Give Me My Cookies

While I was made aware of sex and relationships and the potential consequences, physical and otherwise, from an early age, my parents didn't get too far into the "It can feel really good" portion of the discussion.  (They did like to make us squirm with the "It doesn't really get good til you're 40" comments, but I digress  And gag a little.)
Maybe because it was assumed I had already figured that out at some point between getting a time-out for kissing boys on the playground in kindergarten, getting a time-out for sitting on boys laps in 7th grade, or getting grounded at various points during high school for various boy-related violations.

Laundry Girl's mom apparently filled her in on that part too.  (Please click on that link, especially if you're a straight man.)  Wise, wise, wise words.  It's all about how everyone should get their cookies, and since the encounter usually has a way of winding down after the boy finishes his, that it's only appropriate and polite that he makes sure the girl gets hers first.

This may explain why LG was always one of my few friends who seemed to know the in's and out's (pun  intended) of getting down and dirty, not just the did-you-or-didn't-you technical details.  If I would have prescribed earlier to her Mom's way of thinking maybe I would have put up with much less poor-effort-sex over the last decade, and really, the less of that in the world the better.

Skinny Idiot

I read something yesterday that quoted Kate Moss as saying "Nothing tastes as good as being skinny feels."

At first it made me want to punch her and then force feed her bacon.  Then it kind of made me angry - the woman has a daughter for crying out loud, talk about pre-determined eating disorders.

Now, I think pity is the best way to describe what I feel.  Because I'm not obese, but I'm certainly big enough that I can enjoy some of the delicious things the world has to offer (ribeye!  cheddar!  funnel cakes!) without worrying about having an outline of it show through my abdomen.  

And that, my friends, feels pretty damn good.

Sunrise

I woke up with my head on his shoulder facing away from him.  I studied his lower arm, the design of his moles and hair, that led to his strong hand that works hard but knows exactly how to touch my hair or hold my own.
The muted early sunlight was on the bed and the veins in his arm built a topographic map of his skin.  I could feel him breathing behind me in the soft gentle pattern that meant he was about to stir.  Although I wanted to hear his voice I wanted more for him to sleep peacefully next to me for just a few moments longer.
I felt sad that I had to say goodbye to him in some hours, but it was ok.  I felt more calm and safe with him than I do at any other place I can think of.  I knew I would see him again soon, I know that because we have applied no rules to each other it won't be a desperate rushed meeting.  Any time we have together is surplus.
I kept wanting to say words to him that would change the rules, so I didn't.  Instead I drew a heart on a piece of paper and put it on his pillow.  When I woke up the day after he left I felt almost euphorically happy, embracing the joy I feel just to know I get to have him in my life.

Hypochondriac

My sister did her best at convincing herself and everybody else that the 2-day fever she had at our cousins wedding two months ago was actually swine flu.

These are the texts between us today:
Megan:  I think I have mecury poisoning.
Caitlin:  WTF
   And swine flu?
   And autism?
Megan:  I can be awkward... but i font think its bad enough for a diagnosis.

p.s. I've used her original spelling.  She's in graduate school, by the way. I fully expect her to come at me with a list of supporting reasons for her self-diagnoses of aforementioned diseases.  Except for autism.  Probably.

It's Veterans Day

My Grandpa John was in the Army Air Corps during World War II.  He was shot down over France, smuggled out, came home and married his sweet love Annie, and raised ten children with her, including my mother.

My Grandpa Jim was in the Navy, he worked on radar and was on a submarine in the South Pacific when a torpedo hit it.  It was a dud, he came home and married Virginia and had my father then four more kids.

I was in love with a boy named Ryland when he was in the Marines, and was in Iraq during the start of this war.  Clifton was also there and is still one of my best friends.  I moved to North Carolina because of Justin, who was in the Army for almost ten years and Iraq for one.  Derek has served countless tours and is looking at another one.  Brent is overseas again as his love Liz waits for him in Texas.  Brandon is in Afghanistan right now, with his wife Annie and new baby waiting for him in Alaska.  Melinda served a few tours and just got out so she could get married.  Mike, Teeter, Mark, Boots, Steve, John, Scott, Dylan, Josh, Chris, Rob, so many others...

Thank You.

Made For Walkin'

In October of 200something I sprained my ankle bad enough that I could barely walk on it for a few weeks, let alone wear high heels.  I love wearing high heels so this cramped my style.  That New Year's I was finally ready, and I bought an adorable low-ish heeled, uncharacteristically girly pink with black adornment pair of heels and built an outfit around those.  They remain some of my favorite pair of shoes I have ever owned.

Fast forward a couple of years and a couple of long distance moves.  I was dating and had fell hard for somebody that was about to relocate, we'll call him T.  We had a brief but intense courtship that was great in some ways for both of us; in the years that followed, up til almost present day, neither of us were really able to let go when we should have.  (For me, the first second and third time he lied to me about having/getting back together with a girlfriend were the big should-have-let-the-hell-go moments, but I guess I've always liked a lesson to be really pounded into me.)

In the months that we were together we rarely spent a night, or moment for that matter, apart if we could avoid it.  Naturally, there were some objects that got mixed up, which isn't normally a problem because as you clean or sort or whatever you say "Hey dollface, you left your blabla here, I'll bring it over later," then you do and life moves on.  However, as this individual was about to be relocated as a member of the armed forces, there was a super swat packing crew that boxed and moved every last item not clearly labeled and separated.

T and I were trying to be realists and didn't have plans on being a couple, or even necessarily seeing each other after we both left town, other than a brief stopover on my way westward across the country.  So it was with much annoyance and a little sadness that I  realized later in the afternoon after all the boxes had been moved out of T's house that my girly pink sprain-recovery-celebratory heels had been packed and relocated to T's next government chosen location.

In the years since we met and swept each other off our respective and proverbial feet, we have stopped talking only to start again, for one reason, excuse, overdue apology or another every few months.  He has been the "What If?" for me, and I always held out just a little hope that we'd find a way to work something out.  He is a nice guy and I think for the most part has meant well, but the failure to disclose when he was with his girlfriend became a regular theme that, admittedly, I should have learned a lesson from earlier.

T was moving again a few months ago, from the house he had lived in (and deployed from a few times) since we parted ways.  (AKA the house that held my shoes.)  Since we were in the midst of another talking streak, and this overdue apology had really been a doozy, it occured to me that this would be the time to get my shoes back.  I knew he'd send them to me when they were uncovered because he was in the process of trying to prove that he was the one for me, to show me he had made a mistake in letting me go, and to prove I could trust him so we could really build something.  (I've paraphrased a little here, but most of those are not my words.)

One of the last times I talked to him, as I was deep in realizing that I needed to cut him off again, he made the sad report to me that nowhere in the house had my shoes been found.  Shoes gone.  Forever.

I talked to him maybe once or twice after that, and I don't exactly know why or how to describe it, but I realized distinctly that this was the last time.  I held him up on a pedestal for more than two years and over and over I was disappointed, yet at least a small part of me had held on, had clung to the awesomeness of the time we had spent together as an example of what should be.

I don't want to over simplify things, but I realized something striking after the last time I hung up the phone with him...
After I found out the shoes were not to be found, it was shockingly easy to let him go. 

Good Wife

I got this little nugget from my mother in an email a few months back...  (click on image to see it bigger)

Such gems include:
"Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him."  and
"A good wife always knows her place."

I love watching the suppressed rage of Betty Draper on Mad Men as much as the next person, and I got a good laugh out of this.  Then I read it again and I thought, "Holy Shit are my sisters and I lucky that my mothers and hers worked so hard and didn't mind the label of feminism...  Cheers to you women, and cheers to our grandmothers for not losing their intelligent and underused disrespected minds.  We owe you lots."