Archive for the ‘Love’ Category

Halfway Through

“I misss youuuu,” I whine as I roll over in my bed, sliding on my new red satin sheets that he finds ridiculous because I’m not a porn star and because sparks of static electricity dance on his long, leg hairs when he turns over.

“I know, I know,” he dismisses.

I know that he misses me too. I know that he knows he’ll be coming home in just under 2 weeks from now, but it still hurts to only speak to me for 10 minutes a day. I know this. I remind myself of this on an hourly basis some days.

Some days, I go 3 hours without thinking about him. I’m busy at work, or worrying about paying bills, or trying to conceive new creative ideas. And then it hits me again: he won’t be home for dinner tonight. You have no plans this weekend. Pick up his mail today. And then that “Oh yeah….” sigh comes over me, and I realize that he’s just not here.

And then I start to wonder if he is thinking the same thing- going through the motions of his day, wondering what he’s missing on my dinner table, how I’m wearing my hair today or if I’m sleeping well. I wonder if my face is slightly fading in his mind as he wakes up each day thousands of miles away from my porno sheets.

I’m in between ok and sadness which is a very strange place to be. I’m almost sad enough to cry, I’m almost ok enough to not write about him.

“I should let you get some rest,” I hesitantly say, knowing that he will agree with me and it will be another 24 hours before I talk to him again.

“Yeah. Busy day tomorrow,” he replies ready to hang up.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart,” he says like I should have already known that.

We hang up. I wait to hear his hands shuffle to find the END button on the phone before I let my cell slide down my face to lie next to me, only to wake me up at 6:55 a.m. to start another day without him. It’s not as tragic as I write, really. Just a fact of life.


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About Love

Sometimes, OK no… Usually, lines in a movie or song or book are on my mind. Some people have the capacity to say it just right.

From Stardust (movie not book; although book was still better):

“You know when I said I knew little about love? That wasn’t true. I know a lot about love. I’ve seen it, centuries and centuries of it, and it was the only thing that made watching your world bearable. All those wars. Pain, lies, hate… It made me want to turn away and never look… again. But when I see the way that mankind loves… You could search to the furthest reaches of the universe and never find anything more beautiful. So yes, I know that love is unconditional. But I also know that it can be unpredictable, unexpected, uncontrollable, unbearable and strangely easy to mistake for loathing, and…. My heart… It feels like my chest can barely contain it. Like it’s trying to escape because it doesn’t belong to me anymore. It belongs to you. And if you wanted it, I’d wish for nothing in exchange – no gifts. No goods. No demonstrations of devotion. Nothing but knowing you loved me too. Just your heart, in exchange for mine.”

It is my wish that we all have the opportunity to love and be loved, like that, at least once.

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“Do you love me?” I prod.
“Yes, yes of course I do,” he answers.

After a question like that, he usually either hugs me or looks at me funny because he knows I’m a little strange at times.

“Are you surrrre?” I continue.
“Yessssssss,” he sighs.

Getting impatient now, I realize it’s time to turn on the charm and give him hundreds of micro kisses on his stubbled cheek.

“Yes, yes, thank you,” he complains. “That’s very nice of you…”

I continue for a few more than stare up at him with my brown eyes, hoping he’ll crack a smile and laugh at my strangeness. He does. He always does. Sometimes he’ll throw his head back and laugh real hard at some bizarre thing that I have said or some face I have made.

I act even stranger when we’re about to go to sleep. I walk my fingers starting at his belly and whisper…”There’s somethin’ commin’ fer u!” and he asks, “Oh no! What is it?” and I reply with some oddity like “It’s 400 Chinese men dancing on a tower,” or “A mean spider!”

It’s simple, really. I poke and jest, he sighs and shakes his head. The more I giggle the stranger I must look for after all, I am a grown woman behaving as goofy as I did as a little girl. He must enjoy it though because every night it’s pretty much the same thing, unless of course, I transform back into that adult woman, full of worries, anxieties, and panic.

It’s true, it is simple. We are simple. We may like fancy wines, nice dinners, and pretty electronics, but we are simple. We share cheese plates and remark on how much we love cheese. We watch movies and TV shows together, and more often than not, one or both of us is yelling at the TV in protest. We take walks. We drive places. We go to bed at reasonable hours and never skip breakfasts. Sometimes we have dessert. Sometimes we stay in bed late on the weekends. Sometimes I cry and he’s always there to comfort.

“Do you love meeeeee?” I whine in his ear.
“Yes. You know I do,” he says back.
“How much?!” I demand.

He holds his arms out as wide as they can go, a simple gesture, which is something that I should never and will never take for granted.

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A Little Scar

“I’m indifferent at worst.”

Before the man I’m with now, I had “dated” a few other men. In my own wierd ways, I “fell” for them all. I attached myself to them, idealized them, forgave them for unforgivable acts, regretted everthing until they came crawling back and promised me the world, and after that, I regretted some more.

“I’m such a fucking idiot.”

There must be something wrong with that girl…you know…the one who deliberately sets herself up for more pain and more failure. I gave each and every one of these people a piece of me, and it never was once returned. Perhaps I’m stored atop some dustybookself, or worse, tucked away in some box underneath an old bed, long lost; forgotten.

Every storybook romance has a handsome prince and a beautiful princess who fall in love and live happily ever after. How does my story end when the beginning and middle is a bit tragic?

I suppose if I had to go through it all again, every last unreturned phone call, snide remark, heartless stare, I would because I’m with who I’m supposed to be with (at the very least for the time being). Kissing frogs is one thing, taking them home and denying the warts is another.

“So what, do you hate me or something? Why do you keep doing this to me?”

“Hate is a strong word. I’m indifferent at worst.”

The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. Thanks for refusing to let this scar heal. I wish I was tucked away in someone’s shoebox right about now.

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I cut off her hair.
Now she is my pixie.
She twirls on the sidewalk;
Like Maria, singing
“The sidewalk is alive
With the sound of
She delights in her green shoes.
She revels in her tiny, healthy body.
She squeals, “Running SHOOOES!” as she gallops,
Then stops to pick up a straw.
Diligently, patiently feeding straw through
Holes in a park bench.
Then, “Running ‘gain, Mommy toooo!”
A child, in her impatience, is the essence of patience.
Leaving no leaf unturned, no flower unsmelled,
Sometimes no nerve untrodden.
On good days, a reminder to enjoy the journey.
Would that she stay this way.

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Revisiting my freshman year of college in my mind brought me to a startling scene of a girl jolted into the transition into a woman. I had fun during that first Mardi Gras, the one with Renee and the giggling, despite disappointments over the discovery of my crush’s girlfriend, a girl he had only mentioned during the Lundi Gras festivities in the French quarter while he literally carried me down bourbon street. This one man, possibly from Middle Eastern decent, had grabbed my right breast in a fit of arousal and intoxication. I found myself suddenly surrounded by these men, helpless, and wondering what other awkward part of my body they would try to grasp, until I was hoisted up in the air by familiar arms, my hero and crush.

I had no practical reasons for finding this man attractive. He was a republican, and I am still near green to this day. His father was a successful lawyer, probably a real asshole, who had defended some lousy scum bags. He wore glasses that made him look like a board member of a tech company. His hair was wiry and ash blonde, his skin an uneven tone of pale and plotted with reminders of adolescence. By no means should he have been the object of my 18-year-old –California-Girl affections but he was. And perhaps, for the first time, did I start to feel the pangs of desire that young women feel when they finally start to become a woman.

Or was it just the excessive amount of drive-thru Daiquiri that I was consuming? In any case, nothing happened, just a strong clasp of arms around my waist, carrying me until there was a break in the crowd, where he then set me down next to a pile of Mardi Gras waste, vomit, pee, and beer. Hardly the romantic scene. He told me that he had to carry his girlfriend out of places like that before. I told him that I didn’t know he had a girlfriend to which he replied a simple, “7 years”, like they had 2 kids and a white picket fence.

So why did this memory suddenly come to mind the other day? I’ve wondered that myself, frankly. That was probably one of the first times in my life where I was confronted with what I felt was the brutal and disgusting truth of raw, male desire. My first instinct should have been to run, run far away from the crowds, or maybe even refused to walk down Bourbon Street. My curiosity lead me down to watch the hundreds and thousands of people behave in bizarre ways, wearing outlandish costumes, or in some cases, nothing at all.

This wasn’t the kind of Mardi Gras I had seen in photos when my mother was a girl. My grandparents, just starting to show the signs of aging in their face, my mother’s round, cherub cheeks, and my aunt’s stunning blue eyes all peered out from adorable cat costumes while waiting for the parades to start. They looked so happy in those costumes that day, a memory that I’ve held onto tightly for my grandma, and an honor I hold closely for my late grandfather and aunt.

But there were no adorable cat costumes or cherub-like faces that night, just the faces of the drunken folks who peeled pieces of their clothes off to expose wretched parts of their bodies. It’s not that I’m against nudity, or partying, or even Mardi Gras in general, though in recent years I have expressed my distaste in Fat Tuesday, it’s just that I was 18 and I didn’t know any better.

Now as I approach my mid –twenties, several years later with experiences, stories, and realities under my belt, I suppose that I was the most naïve girl who was ever carried down Bourbon St., or, at the very least, in that moment I was.


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