. I just hope we all make it through next year with a roof over our heads.

Boy, I'm a cheery little Pollyanna today, aren't I?

All I Want for Christmas...

I don't want a lot for Christmas - there's just one thing I need
I don't care about the presents underneath the Christmas tree...
I don't need to hang my stocking out upon the fireplace
Santa Claus will make me happy, without snow on Christmas Eve...

Ah, Christmas Eve.

Even though we know the economy is going to hell in a handbasket, even as we sit stranded in airports all across the country, even as we wait in fear for those bills to come in January and our children finally crack under the pressure of waiting for Santa -- there's still something magical about the night before Christmas.

I don't typically make New Year's resolutions, but I do try every year to make a Christmas wish. People seem to be a little warmer, try a little harder during the holidays, and so I figure God and the universe may be feeling reciprocally generous.

This year I spent a good part of the holiday season thinking about everything that transpired in 2008, and what I'd like 2009 to bring (and what I'd like to bring to 2009). There are so many things to be anxious about at the moment -- finances, job security, family, time, relationships, life -- but I realize that somehow I don't see any of it as insurmountable. Must be the optimist taking over.

So my Christmas wish for the people I love in 2009 is that we find wisdom, and success, and most of all happiness in our endeavors, wherever they lead us. And the companionship of like minds to make the journey that much more enjoyable.

I must confess that I do indulge in Christmas movies. However, can I possibly be the only human on the face of the planet who hates It's a Wonderful Life? Say it isn't so! I cannot stand this movie, I think it is horrible, I refuse to watch it. There, I've admitted it in public.

Instead, I watch another Capra movie - Pocket Full of Miracles, with Bette Davis as an alcoholic panhandler, and Ann-Margret in what has to be her first movie ever, since she looks like she's about 15. Every year I watch this movie, and every year I wonder WHY they don't make clothes like that anymore? Sigh. Grace Kelly, where are you when we need you?

Anyway.

The other untraditional Christmas movie I watch every year is Love Actually. Vignettes about romance in London during the holidays, with an amazing cast -- funny, poignant, clever -- what's not to love? Wait until the kids go to bed to watch, however -- one of the vignettes is about a couple who meet as stand-ins for porn actors, and they spend almost the entire time onscreen totally naked in x-rated positions. NOT for the easily offended; and yet, their story is one of the sweetest in the movie.

But my favorite is the 12-year-0ld who becomes a drummer to impress the love of his life. When Olivia Olsen sings at the end, and you see the astonishment on the faces of the adults in the audience, I get goosebumps every time. If I had another Christmas wish, it would be the ability to sing like that. And then I walk around with the song in my head for at least a month afterward...usually humming it under my breath, which I'm sure just confirms my nutcase status in everyone's mind. And now it's in my blog...not sure the words are entirely accurate, but hey, it's my head...


I just want you for my own, more than you will ever know
Make my wish come true..

All I want for Christmas, is you

Merry Christmas!

Passion Play

So, what does a bored housewife...no, wait...professional woman do when her husband has apparently lost interest (I mean besides talk ad nauseum about said fact in her blog)? That's right, children - she goes to a Passion Party with two completely insane enabling friends to pick up some tips, tricks, and toys, of course.

I'm sorry, it took me quite a while to get back on track after teasing about my fuckerware party experience. Apparently it took a while to recover. Or something.

So, Miss C and Miss H and Miss T all arrived at the random F-Party, to find an assortment of women between the ages of 27 and roughly 50. Along with a lovely sales representative who was busy setting out her wares (bottles, jars, implements, and some very interesting battery operated items) on a table in the tasteful living room. Tupperware, begone!

I'm sure you'll be shocked to learn there was alcohol on the premises. We had some. Several glasses, a bottle, does it really matter how much? It made it easier to relax and take it all in. (That's what she said...)

The first thing we were invited to do was to take a little quiz. Our sales rep, Miss Thai (or Ty, or Tai, I'm not sure) asked a series of questions, and we gave ourselves points based on our answers. Basic little questions about what we'd done, with whom, and of course where, in the last decade. (i.e., Have you done it in an elevator? Have you done it at the neighbor's house? With the neighbor? Add 10 points! With more than one neighbor? Add 20 points! On film? Add 50 points!)

Being one of the more mature women attending (emotionally, that is), I thought I was probably doing pretty well in the experience department. Until we started adding up our scores, that is.
Apparently, not nearly enough of what I had done over the last decade had been captured on film or distributed in a foreign country. I was, in fact, the virgin of the group. I had the lowest score -- which in turn scored me a lipstick in the shape of a penis. It's in my purse now, in fact. I live in fear of taking it out accidentally after a business lunch to touch up my lips.

We moved on to try some of the lotions, gels, and other special lubricants. My favorite was a pheromone stick -- kind of like a perfume roll-on. We all tried it, and then smelled each other (sounds a lot kinkier than it actually was, but feel free to go with your fantasy). We all smelled different - I smelled a lot like my favorite perfume, which explains a lot. I bought one.

I was truly amazed at the number of guests who leaped up to introduce a more...stimulating...gel to Vageena Davis. What was highly amusing to me was how many of them were currently single. Not that it's any of my business...but, this stuff being for immediate stimulation and excitement and all...exactly how much delayed gratification are you into? Let's just say that in my world, if I'm trying it out, I'll be trying it OUT. Not sitting for the next two hours in a room full of women trying to keep from squirming on the couch...just sayin!

As an added bonus to the evening, we also got little tiny penis erasers to go on the end of our pens. We were supposed to use these to "dip and lick" -- anything that required tasting. I have to admit the sight of 10-12 grown women licking tiny little penises throughout the evening made me decide I had to host a party myself for sheer entertainment value.

I wonder if anyone ever hosts co-ed parties? What do the men get to use to "dip and lick"? The speculation alone is worth the trip.

The other reason I must host a party is that I had to leave before we got to the battery operated toys. I assume that maybe the delayed gratification of the prior lubricants may have been addressed here -- perhaps the women concerned were motivated to do some product demonstrations? I can't answer -- but I do know my relatively conservative though insane friends were motivated to make some extremely interesting purchases. I've even heard some product endorsements since...

I'm waiting to hear from Thai -- my calendar is out!

How To Give Good...

Oh please. Where is YOUR mind? (Well, if you read my last post, I guess I can't blame you.)

I have to apologize. I was all set to write the follow up post to my fuckerware party...

BUT, then I had a conversation with a friend about our relative stress levels and the desperate need for a really good massage, which got me thinking...always dangerous...and so I'm going to take the equivalent of a commercial break to write this instead (disclaimer: I am NOT a professional masseuse, so follow at your own risk):

How To Relax Your Man

For maximum results, dim the lighting and make your background music relaxing - instrumental is good, speed metal not so good. Lightly scented oil or lotion is perfect - if it heats up when you rub or blow on it, all the better. Let your partner choose a scent for best effect (and since this is MY instruction, I get to assume from here on out that my partner is a man. Any hetero men reading this feel free to substitute gender as necessary).

A warm bath or hot shower ahead of time can help loosen tight muscles and put him in the right mood. To begin, have him lie face down (fully clothed, partially clothed, or nude is up to them and you -- I generally prefer the latter, but hey, it takes all kinds). And since I'm running this fantasy massage, I also get to assume that most of you will be doing this at home without the benefit of a professional massage table. With that in mind, straddle your man with one knee on either side of his hips. Put some oil or lotion in the palm of your hands and make sure they are warm and well lubricated.

I like to start at the base of the spine, one thumb on either side of the spinal cord, and run both hands up the back, with medium pressure on the thumbs and heels of each hand, to the base of the neck. Some men like a lot of pressure, some don't - ask if you're not sure. Return to the base of the spine and repeat, but this time using a wide circular motion with the thumbs, seeking out and working any pressure points or tight muscles. At the top, trail your fingers/fingernails lightly down the back; repeat as desired. At the top, work the shoulders next, and down each arm with long strokes. Lace the fingers of both of your hands through one of his, stretching the hand apart gently, and knead the heel and finger pads with both of your thumbs. Repeat, other arm.

Return to the base of the neck. Massage the neck with your thumbs, again using a circular stroke, and use your fingers to massage up from the neck onto the scalp and crown of the head. Make your index and middle fingers into a "v" and run them up around each ear, and then onto the earlobes.

If your goal is to get your man into bed, you may find you don't need to continue the massage at this point (well...except maybe for some more intimate areas that I'm not going to address). If, however, the relaxation must continue...you will need to change position.

Kneel or stand in front of your partner's head. Replenish the oil or lotion on your hands, and stroke down his spine to the lower back. Massage out from the spine in circular motions. If more pressure is needed/desired, ball your hands and use your knuckles to knead.

Move all the way down your partner's body to stand or kneel at his feet. Picking up each foot separately, massage the heels, up the fleshy middle with your thumbs to the balls of his feet, and finally, with additonal oil/lotion, in between and up each toe. I can't tell you if it's true, but I have been TOLD that when done right this can be the pedicular equivalent of oral sex. I know it feels pretty damn good when someone does it to me...

Separate the legs slightly and continue the massage up the calves -- which can be particularly tight and painful, so be careful of too much pressure here -- to the thighs and buttocks, using long, medium pressure strokes.

I like to end a massage (if it hasn't ended from say, natural causes, by now) where I started -- straddling his hips, using long and/or feather-light strokes.

There now -- everyone feeling better?

Holiday Magic

What is it about lights on a Christmas tree that can make you forget that your entire world is upside down, sideways and entirely effed up?

I had fun this weekend. On Saturday, while my husband was hibernating in a friend's man-cave (converted garage with bar & big-screen TV), I put up the tree, turned on some carols, and decorated the house with the munchkins. There's just something about watching a two-year-old laugh at her reflection in shiny red ornaments that takes my mind off the Recession-Watch 2008/stock-market-housing-prices-job-loss seesaw. Forget the shopping list -- if you need some Christmas spirit, avoid the malls and the newspapers and hang out with the pre-schoolers.

Ah, but sooner or later all things good and innocent must come to an end. The babysitter arrived and it was time for me to get dressed and meet two of my attractive and completely insane friends, who insisted I accompany them to a lovely fuckerware party hosted by a work colleague. (And not just any colleague, mind you - a co-worker at a retirement home. Go figure.).

What's that you say, eyes widening with horror? Pardon? You've never attended such a party? Oh, let Miss Tuesday enlighten you, by all means. Tomorrow, though, darling...for the moment, I'm completely tuckered.

To be continued...(hate me now, don't you?)

Next...

Be careful what you wish for....I've said that before, haven't I?

I was forced to do a lot of thinking this weekend. Which doesn't always go well with turkey, pumpkin pie, lots of really, really nice pinot and a bottle or so of port. But...here's the thing. What have I been bitching about for the last umpteen months? The fact that my husband won't play naughty with me -- there is no sex in the Tuesday household, despite the fact that I'm apparently the only working mom in all of America who still wants it. Of course there are other issues, there always are, but this is the crux of many of them.

We spent Thanksgiving with four other couples -- really good friends, and then friends of friends. After god knows how many glasses of wine, one of the other wives overshared with me that she's in the same boat. Except that in her case, her husband is having an affair with one of his young sales associates (serious oversharing, since I don't really know either of them very well). Who am I to say she's mistaken? In fact, who am I to say I'm not in the exact same boat?

Of course, I don't know that my husband isn't having an affair, but I am at least pretty sure that it isn't with anyone he works with (all men -- unless he's switched to the other team, a slim possibility but not one I can quite get my mind around in his case). Perhaps it's me, perhaps it's him, who knows, he won't talk about it and I've exhausted myself trying to come up with the solution.

So this is where we still are on Thursday night. And lo and behold, on Friday morning, he's in the mood. I don't know why. Maybe he heard me at some point on Thursday and decided to do something before I posted an ad or an article in the neighborhood paper. Perhaps my post-Thanksgiving port hangover made me look particularly fetching. Maybe he had a dream. After multiple years of failing to figure out what exactly makes this man horny, I still don't know the answer.

What I do know, and what set the stage for some heavy thinking, was the fact that I didn't want to respond. In fact, I was mad. I'm still mad. Why? A very good question. Especially since I have in fact been WAITING for this. What the heck is wrong with me?

So here's my theory. I think I got mad because it felt like it didn't have anything to do with me. I think what I just realized is the fact that maybe the effing isn't the most important thing -- maybe what I'm really craving is being desired. For whatever makes me who I am -- my mind, my spirit, my body, my heart. Not just because I happen to be in the house, in the bed. Not out of convenience. So ... I'm not really feeling the love. I'm not there. That's not the person I want to be in bed with.

This is, to put it mildly, not the reaction I expected to have. Which begged the question -- for me, at least -- have we gone past the point of no return? If I no longer want the person I've been waiting around to want me (now there's a mouthful), what do I want? Where do we go from here? There are other questions, but I'm not ready to write them here.

I'm thinking...

Weather Permitting

Ok, I admit it. I have sex on the brain.

I spent this weekend trying to write some pretty graphic sex scenes for my current novel. Which is challenging all on its own, even ignoring the fact that I am --at the moment, at least -- significantly light on material to draw on from my own life (if you don't count fantasy). I really haven't written this graphically before -- it's a lot harder than I thought it would be. Unfortunately for me, it's pretty critical to the entire plot of the book. Now I understand what Anne Lamott really meant when she wrote about shitty first drafts and KFKD radio -- when all the voices in your head combine to convince you that you don't have a clue what you're doing. I'm right there with you, babe, god help me.

Maybe I need to practice by reading some letters to Penthouse. Or Cosmo -- I understand they've become quite graphic recently. 75 Positions for Naughty Girls or something similar might provide some welcome inspiration. If I dictate my sexual fantasies while I'm at work, d'ya think it will affect my job performance?

Unfortunately, it felt like the ghost of my grandmother was sitting on my left shoulder while I tried to write yesterday. "Oh, my goodness," I could almost hear her laughing, "Surely she's not going to do THAT? And how in the world do you even KNOW about that?" And don't even get me started on my father's imaginary reaction. I know, I have two kids, but I'm sure my dad would rather believe I found them under a cabbage leaf than think about whether I have anything at all to do with a penis. Let alone read what I might write about it.

At any rate, mostly I felt like I was writing the screenplay for a really bad porn film. Or a really bad romance novel. Or some combination of the two.

I need some new material. Oh, I'm really going to have to work on this. Not that that's a bad thing. I can always hope that life will imitate art.

An Idea for the Millenium

Fidelity sucks.

Not in the abstract, of course - in the abstract it is a worthy ideal and certainly makes paternity and the sharing of possessions quite a bit easier. But specific instances, like say during the X number of years that your husband is blatantly uninterested in sex with you (or in general, it's hard to say), test the limits of that particular ethic.

Sometimes I feel like I'm paying for the sins of every woman who ever had a baby and then refused to have sex with her husband again. And I swear that every married person I know with kids has some variation of this complaint. What is WRONG with people? I want to be faithful, really I do -- but it is frustrating. In What Do Women Want? Erika Jong wrote that we all need mystery, danger, and ultimately, fantasy in our lives.

No shit.

And besides that, I want some mind-blowing, furniture-splintering, rock-my-world boot-knocking. (Ok, and maybe a little tiny bit of back-scratching and neck-nibbling...and maybe...never mind.) Is that wrong?

My personal theory is that maybe we need to institute a three-year contract review, whether it's within the context of marriage or a long-term relationship. Kind of like an annual review at work -- we sit down, we look at what's working, what's not working, what the goals are for the next three years, what next steps are. Maybe you are happy with the way things are so you renew the contract as is. Maybe you renegotiate the terms entirely. Maybe you take a sabbatical or leave of absence if necessary to recharge (I am particularly fond of this idea at the moment). Maybe you dissolve the contract and move on.

Of course the religious right, having absolutely no imagination or sense of humor, would come up with Proposition 37, which would make it illegal to take a marriage sabbatical on the chance that actually allowing people to explore other options would destroy the sanctity of marriage rather than allowing them to retain their sanity and act like grownups for a change.

How hard could this be? I think it also takes into account that people do not stay the same over the course of their lives -- who you are and what your goals are when you're in your 20's and 30's is likely to look very different when you're in your 40's, 50's and beyond. Some people do a good job of communicating, managing expectations, and changing together, and some people don't. In my own private utopian world (run by me, of course), the 3-Year Contract Rule would help with that -- at least it would all be out in the open, regularly scheduled, something to plan for and strategize around.

Maybe I should write my own Proposition.

Running Behind

I took up running again this year, after I finally realized that as long as I had two kids under 10, a full time job, and a spouse who works ridiculous hours, I was not going to see the inside of a gym again for many years. (Though...I haven't given up paying for the gym membership yet, so at heart I'm still hopelessly optimistic.)

After years of mocking anyone who owned a pair of dolphin shorts and running shoes, I started to run out of desperation at the stubborness of what my oldest daughter lovingly referred to as my post-pregnancy "bouncy tummy." Ouch. And because I needed something to do besides play with myself that would allow me to work off my frustration at the current state of my sex life. To my surprise, I liked it (ok, I admit it - not as much as my other stress-relieving activity, but it DOES burn more calories and I can do it in public).

I'm probably the only person on the planet who does not have a pair of earbuds destroying what's left of my hearing while I run. I don't listen to music; I count. I run in eight-counts. I have no idea why - it just happens. Possibly left over from ballet and drill team during my formative years. I realize this probably qualifies me as borderline nutso, but hey, I like it. It works. It's got some weird zen property that clears my mind and allows me to think about something other than whether I'm in the right job or the right marriage -- maybe instead about my writing, plot and character development, dialogue, and whether the f-ing skin around my middle is finally getting any tighter, damn it.

Recently, I even ran a 5k. (Or maybe I should say, even I ran a 5k.) I don't think I will ever be a marathon person because frankly I would rather pour orange juice on my eyeballs than run 26 miles in one day. (Ok, maybe the Rock & Roll Marathon, but only because there are bands. And maybe, in keeping with the overall theme, they'd let you run it on shrooms...try thinking about what that would be like, I dare you.) But 5k is not so bad, it's doable, it's only mild discomfort. And I did come in 6th in my age group, which I was feeling pretty cocky about for exactly 10 days. And then I got an email from the owner of a company I'm consulting for, who had just run a supermarathon -- apparently, after the asylum inmates are released, the first thing they want to do is run a 50 mile race. Who thinks this is fun? Why are they allowed to live afterward, and worse yet, to talk about it? We (the only mildly insane) do not want to hear about your supermarathon, you hypercompetitive alien from another planet! We are feeling pretty good about our stupid little 5k, thank you very much.

Maybe I should just break down and get an IPod...

Je Reve

I wrote a poem tonight, which I haven't done in a very long time.

Actually, I had a bath tonight, and the poem just happened. I take far too many baths, but I don't write a lot of poetry. I am primarily a story teller, plus I enjoy using many words, which most people might say does not mesh well with the poetic form. However, occasionally I'm inspired. Which usually means I'm feeling dangerously sentimental and/or I've had one glass too many.

When I was in college, I had a passion for Baudelaire and Andre Breton, and I wrote quite a lot of poems in what was probably quite atrocious French. But my professor liked them, and my boyfriend at the time didn't speak it, so he couldn't judge and didn't care (unless it involved me dressed as a French maid while reading them -- look, there's that naughty maid thing again). But it was somehow easier to play around in another language; because I had a limited grasp, I wasn't trying to pick between hundreds of words to find just the right combination, alliteration, cadence, etc.

And to jump to an entirely unrelated topic, am I the only person wondering why the hell no one is reading Ayn Rand? With everything going on in the economy, nationalization of the US banking industry looming, and the election becoming a popularity contest, Atlas Shrugged should be required reading (but maybe not all 927 pages of John Galt's speech from the hidden location, which will make just about anyone throw the book across the room and/or set fire to anything in reach).

Ah, The Good Old Days

Tomorrow night is Halloween.

My old roommate and I used to throw the most rockin' Halloween parties in all of Southern California, complete with jewel-toned jello shooters, handcuffs and a killer sushi bar. It's true. One year there was even a hood ornament. The police loved us. Our neighbors wrote letters to the city mayor and tried to get us evicted. Unfortunately for them, the mayor was usually at our party, totally hammered and making out with the local news anchor in the hall closet.

What primeaval urge makes adults dress up in really odd things to go out on Halloween? When you're a kid, it's pretty simple -- pirate, princess, witch, Godzilla, skeleton. Then we get older and things get a lot weirder. Giant chickens, tumbleweeds, partly cloudy with a chance of rain, sushi, Mickey & Minnie Mouse (trust me, nothing is weirder than a grown man dressed as Mickey Mouse). And of course the slut-o-rama. Don't laugh, you've all done it. The french maid, the naughty schoolgirl, the dominatrix. I have a friend who used to come to the party every year and handcuff herself to the hottest guy. It usually worked. Pissed the rest of us off, let me tell you. Only because we hadn't thought of it first.

I did the slut thing one year. In what was clearly a career-limiting move, I went as a Freudian Slip (an outrageously revealing black negligee from Vicky's Secret with phrases like "oral fixation;" "Oedipus complex," etc. pinned all over it) the year that I worked as a project manager for an IT consulting firm. As I recall, all of my employees came to the party. (As well as my boss..) Hmmm....lets see...IT guys, jello shots, and my usually buttoned-up assets on serious display. Yeah...great idea. Thank god it was pre-YouTube.

Of course my favorite part of the evening was coming out early on in my costume to answer the door to a handful of stunned trick-or-treaters. I think those dads came back three or four times that night, just in case they were imagining things.

In comparison, my current Halloweens are oceans of tranquility, taking place as they do in this hill town that time forgot. If I really want to shake things up, maybe I can dig that little slip out and make my husband take the kids trick-or-treating. I wonder if I have time to make some jello shots?

Envy

I was going to do a post on adversity this evening, but then I stumbled on to some completely random blogs and wasted at least 2 hours. There are people out there who are exponentially more creative than I am. And funny. I hate that.

I'll have to work on my book instead while I recover. More wine, please...

Just Another Day

The end of October is a big time in my family. My brother was dragged into his 40th year yesterday, I eased into 43 today, and my youngest is thrilled to be 2 tomorrow. I usually don't have an issue with my birthdays - my fortieth was barely a blip on my emotional radar - though it has crossed my mind that maybe all of this recent angst is some kind of delayed midlife crisis. Except that I had one of those at 25, so I feel like I'll be over my quota if I try for another. Really, it's not fair to those who haven't had a turn yet.

So in case I'm turning into some kind of maudlin cliche, I thought I'd celebrate my birthday by looking at all the things I'm happy about/grateful for tonight:

• Good health -- something we all take for granted, but I'm very, very blessed in this;
• My family -- not to brag or anything, but it goes without saying that I, of course, have the most beautiful, gifted, talented children on the planet (who have not hit puberty yet);
• Resort spas, and men who have chosen massage as a career path -- I had an 80 minute massage today, and I'm very grateful for the fact that even if I'm not having sex, I can at least have this;
• Getting fit - stepping on the scale for the first time today in god knows how long and seeing that I am within 2 lbs of pre-baby weight (hallelujah);
• Running - who'd a thunk it? A way to manage mood swings and plot developments without Prozac;
• Books -- what would I do without my one obsessive-compulsive behavior?
• A quick mind, a sympathetic ear, and the most enjoyable voice -- thank you for ALL of the conversation and understanding lately, it means the world to me;
• A good challenge -- whatever it looks like, really, it's what keeps me going;
• Really, really good wine -- snaps to Patz & Hall, Elyse, Fantesca, Blackbird, and a few other favorites who illuminate my evenings and probably make me a better person in the long run; and
• Writing -- what might be the whole reason I exist; I feel like I've finally hit my stride this year, despite (or perhaps due to) the upheaval in the rest of my life.

I think my only fear about getting older is in not wanting to miss any opportunities. I spent a good portion of my early years being afraid of doing anything remotely risky (a legacy from my parents), plus I'm a late starter in general, so I often feel like I'm trying to make up for lost time in multiple areas. The fact that I'm an insatiable reader probably doesn't help in this case, as I'm always reading something that makes me think, "oh, I wish I could do THAT" or "damn, I wish I'd written that!" So, while I don't have a burning desire to overcome world hunger or win the Nobel Peace Prize, there are a few things I'd like to accomplish before I leave the station:

• A house in Italy -- yes, Frances Mayes, this is entirely your fault;
• A best seller -- doesn't have to be the magnitude of Harry Potter, but it would be nice to know I made the NY Times list for a couple of weeks;
• Be a stakeholder in a successful startup company (high tech, biotech, whatever) - I've always wanted to exercise my options;
• Be fluent in at least two languages (besides English) - I'm thinking French and Italian, but Chinese might be more practical;
• Take an entire year off, travel, and write about it; and
• Be happy with the choices I've made.

I've always believed (simplistically, perhaps) that there is a reason for everything that happens. Sometimes it's just difficult to see the big picture from where we are currently standing, and even more challenging to pick out the right path from the thousands of starting points that lie in front of us. Maybe next year at this time, I'll look back and hindsight will make it easy for me to see what choices I should have made and the direction I should have gone. For now, I may not be content, but I'm willing to keep an open mind and keep moving forward.

Be Careful What You Wish For

Curiosity killed the cat...

Lifelong learning is an ideal that most of us aspire to, I think. At least in my life, my motto has always been that when you stop learning, you stagnate, and when you stagnate, ultimately you die. But is there such a thing as too much curiosity?

What if you have such a hunger to learn and/or experience new things that you're never satisfied with what you actually have? It has occured to me, as I've been working through all of these ...issues, for lack of a better word, that perhaps I'm asking too much of the universe.

I've always been the kind of person who actively sought out the next goal, challenge, project, idea, etc. For the most part, I think this has been a positive aspect of my personality; however, maybe this intellectual hunger has carried over into my emotional life. I sometimes wonder if a fear of "settling" and an overly competitive nature makes me unwilling to stay happy with a person/place/situation for the long haul.

Sometimes I think maybe I was just born in the wrong era. I should have been one of the settlers who went West after the Louisiana Purchase! If I'd been with the wagons that rolled into Oregon and California and saw the Pacific Ocean for the first time, maybe I would have been content.

On the other hand, every time I start to worry that I have a limited amount of time and a lot of material to get through (or life experience, or projects, or places to see, or love), I think about my great-aunt, one of my role-models: who went to Berkeley while the rest of her generation had babies, who never married, who traveled alone to China and Egypt when she was in her 70's, who took up roller-blading the year she turned 90. And that renews my faith in my own courage and resiliency.

It isn't what you've got, or what you've done, or who you're with that matters in the end. I think it's how you approach life and define who you are -- so what if my thirst for experience, or learning, or whatever you want to call it, occasionally makes me dissatisfied with where I currently am? The fact that I want, I need to keep moving forward in some way, let's me know that I'm still very much alive -- and that I'm not going to spend the next 50 years as a passive observer, on the couch of life, watching TV.

Where are those damn rollerblades anyway?

How much for the women?

Enough of this heavy serious stuff for now - I'm thinking about good old-fashioned friendship tonight. A shout out to the people who bring us laughter, emotional support, stories, commiseration, and generally make our lives more enjoyable just by being themselves.

Having been an introvert for most of my life, I've been fairly selective in my close friends. There are a few from college, a handful left from high school, and at least one or two from as far back as grammar school. But there is the Family.

I've been planning the 40th birthday recently of a very good girlfriend - she and I and two other girlfriends have celebrated at least twenty years together. We've lived through five husbands (yes, do the math), seven kids, jobs/volunteer work/stay-at-home choices, multiple camping and ski trips, hundreds of concerts, too many bottles of Grand Marnier to count, and the fact that we're all Scorpios. We know things about each other that we will never reveal (or at least not for less than six figures). Years ago, we became Family - not by necessity but by active choice.

I am not a girl's girl, and I don't trust groups of women in general. But more than anyone else in my life, these women would challenge, support, defend, encourage, and love me in the face of any adversity -- and I'd do the same for them. It's hard to believe that we're all in our 40s now - it can't possibly have been that many years. On the other hand, I know we'll be saying that another 20 years from now when we're planning our 60th birthdays (in Italy, at the villa on Lake Como one of us will have purchased from George Clooney's estate...)

I think I'm also lucky enough to have this kind of friendship with a handful of men as well. Not that we're planning trips together - that might be taken the wrong way by the significant others in our lives, unfortunately. (But hey, you're all invited to my villa when we're 60, to hell with it...) I don't always agree with the quote from When Harry Met Sally that men and women can't be friends because sex always gets in the way -- sometimes it does, absolutely; sometimes friendship just isn't enough, and that can be difficult and depressing. But sometimes conversation, an alternate viewpoint, a sense of humor and the knowledge that someone from the other team is on your side is quite good enough. And greatly valued.

I love my friends - may we all celebrate an infinite number of future years together. Even those of you who aren't Scorpios.

The L Word

And now for something completely different...

Love.

Which might even be more complicated, confusing, and ultimately irritating than its predecessor. I hesitate even to tackle this topic that poets and philosophers have attempted to define centuries before my DNA was even a mote in my parents' eyes. On the other hand, this one stupid emotion, along with its partner-in-crime (sex), has caused so much upheaval in my short life that I probably ought to consider myself an expert and shove my opinions toward center stage.

What is love? A divine emotion; a jumble of hormones; a many-splendored thing; something we can't live without? Do we fall or grow into it? Do we fall in love with those we're sexually attracted to, or are we sexually attracted to the ones we love? Can/should love be separate from sex? (A question women in general have a hard time with.) Do you only get one love of your life? Why DO we fall in love, and what makes love last? And finally, if your love dies, can you bring it back?

I certainly can't presume to speak for anyone but myself on this topic. If I look back on the course of my life, I think romantic love represented a tapping in to certain qualities that I lacked in myself. In my twenties and early thirties, I was most attracted to and fell in love with men who were type-A, hard charging over-achievers: attractive men who could tell a good story, command a room, direct a team, get things done. I'm sure my mother's generation would have looked at them as "a good provider," and certainly it was reassuring to know there was someone in my life who could handle just about anything. But as I got older, I also found that the qualities that attracted me to these men did not really respond well to change, which made it very hard for me to grow and develop. They didn't want to hear my stories - they had their own. They didn't want me to develop a plan for our future -they already had one, thank you very much. They did not want me to assume a starring role in my life -- they were already occupying center stage, and it got a bit crowded with two of us up there.

As I wrestled with these issues, I also struggled with the nature of love, and what we all do to make love "work" within the context of our daily lives. Often we fall in love based on an initial physical attraction, which might be bolstered by the commonality of shared experiences (think of high-school sweethearts, college students, or work colleagues). As relationships progress, how many of us have adapted or given up pieces of who we are in order to make everything go smoother -- habits, past-times, beliefs, friends, convictions, whatever it might be? At the same time, we're focused on benchmarking the relationship in accordance to whatever context we're comfortable with - are we going on the right dates, does he drive the right car, is she hot enough, are we moving at the right pace, are we planning the right wedding, will we live in the right neighborhood, will we be the right kind of parents, etc? By the time we get most of the way down this path, it's too late to take a step back and realize that maybe the questions we should have been asking were, "Who am I? What makes me tick, and what kind of life do I ultimately want? How do I want to define love?"

I think many of us instinctively know the qualities that a lasting love should have: respect, integrity, honesty, open communication, attraction, caring, honor, joy -- continue as you wish. So why is it so incredibly hard to find the real thing? Possibly because human beings have very little patience - we want what we want when we want it (especially my generation). The idea of "love at first sight" has screwed up a lot of otherwise rational people. I think also the idea that there's only one soul-mate for everyone has screwed us up too -- what if this is The One and I let him/her get away? What if I never get another chance? Most of us don't pause to reflect on what matters most to us, what qualities or characteristics from another person might enhance our lives -- instead, we rush to lock in the loan without considering the terms and the fact that the interest rate is going to quadruple at some point in the future. If it's a bad deal, it's a bad deal, and no amount of money, or the right diamond, or a killer promotion, or a house in the best neighborhood is going to make up for the fact that you've committed yourself to something that doesn't work for you. Eventually, what you thought was love is going to go out the window.

I realize it sounds like I'm the biggest cynic on the planet (sex is screwed up, love is worse...) - but I really believe that we just need to slow down and pay attention. When I realized that I'm typically attracted to the show horse, the kind of guy who needs to be on center stage all the time, I was also forced to confront the fact that because of that pattern, I was giving up far too much control over my own decisions, activities, friendships, and personality. I resented those men for being themselves - it was my own fault, only I had never taken the time to analyze and articulate what was important to me, or develop the emotional fortitude to stick to my guns. Now I know I want someone who listens as well as they talk; who has curiousity and a great thirst for new experiences; who has a sense of humor and adventure; who wants a partnership as instead of a dictatorship; who isn't afraid to lay the hard stuff out at the beginning and see who is still standing when the dust clears. Oh, and the physical attraction thing too -- I'm still interested in that.

It's Complicated

Sex.

Was there ever a word, thought, impulse, deed that was so fraught with conflicting emotions? From adolescence on, the moment we figure out what feels good and what our minds and bodies are capable of, we are sucked (or thrust - even the verbs are evocative) into the maelstrom.

At 12, when most of my peers were reading Nancy Drew or Teen magazine, I swiped Fear of Flying off my mom's bedside table (and Wifey a few weeks later), and entered a world of adult fantasies and emotions that probably warped my sensitive little mind and formed the individual I am today. Or else it merely jumpstarted my erotic life and caused me to get off about 5-6 years earlier than the rest of my friends - but hey, he who dies with the most orgasms wins, right? But I do have cause to wonder if my appetite might be a little more...healthy...than most women I know, and if the cause is heredity or environment.

When I was in high school, I wanted to be a courtesan. Not a wife, not a woman with a traditional career, and certainly not a whore, but a highly-educated, intelligent woman who negotiated a contract with her sexual partners according to their wealth, intelligence and position in society. Today I find this curious -- what was it that I, as a 16-year-old, found intriguing about this situation? The sex, of course -- but I think it was also the independence, the control, and the fact that there were other elements (the intellectual discourse, the witty repartee?) involved. Marriage sounded so boring, but a courtesan, THIS was fascinating.

Fast forward twenty years to when I had my first child, and every woman's/parenting magazine I read talked about how to get your sex drive back, how to lose those last 10 lbs and look sexy for your husband, how to know if you were ready for him to touch you again (and how to tell him you weren't without making him feel bad). It was enought to make me scream. Where were the articles, I thought, that told you what to do if you were ready to get down but your husband wasn't? What if there wasn't any baby weight and I still looked good? What if I wanted it three times a week but he wanted it three times a year? What then?

Despite Sex and the City, in my experience, real women (or perhaps just real married women) don't talk about sex openly or freely. None of my friends felt the way I did -- they were all siding with the women in the magazines! When I revisited the whole courtesan idea they looked at me as if I'd suddenly grown another head and perhaps a couple pair of horns as an added bonus. It was enough to make me wonder what the heck was wrong with me. Which still makes me mad -- why wasn't I wondering what was wrong with THEM?

Like-Minded Souls

I've been pondering lately about life, attraction, and the concept of soul-mates. What is it that attracts, connects, attaches us to the people around us? What is it that makes you think "aha!" with certain individuals, and struggle to find a shred of commonality with others? What are we looking for, why is it so important, and in all the craziness of modern daily life, is it even realistic to think we can find it, or having found it, hold on to it? We all crave the company of a like-minded soul - someone who understands and accepts us, celebrates our individuality, allows us to be more, do more, think more, create more than we would by ourselves. So why are we apparently so bad at finding that companionship?



I observe my friends, my co-workers, my neighbors, seemingly my entire generation -- all of them in some form or another are struggling with the significant relationship in their lives. Myself included. For the vast majority, we are not people who married for money or bowed to the family pressure of an arranged marriage; we are individuals who believed we had found "the one" (or "the next one") and chose our spouse or partner for love. Now we're being pulled apart by conflict over finances, raising children, not being able to have children, lack of sex, sex with other people, unemployment, too much time spent at work -- the pendulum seems to swing in either direction and the writing in the sand reveals emotional exhaustion. And these are not long-term relationships: 3, 5, 10 years - has modern life become so complex that it's only a matter of time (and not that much of it) before forces beyond our control break us apart? A cheery thought. Or is it us? Do we need to reconsider what we demand from life? How would that affect the choices we make about how to live and who we want to surround ourselves with and commit ourselves to?

More on this later...I think I need a glass of wine.