Jitter(s)bug

"Auntie Jane? What is a wet dream?"

Uh...what?

There I was. My 15-year-old niece and my 12-year-old nephew sat at my feet as we basked in the summer sun on my 8th floor apartment balcony and my niece - naive? - asked me that question, their sheltered Mormon faces turned toward me expectantly as I sucked harder than usual on my Marlboro menthol.

Shit.

Uh...

Do I answer honestly or dance around the subject and direct them toward their conservative parents?

Since I'm a terrible dancer, I set out to answer the question as honestly as possible. As far as I was concerned, both were of an age to know what I was talking about and both were of an age that they needed a non-parental unit to talk to about all this stuff. Blushing furiously, possibly stammering a bit, I tried to explain as best I could.

Whatever I said, it must have worked. As a reward, both of them, as they've reached their late teens and early 20's, continue to turn to me to have their sexual and/or relationship questions answered. Sometimes it's late-night texts, occasionally frantic work day phone calls, sometimes I'll get pages upon pages of an e-mail with heartbreak and angst written between the lines.

Because I didn't dance around the issue that very first time, because I talk to them about sex in such a way that there is no shame, no secrecy, no taboo topic, they trust my answers. I proved that I love them unconditionally. I asserted myself as an ally as they grew up and began to spread their fragile wings.

I do the best I can. I try to remember what it was like at their age and try not to expect them to understand all the lessons I've learned in the 18+ years I've got on them.

And I rarely ever blush anymore.

Written for the GBE2 (Group Blogging Experience) prompt: "Dancing".

Day Sleeper

When I first met and fell in love with Andy in the fall of 1992, I was a freshman in college living 100 miles away from him and he was unemployed, living with his cousin, one of my best friends, who worked as the overnight jock at the only rock radio station in town.

They were day sleepers. Clearly.

I, on the other hand, was a solid early to bed, early to riser. Most of my classes started at 8 a.m. My school day done no later than 2 in the afternoon. Beyond that, I'd always enjoyed the early mornings...the quiet, the peace I felt while I savored the loneliness of dawn.

Those first few months of college though, I learned to appreciate the night. I loved feeling blanketed by the darkness, enveloped in the tender moments of first love, while drinking gallons of Mountain Dew and swallowing Jet Alert caffeine pills to stay awake so I could keep up with Andy and his shenanigans.

A typical weekend would start at 6:30 a.m. Friday morning. Class, a break, another class. I'd be out of school by noon and, my car already packed for the weekend, would leave straight from campus to head due north toward the Colorado/Wyoming border...toward the ever blowing wind and sleep-deprived love...pulling up in front of The Book and Record Exchange above which they lived just in time for coffee with my boys. There would be no sleep for me that night. There were conversations and arguments, card games and graffiti, kisses and well...you know...to be had. As the sky would lighten, we'd sit curled up in front of the southeast facing windows to watch the pink of the sunrise. He'd sing me our song. He'd read me a story. I would kiss him goodnight and take my leave to see my mom for a few hours, to nap for a couple of hours, before rising mid-afternoon to see him once again.

I would arrive back in Denver mid-afternoon on Sunday exhausted and content to resume my early to bed routine. So it goes. So it goes.

With Andy, with N8, with Goliath...with Noodle.

I've always felt like an early riser in a sea of Day Sleepers.

You see, I've never been romantically involved with anyone who wasn't a night owl and I've often suspected our opposite sleep habits played a hand in many a break up. It's hard to connect with someone who sleeps while you're awake and vice versa.

And then, a couple of years ago, something changed. Maybe it's age. Maybe it's the cumulative impact of the late nights dabbling in the club culture to which many of my friends subscribe. I don't know. All I know is that my sleep needs have shifted more toward day sleeping much the same way my body's center of gravity has shifted so that I'm always just a tad bit off balance.

Regardless of the reason, recently I asked to modify my work schedule so that I was no longer reporting to work at 6:30 a.m. I realized much of my anxiety in the morning stemmed from knowing I hadn't slept enough as a 9 o'clock bedtime didn't feel realistic without hours of tossing and turning. So now I report at 8:30. It's nice. I like it better.

Still...

I took yesterday off as a planned personal day because I had shit to get done. And then, Thursday night, because I wasn't working the next day, shenanigans were afoot. I, without effort, stayed awake until 4:30 a.m. and only went to bed then because I had to do a very few things late in the day.

Last night then, I was yawning my fool head off around midnight and considered heading toward bed when even more shenanigans presented themselves via a text from my upstairs neighbor. She and I parted ways 'round 2:30. I didn't go to bed though. By then, I was wide awake and my fingers itched to write. So write I did. I wrote several pages on a project I'd wanted to start. And then I may or may not have instigated a middle-of-the-night e-mail conversation with Noodle (shoosh you...no, really, I'm serious. Shoosh!).

The next thing I knew, the sun was coming up and I hadn't yet slept.

So I sang myself our song.

And I read myself a story.

And then I kissed myself goodnight.

And went to sleep.

All the while knowing, as much as I want to...

I can't be a day sleeper. Not right now. There are no allowances for a day sleeper in my current employment situation.

So, as much as I don't want to on a Saturday night when Alameda is in town and performing at the Hi Dive, as much as I don't want to when friends are throwing a St. Patrick's Day party, I forced myself to get out of bed at noon and didn't allow myself a nap or evening coffee. I'm in my pajamas and will make myself go to bed at 11.

I hate it.

I...

Wanna rock and roll all night.

And sleep the day away.

But I'm a grown up. Uh...mostly. Unless there are shenanigans afoot.


Written (primarily) for the GBE 2 prompt "Shenanigans" but also because it's on my mind as Alameda gets ready to take the stage and I'm at home pouting.

The War On Women...WOW

Ever since the fiasco that was the Susan G. Komen Foundation yanking grant money from Planned Parenthood under the ruse that PP was under congressional investigation for using federal monies to fund abortions, I've been trying to write this post.

The thing is other writers - both men and women - were writing about that specific incident in droves and writing about it much more succinctly than I ever could.

Then, before the flames burning in incensed women's bellies could be doused, the Catholic bishops and Republicans added significant fuel to the fire by insisting Obama's legislation mandating that contraceptive care for women employees was to be offered for free by health insurance companies - even if that health insurance was provided, in part, by a faith-based employer - was a slap in the face to the first amendment and religious freedom.

And, once again, I tried desperately to write what I was thinking and feeling but, once again, found a flood of others writing so well about it, I gave up because I couldn't make the words come out of my mouth in any kind of coherence.

Seeing the pictures of the panel of men - only men - testifying before congress on the issue had me pissed. Discovering that women were overtly banned from testifying on behalf of other women was nauseating. Hearing the talking heads say women should just put an aspirin between their knees as an effective mode of birth control had me in a rage.

Then, oh yes, there is more! MORE! The state of Virginia attempting to make vaginal ultrasounds mandatory for any woman seeking an abortion. Rick Santorum - that frothy mixture of lubricant and excrement - stating he cannot support women soldiers in combat because it compromises the mission.

And then, that Dickhead, Rush, had to chime in and call Sarah Fluke - a Georgetown University (a Catholic run university) law student - a slut and prostitute for daring to expect free access to contraceptives. How dare she?!

Seriously?!

And still...now, more than ever, I'm at a loss for words to describe just how thoroughly disgusted and angry I am with the people - both men and women - who think it's still OK to make MY vagina a forum for religious and political debate.

But I still couldn't write about it. Even though...

A war on women has been openly declared by religious leaders (who would be better off ensuring their numbers weren't molesting innocent children rather than worrying about whether or not reasonable contraceptive care was available to women who consent to sexual contact), by political hopefuls and leaders, by women who'd been brainwashed by the idea of money in their coffers if they'd only comply with the will of men and the will of a gawd I do not subscribe to.

Still...I was wordless.

Until Thursday.

Thursday I attended an all-day conference for mid- to high-level non-profit executives. 160-ish attendees - 2/3 of them women. The conference started off well - the first presenter  was a well-respected woman, intelligent, wonderful, funny and well known to me. I was enjoying myself.

The second presentation was given by two men from the investment industry talking about volatility in the stock market. As the first man got started, he put up a graphic depicting the highs and lows for each year of the market. The last 4 years, as we know, swung more wildly than ever before.

"Why do you think that might be?" he asked his audience. And then he went on to say, "Beginning 4 or 5 years ago, access to news is instantaneous. We react and the market reacts more rapidly now because, up until 2008, if you wanted information to spread you had to use the telegraph, the telephone, or the tell-a-woman."

Dead silence.

He stuttered and nervously laughed as the energy in the room went cold.

What he said afterward, I cannot tell you. While his joke was relatively mild, after women had been enduring weeks of blatant sexism from several sources, it was in terrible terrible taste. His credibility, at that moment, was completely shot and nothing this man could say would carry any weight with me.

It was at that moment I decided that, no matter how lost for words I was, I would no longer be silent. I will no longer let gender-biased comments and jokes stand without confronting the speaker. I will no longer stand by and allow other people to fight for my rights as a human being.

The one weapon I have plenty of is my words and I will rise up and use them in defense of myself - to confront injustice and discrimination - no matter the form or the forum.

Thus, my evaluation of his presentation was scathing. The e-mail I wrote to the sponsor - the head of a large foundation...a woman who was in attendance - made my position very clear. Sexism will not be tolerated.

Now...where is my copy of The Vagina Monologues???

Photo Credit

What We Don't Say Speaks Volumes

I haven't always been close to my sister's children.

I was almost 18 when Coco Pants was born, an exaggerated angsty 18 who swiftly turned into Old Lady Cantankerous when I should have been a footloose and fancy free 20-something...

A footloose and fancy free 20-something she is - or should be - now.

It wasn't until I lightened up and she and her younger brother, JR, grew up that we found common ground and were able to relate to one another and love each other for the people we were rather than for just the ancestry we shared.

Tonight, I've been wandering listlessly in my bathrobe. I sit down at the computer to write but no words want to come out. I lie down and snuggle with Vinny until he grows impatient and bored. I would put in a movie but I can't muster up the mental capacity to even pick something to watch knowing my interest won't be held longer than the opening credits will last. I'm not hungry. I can't eat.

And then I got an e-mail from Coco Pants.

CP: How are you doing, Ant Jane? [yes, I am sure she does know the correct spelling. It's our thing.]
Me: OK. Feeling sad right now but I'm OK. How you?
CP: Feeling kinda lost kinda empty. Why are you sad?
Me: *smile* feeling kinda lost kinda empty.
CP: I love you Ant Jane. Oh so very much.
Me: And I love you, Coco Pants. Oh so very much.

It was enough. We understood one another.


Written for the GBE 2 (group blogging experience 2) weekly prompt: Simplicity

It Smells Like Adolescence In Here - You Know, Faintly Goat Like

Back in the last years of elementary school and all of junior high, I was not a cute kid. I hit my awkward stage very early - glasses and braces in the 4th grade - a stage made even more awkward by my early development and painfully-obvious-from-the-start large chest.

I've written about my popularity challenges and limited dating experiences before. At 40, I feel nearly as inexperienced and all elbows and left feet as I did at 14. Luckily, Noodle likes all my elbows and left feet. But that's not why I'm here tonight.

Tonight I'm going to tell you a secret.

My generation - or, at least, the generation I knew growing up in Wyoming - was particularly promiscuous at a very early age. My peers began readily losing their virginity at the age of 12. Kids were coupling up - angsty balls of raging hormones and tween spirit - before we'd graduated to junior high. One of my old elementary school friends - TB - was dating a senior in high school before she became a teenager herself. I remember listening in fascination and horror as she detailed the events surrounding her de-flowering and how humiliated she was...how much she hated it. Thinking back on it, while I understand her thrill of catching the attention of an older "man", her willingness to sacrifice that part of herself in order to keep him, what he did to her borders on pedophilia. I feel sick over it.

But this isn't about her either.

As I said, all the kids, it seemed, were coupling up, attending boy/girl parties - parties to which my invitations have yet to arrive, kissing by the gym, holding hands, dancing awkwardly - doing their best at the hug and shuffle - at every junior high school dance. Rites of passage from which I was, and would continue to be, excluded. I was so very desperate for attention and affection - shyly waiting for it, convinced it would never come.

And then...

I met CP.

CP was the best friend of the older brother of MY best friend. He was older - he had a driver's license and a 1964 electric blue Chevy Impala - he was 16. I was 14. It wasn't exactly squicky. But he had a girlfriend...a girlfriend I not only knew but a girl who counted me as one of her closest friends.

CP and I began our clandestine liaisons soon after we met. It started in the back row of the Beverly Twin movie house as we "watched" Pee Wee's Big Adventure. He would kiss me - my first kisses - a lot. Our make out sessions would continue weekly or as often as we could make them happen and usually before Wednesday night youth group meetings. One afternoon, I arrived at his house and he'd been eating sour cream and onion Pringles. To this day, those chips taste like salty shame to me.

One day, after months of these secret passion-filled afternoons, he pulled me into his parents' laundry room and told me we should "do it" on top of the dryer. I was 14 and terrified. I told him "no". Repeatedly. He would eventually respect my answer - but only after numerous attempts to convince me otherwise. 

Soon after, he would break up with his girlfriend and I...I foolishly thought it was because he wanted ME to be his girlfriend...

Until he announced he was seeing someone else and abruptly cut off all contact with me.

And I knew...I was his secret. His dirty, shameful secret. A concept I was familiar with. A concept I would continue to manifest again and again...and again.

At the time though, I didn't understand why he would have taken up with me if he didn't actually like me. I was heartbroken. I was ashamed. I didn't believe I deserved any better.

It wasn't until years later, after I'd had enough distance and experience, I'd recall how CP was first introduced to me, and I would begin to understand. I had spent the night at my best friend's house and was in her room applying my new-to-makeup, inexperienced heavy hand when her older brother, SB, came into her room talking on the phone to CP. SB continued to talk on the phone as he watched me paint my face and, at one point, declared my makeup application the art of a "super slut".

Taken out of context - from CP's end of the conversation - he heard, "super slut". He thought I was easy. The mating call of every over-sexed, hormonally-over driven teenage boy alive. And the rest is (my) history.

A history that was doomed to repeat itself - several times - over many years. A history that continues to haunt me...continues to send chills up my spine when there is even a hint of secrecy to any relationship I engage.

So...

While I would love to say I have no regrets, while I would love to say everything that's happened in my life has brought me to the place I am now - a particularly awesome place to be (and it is), if I could have a do over, it would start there. 14-year-old me would have just a little self-confidence and a little self-esteem. 14-year-old me would have told him, "Hey! You want to fool around with me? You'd better be free to do it AND you'd better act like I'm worth solid gold. Because I am solid gold. Otherwise, you won't come near me without a warrant."

Written in response to the GBE2 (Group Blogging Experience 2) prompt: Do Over.

Apples to Apples

It happened over the apple cart at King Soopers.

Noodle and I went grocery shopping together - me to do the weekly Grotto shopping and he to get just a few necessities he'd identified while we were there. First stop for me: produce. It's located just inside the front door, after all. While I wandered around examining fruits and vegetables, I sent him over to check out the Chicken Wings By the Pound Bar over in the deli and unique to this particular store.

As I stood surveying the variety of apple types - seeking out the Fujis or the Galas Lex prefers - Noodle materialized beside me. I felt him before I saw him and, when I looked up at him, I saw he was grinning from ear to ear just as he leaned down to kiss me sweetly.

It wasn't one of those horrifying displays where everyone within sight was silently begging the offenders to go get a room. It was a simple acknowledgement of affection...the softest, quickest little kiss exchanged as we hovered near the apples and then, once again, parted ways to seek out our own grocery needs beyond that kiss.

I'd never done that before. I'd never so publicly, comfortably demonstrated a sense of togetherness with another human being in such close proximity to other human beings - especially ones who were just looking to pick up a few items for supper and didn't have time or the patience for a little love.

All of a sudden I felt included in some kind of strange, exclusive club to which I'd never been invited before. A club filled with affectionate couples who grocery shop together.

And it - that physical affection and acknowledgement of affection demonstrated during the most mundane of tasks - upset my proverbial apple cart.

And made me smile.

Clean up in produce.

Written for the GBE 2 prompt "upset". I'm sorry for the lateness. I have a doctor's note. This is the entry I was working on last night just prior to my unfortunate incident.

15 Minutes Can Sometimes Feel Like An Eternity

I just need to do this now or I won't get it done. Like last week's prompt about "Wonder". I wonder a lot of things...mostly of the "What If" variety and I just didn't want to go down that path because it leads to mayhem and chaos in my life.

Along those lines, today is "Good Riddance Day". I don't know anything about it and I can't stop to look it up now because I'm being watched - er, I mean, timed. All I know is that I think I'm supposed to be letting go of all the shitty parts of my memories that hold me back. Uh, I think. Unfortunately, I have a lot of memories that are kinda crap and to forget them all would be like Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. On second thought, that might be kind of cool.

I'd kinda like a cigarette right now.

I need to write a blog post about Geogypsy's New Year's Eve party. Seriously! Why haven't I written about that yet? I want everyone to participate in it and it's going to take everyone time to figure out outfits, accessories, dates, dances, and stuff. Sheesh. I'll do that post next I think. I'm running out of time.

I love naked Jane time. It's naked Jane time for the next 3-ish days. Lex has gone off to visit family and I get the house and the cat all to myself. He hasn't been gone overnight in uh...2 years, I think. Maybe longer. Something like that. I sincerely needed this but how can I tell him to go away when he A) doesn't have anywhere really to go and B) has every right to be here? It's a weird thing, I know, this need to have excessive alone time. Is it excessive to want an overnight to myself? I don't know. All I do know is that I've wanted some home time just for me when I can eat cheese for supper, drink wine until bed, and not have anyone there to ask me questions or interrupt my process. I hope I get some long overdue writing done.

15 minutes can be a painfully long time.

I think I'm going crazy. This morning, in the shower, I heard myself tell myself that I only had "6 more days". 6 more days of what? I have no idea. That particular number means nothing I could ascertain. My brain is constantly spewing out random numbers. I have this weird mental checklist I go through of numbers...3 more days to the weekend, 3 more weeks to the next vacation, 2 days until pay day. That's just days. Then it's dollars. $534 and that one bill is paid off completely. 3 more weeks and I'll have that $534 and that bill will be paid off completely. 13 more months and all the bills will be paid off completely. How much have I managed to pay off since January? $4000? Almost $5000? Something like that. I'll have to check my math later when I'm not naked and in the shower and have access to a calculator and, you know, the actual numbers.

I need to get that post about Christmas done too. It took such a weird turn just as I thought I was wrapping it up. What's OK to say? What should I keep to myself? Why was I so irritated and growly about it? I hate being that snide about stuff that's long past. Bah. Edit? Delete? The first part was certainly interesting...at least to me. How is it that my father can still get that far under my skin? Sincerely, Old Man? I don't care how old you are, it is unacceptable to just sit there with a fcuking sarcastic grin on your face when you are asked time and again to help and then declare that you are helping by sitting on your fat ass, holding your water glass and snacking on cheese. Man oh man. I don't think I'm going to be able to let that go...

Even if it is Good Riddance Day.

This post was written in response to the prompt for GBE2 as described below:
"This week, we’re doing something a little different. Instead of a word or picture prompt, we’ll be free writing. For those of you unfamiliar with the process, it is exactly what it sounds like. You sit down and write whatever comes into your mind for 15 straight minutes. The goal is not to write a story, article, or even anything coherent.

It’s a word purge. A stream of consciousness babble-fest, and it’s a wonderful way to unleash your creativity. Will what you write be crap? Almost certainly. Will the resulting paragraphs (if there are even paragraphs) be dull, repetitive, gripe-o-ramas, list-o-worries, and inventories of what’s been gnawing at you lately? Yep. When you are done, will you look at what you’ve written and decide that it’s simply too revealing to publish? Very likely.

In fact, that’s the hope..."

Mirror, Mirror On the Wall

You might have noticed I petered out alarmingly fast on #resound11/#reverb11.

And by fast I mean I wrote on the first prompt and then...*cold-weather crickets chirping*.

Frankly, I really didn't want to do it this year. Last year...

Last year, I was coming off the high of finding a community of NaBloPoMo participants. I had found a groove, writing every day, connecting with other people who were writing every day. I enjoyed finding other blogs and letting other readers find me. I loved the connectedness of writing, publishing, reading, and commenting that NaBloPoMo inspired. Reverb10 seemed like an excellent follow up for more of that sense of community then.

But it wasn't. At least, that's not what I experienced. It is my opinion that, unless you had time to tweet all day - which I don't - most people didn't give a rat's ass about you or what you'd written. Along these lines, I didn't have a lot of spare time to sift through every single tweet with the #reverb10 hashtag to find links to blogs to read...so I, personally, didn't read very many.

Additionally though, answering the prompts was particularly difficult for me. Reading back through some of those posts, I remember how resentful - practically downright angry - I was writing about some of them. Sometimes it was because the prompts felt redundant (even Schmutzie commented on the redundancy issue at one point). At other times, well, it was because the prompt elicited a particularly negative emotion or conjured a horrible past experience...experiences I was trying desperately to avoid addressing in the blog.

On day 2 of #resound11, the prompt delivered to my inbox (granted, there are many other prompts out there for the resound11 project not to mention I was also welcome to make up my own) was this:

My Children Will Do it Differently - If you could choose one thing that your children will do or experience in a different way than you have, what would it be and why?

First of all, this is not reflecting on the year just past. Secondly, I don't have any children. And, reading this, all of a sudden, I felt angry, resentful, and disgusted with the project. Why?

I do not regret not having children. Not even a little bit. Remaining child-free was a choice I made early on in my adulthood and I am VERY happy with that decision for many reasons - some of which have yet to be uncovered. However, I resent prompts like this because it's presumptuous and kind of elitist. It assumes every single person participating has children and that is just not TRUE - whether that is by choice or by fate or by genetics.

The truth is that there are millions of adults in this world who are child-free/childless for a reason. That isn't abnormal or wrong or a black mark against our inherent character. It's just...what is and none of us ought to feel compelled to justify our reasons. Not even for a writing challenge prompt.

So I rolled my eyes, flipped off #resound11, and went about my merry blogging way ignoring each daily e-mailed prompt. Instead, I wrote about the grandest of grand parties I want to throw. Because hello! Pretty Princess Party with orangutans and hats and ballroom dancing!

And...I kept reading the blog posts delivered to my feed reader.

This morning, I read a post from Julie Unplugged - Mirror, Mirror on the Wall: Find Your Beauty on this Word Tell All - A Continued Ripening from #Reverb11. I found Julie during last year's reverberation so it was no surprise that she was participating this year. I knew she was because I (try) to keep up with my feed every day and had already seen several reverb posts from her.

However, today, I was shaken from the start with this:

As I look in the mirror, I see… and I realize lately I have neglected to look in the mirror. Mostly I scan for stains or tattered edges, split seams. I notice I have left my eye contact with myself someplace else.

What is the secret I am hiding from my view?

Or what is the secret I continue to stuff into the closet behind me?

Ouch.

Nerve struck. Zen arrow hit its mark. Zen stick doled out its little love tap *THWAP*.

I haven't looked in the mirror lately...by design. Secretly, I don't want to because mirrors, well, mirrors reflect the truth - the truths I cannot hide if I actually bother to look long and long. Truths about weight gain, sadness, anxiety, fear, aging, rejection, rejection, rejection, and incompetence.

It truly has been a shit-tastic year and I am ill-equipped for the shit.

Anyway.

Later in the day, I was engaged in conversation with a woman whose ability to self-flagellate makes me look like the fresh-faced kid off the boat, taking his first tentative tip-toes into the leather scene. Describing a personal situation with a chronically, critically ill family member she said:

And I feel like a hypocrite! Telling her she must do this and must do that all the while knowing I won't - flat out refuse - to do those things myself!

I was struck by just how much of her own choices were being rudely mirrored back to her in a painfully obvious way - in a way that might get through to her. Little did she know I was feeling just as much a hypocrite listening to her talk and then responding with my sage advice...advice I was unwilling to admit was advice I ought to be taking for myself.

Because the truth hurts. And, right now, I don't want to be staring down the barrel of truth when it feels as though everything hurts.

And yet...

No lie is quite so damaging as the lies we tell ourselves.

And that's the truth.

Note: Somehow I managed to blog tonight about the GBE 2 prompt for this week: Truth. I didn't intend to but I like that I killed two birds with my one stone.