Let’s Talk About Sex

“Let’s talk about sex, baby
Let’s talk about you and me
Let’s talk about all the good things and the bad things
That may be…”
-Salt n’ Pepa

Here’s something that may surprise you: When it comes to talking about personal, in-the-bedroom things, I am more inclined to keep quiet. Oh? It doesn’t surprise you? Well, then you have been reading this blog long enough to figure me out. I’m an intensely private person who doesn’t tend to share my business with other people – likewise, I tend to get a bit squidgy if other people share too much personal stuff with me. The reason why is simple – my mind cannot help where it wanders, and I don’t want to be sitting at dinner across the table from my friend and her husband knowing that he sleeps naked, or thinking about any unusual features of his anatomy (seriously, y’all, I’m trying to eat here!) or knowing because of the impression a friend has done what his “sex face” looks like. Eh. No.

Consequently, I tend to keep pretty hush too. I am so reserved for the most part, that when I was telling a girlfriend about how my husband was joking about buying me a pair of assless pants (I honestly did not know they made such a thing!), she said, “Really? He said ‘assless pants’? Your husband did? Sweet ol’ husband said ASSLESS pants?” Um yeah. He’s got the dirtiest mind and sense of “humor” ever – did he say ‘assless pants’, really? Yes. It’s a wonder he doesn’t say it more often.

It’s really not that I’m a prude, or some frigid librarian, though. My feeling has always been that the personal stuff should stay personal. The rest of my family tends to be very “out there” in talking about sex with… well… just about anyone. And that’s cool. Somehow, though, the lack of filter skipped me.

I was the girl who believed that you should be in looooooooove with the guy you lost your virginity to. I had a sweet boyfriend my senior year of high school, and I honestly thought that he would be “the one”. Given his lack of planning though, it never worked out for us. That his wife quickly gave birth to their two daughters within two years of marriage, and that I got pregnant fairly quickly both times with my daughters leads me to believe that the fact that we didn’t go ahead and “just do it” sans protection was a GOOD IDEA. We’re both apparently very fertile people.

Instead, I lost my virginity the summer before my freshman year of college in a situation that I wish I could take back and I wish I could undo. I was not a willing participant in the event, and it was not a happy experience for me. I have never been one to talk about it much, but it shaped me – back then, and now still. It was a long time before I was able to fully process what happened. I really wish I had a better story for my first time.

The story of my second time is somewhat more amusing, if not for the fact that it was with my very first boyfriend ever. I refer to him as my sandbox boyfriend – when we were young (I’m talkin’ preschool), our moms were friends and he was my little boyfriend. His family moved away and he and I were never in touch until our freshman year of college and we started emailing each other. He was such an awesome guy – very creative, athletic, and funny. When I broke up with a boyfriend right before the holidays, Sandbox Boyfriend sent me a hilarious poem. Ultimately, though our talks were strictly platonic for the most part, a girlfriend and I drove down to his college to spend the weekend at his fraternity house. (Yeah. I mentioned this before, remember?). I got pretty drunk. He was pretty drunk. He kissed me. He then apologized for kissing me – this pissed me off. Kiss me, fine. Apologize for it? Naaaah. You either meant it or you didn’t. Later on, and drunker we ended up hooking up in his loft bed (I’m so freakin’ old now – the thought of climbing a ladder to get into bed? Oh my hell – there’s no way).  We then didn’t speak after that for about six months, at which time he apologized profusely for acting like such an asshat.

But it didn’t break my heart. My past is riddled with weird stuff like that. For all my feeling that sex should be something you share with the one you love, for the longest time it wasn’t that way for me. Granted, you don’t need both hands to count my number of partners (and you certainly don’t need to add a foot in there for extra digits like say… my husband), the emotion behind my decisions maybe weren’t the wisest or most appropriate. But that’s alright.

There’s a reason why I don’t talk about this stuff. I remember the first time I told someone how I lost my virginity. A friend of mine from the dorms was developing a habit of getting drunk, kissing random boys, and putting herself in potentially bad situations. I talked to her about it, telling her what had happened to me. Her first reaction was one of sympathy. I never wanted people to feel sorry for me. I never want people to see me as someone who needs sympathy or someone who is weak. Despite the various twists and turns on the roads, it all brought me here. I am who I am because of what I’ve experienced – but sometimes I would prefer to keep the experiences to myself.

What I Am

“I’m not aware of too many things
I know what I know, if you know what I mean…”
-Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians

Have you ever seen the movie “Runaway Bride” where the Julia Roberts character basically contorts herself and her likes and dislikes for whatever man she happens to be with at the time? Like, right down to the kind of eggs she eats – changes herself? There has been more than one occasion when I’ve felt that my best friend is like that character.

With Husband 1, she listened to gangsta rap, watched sports, and took up golf. With Husband 2, she became this staunch conservative who voted Bush (while Hubs2 stood over her while she filled out the absentee ballot). With Husband 3, she became this wife/partner who held up his business and even went with him to clients’ houses and helped him with his work. Now… Husband 4.

The thing about Hubbies 1 through 3 is that I knew all of them longer pre-marriage than I know this guy. I don’t know this guy very well, and I trust my friend when she tells me he’s incredible and that she loves him and he’s so super-duper fantastic. But… when she and I make plans to go out (for the first time in eons really – a much needed GNO), and she has to ask his permission, and then he sulks like a little baby when he reluctantly says, “I guess you can go”. Um? Hell no. That rubs me the wrong way. I hate feeling like we’re going to end up going out and she’s going to feel like she needs to leave early, or get home early, or call to check in five times because she doesn’t want him to get upset.

That would NOT sit right with me, if it were me.

For all the things not right in my life that I gripe and bitch and moan about, typically, if I want to go out with my friends my husband is cool with that. We both have lives outside of each other – and that’s probably one of the best things. He does tend to go out more frequently than I do, but most of the time, if I am heading out, I don’t get too much drama about it. That one month into the marriage, she’s already somewhat getting closed off from her friends – that bugs me.

Not my business. Not my business. Not my business.

Soak Up the Sun

“It’s not having what you want
It’s wanting what you’ve got…”
-Sheryl Crow

After a roller coaster ride of the weekend, life seems to be back on its typical track – good, bad or indifferent. Admittedly, Friday and Saturday were rough days for me, and the stress of feeling the way I was feeling were bogging me down. Saturday evening, I took the kids to get their pictures done (two hours of my life that I can’t fully get back, but to give myself a big ol’ pat on the back: My kids are freakin’ adorable. They work that camera like nobody’s business. I don’t know how on earth they got so cute, but damn – those pics rocked), and I decided to try to turn things around. I can’t be so damn sad about stuff all the time. Being sad makes me tired. Being tired makes me cranky. Being cranky makes my kids cranky.

 Vicious cycle.

Sunday morning, I was able to sleep in. You know what a difference it makes to be running on a full eight hours of sleep? Even without anything else in my world changing, just being well rested was enough to give me a boost and make me feel more human. I was able to be sans kids most of the day – and I even went shopping. It felt good. The whole day felt GOOD.

The thing is, nothing has changed. This is the life I have and though it’s chaotic and crazy, it’s my life. I definitely need to work on making sleeping in on Sundays a habit, but beyond that, if I am not making changes, I need to accept the way things are.

The Bridesmaid Dress Song

“She pays three hundred dollars
For a dress the bride is claiming,
‘If you hem it, You can wear it as a cocktail dress!’
Well, sure if you hem it, redesign the sleeves,
tear off the bows and rhinestones,
tuck in the sash and dye it black
well then, five hundred dollars later,
you will end up with a gown that is quite obviously
a bridesmaid’s dress altered to be worn as a cocktail dress.”
-Deirdre Flint

Nearly two years ago, I was in a wedding. Just over two years ago, I shelled out about two hundred bucks for this strapless satin blue floor length dress with a train. On top of the obscene amount of money I paid for this dress, I had to pay quite a chunk of change to have the dress altered, because flat chested gals like me and strapless gowns don’t really mix too well. It took a handy seamstress to sew some cups in the dress and make the bodice tight enough that it wasn’t gonna slide off and show what little bit I have up top.

I hated this dress.

When all of us bridesmaids went dress shopping, I admit that I was just kind of there for show. See, on top of lacking boobs, I also kind of lack hips and a huge ass – so they weren’t picking a dress to fit me. They were picking the dress to fit the gal who was 5′9″, and the gal who was super duper busty. Being a relatively small woman, there’s not much I can’t wear. I was just there for the whole bridal party bonding. We narrowed the dress selection down to two choices – a kick-ass halter style dress… and the stupid strapless gown.

Guess who was outnumbered? Uh huh. I hated that blue dress. I was so obviously outnumbered though, that rather than piss off the bride (she of the road trip from hell, coincidentally), I just sucked it up, and joined the party line of, “Oh my god! This is the most gorgeous bridesmaid gown I’ve ever seen!” (I wouldn’t go as far as the others with the, “I’ll totally wear it again!” because, c’mon, really?).

When the dresses came in and I went in for my fitting, the seamstress said, “This dress is kind of long. Should we bustle it so that no one steps on your dress at the reception?” Fantastic idea! But, the bride said No. The seamstress shrugged, said, “Bet you after the wedding she says, ‘We should have bustled them.’”

The day of the wedding, most of us looked quite lovely. Until the reception, when… people would step on the back of our dresses. It happened constantly. Remember, I was trying to keep my dress UP. Not a good thing. After the wedding though, I held on to the dress because I was such good good friends with the bride, I didn’t want to just toss it and hurt her feelings.

I no longer care about her feelings. Right now? I care about closet space. This huge-ass dress has taken up space in my closet for nearly two years now, and I don’t want to deal with figuring out eBay and selling this dress. I don’t want to dry clean it and deal with it. I am about thisclose to letting my five year old at it with a pair of scissors and letting the chips fall where they may. What do you do with an ugly bridesmaid dress that no one in their right mind will ever wear again!?

Coming Around Again

“You pay the grocer
Fix the toaster
Kiss the host goodbye
Then you break a window
Burn the souffle
Scream the lullabye…”
-Carly Simon

Days are starting to run together and time is moving so fast and then I look at the calendar and holy shit, it’s Thursday already. Where is the time going? Seems like each day is no more important than the day before it. I feel like an ungrateful slug – the girls and I missed a major car accident by mere minutes yesterday – the same things that I vent about (how hard it is to get the girls ready to go, how they don’t listen to me, how things take twice as long when one person is essentially trying to wrangle a herd of cats) are what probably saved us from being the northbound car that was hit by two cars heading south, killing the driver and critically injuring the passenger in that northbound car.

Yesterday? Yesterday I was filled with this immense sense of gratitude about it all. Today? Today my living room is a mess, my younger daughter has colored all over her body with markers, and oh my hell, I have cramps so bad that I want to crawl over to the couch and veg with trash TV all day. (Guess that can be a new rule to the Lyrically Me drinking game – if I mention my cramps you can take two shots – c’mon, you need those shots to wash away the thoughs of my menstrual cycle!). I’ve got a project in the works for my freelance job, and seriously all I can do is surf the net for useless stuff (reading material today? A review of a flavored lube on Redbook magazine’s website. Sounds nasty, actually).

Tonight, I’m supposed to go to the movies and I’m not feeling it. Tomorrow is Friday. Not feeling that either. Then the weekend. Eh.

Yesterday, a friend from the neighborhood came to update me on the man being charged with child abuse. Turns out he did molest C’s daughter. My heart is so so sick for her. To be honest, I’m sick for the neighborhood. Sounds like there were numerous red flags that C either didn’t see or didn’t want to see, and I can’t imagine the guilt she is wrestling with.

Just seems like the days are moving fast – sometimes too fast, some days I wish they would just go faster and that it would be spring, and this stuff would just all be over.

You Learn

“You live you learn
You love you learn
You cry you learn
You lose you learn
You bleed you learn
You scream you learn…”
-Alanis Morisette

It’s only Wednesday and the past seven days I have learned tons, tons, tons! I’ve learned….

• At age 31 (chug!), I’ve finally learned how to apply eyeliner
• To be patient with my kids when we’re getting ready to go someplace – their lagging and procrastination today could well have saved us from the car accident that we happened upon just minutes after it took place
• Costco has really beautiful flowers
• It’s never too early to teach your daughters that if you want flowers, you don’t need to wait for a man to buy ‘em for you – we now have some lovely magenta carnations on our table that we bought for OURSELVES!
• I need to start checking my husband’s pockets before I do laundry, as the chapstick that he left in his pants pocket melted ALL OVER the whole load of laundry and now several pairs of my jeans are stained with greasy chapsticky spots. Damn it.
• Passive aggressive bullshit really drives me nuts (Oh wait, I already knew that. But oh well, I was reminded of it again this week. It’s a lesson I’m going to keep on learning, I suppose)
• You have to be really careful when talking to someone who sells MaryKay or else you’ll get suckered into having one of those stupid parties
• MaryKay cleanser makes me break out in hives – fantastic
• The sound of children bickering? Ugh. Sets my teeth on edge. When it’s someone else’s kids? Even MORE annoying
• Even though January is almost over, some Starbucks locations still have Gingerbread Lattes – Yummo.
• Someone found this blog with the search terms: “My husband hits me”… I’m not entirely sure HOW that brought her here, but to whoever wrote that, hon – I sure hope you find the help and strength you need and that you’re safe…
• My husband is getting better at understanding the well placed hint – if I call him at work with the annoyance of my day obvious in my voice, he is sure quick to suggest I head out alone after he gets home and he’ll watch the girls. Guess I’m not the only one learning something this week!

Hold An Old Friend’s Hand

“I don’t believe it hurts to grow
Even when the crop you sow is a failure…”
- Tiffany

There are times when I feel like I’m moving forward, that I’m figuring out the things I need to do and the things I need to say and all the what’s-right-stuff to make my life good. There are times I think I should be tossed back into the “Life Kindergarten” for people too dense to learn from the past and make changes moving forward… remedial life lessons, if you will.

That take one step forward-two steps back saying seems to be fitting me lately. I extend effort in new ways and think I’m making headway and then I stumble over my feet and land face first in the dirt. But at least I’m aware of it now, I suppose.

Last night was a particularly bad night. I found myself wanting to say things, wanting to figure things out, wanting to quickly clear things up and get it solved. Instead I retreated into my head, stayed up for hours dwelling, and have spent most of today wondering if that was or wasn’t the right thing to do (I’m guessing it wasn’t). This is not a new thing for me. I have always been this way – sometimes I shock the hell out of myself by saying exactly what is on my mind at the moment it crosses my mind, but, as I’ve mentioned once or twice (or twelve times) most of the time, my hyperactive filter in my brain tells me to hold on to it, to not spill my head.

I think I need to spill my head.

**Yes, I’m quoting a song by the mall rat Tiffany…

Out Tonight

“So let’s find a bar
So dark we forget who we are
And all the scars of the nevers and maybes die…”
-Mimi, RENT

Last night I did something I hadn’t done in many moons. I went OUT. And not just out for a coffee with a girlfriend, or out for a power walk, or running errands sans kids. OUT. My husband’s cousin – I adore her, I really do – is getting married in Vegas in a few months so last night was her bachelorette fiesta and I was invited out with her friends to celebrate the end of her freedom (hee hee hee). Though I know the Bride from family events only, she’s one of my favorite people in Husband’s family – she’s close to my age, she’s hilarious, and very friendly.  Even knowing that I wouldn’t really know any of her friends, I decided… why not?

We met at a local-ish piano bar just after 6 p.m. for dinner. There were about 20 of us at that point, including the bride and groom’s mothers. In the beginning, I was seriously questioning why the hell I thought it would be a good idea to go out with twenty virtual strangers – I’m not super “out there” – it takes me a while to warm up to people, and I’m kind of introverted, to say the least. Soooooo, I ordered a martini bigger than my head – you know, to take the edge off.

The dueling pianos started, and so did the laughter. I had never been to this bar before, but I loved the atmosphere, the food was great, the entertainment was hilarious. After a bit, the older members of our party left, celebratory shots were consumed (I have no idea what in the world I was drinking), we all loosened up and got to know each other.

What fun!

By the end of the night (though I wisely switched to water after a wobbly trip to make a phone call), we were dancing, singing and laughing like old friends. The bride, who today says she doesn’t remember the last several hours of the evening (which is no surprise, guaging from her behavior) was pure ridiculous – right down to giving a guy at the next table a lap dance. Yes, he asked for one. And though I didn’t ask her, I seriously hope she remembers that part before she sees the pictures! Oy. I had tears running down my face I was laughing so hard. Or when she shoved her boobs in the pianist’s face. Yeah, good times. For the record, a LOT of women did this to those guys – it was kind of half surprising, half disturbing… what do these guys do if it’s an unattractive woman? or she’s smelly? I can’t imagine they can say, “Ewwww!” That would be kind of rude. Then again, shoving your boobs in a strange man’s face isn’t especially polite either (though I know men who would probably disagree with that statement).

I can’t remember the last time I had that much fun. It’s been a long time. It was nice to have a night off from being responsible, reliable Mom. It was nice to be a goofy, nutty woman.

Though I am seriously feeling the sleep deprivation today, it was one of the best nights I’ve had in awhile.

Dry County

“When the blues whomp you up on the side of the head
Throw ‘em to the floor and kick ‘em out the door
When the blues kick you in the head
and you roll out of bed in the morning
Just sit on your porch and swing…
Sit on your porch and swing…”
-The B-52s

Oh, would that I had a porch swing and it wasn’t so freakin’ cold outside.

Today has the makings of being a truly ugly day and I really think that spring just canNOT get here soon enough. This is Husband’s busiest time at work (about three more months of insanity to go), and he’s been leaving the house typically at 5:30 a.m.  to return home nearly 12 hours later (sometimes more). Our youngest is an early bird, which means that when he leaves at 5:30, I have to be up to be on Mom Duty. Twelve hours of mom duty with no break = pure craziness.

I’ve been trying to carve out time for myself – in fact, I’ve gone to the mall twice this week. The few hour breaks are a huge relief to me, but inevitably, the funk hits me again each morning when I get up at 0-dark-thirty to start my day. I was up with my Little One at 3:30 this morning. Once I am up and engaged in talk and momness, it takes me awhile to fall back to sleep. It was after four before I was able to snooze again, and so when my older daughter woke me up at 6:30, though I was relieved to sleep past 6, I was still pretty drained already.

Quickly, I got dressed, brushed my teeth, all that jazz and headed downstairs to take over for Husband who was getting a late start this morning. His first comment to me was about how he couldn’t find the postage stamps – and maybe if there wasn’t “so much damn stuff” on the kitchen counter, the stamps wouldn’t keep getting lost. Since I neglected to see that his arms were broken and he wasn’t capable of cleaning the counter, my hackles were instantly raised. I don’t know, maybe a “Good Morning, honey” before starting in on my housekeeping skills or lack thereof might have been helpful. Wasn’t how I wanted to start my day and I was quite pissed off after that.

Of course, being the Idiot that I am, it also pissed me off enough that I have been power-cleaning and organizing most of the morning. (Oh, and I found the stamps – they were sliding behind the laminate counter backsplash thing – god only knows how much other stuff is trapped back there!). My next mission was to put all the laundry away. Actually, that translates to just Husband’s laundry, since he’s ignored the basket sitting there for three days now. As I’m in the closet, I realize I had no idea where anything went because it was such a mess in there. Soooooo… I reorganized it. Shortly after I finished, he called and I told him what I had done. Oh! He’s so upset about it! I think it’s kind of funny. Guess one shouldn’t complain about my housekeeping skills then.

I’ve been procrastinating doing my self-evaluation for work and have put it off until today – of course, now that I sit down to do it, I can’t find the thing online anywhere. No one seems to know where any of the Human Resources people are today. Guess I’ll be procrastinating some more.

I cannot wait for this week to be over.

I’m Not Perfect

“I’m not perfect, no I’m not
I’m not perfect – But I’ve got what I’ve got…”
-Laurie Berkner

Today, I made the crazy mistake of looking at my honeymoon photos. Here’s a hint for you ladies out there – once you’ve been married nearly eight years and you’ve had two kids, do not look at pictures of yourself chilling on the beach in Hawaii on your honeymoon. You’ll be sorry.

The thing is, and I realize how truly conceited this will sound – I didn’t look half bad on my honeymoon. At the time though, I was really struggling with my self esteem. I was really struggling to learn to like how I looked. Several months before my wedding, I began seeing a therapist for an eating disorder. For me, rock bottom was sitting in the kitchen crying because I couldn’t find anything I could/would eat.

I look at those pictures now and think, Damn. I didn’t look THAT bad. When I began counseling, I was working out regularly and was about 133 pounds (it was written on my referral slip to the nutritionist, otherwise I made it a point never to know my weight). I am nearly 5′7″, so 133 pounds on my frame was far from heavy. But I would look at myself in the mirror and just cringe. I gained a pound or two before my last wedding dress fitting, and sobbed so hard in the dress shop when the seamstress talked about having to let my dress out. I went home and went on a five mile walk.

But on the beach in those pictures I look happy, and tan, and healthy. By god, I even had boobs! Now, two kids later, I’m about 120 – 125 pounds (I still don’t weigh myself) and I’m reasonably sure that all the weight was lost above my belly button! Oddly enough, childbirth was both times an amazing weight loss system for me. At one point, I fell to 116, and that was a smidge too small. I’ve worked to gain a few pounds and try not not be so scrawny – I’d rather have some muscle and some “something” to me.

I am my own worst critic. It’s a struggle to not be so hard on myself. It’s a struggle to realize that I’m healthy, and I’m athletic (I can do 100 “real” pushups!), and I’m not fat. It’s amazing how easy it is to lose sight of the things that matter. I’m not going to say that I don’t do it, or that I used to but I’m “better now”. I think it’s really hard, once you’ve spent a good portion of your life beating yourself up, to be accepting and loving to yourself. But… I’m trying. Old habits die hard. They really do.