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...
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, November 7, 2008
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...
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...
Sunday, November 2, 2008
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).
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).
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