Another Faux Pas
This year for my son’s first birthday I did not invite everyone I knew, just people I liked and friends with children. I had even been debating hosting a party, but how could I refuse the photo op? No surprise, the party evolved into a larger soiree than expected. Since it was for the children and I was hosting at home, I did not sweat it.
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Working with Dad
To say I have issues with my father is like saying Grey Gardens had trouble with their electricity.
My issues with my father go way back. He still reminds me how I was mean to him as a toddler but then claims he holds no grudges. He and my mom were in the same real estate business with offices across the street from each other. Not figuratively across street, literally. I could look from my dad’s second floor window into my mom’s store. Her office was in the back of the building lacking a Main Street view.
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Training the Personal Trainer
I can’t decide if I like my personal trainer. We’ve met twice and I’m afraid every time I meet with him will make our inevitable break-up more challenging.
Will he smile politely when seeing me work out with a new trainer wondering what went wrong? Will he review our relationship and question if there were signs he ignored? Or will he just not care?
We’ve barely begun our relationship and I’m already considering the end. Not a good sign.
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Another Horny Dream
I obviously have sex on my mind if it continues to emerge in my subconscious. I can’t remember the too many details of last night’s after hours romp but it definitely involved a critique of my blow job skills.
I don’t love blow jobs. While there have been several inspired moments when I enjoyed thrusting my husband’s organ into the back of my throat, tickling my gag reflex, it’s not a exactly a pleasurable experience. Turning on my husband and exciting him in a way that I know he cannot do better himself (see hand job) (more…)
Yelling to get attention
I don’t yell like my dad, those long tirades where his face would get red and the blood vessels by his right eye would bulge and flatten with his breaths, as if even the blood vessel wanted to retreat from his wrath at the slightest opportunity. If my dad was a cartoon, he’d have been drawn with a stomping foot and angry steam spurting from his ears.
No matter what happened during the day, my father would come into the bedroom and say prayers beside me. It did not matter if he told me I was an ungrateful little shit who thought the world revolved around her, he would tuck me in and ask G-d to protect me.
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The Mourning Cycle Repeats
Isn’t it supposed to get easier? I thought it was. The awful tragic aspect of mourning where tears welled up even thinking about my mom had passed. I was able to articulate what had happened without saturating tissues. At first the healing, the improvement felt painful in a different way. No longer was the loss of my mom raw, the wound healing, time passing. Then it was okay.
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See Mom Run: Side-Splitting Essays from the World’s Most Harried Moms
For the NYC Moms Book club, I read See Mom Run, a collection of essays by contributors to the parent blog, Silicon Valley Moms. This book once again, assuaged some of my insecurities about my writing.
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Are You Flirting with Me?
Scene: Health Club Thursday Morning,
I enter the stretching area and a distinguished looking exerciser asks about my shirt. I tell him about the race listed and we talk.
We talk about running, food, where we live and I wonder if he has any intentions beyond this conversation. I do not mention my children in day care one flight above nor do I cover my wedding ring. I end the conversation and continue my workout, wondering if he will seek me out. (more…)
Phishing for Memories
Several weeks ago my husband asked me if I wanted to go to the Phish reunion concert at Madison Square Garden. Of course.
I cannot remember how many Phish shows that I’ve attended, but I know every concert has been loads of fun, between the music, the crowd and the extra curriculars. The first time I saw the band was in 1993 at Jones Beach, I had yet to appreciate what a fine venue that is for seeing shows. I begged my brother to bring me with his friends and once we left the tailgate party he handed me my ticket and said I’ll meet you at the entrance at the end of the show. At least I think he said that. I know my sister felt the same way when we went to see Phish another year at Jones Beach. Or at least I presumed she felt that way, not wanting me around her so she could enjoy her extra curriculars and not feel the need to babysit me.
Consistent with much of the feelings of my youth, I was once again a burden.
I don’t think my husband, the oldest of three boys, had similar feelings in high school towards his brothers. He enjoyed partying with them and did not feel the need to regulate every move, only if one of his brothers got out of hand, in which case he was there for him. My husband still looks forward to partying with his brothers while I often feel judged by siblings, or at least my sister. I’m getting better at overcoming my inhibitions and living for myself and not some elusive approval from the peanut gallery of my life, but it’s taking some time.
I remember being a the concert, trying to get closer to the stage, comparing my dance moves with others. Was anybody looking at the way my shoulders shifted and think I was moving to a different beat. My band teacher had all but told me I had no rhythm. I was concerned about fitting in, and emulating my sister who did not want to be seen with me in the hopes that perhaps she would want to include me not just in a ride but in her circle.
Last night I wore a Phish T-shirt that I picked up in Israel. Jerusalem perhaps, but I don’t remember. It has the band’s logo in English and Hebrew and the name of some songs on the back. The underarms and collar are yellow from sweat and who knows what else over the last fifteen years. I stood there in my vintage Israeli Phish shirt, dancing without inhibition feeling like I finally belonged.
Then I went home to relieve the babysitter.
Keeping Score
One of my high school friends used to log on her calendar each time she had sex with her boyfriend. I’m not sure if she logged the number of times she cheated on him, but she felt the need to keep a tally of actual intercourse.
My boyfriend at the time, and roommate to her boyfriend at boarding school, thought if you have to keep track, it’s not enough although it’s hard to imagine his hormones surging more than mine.
I’m thirty one and I’ve heard that my hormones have not yet peaked, another concept I struggle to grasp. Lately, I’ve been anything but interested in intercourse. My boobs that were once so sensitive they would leak milk from stimulation now hang like limp lumps from my body.
Last night I rolled over and I rubbed my foot against my husband’s leg. His disappointment and lack of interest in any sort of contact was immediately apparent. At first I was not sure what he was protesting, but perhaps in some diluted male mind, the contact of one foot and one leg means foreplay.
Maybe I need to be seduced more. Sure. That sounds great. I just can’t imagine it is going to go much beyond, “The kids are quiet. Quick. Strip.”
This year for my son’s first birthday I did not invite everyone I knew, just people I liked and friends with children. I had even been debating hosting a party, but how could I refuse the photo op? No surprise, the party evolved into a larger soiree than expected. Since it was for the children and I was hosting at home, I did not sweat it.