Tag Archives: boy

Sexxx

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Sexxx

This can be a touchy subject for some people.

Some people can get offended. Or opinionated. Or have any number of reactions.

But the fact of it is, whether you have it or not, it’s part of life and a part of us. And it complicates everything, whether you do it or not.

But if you’re particularly sensitive to the subject, please feel free to scurry off. Don’t want to burst anyone’s bubble or rub anyone’s fur the wrong way.

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Sex. Intimacy. Banging. Procreation (oi). Making love. Screwing. Copulation (that sounds odd, do they call it that anymore?). Eff-ing. Fornication. Sleeping around/together. Fooling around. Mating. Nooky. Intercourse. Going all the way. Whoopee (really?). The horizontal mambo. Getting laid. Shagging…whatever.

SEX.

It’s one of the ways we connect. We look for love in it. We use it to fulfill our needs. We do it to solve our problems. It’s our drug, and we dose as we see fit. We sell it and we buy it. We have a million names for it. We use the internet to watch it and we read about it. And we often abuse it.

And I want it. Badly.

I don’t know about some women. I mean, I’ve heard we get a bad rep for having a low “drive”. But whoever they’re getting this stereotype from, it wasn’t me. I want it. Very often. Badly. Which seems to be the issue while being single, trying to be responsible, having a lack of a social life, and having my hopes dashed when Mr. Interested is about as savvy as a rock. I have a very high drive, bordering on obsessive. Even when I was getting some action daily, I was still very..hyperfocused. I don’t know why. I can’t help it.

Often times, as a single mom, I feel like there’s an unstated rule that I’m neither supposed to want, have, or feign interest in sex. I’m not supposed to act too desperate (which includes stating that I want it), but I can’t be so uninterested that I turn guys away. It’s a balancing act. And I hate it. I want sex, and that doesn’t make me sleazy or cheap or easy. It makes me human. It makes me real. I wish I didn’t sometimes, so that I could seem less desperate (and save myself from aching). But I can’t change it.

As a single mom, I get stressed out. As a mom period, I think that it’s a given to be stressed but when you have no one there to help you…it’s tripled. I only have two arms! But as soon as a waiting list comes out for extra bionic limbs, I’m going to be the first one in line.

Back to being stressed out…I am. And the more stressed and frustrated I get, the more lonely and incredibly horny I get. I have no one there to help with my baby problems and I have no one there to help me with the loneliness that keeps growing lately. There’s no one to fill my mind and my time with smiles and little flirty gestures, or something better. I have all sorts of fantasies about solving my noted impulse to get laid out, which is not helpful. It’s not helpful 1. because I have no way of quenching it–not the way I need at least (some things just need another person)–and no prospect within the forseeable future, and 2. Because the closest person who could be of “use” is someone who I definitely should not be considering. *Shut up libido, you’re not the one who’ll be left crying.*

Now, some of you out there may say that I could go out and find a “willing participant”. True. I could. But I just don’t work that way. I need more. A connection. A relationship. At times, considering my aching desire, this seems like a foolish notion. But my heart knows I’m doing the right thing and warns me of the residual pain if I move forward and further adapt my principles to fit my needs.

Some things just aren’t worth the aftermath.

Nevertheless, I can’t help feeling it.

And (unhelpfully) it’s been everywhere lately. In my face like a steak in front of a dog, taunting me. You’d think with all the Christmas specials going around, I would be able to avoid it. No such luck.  And I can’t help thinking, *Aaaannnd, you’re the devil*, every time I see something particularly..”mouthwatering”, let’s call it (cause somehow “stimulating” just sounds a little…south).

Before you lose your virginity, there are all sorts of opinions and stories about what sex IS. Some people say that it’s fantastic, others that it’s sinful and should be avoided (or worse, that it’s just meh). They boast at the beauty of such a deep connection, and it being “right”: an emotional, physical and mental bonding. It’s freedom. It’s a pure spiritual entwining. And then some treat it as an animalistic action, like running or cooking dinner: something that you do, have fun (sometimes), and then get on with life. The movies paint it to be glamorous, all candles or rain-soaked passion. Perfect.

Life teaches it differently. In life you lose your virginity in the back of a car, or on the bathroom floor, or at a party. It’s often quick and unadorned with any of the miraculous ideas or beauty that you imagined beforehand. Yay life. Yay you.

It often doesn’t matter how you were raised, what you were taught, or what you promised yourself you’d do, we’re people and we make choices that change our lives. Whether bad or good.

What they don’t tell you is that sex is like crack. Yes, crack. That white powder that people get hooked to quicker than crows on deer carcass. I suppose sex is also kinda like potato chips, or whatever snack food you fancy. It’s deathly hard to have “just one”. Either way..Once you open that door to bliss, you cannot shut it. It’s open forever. And your mind is eternally changed. All the jokes you didn’t get, innuendos made incognito in your presence, or the “wrestling” pictures you sometimes see 5 year olds making (much to their parents embarrassment) are suddenly illuminated. It’s like an understanding takes place, a communion with the universe. A huge cosmic laugh and an “ah ha” later, and VOILA!–you’re never the same. Suddenly you can’t stop it. You can’t stop thinking about it or wanting it or getting all knotted because of it. 

It’s awful. They should have told me. But I suppose it wouldn’t have mattered. I wouldn’t have listened.

They also don’t tell you that it opens up a door to your heart. That sex can wiggle its way in and hurt you. That it fuses to your emotions and your dreams and your hopes. That it becomes a part of you, like one of those ugly spider-egg things from Alien movies–sometimes it just wants to burst out and eff someone up (though I’ve never actually had the urge to kill everyone I see, I do feel like something is eating its way/bursting out of me).  

I’ve had it good, and I’ve had it very awful. I can’t remember if I’ve had it beautiful. But I want it.

Badly.

Some nights it feels like imploding, others it’s a dull hum, and still other nights it’s imperceivable.

Being single is hard. But being miserable is harder, so for now I’m considering it a better choice to just be craving something I’ll one day have (hopefully I won’t be 40 before the next time around), than living the day-to-day with the Ex or the Him from earlier.

Will it stop me from fantasizing? Unlikely.

So for now, it’s just me….Imploding. Desperately imploding. Dying. And wanting it. Badly.

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Not So New News

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Not So New News

News..that Breaks

THIS WEEK IN BREAKING NEWS

RACHEL’S CONFIDENCE WAS ARRESTED SOMETIME LATE IN THE NIGHT FRIDAY, AFTER A BATTLE WITH OLD DEAMONS AND A SPECIFICALLY HIDEOUS STATEMENT THAT LEAD TO A GUN-FIGHT. OTHER SUSPECTS, INCLUDING LOVE AND STUPIDITY, ARE STILL BEING HELD.

          Rachel’s lawyers say it was an old statement that sparked the dispute, creating a heinous scene of frozen limbs and insecurity. The plight started the previous night when Rachel was speaking to a friend. It was said that she suddenly was reminded of something the previously mentioned “him” had said formerly, causing her to fall silent. After many attempts to revive her from the stupor with her name, she returned but was unable to continue the conversation. She was excused from the conversation with a “Gotta go, my parakeet has bowling lessons”, and hanging up. Afterward, she sat silently in a dark room and cried. But, in hating herself immediately for another win to the insecurity gang, she hastily swiped the tears away as if to say “no I wasn’t”. She thought it amazing at this time that one person’s words could render you broken, comparing them to drops in an endless sea of awareness and speech. Though she did not want to reveal the person sending the decidedly mindless and arrogant statement, she did give us a brief synopsis.

             “[He said], ‘The reason you suffered was because you are crazy, and no one else would take you. No else wants you. You are so low.’ And on top of it, his statement was dangerously close to combusting as it sat in proximity to ‘If you would have just taken it slow I might have graced you with my presence a while longer, but I’m still going to ‘eff’ you cause I can.’  I didn’t know what to do, I was stunned”

After a brief pause, the woman continued, eyes sparkling with an unnamed strength.

                “I like to think I deserve to be happy. Crazy thought right? Some don’t seem to agree with me. Imagine that. I’m smart, funny, talented in some things. I’m fun and loyal. I have an okay smile and I can do the “smolder” like no one I know. I like animals and kids in general. I’m hard-working. I can do elementary math. So, what did I do to deserve that? Ask for more? That was my crime? Not settling for less? Okay. Fine”.

At this time, confidence got wind of the statement and hastily advanced on the subject, thinking about it all night and into the next morning, at which time he was arrested for conspiracy, distribution, and murder of pride, dignity, and trust. It is not yet clear how confidence received the ammunition in order to complete his task, but numerous anonymous tips have pointed to “him”, lord of all things arrogant. With her confidence in full custody and awaiting trial, Rachel expressed concern for her safety and health, but did not find it prudent that such feelings existed. Love and Stupidity were also arrested for questioning as to their whereabouts during confidence’s arrest and the events leading up to the crime.

“We will be fine.” Was Rachel’s only comment on the case which is quickly spreading through word of mouth.

After her statement was taken, Rachel was hastily rushed to the back of a car and driven home, where she promptly curled up into a ball. She reiterated her previous claim that she did not how it came to be that her confidence was arrested, but posted bail. There will be a hearing on the 24th in order to determine guilt, but the trial may be postponed a month in order for the authorities to gather more evidence.

+++++++++++===========+++++++++++

I’m still almost-slightly-not-exactly struggling with thoughts of the “him” I was speaking of earlier. Lucky me. Special me. Stupid me.

In case you couldn’t tell.

The Hurt of Him

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The Hurt of Him

Life has got me down.

Okay, not life. And not down.

I’m frustrated. With me, with situations, with thoughts plaguing my head like wild bees.

I’m struggling lately. Gasping for breath under the water of my mind. A world that’s contained, like a fishbowl, but not easily spilled. So, the tide rises and it gets harder to tread and be strong and patient.

I hate that I feel like this. I feel weak. There are plenty of people with worse situations. And I don’t even understand myself and why I act like that. Why I think these things.

I’m tired.

My computer is broke, still no job, still seeing my funds slipping before me, and feeling inadequate. Still somehow breathing.

I work to do my best but I feel a constant backslide of my ability to keep up and my emotional capacity to stay bright. More often lately I find myself starting a task mild or even a bit smiley, but am soon overwhelmed with myself and frustrated that I don’t know why. The weather has been perfect, the days brisk and inviting for a walk. But my energy is sapped. I want to sleep all the time. This afternoon I was irritated. Irritated I was woken right after I finally was able to nap (I find this difficult during the day. I blame an energetic mind). Irritated at the work before me, my temper short. I raised my voice to my dog as I tripped over his attempts to sit at my feet while I was cleaning. He looked at me pleadingly, those intelligent brown eyes wondering why I was so upset. He just wanted to be close to me. I cried because I suddenly felt so alone. I wanted someone there, just for me. He licked my face.

I want him to show up. I’m waiting for him to come home from work. I’m waiting for him to shut the car door as I bolt to the window. I’m waiting for him to message my Facebook. To smile his smile and flood my senses with his scent. I’m waiting for him to look at me with fiery eyes, burning into me and telling me I’m wanted. I’m waiting for an invisible person.

I have to stop reading novels. They make it seem perfect. They make it seem like you might know when The One arrives. They make it seem so beautiful. I read one recently (don’t judge, it was werewolf based as usual. One of those novels you read almost guiltily). People were taught to expect that they would have one mate. One person who would fit them completely. One person who would know immediately that they were yours, would see no others, and be in love with every part of you, even the frustrating parts. The men protected their women and felt the need to provide her with not just physical and financial but most importantly emotional need. They were connected. They knew you, and yet discovered you. They were just yours. And the women vice versa.

I want someone to understand me. To be like me. And love me without a hitch or a comment buzzing on their lips. I want them to be drunk on their love of me. Maybe that’s stupid. Maybe it’s naive. But, it’s what I wish there was for me. Why do we have to live in a world without that happy ending? Why is it so hard? In a book, you’d flip four pages and the adventure would start. Life can be a long wait, days lining up on end like dominos ready to fall down on you. There’s no playful and sudden, and maybe ignorant, meeting of your other half. It’s a search. It’s Craps. A roll of the dice. A chance. Waiting, and trying not to let our hope fly us too high so that we have a long drop back down off of “love”.

And on top of it, I burn every time I see him. I ignore him on purpose. That’s how it’s always been between us. He barely cares and probably likes it better that way. Too clingy. I will always burn at his words. At his actions. At the things that his naivety and arrogance made him too blind to see that he was doing to me. And that’s implying he’d care even if he knew. If he knew how much hope I had. If he knew how much I knew. About the other girls and his business-deal-like treating of me. If he knew how much I wanted to believe he’d changed. How happy I was to have someone more like me. To maybe be seen as beautiful. If only he knew. If only he would care.

I was wrong again. I thought he had changed. I thought he was more. But he’s still just a boy, hiding in his father’s jacket. Wearing his father’s shoes and putting on a deep voice.

I replay his words and our time together a billion times, my personal demon. I feel like an idiot. I was so foolish. I swore away too much before I realized what I’d done. I lay in shock. What could I say? I’m too polite. I should have screamed in his face. I should have cursed, the only language he seems to understand. And then I’d scrambled to retrieve it, looking half-crazy as I did. He didn’t want me. He didn’t love me. And that’s what hurts the most. I could play off my other choices. Not this. Not that brutal and fragile and vulnerable giving of myself that was crushed. I cannot forgive him. Yet. I cannot forgive myself. I dug a gouge in myself that burns with a fire and never heals. How he twisted my words. How he broke me like no one had. And I let him.

I hate myself for that.

My mom says I should forget it. She’s trying to help me move on, but her words turn in on me and I feel stupid. I can’t help it. I don’t know why I won’t let it go. I feel the lick of fire in my belly every time I think about him. I want him to eat his words, as awful as that sounds. I want him to take his judgement and experience it for himself. I used to have a lot of assumptions. I had to experience them to learn. I tell myself that I don’t care. I don’t care if I see him, I don’t care what he does, I don’t care what he says. But I do.

And I hate myself for that.

I know I shouldn’t. And I know one day I’ll get around it. But for now, it’s a crack that seeps. It’s a cry that rises up in my chest and never makes it to the surface, trapped like a bird in an iron cage. I told myself I wouldn’t talk about it. But I can’t help it. I must get it out.  It’s my truth. As a woman. As a person.

So, I guess that’s what’s been eating me. My dreams are haunted by him, a ghost just like his real self. Fake. Imaginary. A falsification of personhood. I want to yell in the dream. Tell him to get out. But it plays on without me. I think it but never get it out.

This is his hurt. This is his story.

I want my him to come and wash it away. Wash him away. And wash me in his love.

I’m tired and worried. I should sleep. I should have eaten dinner. I should go for now, my soul spilled, and write again tomorrow. Something more inspirational. Something more joyful. I will make tomorrow my search for that. I will find something better to be than this. Better than this regret.

Gotta love my mom though! Always trying to spice up my day, hug me while I cry, or cheer me. I’ll be on the right track if I’m half the woman she is and has always been.

(I can’t believe I wasted such a great title on him)

Lucky..And Realizing It

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It’s so easy to forget…how lucky you are.

I don’t always feel lucky. Life can bite. Hard. And lonely often seems like a staple in my life. But I forgot. How lucky I am. How blessed He has made me.

Tonight I read a beautifully sad blog. It touched me to the core in so many ways. It made me realize the power of our stories. And the power we have to touch others. Even if it’s just one person, it’s worth it. (I’d love for everyone to check it out. www.partofthemiracle.com.)

I struggled not to cry, even as I read it novel style all the way back to the beginning.

His wife died suddenly, leaving him and his two young children alone. My mother almost died of cancer when I was young. I read his heart as he poured it on the page. I read his struggle. His pains and ache. His love, beautiful and strong like the ocean. I thought about my life. What if that had been my dad? What if I had been the one missing my mother? Missing a big chunk out of my life? What would I have done? Who would I have been? Would my own dad have been so strong and real? I could have lost her. My beautiful mother. My wonderful foundation. The one who saves me from myself constantly. The one who taught me to cook and do laundry and craft. Who encouraged my wild interests and supported me when no one else did. Who told me to go for it, to live any dream I caught in my nets, and ask forgiveness instead of permission. Who would have taught me to be silly and not so serious? How would I be surviving right now, without her guidance? I feel suddenly so blessed. I would be lost without her, and without her strong faith in Him that she shared with me.

Two. I may be alone, but I am alone with a hope of meeting my other half. Of finding that lasting love. I cried as I thought of him. He had his love. His one true love. And right now she’s home while he carries on here, missing the other half of his soul. How awful that must feel. That ache. The heart’s silent cry, unanswered. I have hope. I can still look forward and squint my eyes and pretend I see someone waiting for me. When I think of myself in his position, I see myself looking outward and up. Wish you were here…has a whole new meaning. He’s waiting too I guess. Just for the day they are reunited.

Three. And yet how wonderful and beautiful his love is. I remember that day my world changed. When I slowly realized that the love story I thought was possible, the cinderella moment of transformation, was fake. Lies. I thought love was dead. And yet here it is again. A spark settling in me. Maybe it is real. Maybe it does happen. Even if I don’t want to believe. Just because I don’t believe in unicorns doesn’t mean they aren’t real, right? There are no words to describe how I felt when I read his words, his descriptions of his wife, and his expression of love. I could only cry as I read (and try to hide it from three other people and four dogs in the room with me. Yes, dogs). Everyone should feel that deep and that way about their Other.

I want someone to look at me like he looks at her. I want someone to miss me like that. Strong like mountains. Sweet like honeysuckle. Beautiful like a summer sky dancing with the lights of a perfect amber sunset. Someone who thinks I’m beautiful no matter what. Who finds my stubbornness cute. Who finds my passion exhilarating. And loves my laugh.

 And slobber (four dogs and a baby=SLOBBER).

So, I’ll write. I’ll write because maybe someone is reading. Maybe someones is saying, that could be me..or..that’s just like what I’m going through..or..that’s just what I needed.

And while I’m writing, I’ll do better at remembering I’m blessed. It’s easy to forget. But sometimes, it just takes one story, one person, to put it all in perspective. To make us realize how special and blessed we are. I was skulking tonight. I was walking around with a grey cloud following me. I was sad. I am lonely. But I am also blessed. I am lonely and blessed. And for this moment..that’s okay by me. I love my crazy life. Cause I’m alive, and I’m living.

Thank you Mr. Lewis. You make me want to wait for what you still had. And still have. I should wait for that beautiful love. I should wait for truth. Nothing else compares. There is nothing else.

 

Catch of the day…

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So, today I find myself tired.

I am tired of being “the one that got away”. Or worse.

I want to be the one he was lucky enough to catch. The one he wants to stay with. It would also be helpful if he was ambitious enough to have a steady job and was fairly abnormally normal. Or at least that he doesn’t hit, run around on me, or emotionally abuse me.

I want to be the one who he looks for and wants to talk to and know.

People around me can tell me how great I am. I’m smart. I can cook well and clean and sing nicely. I’m handy with crafts and quite artsy. I can be quite witty and great fun to have around (I hope, or everyone’s just been patronizing me and wishing I’d leave). Down-to-earth. Easy-going but also plan things well. I know movies and music. Stuff like that. Girls like me are in high esteem and high demand. But how great am I if no good, decent guy wants to be with me? Is it too much to ask for him to have character, be spiritual AND cute? Not that I’ve had droves of guys, cute or not, asking me out. None in fact. And not that cute even matters when it comes to these things. I could live extremely happy without the cute, if the other things fell into place.

I just want someone for me.

DNA and Science Fiction: Meet Cute

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DNA and Science Fiction: Meet Cute

So, recently my mom read an article or a book or an essay about DNA.

My family and I are constantly discussing the topics of the week, interesting things we found, politics, jokes, science, world events, and any number of various subjects of argument and intrigue. Some of them less worthy of discussion than others, I might add. But nonetheless, we love to share with each other and I wouldn’t change our quirky conversations for anything.

Getting off point..

So, DNA.

 Basically, its been shown that we are all connected to our DNA. We’re connected to every part of ourselves and everyone we touch or come into contact with on a daily basis. From our highschool sweetheart to our grandchildren to our first grade teacher. Apparently, according to this scientific study, if you took a sample of someone’s DNA..and then drove them hundreds of miles away..and then had them experience an emotion..Pleasure, pain, sadness, joy, anger, etc..then the DNA that lies in a dish somewhere miles away, also reacts in a measurable way.

This of course is an astounding idea, since the DNA was separated from the subjects and in my mind (before at least) would be considered dead or forgotten. Useless. Right? Maybe not.

Thinking on this subject further, certain things come into light.

For instance, the Hundredth Monkey Phenomenon. In the fifties, monkeys on a Japanese island were provided with food, I believe it was grains and sweet potatoes. Generally, these were deposited on the beach. A young female monkey learned to wash the food in the stream in order to clean the sand from it. Soon, contrary to popular thought, not only did the other young monkeys learn it but also the older monkeys. This apparently negates the “can’t teach an old dog new tricks” theory of animal mental processing and growth. Not long after that, not only were all of the monkeys on that island accomplishing a new task, but it jumped islands. Other monkeys on other islands learned the task overnight. How did this happen? Scientists were at a loss, some blamed it on the supernatural. But, really, what’s the difference between supernatural and scientific. The difference is understanding, and the level of it therefore. What if these monkeys learned their task not based on cranial grasping of washing food, a seemingly menial task, but instead because they were all connected; all touched each other, came into contact with each other’s DNA, or somewhere in their biological past before separation of land masses, they were related?

What does this mean for us?

Well, think about the number of surfaces you come into contact with per day..now how many people you’ve touched.. your realatives..people you’ve kissed..people you’ve slept with..people you will one day call “kids” or “grandkids”. Think about all the way back to the first person in your history, whether you’re religious and believe it’s Adam, or an almighty and overwhelming force, or a big bang. The “who am I?” has suddenly grown by population: everyone.

Is it any wonder that we feel such a desperate need to be connected to others? To be connected, essentially, to ourselves? To feel whole. Sometimes we make bad decisions to feel this wholeness and connection. Sometimes we make immeasurably good ones. It’s always a risk, but we feel we must take it. We feel the echo of the past. Possibly this is the reason we visit monuments, countries, and museums. Perhaps when we visit certain places and feel something indescribable or deep and emotional, we’re picking up on past people, lives, and feelings. Thinking of just George Washington, a founding father, and how many places he visited and the children that his children’s children produced…the effect is enormous.

There comes waves of good with finding people you can connect with and share your love and life. People who are our twins, despite no relation. Or just seem to “get us”. We touch each others lives and leave our footprints and fingerprints and shirts all over their floors.

Ever had deja vu?

What if deja vu was you, or someone who you’ve touched or is related to you, coming into contact with a place. And then you return to it. You may not know you’ve been there, but maybe a part of you has. An infinitesimal part. A part immeasurable by the human eye. Maybe an old love had touched that spot before, leaving a piece of them behind for you to sense (because they have a part of you in them). Or a friend had grabbed a quick bite at the cafe you are now sitting at. Home is home possibly because that is where most of YOU lies.You have a sudden realization. I’ve been here before. I’ve heard this song. I’ve eaten this meal. Somehow, I KNOW you even though we’ve never met. Part of you, someone somewhere somehow, touched something or someone and you suddenly experience it. You cut through the haze and find yourself. Deja vu.

And what about “The One”? Soul mates. Destiny. Fate. What if the one made for you is feeling and doing similar things to you? Experiencing things in a similar way? And all because you’re connected to them by DNA. After all, aren’t they ‘half of you’? You’re puzzle piece, perfectly interlocking. You’re match in every way. And if you are feeling and doing things that are similar, wouldn’t you be drawn to each other? Like the gravitational pull of planets, circling circling and finally smashing into one another in a bright flash of purpose. If we only could be so patient as to wait for the smashing end to the beginning.

Maybe. Maybe it’s possible. And maybe it makes it just a little more magical to meet The One.

But then comes the other half of the coin. What about all those people you were with and weren’t your soul mate?  Or just were awful, egocentric, selfish people? What did we take from them? Who did they make us in the time we were with them? Did we take on their flaws? What did they leave with us, or us with them? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Maybe we should be more careful who we surround ourselves with.

Under this theory, what is life now but an intricate puzzle of lives? Twisting tighter and more complex, twizzler style, until we’re fused. We may skirt each other on the street, but our very molecules are reaching out. They beg to touch and be touched. They track where we’ve been and maybe where we go as we are drawn to the missing tiny pieces of us.

Suddenly, life is more buoyant.

Suddenly, life is more substantial and mind-boggling.

Suddenly, life is alive.

And every piece matters.

Wandering In My Youth: the good days of a 90s kid

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Remember when we were young?

The good ‘ol days, we call them.

Times when it was safer to leave our doors unlocked and we roamed the neighborhood at will, because our parents knew everyone or just considered us safer. Times when I, as a six-year-old, did not know of the F-word or drew pictures of male genitalia on the sides of playground equipment. Maybe other kids did. I didn’t. And I never saw any of them, or maybe I just didn’t pay attention enough. I rode my bike around my neighborhood and into the mud in the field behind our suburb, just like everyone else I knew.  We roller-bladed with dogs attached dangerously to our waists and jumped fences to join friends playing hide and go seek or “spies”. I actually read books that weren’t assigned to me, and we were more interested in games and swimming than a mindless cartoon. We watched cartoons on SATURDAYS, early in the morning before our parents woke so that we could get “the good ones”. We never waited until noon to get up. Scooby doo was still a real dog’s-dog and the mystery was a mystery until the end of the show. Cartoons had hidden pop-culture meanings. Play was more than just a button on the VCR, which had tapes we had to REWIND. We did not color our eyes black and dye our hair. We thought coffee was “cool” and “stole” sugar packets while our parents talked at gatherings or in restaurants. We screamed songs at the top of our lungs as we reached the peak of our swing on the playground. We chased the ice cream man down the street because he was the only one with the good rainbow pops. We ran away from angry geese at the park, which we visited of our own free will.  We sold lemonade as a summer experiment, collected Beanie Babies, and were obsessed with “whatever” and “yo”. And we ate Warheads until our tongues were raw.

What happened to that? To good clean fun? To Elvis Presley and songs blared through the boombox about crooning men who bayed loudly about the girl they were in love with or who wished “it would rain”? When rap was shaken a hand at as if it could be shoo-ed? When we watched Veggies sing songs, and knew all the words?

It’s amazing how once you have children, all those things you were interested in, or even took for granted as a child, are suddenly remembered and important. It’s like stories you wished you remembered, songs you sang, and memories you had should be shared. It’s a legacy. A time long past.

I spent a good deal of time tonight searching out an old tape that I was sure I hadn’t thrown out, writing down every good movie I could remember watching as a child, and reading a little piece of Owl At Home. How I loved his stories, as he invited winter to dinner and thought of sad things, like pencils too short to write with, in order to make his tea. Lion king was my favorite movie, I could repeat it verbatim. And I watched cartoons with dogs that turned into super heroes and ones where a duck was the dark hero. When you spilled coffee on yourself, it was YOUR fault for being stupid and not realizing that coffee is HOT, and you could not sue the person whose house you were breaking into for falling onto a knife in the kitchen and becoming injured. You took it like a man, and went to the hospital for a tetanus shot and 2 tablespoons of idot-be-gone which was activated by “hard-knocks”. The second, unfortunately, was not a dependable cure.  

I want to share so much with my boy. I’m so excited to show him and have him learn. I want him to know what it was like. That life used to mean something. Something more than just scrounging to get by and frowning about it. That it was fun and exhilarating. It seemed like less things broke. We fell down the stairs multiple times and ate whole jars of peanut butter when we were in the new-age-declared “no peanut butter” stage, and chewed on lead-painted toys. We didn’t die. We were fine. We rubbed dirt in our wounds and put our ball caps back on. We weren’t scared to go out and be hurt by an invisible world. Back then, the world seemed a little less threatening. A little more like, “life as it is”. If that makes any sense. 

How did we live before we forgot our cell phones at home and had the internet on them? Before our lives depended on them? How did we live before micro-filed novels you can buy over the internet and watch on an electric device the size of a book and could fit in your back-pocket? How did we live before plastic? Or whole businesses made from people wanting to be connected?

Truth is…We just lived. In some ways worse, in many ways: better.  

But I sincerely miss the good days. I miss feeling safe. I miss playing pretend on the floor and thinking I was awesome while doing it. I miss PepperAnne and Hey Arnold.  I miss field trips and day trips and falling asleep in the car on the way home. I miss raising tadpoles. I miss hardy, american made products. I don’t miss having to change out the cd a hundred times to listen to my songs, or worse, cassettes I had to fast forward 4 seconds at a time if I wanted a particular song. I don’t miss not having audio files that fit onto a device I can jimmy into my pocket..but I do miss the good days.

We’ll all just have to work at creating them again…but for now, it seems they’ve taken a vacation.