Daily Prompt: It sucks being a woman

Daily Prompt: Can’t Drive 55

Take the third line of the last song you heard, make it your post title, and write for a maximum of 15 minutes. GO!

The last song that I heard was “Bones” by Ginny Blackmore and the third line is “It sucks being a woman.” I cant think of a more horrible line in a song to isolate. The truth is that it doesn’t suck being a woman, in fact just the opposite. There are times that I feel a bit at a disadvantage but all in all it basically rules.

I am in love with the fact that I have a vagina, a womb (or at least had one…) and breasts. I can grew a whole other human being in my body. I am a woman that has the ability to let a person of my choosing enter my body.

I can wear a dress, skirt, jeans or a pants suit and no one bats an eye. I have come from a lineage of female warriors that have handed down  the ferocity of a lioness and the gentility of a butterfly. I have many archetypes, all with purpose and meaning. I can wake up and choose which part of my goddess will emerge.

I have wide hips and fleshy breasts, I have round arms and robust thighs. I am told that I should look like other women, the ones on the TV and in Newspapers, but that is just THE MAN (not woman) trying to take my power. My goddess knows these feeble attempts at control, and everything about me screams in defiance and revels in my womanhood.

I am a wild woman, a wise woman, a gentle woman, a warrior woman, an intelligent woman, a naive woman, a romantic woman, a pissed off woman, an unfair woman.

What kind of woman are you?????


Daily Prompt: Tell us a moment or an incident that you treasure – not necessarily because it brought you happiness, but because it taught you something about yourself.



It is not just a moment rather an incident, an incident that has lasted for almost 4 years. My relationship with my partner Matthew is something that I treasure for multiple reasons. It has brought me many moments and many treasured incidents within the last 4 years, all of which, whether the peak of happiness or the pits of despair, I treasure.

My Matthew is the equivalent to a trampoline. You jump up and fall down and then bounce back up again, all due to the initial energy that flows from your feet into the bouncy mesh. The mesh is secured to the metal frame by metal springs or coils. These coils are what allow the material to give to the force you put on it and repel you back into the air.

“The pronounced elasticity affects the impacting object.”

So in my analogy as Matthew as the trampoline, I push, he pushes back. All the shit that I project outward comes flying back at me with at least the same energy that I put it out there with. I think there is a law of physics that says something like energy gains momentum, maybe it’s the whole kinetic energy thing?? I digress too far into making a point sometimes that the point gets lost, so leave it at sometimes the rebound is a bit more forceful. *

*for those interested, the kinetic energy of an object is the energy which it possesses due to its motion. It is defined as the work needed to accelerate a body of a given mass from rest to its stated velocity. Having gained this energy during its acceleration, the body maintains this kinetic energy unless its speed changes. The same amount of work is done by the body in decelerating from its current speed to a state of rest.

I know that energy is transferred and never lost, so it remains that the energy between two people has got to be given and taken. Have you ever seen two people argue? Have you ever seen two people making love. As one ramps up, the other follows. We tend to match the others place in the emotion when we are close to that person. Imagine that you are lying in bed with your partner and you begin kissing. Intensity increases and the kissing gets deeper, hands start flying all over the place and breathing get heavier. As your lover gets more turned on, you in turn get more turned on which of course gets them even more turned on…you get the picture? I think science calls this momentum. In classical mechanics, linear momentum or translational momentum is the product of the mass and velocity of an object. For example, a heavy truck moving fast has a large momentum—it takes a large and prolonged force to get the truck up to this speed, and it takes a large and prolonged force to bring it to a stop afterwards. If the truck were lighter or moving more slowly, then it would have less momentum.

Back to the love making and arguing. As the momentum of the love making ramps up energy multiplies exponentially. This blast of energy ends in screaming, pulling hair out, eyes rolling back into heads and “don’t ever make that face again” situations. After this explosion (hopefully for both parties involved) the energy shifts. The breath and hands slow down but the body is in a heightened state of awareness and bliss. The tingles, pillow talk, exclamations of satisfaction (the “damn girl” and the “that was mad crazy”) and the cool down all are the newly transformed foreplay and sexual energy.

Momentum is a measurable quantity, and the measurement depends on the motion of the observer. For example, if an apple is sitting in a glass elevator that is descending, an outside observer looking into the elevator sees the apple moving, so to that observer the apple has a nonzero momentum. To someone inside the elevator, the apple does not move, so it has zero momentum. The two observers each have a frame of reference in which they observe motions, and if the elevator is descending steadily they will see behavior that is consistent with the same physical laws (Thank you Wiki… http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Momentum.) It’s all in where you are sitting that determines how you see things. It all looks different; it is based on who we are and how we are made. It matters what has happened to us because it is what will happen to us. The challenge, is understanding whether you didn’t follow the directions on the box or whether your ingredients are the problem.

It’s the same with arguing. The fighting escalates and builds on the harsh words or actions of the other or others. Have you ever noticed in the middle of the fight, you are light years away from the place that you started? The point of the argument is now minimal in importance compared to the atrocities that are now spilling out of both of your mouths. Resentments are tossed back and forth with reckless abandon. Every fault or insecurity is paraded before you by the person that you never thought would be the grand master of your pity parade. The fight always ends, it escalates and de-escalates. There are tears, slamming doors, storming out, driving away and running away. As both people run out of horrible things to say, or one has some epiphany of the harm that they are doing to the other person, tunes change. No one can continue at that pace for very long. Now all the mid-evil energy is transformed into long talks about how “we should start treating each other with love and respect”, “I don’t know why we fight like that, we are so in love” and “I never want to hurt you, those things just came out because we were fighting. I hate it when I treat you that way.” You can imagine what the energy morphs into. We are back to lovemaking…the momentum changes, but it never goes away.

All of this has a point, I promise. I would be happy as the next Buddhist nun if I was living on a mountain with a goat. That’s easy (well actually, no disrespect to those on mountains with goats, I am sure that living with a goat isn’t that easy, let alone yourself and your mind) but I can imagine that I could get with myself a lot easier than I could a bunch of people that have all kinds of ideas and behaviors that all end up affecting me. My experience with others challenges me and my existence (sometimes way more than necessary), and without those annoying people, I might just not ever think to be different. Alone is not a challenge, your flaws are not as obvious, it’s like living in a world with no mirrors or windows.

Matthew is my mirror. He is the coils on my trampoline. He is the window I stand outside looking at myself through. He, however unkind at times, holds me to a higher standard of myself. He is my MRI machine, identifying all the masses, tumors and infections that are hidden from my view, undetectable to the human eye. The intimacy lens through which he sees me is one that is not for sale at Lens Crafters. No one else gets that prescription. He knows every inch of my body, soul and mind. What better of a mirror than that?

Of course along with that intimate connection comes the party that all intimate partners are invited to; the projection party. Here in lies a line that is so fine that most of the time we are unable to see it. The clarity comes from the other pair of glasses that we have at our disposal, the ones we call reflection. It is only after we crucify others and hear their pleas for mercy that we see that the cross they are on actually belongs to us. That is another story all together so I’ll save it for another time, but you get my drift…

It is my belief that Matthew, in this lifetime will provide more for me than my goat. However cute and cuddly, my goat cannot provide the rigor that Matthew does (among other things…) My limits are tested, my character flaws exposed, my morals and values established, my choices become real. That is certainly more valuable than books, laws and religion. My true self has been lost and with Matthew as my mirror, I am finding Layla again. The road is long, dusty, hot, miserable, lush, green, moist and beautiful, but it’s a road worth being on.

I have to de-brief with the acknowledgement that I am not of the level of enlightenment to have all these things in my relationship with self. If allowed to have a few more hundred lifetimes of human re-birth I may be singing a completely different tune.

So to the question as to what moments or incidents I treasure, I treasure my Matthew. Just the way he is, just the way God made him, and just for forever. Not just because he brings me happiness but because he has taught me how to see everything about myself and more…

Daily Promt…Finish this sentence: “When I look in the mirror, I . . . “

ImageWhen I look in the mirror, I see….

one day a goddess, the next, the wicked witch of the west. one day a teacher, the next, a student. one day a woman with the potential of becoming a wife, the next, a woman employed by the oldest occupation in the world.

If you ask someone close to me, i think that they would say that I don’t change that much, other than one day feeling a little more punk or a little more hippie, so one day classic black chucks, the next barefoot.

but of course behind my eyes lies the harshest critic. my critic has countless versions of me, or better stated, many distortions of me. the best metaphor i can come up with is something that we have all experienced in the ophthalmologist office. after they puff that annoying air into your eyeballs, have you read the letters off the chart hanging on the back of the door, with all kinds of backwards and upside down letters on it (which by the way is a dyslexics nightmare) they determine that you need some assistance to see the world the way that is actually is supposed to look. Out comes the phoroptor. the strange fly looking set of lenses connected to a huge metal arm. the ever so familiar sound of the clicking and the doctor saying “how is that?”, “is that better?”, “how about now?” continues until the world is back in focus. everything looks ok, at least the way that we think it should look.

ahhhhhh, the world and all the things in it are clear again. how ridiculous is it that no one has invented glasses that correct what we see from the other side of our eyeballs, the soul side. quite frankly, i don’t mind that the freeway signs are a bit fuzzy or that I have to ask matthew to read me the title of the next mad men episode that we are going to watch. what i mind is that i will never be able to ask someone to read who i am to me. i will never be able to see what i really look like in the mirror, the reflection is never something that i can trust. the worst part is that when i ask someone if what is flying over our heads, is it an airplane or a hawk, i generally believe that they are seeing what i am asking about accurately. now when i ask if my ass looks fat in my jeans and the answer is “no, your ass is banging in those jeans” i don’t believe it. the mirror isn’t the problem, the person that i am asking isn’t the problem, its that my third eye still has its shutters closed.

this idea keeps popping up in most of my writing…relativity. perspective and how things look so differently to every single set of eyeballs on the planet. human beings, iguanas, kitty cats, elephants, birds, you get the idea. what we see changes over our lifetime as well. we start out all blurry eyed, vision gets clearer, vision gets jaded, then vision gets blurry again. i’m in my 40’s now and my vision seems to get worse with each passing week. funny that my self esteem seems to be taking the same hits.

there have been times that i have looked at my reflection and had a fleeting vision of a goddess, not a beauty queen or a supermodel, but just a goddess. there have been times that i see myself and i think to myself “I am not that bad.” i can get with what i see, not jump for joy because i am love with my body and can’t find one flaw, but just simply ok with it all.

has anyone ever experienced this phenomenon? you go to bed and overnight you gain 20 pounds? this has even happened to me in the course of a day. I feel like my thighs have increased in circumference by 10 inches, the yesterday version of me has morphed into Jabba the Hut. How does this happen? how can i see the Jabba in me but no ones else is pulling me aside and asking me “what the hell happened to you last night. when i dropped you off you were just layla, now you look like Jabba the Hut.” i always just assume that they are just being polite and socially appropriate, not wanting to tell me that I grew 10 dress sizes overnight and that my skin is covered with snot. just as fast as my growth spurt happened, it goes away. magically a few days later i wake up and look in the mirror and I am no longer a character in Star Wars, in just a human being…if anyone has insight into this miraculous phenomenon, drop me a line. would love to know.

concluding this jumbled, disconnected ramble i leave you with this:

“What does a mirror look at?”
Frank Herbert, Chapterhouse: Dune


Companionship; mourning my loss




“I Love Lucy”

I never saw myself as an “Ethel” until I met a “Lucy.” This woman outdid my whit, took way more dares and for lack of a better phrase, seemed to always end up in a pickle. Of course these pickles didn’t get resolved in a half an hour like we always wished they would, but my Lucy always seemed to put a smile on my face and a laughter pain in my belly.

One female spirit slpit between two bodies, twins, or as we fondly called ourselves: Bibops. In My Big Fat Greek Wedding (one of our very favorite movies), there is a scene as follows:

Aunt Voula: [to Ian’s parents] Now, you are family. Okay. All my life, I had a lump at the back of my neck, right here. Always, a lump. Then I started menopause and the lump got bigger from the “hormonees.” It started to grow. So I go to the doctor, and he did the bio… the b… the… the bios… the… b… the “bobopsy.” Inside the lump he found teeth and a spinal cord. Yes. Inside the lump was my twin.

From this, we got Bibops, two twins, one growing inside the other. We finished each others sentences and thoughts. We never ended a sentence with “you know what I mean?” We communicated at times almost telepathically. It was scary sometimes, seriously. A moment of tragedy or crisis, we would pick up the phone to call the other bibpos and low and behold that person was already on the phone saying “what is wrong…” People would always ask where the other person was if they weren’t attached to the others hip. People would ask me about stuff that was going on in her life, like it was my life they were talking about and vise-avers. We worked together at an inpatient psychiatric unit, were together 24/7. Most nights she left my house at midnight, called me on the way home and talked until we couldn’t keep our eyes open anymore, only to see each other 7 hours later at work. 

There was however an issue. These “good ol’ days” had some requirements that needed to be met. One was that she was single, heart broken, or just sleeping with someone. If she was not one of these things, things were different. I was able to integrate her into my life with my partner, in fact sometimes allowing her phone calls or texts to interfere with my relationship, leaving him to ask things like “Didn’t you just leave her house an hour ago?” It was all worth it to me. My heart had the capacity to hold both of these special people. In fact i loved it that way because I knew that things could change at the drop of a hat.

She had been in a relationship before that was kinda secretive. She was dating someone that we worked with and it was on the Down Low, so they spent a lot of their time alone or with his friends. After a couple years of taking the back seat and feeling guilty for ever saying that that is how I was feeling, she met someone new. I remember feeling excited because someone new meant things might be different. And it was for a short while. When “Lucy” has a partner, unfortunately, she literally ditches most things in her life. I am pretty sure that it is all out of fear of pissing that person off, not wanting them to feel left out, or that simply the other person is just too valuable to loose. All of a sudden picking up her girlfriends dry cleaning is more important than performing the cigarette ritual that commenced daily after work.

It was tolerable until things took a very huge turn for the worse. “Lucy’s” girlfriend put together that she was seeing another person, a man (the one from work) and that she was pregnant. It was all intuition she said, that one morning while she was blow-drying her hair she suddenly dropped the hairdryer and knew. It was mayhem; “Lucy” was kicked out of their house (yes they already lived together and were engaged…ever hear the joke about a lesbians second date? if not google it…) This is when the bibops situation intensified. Inseparable once again.

I dreaded the inevitable. They would eventually get back together. I knew it, bibops intuition. I cherished the time that we had together until the Friday afternoon when I got the text “Can you talk?” Of course I could, so I called. Out came the end of our relationship as we would know it. “I am with ______, she is not doing well, I’m afraid she is suicidal so I am taking her to a hotel and getting her in the pool where I know that she will feel better.” That weekend my phone was silent. There were no texts, calls or emails. No funny “Lucy and Ethel” videos that we would send each other in our own bibpos language that was virtually unable to be translated by anyone but us.

The end of this story comes at least a year later, but for you, I will sum it up with “it was never the same.” She was upset that I was having feelings of abandonment and not feeling important like I once did. She was upset that I was not happy for her and her girlfriend, and to be honest I was not happy for her. She returned to a violent relationship both emotionally and a few times physically. It was predictable progression of things. An argument followed by some understanding, less phone calls, less texts, eventually all communication came to a halt. There was a palatable emotional distance.At times, at work, a mere glance in my direction and sometimes nothing.

Slowly after some months, and only after the man that she had dated (the one we worked with) found himself in some hot water at work, did the communication ramp up. It was however centered totally on what was going on with him. There were very few “How are you doing’s” and some sick part of me was enjoying the connection. Some of our language returned, some of our invisible nuances. She started coming into the room where I worked to gossip. I remember thinking to myself “maybe this is the beginning of us again…” To no avail, one not so perfect interaction at work landed us on two islands on opposite sides of the world. Fuck…

It was heartbreaking all over again and all I wanted to do was to tell her how horrible of a person she was. I still hold back from saying that to her. There have been numerous text messages that I compose and delete under the guidance of my partner, who seems to know better than me that it is not a good idea to unleash holy hell on her. I know that it is not how I feel about her. I am still hurt. I am sad that we had ended, that my soul connection was lost. I have made my amends and taken responsibility for my part in it all, but for some very predictable reasons (that only I probably know) she is not able to do the same.

Companionship that I thought was forever was only temporary. Our episode lasted longer than half or an hour but it was never long enough to laugh about getting away with keeping fish in the bathtub, working at a candy factory, doing a “Lady Overseas Aid raffle for a T.V. or going back a century in time, making homemade bread with home churned butter. I guess nothing is forever no matter how forever it feels.

I am not a negative person, nor believe in finality, but this experience of letting someone into my inner chamber was not the eternal love that I thought would always exist. I am still not sure what lessons this relationship is to teach me. I still watch “I Love Lucy” and want to take pictures of the screen and send them to her, but I don’t. I wonder all the time what she is up to and if she is happy. I wonder what she has had to sacrifice for the love of her partner. I pray that she still has a voice in her own life and that she is enjoying every moment, loving herself.

There is a certain type of companionship that I have found far less heartbreaking and much more comfortable. I still have faith in friendships and relationships, as I have yet to traveled to the opposite island as my partner. But for now, as far as safe and sound, companionship is better suited for furry and feathered friends. Here are a few of mine.





21st Century Love….


Blog challenge: write about 21st century love.

First thing I thought of: Catfish: the TV show

The stories of love and lust, individuals brought together over the “internet.”

The internet; a fascinating idea. “The internet is a global system of interconnected computer networks that use the standard Internet protocol suite (TCP/IP) to serve several billions of users worldwide. It is a network of networks that consists of millions of private, public, academic, business, and government networks, of local to global scope, that are linked by a broad array of electronic, wireless and optical networking technologies…The origins of the internet reach back to research commissioned by the United Stated Government to build a robust, fault tolerant communication via computer networks…The internet has no centralized governance in either technological implementation or policies for access and usage; each constituent network sets up its own policies. (Thank you Wiki, for this and many other answers to questions)

Ok, the internet is this invisible thing that communicates through invisible unconnected things that ultimately end up in visible concrete plastic coated wires and connections and eventually broadcast right in front of your eyes on another piece of plastic. (What the hell is plastic anyways??…another chapter in and of itself.) Your computer is plugged into the wall. Your computer is plugged into the wall and is connected to the “internet” by communicating with another thing that is plugged into the wall and into another plastic box that is connected to another wire coming out of the wall. That wire coming out of the wall is a cable that gives you the invisible stuff that comes out visible on your TV. So, these two boxes communicate independently and unconnectedly to each other, invisibly. The only way that we know they are working is a few flashing green lights and making sure that we pay the utility bills. Sometimes the computer isn’t plugged into the wall, it is charged, another invisible marvel. Plug in the wire on one side to the wall, and the other to your computer and viola, in an hour you can walk 5 miles away from the wall socket and have the universe at your fingertips.

This concept of invisibility, things being invisible, not detected by your senses being central to our existence is not uncommon. You can’t touch or feel the internet, you can’t see electricity until it powers on a light bulb, you can’t taste radio waves, even though they are flying right past your lips right now. All you need is another plastic box with a turn dial marked with numbers and you can hear what your ear registers as music. You know its music because that is what it was called by your mom or dad. You dance and move to it, because it resonates with the cellular energy in your body, naturally, like your heartbeat.

Is love the same way? I certainly can’t see it. I can see something that I love, but love is invisible. I have never tasted love; my fingers can’t reach out and touch it. Love doesn’t have a smell. I can smell things that I love like my lovers skin, yet I can’t smell what we call love. We know that it exists because of our identification to the feelings and definitions that were given by our mothers and fathers. I guess we learned that love has a certain set of experiences that identifies it. I will say that from my personal experiences, I have identified love mistakenly several times, more that I can count.  What I was “feeling” seemed to fit at least one part of what I thought was included in love.

There are of course different types of love. I love my puppies but not the same way that I love my sister, and certainly not the way that I love my partner. I said earlier that you can’t really feel “love” but I guess that you can if you can recognize (either correctly or incorrectly according to yours and the global definition of love) feelings that might fit into that category.

The way that I have felt love is in a very visceral. I feel it deep inside my abdomen. It feels like a rubber band is wrapped around the object of my love and me, a sense of oneness. An example is when I am hugging my son, it feels like if someone was to try to pull him away, I would move with him, maybe a bit like a magnet, hard to separate, easy to connect.

When I am kissing my lover softly, softly enough that I can feel lips on mine, I can’t tell where his stop and mine begin. In that vein, I can’t say that I have ever loved something that I have never touched.

Back to the subject at hand, 21st century love. The internet has become one of the ways that we search this wild crazy world for love. There are multiple websites set up to connect people, one’s that cater to Christians, Muslims and Jews. One’s that cater to our aged population, Beautiful Big Women, men wanting an Eastern European bride and even people wanting to advertise that they are married but want a little extra somethin somethin on the side. They have names like Jdate (Jewish dating), Plenty of Fish (in the sea), OK Cupid, Zoosk (no clue on this one), Match.com, eHarmony, and for a variety of encounters (sensual massage, casual encounters, Men 4 men etc…) on Craigslist. You can find a swing set for your kids, an engineering job, dirty sex, “LOVE”, free concrete and a class on how to do hair extensions and weaves all in one place. Just the way we like things these days. We like Costco, Wal-Mart, strip malls and craigslist; we get all we want, in one place. Less work, less time, and less hassle. This ends up being the perfect transition into internet dating.

The websites are all the same. Thousands upon thousands of profiles paired with pictures, endless choices, all at the click or no click of the mouse. We scroll through the pictures and profiles and decide who we want to “wink” at or send a message to. It’s like going on a hundred blind dates in 10 minutes. Similar to speed dating but even better, no leaving the house, no having to put the ice cream back in the freezer or having to get out of your depression outfit (very large sweats and sweatshirt that you can lose yourself in.) You look at the picture first and then if you’re intrigued, actually read the profile information (unless you have a penis, in that case the picture is probably enough…)

Here is the problem that inspired the TV series Catfish. Pictures are worth a thousand search engines. With the ease of the internet, you can be anyone that you want to be. You can be blond, brunette or red head. You can have a sun kissed tan, or skin white as the driven snow. Adobe Photoshop as well as old pictures can give you the confidence that you lack to put yourself out there in the game. It is all good, the “wink”, the instant message, chat or email will go off without a hitch. Actually, so will the eventual phone call, it’s the flesh to flesh meeting that daunts the ghost writer, especially the ones that use pictures of bathing suit models from catalogs. Individuals using this approach have a soft spot in my heart. They have a very innocent naive idea of humanity; an idea that once someone falls in love, looks won’t matter. They will disregard the past images and love the picture the person sees right there in front of their face. So as you could well imagine, or may have personally experienced, this fuels for quite an anxious first date. We advertise to catch the fish. We use our best bait, best hook, and hope for the biggest fish.

*Side note: however cheesy, Plenty of Fish did a great job on their name. It’s hopeful, metaphorical and relatable.

Every episode of Catfish that I have watched has the same premise, people falling in “love” over the internet that have not met. They communicate through email, text, internet messaging, and phone calls. What’s missing? In some cases phone calls and in all cases, web cam communication. Why? Because one of the two is not really who they say they are. The most phenomenal part of all of this is that the person who has contacted Catfish has believed all the excuses that the GHOST has given for lack of face to face interaction. Some of the excuses are so obscene that I can’t imagine that in any other context they would be believed. Some of the best were:

“I am a recording artist and I travel a lot so I don’t have time.”

“I don’t have a cell phone.” (Honestly, this is the one that I just can’t buy into; my 8 year old nephew has an iPhone)

“My webcam is broken.” (Really, for 2 years?)”

These are things that like I said before just aren’t realistic. If you have time to wait for a flight, go on vacation, or even have a quarter, you can call. Many of these catfish are actually the opposite sex than what they advertise online. You can imagine the surprise that the poor unassuming fool in love is in for.

To make a very long story short, about 80-85 percent of the people united on catfish actually stay “together.” Most stay “friends” or go their separate ways. One that I just saw a few days ago was mind blowing, sweet, but mind blowing. A woman was on a bad downward spiral and online met “Steve.” Steve was a very (very very very )handsome man, dark skin, green eyes, a recording artist and music producer that was always on the road. They had been talking for 2.5 years and had never met due to his overcrowded schedule and convenient travel itineraries. They spoke on the phone often, had phone sex, texted constantly, but never met face to face. The woman eventually proposed to Steve and he said “OK.” They were to be married. Finally the woman, desperate to meet her love and future husband contacted the show to arrange a meeting. And so it went that with the help of the crew that they were, finally, to meet.

Another long story short, it was the best friend of the woman who had invented Steve to save her best friend from the toils and tribulations of being a potential “single mother, alcoholic loser.” All the things that the best friend thought she would turn into if she continued drinking and having reckless sex. Instead of that demise, she set her friend up for the biggest heart break of her life. The best friend had gotten another identical cell phone to her own personal phone so that she could text as “Steve” when they were hanging out, had her cousin be the voice of Steve (for all the hot phone sex that they had), used pictures from a hot male models MySpace page, and believe it or not it ended up that all that hard work paid off. The woman did indeed change her ways, she enrolled in school, stopped drinking and of course, she was engaged so no more reckless sex. The woman told the show that she was able to change because of the love and support that she had received from Steve. The acceptance and concern that he had for her made her believe that she was worth more than ugly dates with Jack, Jim and Jose. She also, unexpectedly appreciated her friend’s efforts and after multiple heart wrenching screams alone in the car, forgave her friend. She had changed, no matter what the reason or who the reason was, she had made permanent positive changes. Her heart was heavy as she deconstructed Steve, and of course in the two months following the show work on getting back to the closeness that her and her friend once shared. In interviews, they were both confident that they would remain friends. That seems like love to me.

But what kind of love? Friend love? I watched half expecting to see the two friends become lesbian life partners (but then that would be way to cool of an ending…) they didn’t, but there must have been some rubbery band connections. A closeness that even that kind of deception couldn’t snap, a deeper connection that convinced the best friend that even if she was eternally hated by her friend, it was worth it. She would self-sacrifice her happiness in that friendship for her friend to live her life in her best sense of self. Now that is love (at least the way know it.) There doesn’t need to be genital contact to feel a soul connection to another human being and actually it seems that the soul connection between friends might even run deeper than the vagina (or maybe it’s all about the vagina?) I hesitate to make a reference to Sex and the City (just cause it’s so cliché and it’s just a TV show…but there is not one episode that doesn’t portray some facet of being a woman, both desirable and undesirable) but in the series we hear some pearls of wisdom that just can’t be ignored. One of which was: “Maybe our girlfriends are our soul mates and guys are just people to have fun with.” This best friend seemed to understand the depth of the connection between women. We are the sacred feminine, the creators of the universe, and if one of us goes down, we all go down. The connection between women needs no definition or explanation. It’s just known and felt. It has existed since the creation of our universes and will be the energy that takes us into eternity. This digression, although a bit long winded, is a necessary part of the equation. With that I continue…

So, why all this background to answer a seemingly basic question? Well, what is love really if you can love something that doesn’t really exist? After all the lies came out about Steve, the woman found out that she lost something that she never had, that never existed, that was merely a figment of 2 of her friends imaginations. I ponder the notion that love might be just an idea. Maybe it’s something that we project. Maybe it’s actually just the projection of us loving ourselves that we feel. I mean seriously, it’s something that we can only feel within ourselves, something that we “can’t really explain” or “I just can’t put in into words.” Of course we can’t. It’s not like we are describing what kind of pain we are feeling to a doctor. “Is it a burning pain? A stabbing pain? An aching pain?” Love is what we experience, and our experience is based on our experience. Does that make sense? I am not going to feel something the exact same way that you feel it, and I may not ever feel it if I haven’t ever felt it. I might not ever experience love the way that you describe it. I might have been taught in different descriptive words, or it might have been something else dressed up as love, or maybe we have seen that love is dangerous, violent and not something that we would ever want. To that end, the Webster’s dictionary’s definition of love might not fit ones experiences or plain and simple some just don’t understand “the” definition. It’s just not in some people’s vocabulary, whether we would call it love or not.

There is a lot of gamble in online dating, there also seems to be a lot of insecure security. An escape into the life that you may have always wanted, or wanted to experience but never had the chance or the balls. It appeals to most on a basic human need, the need to be connected, seen, heard and desired. For those who don’t have those basic needs met, what’s to lose? Why not get it anyway that you can? Like the young child that has pined for the love and attention of mom or dad and has not succeeded in getting picked up and nuzzled, she will knock over the flower vase, run out the front door or bite her baby brother, just to catch the eye of a parent and if lucky picked up and put in her room or in the corner for a time out. Whatever the means to the end, she has made contact…

It comes down to the same thing every time, with everything, and everyone…It’s all RELATIVE. Hopefully in the case of catfish, not your relative…

a very heartfelt gift

went to my therapist today and received a gift that made tears fall from my eyes…she once took me and group of other inspiring goddess’s to a book store to explore the universe. I found a nice spot to sit and found a book on goddess’s. It was The Goddess Paintings by Susan Seddon Boulet and Michael Babcock. this field trip was over 6 months ago. excited, embarrassed and nervous, i peeled back the tin foil wrapping and saw the book that I had enjoyed that day at the bookstore. she remembered. i couldn’t believe my eyes… as i opened the book, the smell of fresh paper pages overwhelmed my senses and i was touched to see a handwritten note on the inside of the cover.

the inscription that she wrote validated my every effort i have and will make to continue my journey of growing into my skin. this is what she wrote:

“a happy 40th birthday to the woman who helped me believe that goddesses’ may actually be real. it is an honor and pleasure to accompany you on your courageous journey of transformation…”

i can’t even express how important it is to have a sacred space with another human being that holds and supports you in every way possible. i am so lucky to have been gifted this space of sacredness. my gratitude i send out into the universe for all that i have…Image

please check out this book for a deeper understanding of the feminine and masculine archetypes that are a part of us all…

…the beginning…

…In another part of my racing mind are the thoughts of writing this book, putting down in words what the world is like for me, through my eyes, so maybe this misunderstood woman might have a voice.

The years of trying to prove my goodness and my ability have exhausted me, I feel old beyond my years. Things that once energized me, even the thought of them, almost bring me to tears. My body can’t keep up with the simple tasks, let alone facilitate the ever enticing screenshot of me running away from this world and this life, off into the sunset, just like Forrest Gump.

So far a pretty negative picture, honestly, I wish it was just a hook to get you to feel sorry for me, but here’s the thing, this is my reality. Most would argue that I am not good judge of things that constitute reality, but I am the only one that sees outside of these eyeballs, the shit brown ones, the ones that I have been looking out of for the last 39 ½  years, the only lens I stand behind. I have fought so hard to make what I see, hear, feel and believe fit into others interpretations of them. It doesn’t work. I still finding myself fighting, so I guess there is something to that.

I think that people will eventually give up when they have argued too long about something that they don’t really believe or believe in. That makes me think that I really believe in some part of myself because I still haven’t stopped. The argument still makes sense. The way that I feel my life still makes sense, maybe only to me, but shouldn’t that be enough?

Now, I’m not arguing that it all feels right or comfortable or even sane, but it is all that I know, it’s the only way that I’ve felt. Sometimes I think I am aspiring to something that I don’t even know how to feel, that I have never tasted, something that I have no inkling of insight into. That has made it hard to know where to start, where to stop, and what the journey actually holds.