Because I Can't Get Enough For My Ass

 O the joys of shrinkhood...

since it was such a glorious experience,
one that I have been torturing myself over ever since,
we are going to verify that this One is The One
we want by experiencing the brain fingers
of another therapist.

She is bi-lingual!!!!!
Origin: England!!!!
Even lived in the US!!!
So she gets the cross-cultural thing tri-ways!!!!!

Of course: she is an hour away.
And: she is not reimbursed by the system.

So who the fuck knows.

But we are going shopping.
I hope she put on her best dress.

IN the meantime:
here is a comic that I follow.
A superpooper comic.
The premise is that the visual
strip never changes...only the dialogue.
I have posted two to thusly demonstrate for thee.

And you all know my fondness for
Les Dinosaurs.
Click on the comic to check in.
In other news:
the sadness increases over the lack of
want in you peeps for Sweet Sperm.


Now I shall go and sand a joint.


Couples Therapy Is WAY DIFFERENT Than Individual Therapy

Well that was painful.

And I feel like fuck**ing crap.

Beloved and I were doing well.
As we are usually doing well.

We went to therapy to try and learn how to
communicate constructively when we fight.

Because when we fight, while no one
hits or cusses, shit gets hot fast
and nothing
really gets accomplished.

And I'm all for efficiency.

There was one point in the session
when I wanted to smack the therapist.
At that moment, an action such as
that seemed pretty efficient to me.

Probably the only thing that helped
me out of that feeling was the bizarre
fact that if you put a camera vertically in front
of her face, she looked exactly like the
profile picture of "La Belette Rouge."
who is also a therapist (O Belette,
you teleported to the south of France!)

But she was good.
Although her French became very
complicated at just the moment
when I was breaking down.

We learned two things
in our first session.
Which,  if you've ever been in therapy,
you'll know is pretty friggin miraculous.

Thing Number One:
I cannot tell Beloved what he thinks.
This is a huge self preserving habit
that I picked up while being raised
by a manic-depressive who would
literally stop talking to me for Months
for the slightest reason-like my arriving
home at 7:30pm instead of 7:00pm.

I became trained in The Watching of
people to try and see what
they were really thinking so that I
could manage any incoming artillery.

This can serve me very well.  And
a whole lot of the time I am right.

Beloved has lied to me in the past
and traversed boundaries that
I specifically asked him not:
like looking at naked pictures
of my sister that are all over
the internet.

And while he has apologized and
committed to being honest with
me.  And while I pretty much
believe him, this has amped up
The Watching.

"You can't tell people what they
are thinking" she said, staring at
me.  My Beloved stared at me.
Their eyes were bloody walls boxing me in.

All of a sudden it occurred to me
that this therapy could take the dreadful
turn of being all about me and my fucked
up past and family...and that he was going
to look like the innocent angel.

So I told her about some of the reasons
why I didn't fully trust Beloved.

That was pretty.

And it felt awful to be in something
like "opposition" to him.  I wanted it
to be about our working together.
I love Beloved, and I have witnessed
our growth and progression and honor
his bravery and determination.

But I felt like he was hanging me out
to dry.  And so I laid some shit out.

However.  I got the point.

Thing Number Two learned:
Beloved sees now that when we fight
he views me as the enemy and goes to
extremes to says things to win...things
that he doesn't mean or agree with...
and that just pisses me off more.
Especially since I am one of those
people who does not say things
that she doesn't mean in a fight.

This complicates the fight and he ends
up having to apologize for things he
didn't even want to say.

This Thing came close on the heels
of my revelations.

However, it took a fucking lot longer
time for me to understand what she had

and I am not Fluent in French.

We are in the bizarre position of his
having to explain (in French) what she has
said some of the time.

This is particularly frustrating because
I am not too bad in English and am accustomed
to debate/discussion on a high level in that
language.  I grasp ideas quickly and love
to go much farther with them.
So I'm sitting there trying to understand
what I KNOW is a simple concept,
and I feel like an idiot.

Also, Thing Number Two does not help
Thing Number One as it just makes me
doubt his words, and leaves me trying
to figure out what he really thinks.

Beloved got the point.

I am now going to practise asking
Beloved questions, instead of telling him
what he thinks.  He is going to practise
telling me what he REALLY thinks
and I am going to practise believing him.

We were in a great mood going in.
We were like two dead rats dragging ourselves out.

"That was fun" said I.
"Fucking fun" said he.

We went to the store to buy him
tennis shoes.  We talked some more
and then ate dinner with The Neighbor
who was delighted to hear that we had
fought in our first therapy session:
"C'est magnifique!"

We then sat around doing "If" questions:

If you had to be sodomized by a donkey
or a cat, which would you choose
(remember, a cat's penis has barbs).

If you had to choose which one of your friends
had to die in order to save the rest,
who would you choose.

The Neighbor and I have a very similar
sense of humor: morbid and fucked up.
This can rankle My Beloved, who, upon
arriving home, began to question why I think
horrible shit can be hilarious.  I tried to
break it down and explain it as a
way of transforming into humor what is so
clear in this world: people (while wanting
to love and be loved) have an uncanny nack
for hurting and destroying.

I then expanded the conversation to include
sexist jokes, which I can't abide because
I feel the very real menace behind them.

Why do so many men think sexist jokes are funny?
In my opinion, it is because men are trying to
manage their innate and profound fear of women.

On that note, we went to bed.


Will She Put Her Fingers Into My Brain???

My Beloved and I are going to see a couples
therapist today.  Pronounced in France:
A P-see.

Beloved suffered from depression when he
was a blossoming lad of around 18...and saw
a P-see once a week and took a few meds.

I started seeing a therapist twice a week at 19
when suicide became a truly attractive option. 

I loved that therapist.
Pamela was an elegant, long dress wearing,
slender, tall, elf-like angel.

Who was a loving hard-ass with me.
And refused to answer a single one of my questions.
And helped me to save my own life.

Since I graduated college, and Pamela, I
waded through the enormous ocean of completely
crap therapists to find two other therapists of note.

Both were extremely helpful, and one introduced
me to EMDR which was a truly extraordinary
experience that I recommend to every single body.

I was living in LA at the time, very near the
celebrity Scientology center.  It became immediately
clear to me that the "clearing" process that the
Scientologists do is actually a form of EMDR!
And they pay thousands of buckets for this!!!

(Note: L. Ron Hubbard was the grandfather of
a friend of mine.  He told me that, in fact,
Scientology is the result of a bet that L.Ron
placed with another science fiction writer.
They bet on who would be able to create a
religion.  They bet 1 Dollar. 
That.  Rocks my Sockets.)

So back I go to therapy.
I am feeling quite calm about the whole thing.
Despite that it will be in French.

My Beloved is also doing ok.
Despite his fear that I will discover
that I don't love him and trot out la porte.

Why are you here?  She may ask.

Because we are both stubborn as hardened sperm
and we need to learn how to fight constructively.

Also there is that huge culture difference
that brings all kinds of gender roles into
the shining light of societal day.

(He has a hard time doing the house cleaning
while I am doing the construction work).

I have never done couples therapy.
The one thing I am dreading is when she asks
me to tell her about my life.  This has always
been the weirdest part of therapy.

I always feel like I am opening an enormous
bag of shit and emptying it over the table.

In the past, I have got done with this question
to see my new therapist trying to hold back
feelings of sorrow, pity, and amazement.

Also, there is always a little tint of the carnivore
as though I am a juicy morsel into which they are
just dying to insert their little fangs.

Luckily I can be quite funny.
These helps me to help them feel a little better.
Even my suicide jokes are funny.

I don't think this kind of humor will
pass with a French therapist.

The French tend to enjoy very physical
jokes, including bodily functions....a physical
suicide joke?  Could end up in death.

Which could be funny.

I guess.

Meanwhile the cat is outside licking the
torso of a rabbit after having mashed down
the head and throat and chest and front paws.

Next thing you know she'll be wanting a kiss.


How To Hook Him Up

For a reprieve from building the bedroom this weekend
we went to a valley in Averyon
to fish.

To fish with the above man who is the best friend of
My Beloved and who is one of the loveliest people
I have ever met.

There are no women where he lives.
I am devastated when I think of all the fuckheads
in the world who are running rampant over a boat
load of wonderful women and this. lovely. and. hot. man.
cannot get a lady.

Any suggestions?

I am almost giving up on my Sweet Sperm challenge.

I am now pushing solo
to finish doing the joint work on the bedroom.
Which means hours of NPR listening.
O Terri Gross.
O Wait Wait Don't Tell Me.
O Slate's Political Gabfest.
How you help me to stop thinking
about my fucked up childhood...
which is what I cannot stop thinking
about once you put a mindless job
in my hands.

I have so much to say
about porn and peyote.
But it will have to wait
until I get these joints done.

Now I shall go and poop.


The Seeing

It is true what so many have said before me.

There are moments that mark us.
Moments when we are truly Seen for who we are.

I was 22 and on my way to the marriage
of the person who sexually abused me
through a period of my young life.

He is a family member.
At the time, no one in my family knew about this.

The family was to meet in a large town
in a small European country where the
marriage was to be held.

I was alone on the connecting flight.
Next to me sat a tall white man of about 50.

A conversation started between us.
As my mother had trained me, I posed
many questions and he recounted his life
to me as the ocean slid by below our
little plane.

He was a television producer.
I do not recall his name.

He was interesting and intelligent
enough to keep me in the conversation
for the flight.

And I seemed to please him.
But this was not unusual as I have found
many people are entirely pleased by
people who show genuine interest in them.

At the end of the flight he gave me
his phone number and insisted that I let him
take me out to dinner.

At this point in my life I was a savage thing.
Just recently embarking on a therapeutic
voyage, I was scraping the dirt off the
tombstone of an idea of a family life.

I was restructuring and rebuilding
my being.  I was, as so many do, seeing
who I was and simmering with
the pain of it.

And I had no fear.
I had held the fear by the throat
and was slowly choking it into
a gentle submission.

I called him that night.
He arranged to pick me up
the following night.

He pulled up to the house
in his silver jaguar...sending my mother
into spasms...perhaps she hoped I
would marry rich?  I don't know.
That is her business.

Into the car my savage self slid.
I was ready for a night full of my
questions.  I knew I would leave
him without his knowing a thing
about me.

And I would get a good meal.

And avoid being with my family.

We drove through the city
to his old stone mansion where we sat
in his garden over looking his
tennis court.

His grass tennis court.

And we drank champagne.
Which I didn't like (another story).
But drank anyway.

And I listened to him tell me
about his life.

We then drove to a fine restaurant.
He ordered for me.
And he was right in his ordering.
We were overlooking the ocean.
I was eating a wonderful risotto.
I felt bizarrely beautiful.

Or at least, that I was in
a beautiful moment.

Toward the end of the meal, he turned on me.  Suddenly
he was asking all the questions.
Suddenly I was in a position in
which I had never been.

He seemed sincerely interested
in me.

I don't remember it all.
Just that I was suddenly confronted
with the need for genuine

It was as if someone was reaching
into my bones...and holding them
with a firm and gentle hand.
All the while looking
right through me.

And just as suddenly.
We were in his car.

He reached into his glove
compartment and slid
a cassette into the cassette player.

The then unknown to me voice
of Nina Simone
laid its tone out upon the light
and friendly air that filled
the car.

He said:
I think this is your song.

And Nina sang:

She takes just like a woman, yes she does
She makes love just like a woman, yes she does
And she aches just like a woman
But she breaks just like a little girl.

And I did.
I broke.
There in the car.
Before I man I did not know.
Nor would ever see again.

And he held my hand
while I wept.

And I knew I had been seen.


The Man-Boy

When I left the Man-Boy in the Toulouse
airport never to see him again, it was as if 
billions of tiny hands were ripping apart 
not only my heartbeat, but each and every 
organ of my body, including the skin 
envelope that was stopping it
from splitting apart.

I could not stop weeping.

Triggering type of weeping.

The weeping where your face becomes
a volcanic eruption and you shake
and the cavern of deep suffering
that you manage to keep sealed
is pierced and then flies apart
letting all of the sorrow seethe
through your single true being.

The Man-Boy was shoeless and he was 
holding his dog by a piece of old rope.

And he, too, could not stop weeping.

They had to hold the plane for me,
I just could not leave.

In some manner I made it to my seat
with all of the passengers eyeing
me in embarrassed or annoyed ways.

And as the city of Toulouse became
a maze of color and then disappeared
behind the clouds, my heart
pattered, pattered, and then just 
seemed to sigh and go cold.

At the end of the trip was my husband,
waiting to take me to my mother's
house where the preparations for 
my step-father's memorial were
moving slowly forward.

The minute I saw my husband I knew
I could not stay with him.  I knew
that, for both of us, I had to leave.

2 months later I was back in France.


I was at one of the village fetes
when I first saw the Man-Boy.

He was off to the side of the dance floor,
watching and most definitely apart from
the rest.  His hair was black and thick
and dry and looked as if it had been
in a wind tunnel.  He was my height,
(tall) and beautiful, but not in a way
that most people would find beautiful.

I was dancing, and then I wasn't.
I sat on a bench and thought about how
I had had crushes on two other people
since I had been married, and how
painful that had been for me, the person
who was so committed to fidelity in
body and mind.  I could feel the pull
to the Man-Boy, and I battled it, talking
to myself and trying to stop looking
at him.

When he came over and sat besides
me I was still and cool.  He began to
talk with me and I could see through
my bad french, and through his tender
still eyes, that this could be trouble.

I tried to get the upper hand by asking
him his age, knowing that he was younger
than I and that he thought I was younger
than I was.  However, when he told me
he was 19... I just could not stop laughing
from the shock.  And when I told him
I was 37, he could say nothing.

I was his mother's age.

In all of my vastly varied experiences,
nothing had prepared me for this situation.

My husband had gone back to the US
for a month.  I was alone in the house and,
as some of you know, my husband and I
had as sex life that consisted of my biting
my lip and sleeping with him every 8 or 9
days.  Also an unprecedented situation for me.

In almost all of my previous relationships I 
was accustomed to sex at least once a day.
Despite experiencing sexual abuse at
a young age, and surviving a rape, I really
liked sex, and had moved to a healthy
place with it.  I loved my husband, there
really was nothing not to love, but I had
never really wanted to have sex with him.
I had seen a therapist about this, thinking
that perhaps it was because I was finally
in a healthy relationship and was therefore
subconsciously allowing my pain over
my abuse to surface, cutting off the desire
for sex...but honestly, it just didn't feel
right...and, if I was frank, even the first
time we had kissed felt wrong.  I always
felt that my husband was acting out the
idea of what things should be.  That he
was so disconnected that he could not
be his real, true self, and that somehow,
that made my desire recoil.

The irony was that the sex with my
husband was actually quite good.  He was
the Only person who could give me an
orgasm without any help on my part.

I just did not want him.

So there I was, in the middle of horrible
party music, sitting on a bench dangerously
close to another man.  A Man-Boy. 

Seeing this, a local man, who also happened
to be a cop, approached and started to talk
with us.  I knew he was trying to intervene
in what he felt to be an inappropriate situation.

He stayed and he stayed.
The Man-Boy stayed.

It was now 3am.  The night air was still warm,
but a chill was starting to reach its fingers into
my light jacket. I got up to walk to my house,
which was 200 feet away.

The Man-Boy got up.
The cop person got up.

It was clear the cop was intent on seeing me 
home.  I looked at the Man-Boy.  He looked
straight back at me.  And then I turned to
walk home with the cop yapping on beside me.

What I thought was a moral concern on the cop's
part, suddenly morphed into something else
as the cop did what no French person ever
does and asked if he could come into my house.

For a beer.  

"I don't have any beers."
"Then how about tea?"  
"I don't have any tea. And, anyway, it's 3am. I'm going to bed."
He actually started to insist.
And I pushed him out the door.

I waited 10 minutes.
I opened the door.
I looked down the street.
The Man-Boy was waiting besides the corner.
He started to walk toward me.

When he reached me I walked with him
behind the house to the garden.
We sat side by side in separate chairs
and looked at the shock of stars emptied
across the black, black cheek of the sky.

We talked.

And then he touched my elbow.
My elbow.
Just my elbow.
And only by accident.

And I felt more desire for him,
for this 19 year old boy, in that
perfect and terrible moment,
than I could remember having
ever felt in my life.


Butts and Other Activites

As some of you know, Dear Reader,
my little French village is on the road
to Compostello--which means that all
summer long, hundreds upon hundreds
of peeps flood through on foot, bike,
and, sometimes, horsey.

Two days ago two mecs (guys) rolled in
in a horse drawn covered wooden caravan.

Old School Stylie.

They had 3 lovely horsies with them who they
penned in down by the river.  And they set
up camp and, like true wooden caravan drivers,
started smoking up...which I discovered when
I approached them for a light (since My Beloved
and I are having lighter wars...another story).

I directed them to The Neighbor, who would more
than love them, and went back to construction work.

The next day they were in like, well, flynn. (Is it flynn?)
They were eating with The Neighbor,  My Beloved fixed
their brakes and I rode their horsies around
(being an old cowpoke myself).

Later, over aperitif, The Neighbor, his Prospective
Girlfriend, My Beloved, and I were talking about them.
At this point it may do to point out that I have had
peeps like these mecs in my life for a long, long time.

Travellers, vagabonds, etc etc.

And The Neighbor was talking about how extraordinary
this guy's life was...rolling about the joint in his wood
caravan...and how he "profits" from life...and is really
living life..and it occurred to me:

so many people seem to think that traveling and doing
things that do not include a 9-5 job and kids is the
only way to really live life.

This I already knew: but what then occurred to me
was that what really kills the experience of "living life"
is to fall into hardcore habits that numb you from
feeling and noticing life and all of its quirks and beauties.

And that, in fact, just because you're traveling around
does not mean that you are avoiding habits, as you can
just as easily fall into the "habit" of being in a new place
every day, and the "habit" of dealing with new people,
situations and environments.

Another point: I have moved over 41 times in my life.
As an adult I have lived in, let me see...6 US cities
and 3 European cities.  I know what it is to move,
to travel, to "profit from life."

But I want to smash this idea that traveling is the
only way to "live life," as, if you just become
habitual about it...which I have seen happen...then
you might as well be at home doing the same
thing every day.

So at this point I am going to make a little
list of some of the things that I feel are my way
of living life...things I appreciate..little things:

1.  Coming up behind My Beloved while
he is brushing his teeth and pretending
to do him in the butt. "eeee eeee eeee"

2.  Him playing along with it.

3.  Buying something on ebay and
having it be EXACTLY what it said it
would be....AND WORKING!!!

4.  The extraordinary beauty of the sunflower
fields in the summer.  And they change
place every summer so you never know
where they are going to be.

5.  Watching my cat's butt when she runs. 
She has this awesome and unelegant way
of moving her legs that actually makes
her butt shake.

6.  Bar 34 and 35 of Bach's 4th two part
invention in D Minor.  And playing it.

7.  My Beloved calling me
"my little horsey" pronounced:
"my leetle orseee".  AHHH!!!

8.  Winning a bet!

9.  Waving goodbye every morning
to My Beloved from the kitchen window
by way of using the cat's arm.
(ie: the cat waving goodbye to My Beloved).


there.  I am living life.

PS: it has occurred to me that people may
actually be un-inclined to "follow" me in
light of the "sweet sperm challenge" because
they don't want anyone thinking that they
are interested in sweet sperm.

Or is that just the crack talking.



Tonight we spent the evening with
The Neighbor and the new Swiss
man in the neighborhood.

The Neighbor's girlfriend left
him after walking the Chemin
de Compostello and meeting a Belgian
guy.  I knew it was just a way for
her to get out of her situation with
The Neighbor.  She left and went
to the NORTH of France.  which.
is not. pretty.  Now she regrets this.
I know this because My Beloved has
been told by The Neighbor (who is
also My Equal Friend-why hasn't
he told me???)  that she has
called and sent emails.

Being who I am and having left
my husband...I know exactly how
this played out:

She met a guy who made her feel
appreciated like The Neighbor
did not...and so she left.  She hooked
up with New Belgian Guy and things
didn't work out.  Now, in her mind,
she is fucked (which, if you were in
the North of France, you could
perhaps understand).

In my mind: The World Has Opened
Up To Her.  But she is not a particularly
courageous person.  She needed the guy
in order to leave The Neighbor, who,
by the way, is a most excellent, if
conflicted, person.

What is strange is that in this gathering of
me and 3 guys, I felt more comfortable
than if she had been there.  I sang more
strongly when they played guitars, and
when we were writing a song I was not
shy about my chord suggestions.

Is this because I did not want to dominate
her when she was here?  Or that I feared
her judgement (she was never really frank)?

I know not what.

but I decided 5 minutes ago to try my
first drunkish post.

and, Dear Reader,  it has involved many backspaces!

My Beloved is shaving in the bathroom.
The Swiss is preparing to go back to Switzerland.
The Neighbor is missing his girl, that is assumed.

And I.

I am sitting here realizing that My Life
is in France.  That a few intense decisions
led me here.  That I, if I am honest, left
my husband for the love of a 19 year old
uneducated drug addicted Man-Boy who
made me feel more desire than I can remember.

A Man-Boy who is not My Beloved.

O Man-Boy.
I saw you on the side of the road
the other day and you looked like shit.
You are falling into your heroin addiction.

You are so very beautiful
and no one ever told you but me.

O Man-Boy.
How very different your life could have been.

If you had been well loved.

but it was only me who loved you well.

And one is not enough.

O Man Boy.
How you broke my heart.

And how I survived you...

Drunken PS:
I am very very sad that more people
do not want the secret to Sweet Sperm.
Even the people in Australia?
And Marina Del RaY???

I need a serious What What!!!!!


If I Don't Love These Yeast Infections....then why do I feel married to them?

My Beloved and I had a beautiful
and harmonious week...capped with
the splendor of a charming Yeast

Ladies:  Boric Acid!
Get those capsules.
Insert in the VaaJay.

Of course, there is that little
unsettling bit about how Boric Acid
is also used to ward off roaches.

O the Roach takes me back to my LA days.

After escaping an ex who morphed
into a psycho (and I'm talking escape
in the middle of the night) my friend, and
roommate, D and I scouted out a cute
and cheap little bungalow just off of
Sunset by Gower Gulch (for those of
my peeps who live in LA).  It was
lovely and surrounded by plantage.
In my room, should one merely close
the door, one felt that one was perhaps
on a desert isle...fronds tapping at the
windows. Burdies tweet tweeting
their little burdy hearts about the joint.

We moved in at night, turned on the
lights......to AN ENORMOUS

3 bombs and camping later, the
roaches trooped back to the center
of the earth, leaving us in peace in
our attempts to read War and Peace,
avoid the carnivorous business of
parties in the "movie scene" and
work on our acting.  What?

A particular fond memory of D, who
was a fucking smart and uneducated 19
year old guy, was when I came home to
his announcement that he had a date
with some painter.....

did I know a guy named David Hockney?


Nothing was more fun then introducing
the "quick to learn" D to a pillow full
of Hockney's work...rushing about to
stores in LA that actually had art books...
(pre-internet time) and coaching him
through major dates, works, etc...

Or: when I would play Moonlight Sonata
on my rented piano and he would very
seriously perform an extensive piece
of interpretive dance around the living room.

D and I had a friendship based on mutual
admiration, trust, and an ass-full of disdain
for Hollywood and the newly blossoming
herds of fake breasted butt lickers.

D was in my bridal cadre, my bridesman.

I was robbed at gunpoint with D and have
held D in my arms while he wept...as he held me.
(And not for the reasons of robbery,
but for the reasons of sexual abuse, another
thing that we had in common).

So it was with great depression and dismay
that I hung up the phone after a pretty
awful conversation with him. 

D, it seems, has fallen completely into
the LA way of being.  The way of being that
mentions people in tandem with their career
positions.  The way of being that doesn't ask
you how you feel after your miscarriage.
The way of being that silently judges you
because you are not involved in what is
important: The Life Of Hollywood.

I am sad.
It seems I am going to lose my friend.

And it was not an "oh, just a weird kind
of conversation" that you know is a one off
thing.  It was an "I am 41 and I feel this to
be a turning point in my friendship with
this person.  A turning point that is leaving
a vile taste in my mouth and makes me
want to have a funeral for the love and
understanding that we shared" kind of thing.

He is still really smart.
But he is now a rock.

I mentioned that perhaps he needs to keep
his heart open and was met with teeth
and comments about how he could not
respect any woman who would want
to be with him (he is bi, by the by).

When we were getting off the phone, and
I was thinking that this might be the last,
he said that he loved me...as he always
does.  And I wanted to ask him
who he was and where was my D.

There are those among you who may say
that one can never give up on a friend.
And I do not give up on my friends.

But those of you in LA know of what
I speak.  You know that he is in the
Valley Of Death.  You know that reaching
him would mean major shaving of tendons,
bruising of hearts, and perhaps the loss
of an eye.  Perhaps his.

And I don't think he will call me again.

Another One Falls Prey To LA.
RIP my sweet sweet D.

In other news:  two of my pieces
got accepted to a great journal!!
and I am being paid!!!!
and I am not a total failure!!!!!



Killer On The Road

Easter came and did its "I'm dead
and ooo look at me flying away now" thing

and our cat brought us an Easter Bunny.  On Easter.

Right outside the back door I happened
to glance. There she was

Little Bunny Fru Fru was prostrate,
eyes open: "Do you think it's dead?"
I asked My Beloved as Our Darling Cat
took the Bunny's head into her gaping jaws?

An unthinkable question...yet of course
I was right.  The bunny was alive.
Beloved grabbed the wailing cat.
Bun Bun made a break for it.
I grabbed the cat.  Beloved grabbed
WATER?   no no no no
And put her in a safe,
and fleeable, place.

Above photo is of cat sulking by the locked cat door.
She's just now talking to us again.

It was just a blip in the catastrophe of a weekend.

My Beloved and I are deeply in love.
I know this because I feel it.

And. Sometimes it is the only reason that
we stay together in the face of our sometimes
mangled and soul-defying fights.

As I have noted in another post, we have gone
through perhaps I bit more than the average
western couple since we have been together.

To give you just a little idea of the house
that we are rebuilding, here are a few shots:
This is the bedroom area.  
Oh, and you are looking at the ground floor.  
The bedroom are now on the second floor.  
Which is where the door in the 
upper right hand part of the photo is.

My Beloved signing the contract to buy the house.
He is in the dining room.
The Bathroom
The living room space.
And again with that being the ground floor.
The living room is actually above this space.

So Yeah.  We are tired.
But I didn't anticipate the 3 days of gut-slogging 
fighting from Saturday to Monday.

To our credit.  We did manage to have a fantastic 
anniversary dinner (which I then ruined later 
at home by opening my fat mouth) and we had 
wonderful sex 4 times on Sunday (and I am 
NOT into make-up sex...which this most 
certainly was not).

I will not bore you with the problems except
to say that I am very low maintenance with
anniversaries: I don't expect gifts or even flowers.
However: if you took everyone of your previous
first dates out to dinner--AND NOT LUNCH
because you know very well that THAT is
romantic, do not expect me to be happy if
you propose LUNCH for our anniversary
after I have spent years sharing my body and
heart with you.

Also:  after a day of fighting and then having
made up, do not expect me to be happy if you
decide 2am at the end of it all is a good time
to go over to The Neighbor's house to drink
armangac and smoke pot...leaving me at
home because I just took a friggin' shower
and my hair is wet and it's winter in The 
Neighbor's house and I thought PERHAPS
we could reconnect physically, you know,
and you secretly don't even really want me
to come because you are afraid I have a crush 
on The Neighbor's friend. Which, I might
add, I don't mention so as not to embarrass you.

PLUS:  after years of trying to convince 
you that I am completely fine with you 
going out with your friends and you 
don't believe me and so have never 
done it, DON'T hold the forementioned 
situation as a good example as to why 
you don't do it.


FUCK UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In other news:  we are fine now.
We had a wonderful and constructive
talk and have decided to see a shrink.

Home for me is in his arms.

Don't forget the Sweet Sperm Challenge. 

(and, yes, you can imagine who
benefited from these experiments!
Mr.  Lunch For Anniversary!!)


Doin' It Dino Stylie

Back when I was a pre-married white lady,
my lovely pre-husband and I had imaginary
animals.  They sprung, fully flourished,
from my head when we were on a road
trip in Arizona.  Why we were on a road
trip in one of the "Awful American States,"
is simply due to his living in Flagstaff, one
of the less horrible places in Arizona.

I was visiting.  We were carrying on a long-
distance relay and he was trying to show me
the splendors of a state which is so hot that
the main city has a Friggin' Sprinkler System
for the sidewalks.  Also. There is their
voting record.  Also.  John McCain.  Also...

I digress.

Imaginary Animals.

It started with a huge model of a dinosaur that had clearly
stumbled its way into the desert and seemed alone and, yes, sad.
Of course I felt its pain and promptly let forth with a sound
impersonation of what was to become the vocal expression of:
Baby Dino (who looks a little somethin' like this:)
Baby Dino was a zesty little fellah, prideful, shy, affectionate,
a smidge demanding, and a great teller of jokes which, unfortunately,
neither of us could understand.  He was also a pretty poor driver,
seeing that he kept his eyes closed a great deal of the time.  After
all, he was only a BaaaBeee.

Soon frustrated with his human help-mates, he went out a-searchin'
for a new companion...and after a full-on traipse through cavern,
mountain ranger outpost, and sea bed...he came home with:

(extraordinarily, this picture swiped from the web is almost exactly what Sea Monster looked like!)

Sea Monster was a charming gentleman, always happy to hold forth 
on numerous subjects with vigor and enthusiasm.  With a little 
speech therapy, he was able to find a way to turn his vocal stylings 
into comprehensible utterances.  I would often find Sea Monster 
quietly and patiently waiting for me to open my eyes in the morning.  
"Hi Sea Monster!"  "Hewwooo ShuShu!!"  

Of all the animals, he was, by far, the most hilarious.

So hilarious that we were thrilled when he one day brought home:

I joke I joke!!!!!
Baby Sea wasn't Fergie!!!!  God!!!  Truth be told.  
And nor did he pee all over himself while on stage. 
(Ok that was mean).  However.  He was quite the baby. 
NEVER opening his eyes.  Constantly in a state of feeble 
waving of claws coupled with whispery efforts to talk.  
To break it down:  Baby Sea would grab onto anything 
he could and suckle.  And no not in a sexy way.  He would 
grab your nose, your hair, your elbow.  Whatever he could 
to take care of his Baby Sea needs.  

Nothing. Nothing is cuter.  Than Baby Sea.

But it was the greatest triumph of all when into the picture bounced:

To see the beauty of Niffler, you must do the following:
Hold your hand up: palm toward you. 
Lower your two center fingers down to touch your thumb.  
Keep the outside fingers up and away from the two center fingers.
Turn the hand sideways

ET VOILA!!!!!! 

Niffler went on to mate with Niffletta...who while being
a bit more coy, is just as boisterous and chatty...steals just
as many things...and frequently participates in the age-old
Niffler ritual of : The Dance Of Joy.

At this point I will answer the obvious:
The Animals were never in the room during sex.
(we would never DREAM of exposing such innocents!)

Once the Family was developed there was no turning

asunder.  Our mountain of friends were treated to numerous
spectacles of Sea Monster harrassing Baby Dino who was
then comforted by Niffletta while Niffler tried to steal
your drink.

I am not making this up.

My husband and I introduced the Imaginary Animals 
to anyone who would listen.  People either found them 
completely bizarre.  Or completely hilarious.

They even had a place in our wedding
(you know, the one where I walked down the aisle
to the theme song from "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly").

"I promise to care for all our Imaginary Animals
and send them to good and diverse public schools, exposing
them to Chopin, Bergman, Monk and X Clan"

At this point you may be thinking I'm just a little fucking nuts.

Or. That this is an April Fools Joke.  
(I just noticed that it is April 1.  I swear to you.  
This is the truth.  On the head of my most exquisite cat.)

But, Dear Reader, you, too, could love the Imaginary Animals.
They were delightful.  They were imaginative and independent.
And they were great soothers of the soul when we were sad.

Who would turn from a sweet little Baby Dino nuzzling up
against her shoulder when she received yet another rejection
from a journal?  Who could resist Sea Monster showing his
sensitive side and wiping away little tears after a particularly
heart wrenching episode of Battlestar Galactica??

ah yes.
but then we got divorced.

In the agreement (verbal, we had no assets) 
I gave him Chicago, Baby Dino, Sea Monster, Baby Sea,
and, yes, and, Niffler.

I took France.
And found Niffletta hiding in my luggage.

The French adore Niffletta.
She charms in all cultures since she is completely multi-lingual.

Even My Beloved is starting to laugh...despite his
macho southern meat-eating tendencies.

but sometimes.

i do weep for the loss of the animals.