Tag Archives: blogging

Do I Smell Like Vomit?

It’s sometimes difficult having conversations with a husband whose job it is to deal with special needs kids at a privately funded residential institution on a daily basis. He likes his job and it’s challenges with bodily fluids, but he doesn’t call me Special Ed for nothing. Wait… Is that considered a double-negative? Speaking of double negatives…

It’s all a dream.

The other day I came home from my own (frustratingly people oriented) job in sales, to Daryl in the kitchen re-stacking the dishwasher that I painstakingly arranged (some would say threw in there haphazardly) earlier in the day before my shift. As is common with homosexual men, he tore off his floral apron, we immediately licked our lips, lit patchouli smelling candles, stripped each other of our clothing, turned on our Bluetooth house trance music, our tower fan, and proceeded to sip our pink cosmopolitans while falling sexually to our knees. Oh wait… that was a dream I had last night.

In real life, we smiled, pecked, and hugged each other, grateful to be at home in our little world. As I pulled away and turned to get changed from my suit and tie, Daryl asks me a little too nonchalantly, “Do I smell like vomit?” Now, I know these words are usually restricted for those couples with infants, toddlers and outdoor pets that eat rodents, so I turned around while still grasping my necktie a bit to tightly. My look must have startled Daryl into a quick addendum, “I think I washed most of it out with water and paper towels at work, but I don’t think I need to change my shirt. What do YOU think?”

“What’s wrong with the way I stack things in the dishwasher?” I shot back with love filled darts behind my eyelids ready to strike.

He looks at me… then back at the open dishwasher, and quickly grabs a soup spoon before it escapes the conversation like a teen with a persistent parent. “Look at this! It still has peanut butter on it! You have to rinse things first.” He half sighs, half snorts in frustration.

“I just don’t get why they call them dishwashers then. It’s false advertising,” I shot back. “and I enjoy eating peanut butter out of the jar on occasion. Rinsing it would be such a chore. Whats the big deal?”

“… and HOW do you think water is supposed to get to this bowl when it’s blocked by another bowl?” Daryl asks, looking again into the mis-stacked puzzle of dishware, flatware, assorted cocktail glasses and a large cheese grater.

“Water jets,” I smirked as I bobbled my head from side to side, “HOT propulsion water jets.”

“No and no” he admonished like he’s some sort of physics expert.

I pivoted around and I stomped (as much as a carpeted floor will let one stomp) into the bedroom to change while Daryl continued to clink and clank his way through my jumbled mess in the Maytag, trying to make sense of it all.

Not so long ago…

What’s interesting about this situation is that when Daryl and I moved in together 9 or so years ago, living in (yet another) sin, the man didn’t understand the power of chores. I believe he thought that dust covered tables were great for leaving handwritten notes, or hearts, or those pesky XOX’s. Making a bed was something one only did in hospitals, and even then, only when a patient left or died. And trash was only taken out if it smelled. Really smelled.

Don’t get me wrong, the man wasn’t a slob so to speak, but the man was… Well, a man.

Thank God, I turned him into a woman. Wait… that sounds sexist. Thank God I turned him into a good housewife. Whew! He even once bellowed during a particularly verbal disagreement over laundry once that HE was turning into ME. Surely a fate worse than… worse than… mixing colors with whites! Wait… does that have racial undertones?

Hope.

As I was taking my socks off, Daryl came in to the bedroom holding two full glasses of our best Pinot Noir, hands me one and says, “All forgiven?” I smiled, threw my arms around his chunky chocolate neck and said “Absolutely! Now go change your shirt. You smell like vomit.”

IMG_0258.PNG

2 Comments

Filed under Life...

march twentieth

And then a warm day in March

(this twentieth day of March),

decides to tap her gentle fingers playfully to my shoulder.

She teases me that she will once again spin into

a piece of my fragile fateful future.

I wonder

If she will ever know that all is not always new,

That all is not fresh,

that all is not green.

She betrays the day before her,

now non- existent;

Cold yesterdays cannot casually be swept away as a kite

with her first whisper…

She taunts me with memories of windswept hearts,

classical music, pastels, cold rains, and swaying forsythia.

Her mystery becomes trumped by empty plates and missing chairs,

as laughter echoes on glances that are absent this year.

Her swirling stance stiffens

and her comfort all too brief,

As she blows her promise of tomorrow

across my aging face once again.

3 Comments

Filed under Poetry

three words equal one date.

Last Saturday evening, I decided to “enhance the dating experience” of Daryl and me. These “ideas” seem to POP into my head on my days off while I’m tooling around obsessing running errands, viewing porn reading the news on the internet, or just sitting on the crapper playing Bejeweled Blitz in an easy chair reading a good biography.

jello (2)

Our “dating life” has not gotten stale, mediocre, or even lack-luster after eight years together, however, with our conflicting work schedules we often go days without dates, weeks without sex, and months without a good vodka tonic. Sometimes it feels as though we’re two disabled Carnival cruise ships passing in the night.

So occasionally, I just like to… what’s the term I’m looking for… “raise the bar?” Yeah, I’ll go with that for now. I’m fortunate that Daryl is so adept good at tolerating embracing my ideas to be creative in our relationship. I always enjoy the look on his face when I present these brainstorms over a glass of pinot noir and some English cheddar cheese when he gets home from work. It’s usually a look of a deer in headlights bewilderment, followed by feigned understanding and capped with a sigh smile, a nod and him obligatorily enthusiastically asking “how do we get started?”

“I’m not suggesting initiating new toys, or boys, or boy toys into our dating repertoire,” I explained to him,” I just think we can use tools to make the date more meaningful and thought out.” He shuffled for another piece of cheddar as I sipped my wine and began to explain that on Sunday (his day off) and Monday (my day off) that we could give each other three words that begin with the same letter and must be “incorporated into the date” somehow.”

He washed the cheese down with what I thought was a larger than normal gulp of the wine and continued to wait for more explanation. “For example,” I responded, “Water, Wish, and Wine! You have to come up with a date tomorrow evening that somehow involves those three words! Easy-smeasy right? (thinking to myself that I am NEVER again to use the phrase “easy-smeasy” while presenting an idea of ANY kind).” I must admit that I sort of had a preconceived idea as to how this date could happen quite easily and inexpensively. I’m thinking in my head that a quick trip into West Chester to the Court House fountain, throw in a couple of pennies, grab a glass of wine and a salad at Iron Hill, and BINGO! We’ve enhanced the dating experience with water, a wish, and wine!

Not so fast. Daryl didn’t seem to make the “W” connection quite as quickly and looked a little panicked. Okay, I’ll concede that I DID push this on him without a whole lot of warning, and I thought that perhaps we needed a little time to digest this plan as we finished up dinner for the evening.

The next morning, as I was sipping coffee on the sofa while listening to pretty birds chirping outside while unfriending a few tired folks on FaceBook, I received a phone text from Daryl who happened to be in the bathroom down the hall (how DID we ever survive without smartphones?) that said “Transportation, Transparent and Tradition. Use one or all three in our date tonight.”

I was ecstatic! My idea was accepted!

I immediately started thinking about how I could incorporate these three words into a fun-filled, exciting, worthwhile date. The first word that instantly stuck in my head was of course, “transparent.” I thought Saran Wrap, right? It’s obvious, overt, and just plain obscene!

Sigh.

I dug the Saran Wrap out of the bottom of my foil and baggies drawer (oh yes, I have snack baggies, quart baggies, gallon baggies, zip lock, and even color strip baggies… it’s pathetic) and took it to the bedroom where I was going to “test” how this would work. I didn’t get too much “wrapped” when I realized that this would most definitely NOT be pretty. So I thought about using invisible Scotch Tape on my nipples! I could hardly contain my self-brilliance. How hot would it be to see me with “transparent” tape on my erect fleshy nipple? Then I tried to pull one off of as a clump of hair followed.

Sigh, again.

I finally decided to just make peach Jell-O with homemade whipped cream and a fresh slice of peach on top for dessert. “Transparent” down, two words to go.

The “tradition” part was easy. I just incorporated that into our traditional clinking of the wine glasses at the beginning of our meal. I most likely could have come up with something better on this one, but considering the timing, I went with it.

“Transportation” was more difficult to figure out. I thought that perhaps a ride to “Kiwi Yogurt” in town would be a fun way to relay transportation, but since I had used a dessert for another word, I was at a road block. I finally decided to dig out a game that we used to play called Mille Bornes. It’s a card game that originated in France and required us to interact while moving along in an imaginary car race to the finish line. It was a perfect solution considering the winner had choice of the after dinner um… prize.

So it’s not the finale of the Bachelor, or Game of Thrones, but it DID give us the opportunity to have a little fun with a little effort. I can’t wait to try this again next week!

13 Comments

Filed under Life...

the noise of insanity.

And there are these days where I feel the walls of my mind falling apart among themselves in silent clamor. I hear them crumbling and cracking within my head as they struggle for space within to call their own. I push them, and push them again far away from the stairs to my heart. I will not open that straining door to those blackened blocks of fear, of panic, of insecurity and failure.

Life and her grace continue to provide me with newer and brighter mornings to find hope in every hopeless situation. It lays at my feet the capacity to build newer and better relationships. I must capture all the fleeting frantic sticky moments of this day and force them… no, cradle them within my soul and mortar those tumbling chunks of insanity within.

I WILL succeed today. I WILL once again, be able to detour that which is not welcome in my world. I WILL breathe in the perfect peace and fill my lungs with inhaled freedom. I will squeeze my eyes shut harder still to deny the light of any cruelty on this day as this gloriously exhaustive struggle of staying sane remains.

1 Comment

Filed under Life..., Poetry

better than sex.

There. I said it. As I rapidly approach the age of 56 in a week or two with my heels dug into the floor like a sugar-induced 4 year old at the end of a Chucky Cheese Birthday party, I have proclaimed that a good foot rub IS, in fact, better than sex.

footNow mind you, I’ve had my share of outstanding sex, so I speak with authority. I’ve had sex with people that I either long to remember, can’t remember, or don’t WANT to remember. There were sexcapades in exotic locations like beach front homes, hot tubs overlooking city skylines, the Ritz-Carlton overlooking Central Park in autumn, once on a gondola ride to the top of Mount Killington in Vermont, and even once in the private dining room of a restaurant. I’ve also enjoyed sexual encounters in not so exotic, but no less exciting places like sofas, cars (both front and back seats and once the hood of), bathrooms, bedrooms, kitchens, and even the occasional alley and stairwell. Oh the blog entries I have ahead of me…

However, none of them compare to the feeling of having an honest to goodness foot rub. My job in sales requires that I work on my feet for several hours at a time. I continue to smile at work in hard soled shoes and I am fortunate enough to have a man who thinks nothing of offering me a foot rub when I get home to make me feel good. He’s pretty much offered to do them from about a month into our now 8 year relationship.

He has good hands… strong hands. Over time Daryl has learned to adjust his touch via my facial expressions, verbal cues, or perhaps it’s the guttural moan that accompanies an especially tender ball. Of my foot, the ball of my foot! We haven’t used lotions, oils or scrubs while he continues to improve the circulation of my aching dogs.

Then one time after a particularly vigorous rub (or maybe it’s been several times, damn it!) I thought I heard him ask ME if I’d return the favor.

Asking me AFTER my foot rub, is like asking a guy if he loves you after sex. Hello? I just came after all that pleasure and now I want to take a nap. Wham bam thank you uh… MAN. Anyway, I ignored his requests for reciprocal rubs because… well… I think it’s because my hands aren’t strong enough (lie) or perhaps I have an aversion to feet in general (lie), or maybe it’s just due to the fact that I’m selfish (truth).

Well tonight, it’s going down. This afternoon I went out and bought one of those foot soaking bubble massagers at Wal-Mart for under 20 bucks. Problem solved! I’ll just tell him to let me fill it up, plug it in, turn it on, and watch the fun begin! It’s like a dildo for your feet!

You think I’m THAT shallow?

Don’t worry. I’m not THAT selfish and uncaring most times. I WILL let him soak his feet after I make an outstanding dinner accompanied with a choice wine. I’ll provide music and a relaxing mood as he soaks his cares away. Once he’s all wet and seduced by bubbly joy, I promise to give his balls (feet) a rub as well as manipulate his digits (minds up here) with scented oils and moisturizing creams.

Hopefully he’ll be so relaxed, he won’t be able to walk. In a good way.

2 Comments

Filed under Life...

It’s just SO hard.

I honestly didn’t think it would be this hard.

If I had a quarter for every time I’ve heard that… I’d have a dime.

Seriously though, today I “deactivated” my Face Book account. It had become part of my daily (mostly morning) ritual.

Keurig on.
Lamp on.
Laptop on.
Face Book on.
Click, click, space bar, click…

Checking overnight status updates from West Coast friends while I slumbered during the night and then touching base with regular “morning folks” over a cup of hot java while watching the sun rise or rain fall outside the sliding glass door of my flat.

I would always try to locate an inspirational quote or photo to start the day. Perhaps listing my plans for one of my two days off during the week, or what I was prepping to chef for dinner for Daryl and I that evening. I enjoyed playing keyboard exhibitionist. I guess I felt like there were people out there who actually enjoyed my life’s quirks, words, and moments. I kind of cared about theirs… sometimes, quite deeply.

I think I became a “LIKE” whore as well. Photos of Daryl and I out enjoying wonderful meals, movies and get togethers that would solicit comments and likes as if we were Hollywood celebrities. Perhaps it was the addiction of seeing positive reactions to the updates. Maybe it was simply a way to push good energy easily from the comfort of my couch.

I sometimes struggle to remember what I actually DID before my morning Face Book ritual and more urgently important… What do I do now? My fingers need that QWERTY interaction. My mind still needs to spill its unorganized and frantic thoughts onto the light of my laptop screen to eventually be exposed to the internet world.

I’ll blog again, like I did a year or so ago.

Hang on… Here goes…

10 Comments

Filed under Life...

scare me.

I’ve heard it said that “you should do ONE thing every day that scares you.” Today, I did just that.

The political firestorm that seems to have divided our country this year seems to have ignited my soul to the point of wanting to try something completely out of my realm of normalcy. There have been disagreements over our role in Syria’s revolution, Social Security and Medicare bankruptcies, and the decision of a woman’s right to her body versus the point of conception. It all scares me. I’d say it scares the Jesus out of me, but then I’ve got Christianity on my back.

I wanted something more personal to jolt me out of my daily socialist entitlement and complacency.

Sigh.

So this morning, after my extraordinary one hour walk in the neighborhood, I got to thinking. No, make that… I got to steaming passionately about what could “I” do to wake myself up? How could I motivate ME to take a real stance on, not only our country, but ME? How could “I” do something that would frighten me so much that I could look back and refer to it as my new beginning… my awakening!

I tried to think back through my life of fifty plus years. I thought long and hard to image in my mind the things that made my life normal in my past. Then it hit me like a Biden smile during a vice presidential debate. I seem to remember starting it religiously (damn Christians) when I was barely through puberty. There were dates, parties, hell… even a marriage and kids, and I still did this same thing every day of my life. Today, it was going to change. Today, I was going to do it differently. Today, I was going to step out of my comfort zone and become afraid.

I could hardly wait for the goose bumps.

It all started innocently enough really. I was sweating profusely from the vigorous walk in the autumnal air this morning and I needed to shower. As I opened the sage green and taupe matching shower curtain, I saw it! The shampoo. THAT’s what I would avoid THIS day. That is how I would scare Ed Williams on this 12th day of October.

So I did it. I mean, I didn’t do it. I mean, I avoided it.

I went without shampooing my hair. Scoff if you must, but I did not wash my hair for the first time since I can remember. Don’t get me wrong… I wet it mind you… we’re not death defying here… just trying to scare ourselves a little.

God! How liberating! After towel drying, I toyed with it a little in the mirror. I felt like it looked heavier, perhaps a little duller… but damn, I was a fucking rebel!

We’re meeting friends out tonight and I hope I can get through this okay. Tomorrow, I’m going to attempt to go without soap.

13 Comments

Filed under Life...