Thursday, January 27, 2005

I will not be ignored!

I don't know how much my fragile ego can take in one week. I stumbled, (after a pathetic, long, drawn out afternoon of introspection and dredging up the past I googled an ex lover), on an anthology of poetry that an ex lover of mine wrote and promptly ordered my own copy via Amazon.

The book arrived and I frantically flipped through page after page to find nary a mention of me. I then proceeded to do a careful reading of the introduction and each and every poem. I tried reading with my left eye open, my right eye shut, my right eye open, my left eye shut, reading through squinty eyes, turning the book sideways and upside down, reading the pages as reflected in a mirror...still nothing. Nada. It's as though I never existed.

This wasn't a fling, damn it! We had an intense, romantic, passionate, and oh, yeah, completely fucked up relationship. What the hell? That's the stuff that poetry is made of! How about the three months we lived together...remember that? I was the one you fell asleep next to, the one who watched you sleep, the one you woke next to every morning? Poetry. Remember when we spent an entire afternoon picking wildflowers together and filled our entire apartment with them? Uh, poetry in motion. How about when you delivered a huge basket of strawberries to me after I casually mentioned that they were my all time favorite? What about the time you brought flowers to my little girl and let me sleep in while you made her pancakes? Any recollection of the hours on hours we would spend strolling through used book stores together treasure hunting? How about the times we would stay in bed on rainy days, light some candles, and read one another poetry? All those love letters, poems, shared books, music, art? All the stuff we were sure that mattered and our commitment to freeing ourselves from the riffraff....no television for us, no mainstream films, no faddish book of the month, no top of the charts music,...we were so off the beaten path.... defining ourselves and our own life. We were set apart. Hey, dude, what about that time I went down on you and you came so hard it shot through my nose? Uh, ok, maybe that wasn't a poem.

Whatever! When I get published, I am so not mentioning him. Well, except for the poem that will reveal in breathtaking stanza after stanza the wonder that was his curiously deformed penis.

I'll leave you with bits and pieces of his genuis. From his intro:

I hate poetry. Poetry is like giving birth: brutal, long, nasty. One seven-line poem can demand far more than fourteen hours to deliver. And then you are not even sure it's going to survive. But once the baby is born, a smug satisfaction follows. If the poem is beautiful, you weep. If it's ugly, you turn your back. But like every good mother, you still adore it.

I'll pause here for a moment. WTF? Ladies, evidently, *this* is what it would be like if men were to experience birth firsthand. All I have to say is that he has no freakin clue. I have yet to meet a mother who would explain the birth of her child in these terms. What a complete, clueless jackass. What's more, at the time he composed this piece of work, he was married and a father of two children.

......................

I might write more on this later, but for now I just feel sick. I'll skip to his last lines of wisdom:

Finally, I must be sadistic. I loathe attention. (uh, right. that's why you are putting your insides down on paper for all to read) I have mentioned it before, but I should have burned these poems. What I am doing by releasing this collection is perpetuating those memories and inviting criticism, praise. How dreadful.


Puhleeeaaassee.....

Dumped!

Although she assures me that "it's not me, it's her" and that "this has been coming for some time", I still can't believe it's over. I mean, I feel like we have just now really established our intimacy....that she gets me. After an almost year long relationship, me pouring my heart out to her, divulging all my inner demons, my fears and insecurities, my hopes and dreams, ...I have driven my therapist into retirement. She's promised to see me three more times before completely washing her hands of me. I can't help but feel like this is merely break up sex...you know one last time to remember me by.

God, I hate this. Finding a therapist is a lot like dating. Have I mentioned how much I hate dating? It sucks. Remember the scene in When Harry Met Sally where their two friends are snuggling in bed together and the woman says, "Promise me I'll never have to be out there again" ? That is so me. Now I have to get back out there and not only find someone new I can click with but at the same time, I have to start.all.over so that they can grasp the complexity which is lu.

Why oh why can't I ever just find someone who will stick with me for the long haul? I want a true commitment, damn it! Where's a girl gotta go to find devotion? I feel so used.

Tuesday, January 25, 2005

Thin Ice

The first tender shoots of my daffodils are springing up from the earth and while I get that same pang of excitement, that same joy that comes with their emergence, I also realize that it's January in the midwest which means it's very likely that the February/March snow will freeze the flowers before they get a chance to blossom. Our local weather expert predicts we will see 15-20 inches of snow before February rolls into March and although he can't seem to give us an accurate forecast for the next 48 hours, I still find myself resigned to the fact that regardless, the past doesn't lie. For as many years as I have lived here, we have never escaped the February snow dump.

I can't help but see a parallel between this and my personal life. As we push forward with our reconciliation, my estranged husband and I are both filled with the sense of renewal, our own spring, if you will. I struggle to find a balance. A way to let my heart be open and vulnerable, to give our love room to blossom, but at the same time to protect myself against the urge to surrender, to be bare, raw, exposed...

Wind in time rapes the flower trembling on the vine and nothing yields to shelter it - Fear by Sarah McLachlan

Awhile back I confessed to authoring some really bad poetry. Please forgive me for dumping it on you, but know that there is a method to my madness. To prove my point regarding the nasty habit the past has of rearing its ugly head, here is a poem I wrote to S several years ago and again, just recently:



Sleepless nights, tossing and turning in a sea of insecurities,
how I long to feel the comfort of your embrace, the
Reassurance of your kiss,
Your soul dancing with mine, tangled in hope, devotion, hunger-
Your beauty frightens me. Its lure invites temptation.
This seduction threatens our sweetest poem.

No promise whispered in the darkest of nights,
no tears collected on a virginal blanket of snow,
nor the most tender of kisses or most sensual
caress would murder my fears.
Crippling apprehension borne of betrayal and
Pain I cannot erase
I want to make you my life
Belong to you, but……..
I am so frail, my faith in love so weak,
please just hold me, let me fall softly into you,
You, my sweetest lullaby.

I laughed, I cried....

You must go straight to Netflix, do not pass go, do not collect $200 and rent :

This awesome movie

I watched it *twice* and laughed even harder the second time through. Loved it!

Saturday, January 22, 2005

Wet n Wild

I am throwing my inhibitions to the wind and entering Genuine's Blogger Chicks Gone Wild Contest.

I was lucky enough to win a Genuine t-shirt not too long ago and so without further ado, brace yourself for:



lu's luscious wet t-shirt pic



Look Ma, No hands!

My therapist has suggested that the hubby and I take things slowly with the attempt at a reconciliation. Once again, I am ignoring perfectly good advice and have opted to instead accept this gift:



Yep, I'm officially engaged to the man I'm still technically married to. It's sooooo sparkly!

Tuesday, January 18, 2005

Running With Scissors

I am in love. There. I said it.

Being the superstitious gal that I am, I'm still not ready to shout it from the rooftops but I figure a little whispering around these parts is ok.

I have been dating this man for only a couple of months and I'm head over heels, no talking any sense to me, hopelessly, in love. He's a handsome, thirty-something doctor with a passion for music, films, cooking, photography, fatherhood, and well, me. He's also the very same just-this-close-to-officially-being-my-ex-husband of whom I've been separated from for the past year and the father of my four year old daughter.

I'll pause here for some of my readers who are near and dear to me to quickly make their way to the nearest exit. Do not read any further if you suddenly feel compelled to do any of the following:

*hurl
*roll your eyes so far back in your head that there's a danger of losing them
*utter any of the following: WTH?! WTF?! I love lu, but OMG, what *is* the matter with her?!
*mentally compile a list of people to call to form an intervention
*follow through with K's earlier proposal of borrowing a large tractor to plow down S

Wow, it sure got quiet around here all of a sudden. Is there anybody out there still with me? Anybody?.......................................................



Here's the thing. I should know better. I have had my heart stomped on, chewed up and spit out, in short, broken enough times that I ought to just adopt the first of many, many cats and call it a day. So how did he manage to turn down my cynicism (born from repeated betrayals over the course of our seven year relationship) low enough for me to hear what my heart was ever so softly humming? In a word, therapy. Lots of it. His and mine. I won't bore you with the details but suffice it to say that we are both very fortunate to have found competent and compassionate people to accompany us on our journey to becoming healthier, happier people.



To be sure, he had the advantage of knowing who the man of my dreams was and was able to rescue him from the dark and ugly place he had been imprisoned. He arrived with all the romance, sensitivity, sensuality, intelligence, tenderness, compassion, and creativity that I remembered from long ago, yet, he is not the same. He is strong, confident, self aware, humble, passionate, and most of all, honest. Honest about his past, his fears, his weakness--he's able to trust that I will embrace the whole of him and that I won't kick him when he's down.

With his new found health come new and wonderful surprises--- the chivalry I longed for, the ability to laugh, and the desire to love and be loved.





I hear a lot of "I can't believe you are giving him *another* chance" and that's ok. After a ten month long separation where a good 90 percent of the time I was sure I was doing the right thing, there are days I can't believe it either.

I have absolutely no regrets. When I left it was because, ironic as it seems now, that S finally gave me what I pleaded for all along...honesty. He was honest about the fact that he was not ready and/or willing to accept that his behavior was destroying his life and ours. He did not feel that he could get healthy in the context of our relationship. I left because S was not ready to fight. I see that he is now. I believe in him and as long as he continues to be honest and open with me about where he's at, I'll be by his side.

All I know is that it feels right. Right in a way it has never been before. It feels good. I am happy.

If we listened to our intellect, we'd never have a love affair. We'd never have a friendship. We'd never go into business, because we'd be too cynical. Well, that's nonsense. You've got to jump off cliffs all the time and build your wings on the way down. -Annie Dillard










Sunday, January 02, 2005

I've been a bad, bad girl

How did I, on the fifth day of my kidlet free week, kick off the new year? I spent the entire day lounging around on my sofa with five, count em, five men. Ted, Kyan, Thom, Carson and Jai...xoxox-- Bravo's Queer Eye For The Straight Guy marathon, baybee!

After my boys left me lonely and unfulfilled, I lit some candles, snuggled under a comforter, savored(***) what was left of the Lindt chocolate and watched a really, really bad movie, I, Robot. Admittedly, I'm not the world's biggest science fiction fan and although I do love me some Will Smith, this movie just sucked hard.

Still wasn't ready to turn in and so I returned to my computer to continue my duty as a fellow blogger and an informed voter for BOB to diligently read through the various finalists. Want to know what happens to a good girl like moi after reading through the nominations for The Best Sex Blog? Look no further than my Lindt chocolate tutorial....

I have got about 42 hours left and I've got big plans. Going to crawl out from underneath my rock today (have not left my house since Monday night!!) and visit the library, pick up some bread and fruit at the store, and if I'm feeling really ambitious, return some what were they thinking?? Christmas gifts.

**** The Official Tutorial to Savoring Lindt Chocolate:

Remember to take it slow...work your way from the top to the bottom. For the sake of illustration, let's use the foil wrapped Lindt Santa...slowly strip the foil wrapper down, just enough to expose the head, nibble off that first delicious piece, let it sit on your tongue and lose yourself in the sweet, creamy, chocolate as it melts in your mouth...you may be tempted to rip off the rest of the foil and shove Santa's girth into your mouth, but remember, slooowww, tease yourself...peel down the remaining foil and take the rest into your mouth. Mmmmmm....