Five for Ten: Lust

I must say, I was a little disgruntled with Jen and Sarah when I saw the 4th topic for Five for Ten Again. Lust.

Lust?

Geddaheckouttahere!

I have been married for nearly ten years! I have two kids! And a stepkid. And Harryboy and Twinkle the Gay Russian Dwarf Hamster. I have to schedule sex with my husband.

Sorry, honey, you probably don't appreciate me sharing that, but honesty is kind of key here.

If your life is so busy that you have to schedule sex with your husband (and yes, oddly enough, it does work for us) how do you conjure Lust?

I don't mean desire. That I can do. Actually, when I know that nookie is on the books, I think about Captain Sexypants often during the day, play music that gets me a little frisky, take time to groom the hedges and hey! If you nurture desire, it will come.

But Lust? Lust is made of more ferocious stuff. Lust, to me, is reckless, sudden, maybe insecure and jealous. Lust can turn on you--when you crave something you can't have, does it take you to a tenuous place?

Lust is hard for me, because honestly? I'm so spoiled that I actually have everything I really want. I do.

I was griping to my friend Kristen at Motherese the other day about my writer's block concerning Lust. "I know," she said. "We're in the small-kid stage of life--lust is hard."

And then she came up with a brilliant idea that she was kind enough to let me steal. A few weeks ago Liz at But Then I Had Kids tagged us with The Plastic Joy award.



You can get the details here, but here's the down and dirty explanation. If tagged, you need to list (and then explain your reasoning) 5 characters you'd like to do the horizontal whiplash with.

Notice I said characters, not celebrities or people. Celebrities are boring. But characters? In books, movies, t.v. shows, comics? Oh, those are good fun!

When Kristen and I were tagged, we were excited, because how much fun is that? And then, of course, we got distracted and didn't get around to it. But we meant to. And now! Poof! Lust falls into our laps!

So, without further ado, I present to you TKW's Lusty Wish List of Yummy Characters She'd Like to Do the Sexy-Time With:

(in no particular order)

~Roger Sterling (Mad Men): I love Roger's snark-sharp wit and easy charm. Nobody throws a wry, well-timed quip like Roger. Sure, he's a cheat and a rascal, but I'm just shagging the dude, not marrying him. Plus, a date with Roger always involves cocktails. You always have me at cocktails.



Favorite Quip:
Roger: (talking to Joan, his mistress) Are we actually gonna get in a fight over a movie? You know, Mona had a dream once where I hit the dog with a car. She was mad at me all day--and I never hit the dog. We don't even have a dog.


~James Bond: Now before you beat me up for this one, I have to say that I'm going to be picky about my James Bond. I'm only making room in my bed for one of them--and it's not the one with the gadgets or the gimmicky car or the cheesy lines or the misogynistic attitude. Nuh-uh. My bed belongs to the James Bond of Casino Royale and Quantum of Solace. That James Bond is an an-i-mal! A rough, tough, killing machine. That's the Bond I'm talkin' about. A man who would throttle, maim and kill any man who messed with me? Drool and swoon.



~Lloyd Dobler (Say Anything): Lloyd is the anti-James Bond. Sensitive, sweet, a little awkward. But what I love about Lloyd is his resilience and his plucky attitude. Lloyd Dobler thinks he can do anything, and so...he does! He just goes for it. And when good things happen to him, he doesn't question it. He also worries about my feet if there's glass on the ground, which is adorable.



Favorite quote: The rain on my car is a baptism, the new me, Ice Man, Power Lloyd, my assault on the world begins now.

Runner up: She's gone. She gave me a pen. I gave her my heart, she gave me a pen.

~Patrick Jane (The Mentalist): Yeah, he's incredibly easy on the eyes. But what I love about Jane? The irrepresible mischief--that sparkle in his eye. You know this guy has something up his sleeve. He also lives to mess with his co-workers' heads, just for grins. This guy is a load of fun. Plus, he's so intuitive, so tuned-in to people's expressions and body language...it's almost like sleeping with a chick. Which I can't say I've done, but hey, this is as close as I can comfortably get.



Favorite quote: Messy women make good lovers.

~Jake Ryan (Sixteen Candles): Gorgeous guy, hot car, heart of gold. What more is there to say?



Favorite quote: I want a serious girlfriend. Somebody I can love, that's gonna love me back. Is that psycho?

And now, I get to do the Honors! Girls, your number is up! I'm tagging:

Ink
Jane
Gibby
Naptime Writing
SubMom

Have fun, ladies! And bonus points if you can come up with a literary character! I felt like the worst former English teacher in the world because I thought and thought about it and came up with nothin'. I SUCK.

~Hey readers, I'd love it if you'd share a character that floats your boat in the comments! It's all in good fun, you know!

Happiness: Five for Ten

Ah, the elusive little devil that is Happiness. Everyone wants it. Everyone seeks it. Heck, our forefathers declared that it was our right to pursue it.

But what is happiness, really? And why is it that so often, the things we thought would make us happy, when we finally get them...don't? At least not in the ways we thought they would?

I have no answers for you.

What? You think I'm freakin' Yoda or something? You think I have any clue what makes you tick and shimmy with joy? I have a hard enough time figuring out how to make myself happy--I've got no time for you! Do your own reconnaissance!

Ahem. Anyways, Jen and Sarah decided that we needed to write about happiness today, so here goes! And don't forget to check the links over at Jen and Sarah's site--there are some mucho talented writers participating in Five for Ten!

***Happiness

When I pushed two tiny, howling bundles of endless need out of my body, I had no idea that my idea of happiness was going to change. The things I reveled in as a non-mother? Poof! Up in smoke, boy and girls. Things that once ranked high on the Joy-o-Meter suddenly had no significance whatsoever.

You think I'm kidding? Allow me to illustrate.

8 Things That Made Me Happy Before I Had Children


1. An hour-long soak in the bathtub with music, novel, bubbles.

2. Cuddling on the couch with hubs, watching back-to-back re-runs of the X-Files.

3. Ditching plans to cook dinner in favor of Takeout in Skivvies night.

4. Massage with "Relaxation" Lavender Oil.

5. Marathon day of shopping in the spring. Purchases: flirty sundresses, high-heeled sandals, mini-skirt.

6. Sunday mornings at the bookstore, latte in hand, leisurely scouting out the newest offerings.

7. A good, hard, 60 minute workout at the gym. Long shower to follow.

8. Wine.

***

See what I mean? Those joys are shallow little husks of things. It wasn't until motherhood that I understood what things really bring the happy.


8 Things That Make Me Happy Now That I Have Children



1. A 5 minute shower without interruption/comments from the peanut gallery, such as: "Hey Mama, if your boobs were any bigger, we could play boxing on them," and (pointing southward towards prime real estate) "Harryboy!"




Harryboy


2. Being able to watch a TiVo'd episode of The Daily Show without falling asleep during the opening monologue.

3. Serving and consuming dinner without critiques like: "Piss, piss, piss! I don't like this dinner!"

4. That awesome numby-cream stuff that they give you for your poor, battered pikachu the day after giving birth.

5. Internet shopping. Chez Target. Purchases: skirt with elastic waistband, muffin-top-concealing t-shirts, Spanx.

6. Sunday mornings when you aren't awakened before 6:30 am by any of the following: farting/snoring husband, vomiting cat, bad dream, hacking cough, Pull-up that ate Hiroshima.

7. Working out for 20 minutes (instead of the usual 15) before gym child-care employee tracks you down and informs you that your kid won't stop crying/flailing/shreiking. So they're kicking you out. Again.

8. Wine. Well, okay, not every kind of happiness changed. I'm still human.



Now I know, you're thinking that I'm a grouch and a crank and frankly, I oftentimes am. That's just what you have to live with when you hang with me. I am SnarkWoman.

But even though motherhood has changed me, and has changed my idea of happiness, I cannot say, in the least, that it was a bum trade.




Bath in Peace vs Smell of New Baby? Guess.

Five for Ten: Courage

Two of my most favorite people in the Blogosphere, Jen and Sarah from Momalom, are embarking on round two of their wildly popular Five for Ten series.

If you are interested in joining in or just finding out what all the fuss is about, you can do so here. Or you can just click on the handy little button on my sidebar.

There are tons of terrific, thoughtful voices participating, so I encourage you to hop on over to Momalom this week and check the links!

So on with the first topic of the week--Courage.
***


Many of you have asked why I write so often about Mama and Daddy but don't tell more tales about my sister. I've mentioned her a few times, like here and here and here, but for the majority of the time, I'm fairly closed-lipped about the subject of my sister (nearly 4 years my senior).

And many of you readers, clever dogs that you are, smelled something rotten. Because I can't keep my mouth shut for anything. Why would I, the girl who always has the flapping pie-hole, be quiet on this subject?

Because talking about my sister makes me incredibly uncomfortable. Sad. Angry. Ashamed. And really mixed-up. Most of all, it makes me afraid.

I'm afraid that when you hear the story of my sister, you will judge me. I'm afraid that you'll think less of me, think I'm a coward, think I have ice running in my veins.

I'm also afraid that all of those above things, when it comes to my sister, might be true.

But maybe after a year of blogging and dancing around the subject, it's time to quit being such a ninny. Maybe I just need to muster the courage to lay it all out there, for you to make of it what you will.
***


My sister, like many older siblings, was less than thrilled about my arrival. She quite liked being the lone wolf, the center of attention. She sulked when Mama brought me, swaddled and squalling, home one February day. Everyone else saw a baby. She saw an Interloper.

This is, of course, completely normal. What kid doesn't want to be the only game in town? Difference is, most older siblings eventually get over the affront of having to share top billing. My sister never did.

My first clear childhood memory is of a hard shove to the back and a tumble down a flight of stairs. I learned to always hold the railing after that. And no, I didn't tell on her.

I never told on her, even when she locked me in our dank, spider-infested basement for hours when she babysat. I didn't tell when she got into cars with strange boys. I didn't tell when I found two bottles of schnaaps hidden in a backpack in her room. I didn't tell when she came back from a Tom Petty concert with five angry, purple hickeys. I didn't tell when she told me I was weak and stupid and spineless.

I didn't tell on her because I deeply, desperately wanted her to like me. She never did.

Don't get me wrong; she wasn't always cruel. There were times (usually when there was nobody else around to entertain her) when she tolerated my presence. I reveled in those times, when I could listen to her stories and watch her every move, as she primped for a school dance or a date, smitten. I loved studying her as she riffled though clothes, experimented with eyeshadow, carefully painted her toenails. I'd lie on her bedroom carpet, Styx or Journey or Foreigner blaring in the background, as she'd regale me, step-by-step, what had transpired at the dance, the party, the concert.

She fascinated me. She was worldly and daring. She always had a boyfriend, if not two. She sassed back, tossed her glossy hair in defiance. She talked on the phone for hours, in hushed secrecy. And I sat in the corner or in the background, studying her. Watching. Because she was everything I was not. Two girls were never more different.

I've studied her all my life. It's uncanny, if not a little disturbing, to go through old photographs and see myself doing this:










She was the butterfly, I was the scientist. She was exotic, mysterious, changeable.

There were a couple of years in college when we actually got along. My rebellion years. The years where I grew so tired of being silent and responsible and good that I decided to become a completely different person. I became the girl who drank alcohol, experimented with a few choice pharmaceuticals, partied until 4 in the morning, kissed dangerous and unsuitable boys. I told Mama to "fuck off."

My sister was delighted with the transformation. "God, you were always so boring," she'd say, rolling her eyes and taking a deep drag of her cigarette. "I always wondered what the Hell was wrong with you. Mom and Dad's little perfect pet. You were so gross."

I'd smile and nod, peeling the label off my bottle of Coors Light, feeling raw and unsettled.



After a few years, I had to abandon the charade. It was just too hard to be an imposter. Deep down, it was my nature to be a cautious brown moth.

The most compelling reason for my defection: my devil-may-care, daring sister was quickly moving into reckless territory. She started cracking beers at 7 in the morning. "Lookee here! Cereal!" she'd say, waving the can and laughing.

On weekends, she passed out at noon, slept until 4, woke up ready to continue the party. She began craving stronger, more dangerous highs. She showed up late for holiday gatherings, eyes dilated and skittish, chattering with manic verve. For the first time in her life, she wasn't struggling with her weight. I began noticing mysterious, inexplicable dents in her car. Her boss called several times, concerned because she hadn't shown up for work, and did I know anything?

My parents asked questions. I lied. I kept her secrets like I'd always done, partly out of fear and partly because I didn't know how to do anything else. I felt dirty, ashamed. She expected my silence, I'd kept it, and now that things had spiraled deeply out of hand, didn't that make me an accomplice?

Finally, the weight was just too heavy to bear. I did something I never thought I'd do. I confronted my sister. Shaking, I told her that she was off the rails, needed to stop. The results were incendiary. Denial. Lies. Spite. Years and years of buried resentment, now put into words, given life.

"I hate you," she hissed at me, pinning me against the door. And suddenly, with a bolt of clarity, I realized that it was true.

She refused to get help. From that day forward, I was done.

I did not tell my parents much. I never will. Frankly, they'd known plenty for many, many years, just as I had. They aren't blind, and they understand my decision.

I have not seen my sister in over ten years. She has never met my daughters, although she is desperate to do so. I have spoken to her maybe a handful of times on the phone, and she's always sounded loaded, so the conversation is short.

There's been rehab and relapse and rehab again. Wash, rinse, repeat. There's been so much hope on my parents' end, hope that's dashed and kicked to the ground, only to rise again with the latest promise or subterfuge. They sometimes believe her.

I do not. I cannot. I won't. Because I know her. All those years spent watching...I know her better than anyone, perhaps because I spent so many years trying to find a way in, a way to her heart.

She has periods of being clean. People ask me why I don't reach out to her then, let her know how proud I am, try to re-build fences. When they ask me, I don't know how to answer. There are so many things swirling in the mix: anger, guilt, hurt, grief, hope. My final answer is just that I don't trust.

I don't trust her. I don't trust her promises. I don't trust her to do the hard work of staying sober, because she's never done anything hard. I don't trust her not to rekindle hope and then disappear again for days, weeks, years. I don't trust her not to charm my girls, win their open and easy hearts, then shatter them.

Am I hard-hearted? Maybe. Paranoid? Possibly. Unbending? Probably. But I'm also a mother now. And there are things more important than saving a relationship that never did anything but falter.

That I'm writing this piece for Momalom, a blog started by two sisters, is a sad little irony. I envy Jen and Sarah. I envy their bond, their knowledge that they will always have each other.

A kinship like that is something I've been denied, and like a petulant child, I feel small and cheated. I grieve the loss of my sister, but more than that, I grieve for the kind of sisterhood I always yearned for and never had. I grieve for myself, that little girl watching her sister's every move, begging to be let in.

When Miss M. was born, I was bowled over with joy and wonder and most of all, hope. I hope my two little girls won't squander the gift that has been given them. The bond of sisterhood. The beauty of having someone who knows you, marrow-deep, like nobody else. Please let them be gentle with each other. Let them realize that the strings that tether them together are not chains, but gold.

Love Letter to Myself at Age Eleven

Dear Me at Age Eleven,

I love you. I think it's really, really important for me to tell you this because I know that right now you don't think anyone loves you. You are wrong, although it will be quite some time before you realize this.

Yes, you. That awkward girl who's all limbs and no substance, that girl who thinks she's weak and stupid and powerless and ugly. You. I love you. You are loveable. People in your life will meet you and know you and love you, just the way you are. Believe it.

Don't shake your head at me, Missy. Love will happen to you. I know it sounds nuts, but have faith.

I see you there, trembling in front of your neighbor's house. You are worried because the girl who lives there is often cruel to you and yet has offered to walk you to your first day of 5th grade. You have good instincts. Please start listening to them a little harder, because you know that girl is twisted and ugly inside. You can feel it and you have seen it but you will ignore it for a while. You will pretend that she's your friend because you desperately want it to be so. You will suffer for ignoring your instincts. Listen to yourself, even when you think you have nothing to say.

You do have things to say. You are not stupid. True, you are not brilliant at math but the teacher who called you dim last year was old and mean. You will listen so much to the things mean people have to say. If I could turn off your ears for the next few years I would, but since I can't, I just want to tell you that I love your mind. It is often dark and far too critical of you, but that mind is also creative and empathetic and capable of some pretty neat tricks. Believe Mama when she says you have a good brain.

See all that skin you've got? Thicken it. You will bear so much these next few years, but junior high is coming up and honey? You ain't even seen cruelty yet. That skin is like paper, so we have work to do. Do me a favor? Instead of worrying about that stray zit that might pop up on that skin, work on making it hard as adamant.

And as for strong. There's something strong in you that you don't even know you have. Probably because you can't see it and so much right now depends on appearances. It's beating in your chest, Hummingbird, and it's so tough that it's going to amaze you. I love your tough heart--you need a tough one--because people are going to break it sometimes. People you love desperately are not going to love you back, no matter how hard you try. Wishes you make are not going to come true; some of them will, but some whoppers coming up are just gonna whiz right past you, leaving you broken for a while. Friends who promise to love you forever, won't. But that heart, it's got grit. Don't doubt it. It will carry you through.

Okay, I'm done with the hard stuff. But I needed you to know that someone loves you and is watching over you. You feel alone, but you aren't. You just don't have the tools to dig down deep in the mineshaft; you will, though. And there's some treasures waiting for you, if you just have the courage to keep on keepin' on.

Love (and you'd better believe it),
Your 40-year-old-self

ps: Now that the big stuff is covered, can I mention a few little details?
~Quit trying to feather the hair. It will never work for you.
~Powder-blue suede vest and skirt? Kick Mama for that one.
~Yes, you will be forced to be Herbie Schroeder's square dance partner again in gym this year. And the next. But then it will be over and Herbie's four year Reign of Terror shall cease. It's the price you pay for those gazelle legs. Which you are totally gonna love later, promise.
~And as long as we're on the subject, don't worry about boys. They aren't even going to notice you until you are 20, and won't ask for any pound of flesh until you are 22. Yeah. Seriously. You will be left alone that long. So tell Daddy to chill.

xoxo

***This is part of Love It Up at the awesomeness that is Momalom. Visit them soon!

F-Bomb Alert: Skeletor Issues

A few months back, Miss D. was at a swanky birthday party (snark about parents who have stinking PONIES at their kids' parties is forthcoming). A ginormous cake was brought out, the ice cream followed, and portions were doled out to eager partygoers. Miss D., who doesn't have a subtle bone in her body, dug into her piece with ferocity. And then a girl, adorable in her frilly dress, looked askance at my child and said, in a sing-song voice..."Eww. That's going to make you fat."

That little bitch. Yeah, I just called a little girl a bitch. In fact, I wanted to punch her in her pretty freckled face. And sure, it's wrong to want to deck a 2nd grader, but when I saw Miss D., formerly so enthusiastic about her cake, take in what this girl had said, stricken, and hesitate....

Fuck. Why, why, why did I wish for girls?

Because get this. That little girl at the party? The Future President of the Bulimic Club in high school? I hate her. But I hate her Mommy more.

Yeppers. I blame that girl's Mommy. Without hesitation. Because, let's face it, that's what Mommies do. We fuck up our daughters about food.

Which, as I write this, makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Because if Miss D. or Miss M. gets fucked up about food, I will slit my throat.

Because once, I was fucked up about food, and it almost killed me. And even though it was ME bent over the toilet, puking up my dinner, was ME exercising until my muscles screamed, was ME who fainted in the college dorm shower after three days without food, was ME who came home for Christmas break weighing 85 pounds Freshman year of college...everyone blamed my mother.

Because that's who people blame when a daughter runs amok.

But I will tell you with utmost certainty that my mother did not fuck me up about food. She was slender but didn't seem to work at it, nor did she ever utter the phrase, "I feel/look fat." Our family sat down together for dinner every night of the week. My sister and I were neither praised nor berated if we cleaned our plates. Everyone ate the same meal; there was no spaghetti-for-the-family-while-Mommy-eats-a-lettuce-leaf bullshit going on. We kept candy and cookies in the house, openly and always. My sister and I were loved and told that we were beautiful and had good brains. My mother and father never, not once, snidely commented on my body.

And yet I got fucked up--dangerously fucked up--about food.

And I will tell you how easy, how mind-numbingly easy it is to start being fucked up about food. Because I remember the exact moment I started.

February 23, 1984. It is my birthday. I am in the 8th grade. The week before, I'd injured my knee skiing, so I was on crutches and rocking a glamorous leg brace. As per family tradition, we were eating at the restaurant of my choice. I can't remember the name of the place, but I do remember my order: Fried Shrimp. Which I loved.(I mean, shit, who doesn't?)

I was happy. My parents had given me my first pair of diamond earrings; little chips of things, but in my eyes, they signified that I was growing up, and cherished, and trusted to have such nice things. The waiter was charming and teased me gently about my injury. My dinner was delicious and the banter at the table lively.

And then halfway through dinner, my sister, almost four years my senior, looked at my plate and said sotto vocce, "You keep eating like that and you're going to get fat. Especially on crutches."

I don't think she really meant much by it. Although, knowing her, it is possible. But the reason I remember this moment so clearly is that there was, for me, a complete seismic shift. You think I exaggerate, but I don't. My dinner, my Happy Birthday to Me plate of exactly the food that I wanted, turned traitor, blurred in a swell of tears. I am 14. I have boys who flirt with me and I am a thin 5'7 and 110 pounds, but suddenly, things are different, newly clear.

I bow my head, mutter an excuse, grab my crutches and limp to the bathroom, where I stick my finger down my throat for the first time. The bile burns and my eyes leak and I keep gagging clumsily, but after I am emptied, I feel clean.

I was 14 years old. It took one moment. Just one thoughtless comment. And my life is de-railed for 10 years.

So who, caterpillars, is to blame?

Not Mama. Not Daddy. Not my sister, although she was an asshole. Not the fashion magazines. Not my peers.

I am to blame.

There are plenty of excuses out there: It's about control issues. It's about depression. It's about perfectionism. It's about society's focus on appearance...

Well, pardon me, but fuck those excuses and the horse they rode in on.

I am to blame.

Deep down, I didn't trust myself to be enough. Of anything. All my life I'd been told that I was good and sweet and smart and beautiful, but I'd never once believed it.

Instead, I chose to believe the bully who told me I had ugly legs. I chose to believe the sister, who in moments of anger said she hated me. I chose to believe the gym teacher who said I was weak. I chose to believe the math test that screamed--Moron! I chose to believe the boys who never asked me to dance.

You know what's amazing about those 10 years I spent being immensely fucked up about food?

I functioned.

Somehow, I functioned quite well. I aced tests, graduated Phi Beta Kappa. I wore baggy clothes and had boys willing to kiss me. I rarely got sick and had amazing stamina. I got into graduate school.

And I remember almost zero of it.

That's right. I don't remember books I read, lectures I attended, concepts I studied, conversations I had, places I went. Damn near zero.

Being fucked up about food cost me 10 years of my life. And I am to blame. Because I was given everything a girl could ask for but I still had this thing--a fault line running through me--deep and wicked and shrieking that I was no good. And that was what I chose to believe.

I don't know why some girls have fault lines and others escape. That's what keeps me up at night, now that I'm the mother of girls.

I do what my Mama did. I cuddle them and tell them to try again, because it's rare that someone succeeds on the first try. I tell them that they have quick minds and gentle hearts. I laugh as they help me in the kitchen, offer up a spoon to a willing mouth.

But part of me is standing in the shadows, waiting. Wringing her hands.