Monday, September 20, 2010

These Days

Gay-Straight Alliance school bus (used under a CCL)

I was thinking this afternoon... that the hardest part of my day, or the hardest of my days... lately... are the days I have to go to the bus stop.  And see the fake smiles of the Other Mothers.  I smile, very huge, and usually pretty genuine.  I wave, very noticeably and I usually get a wave in return that looks like, "Please God I hope no one sees me waving back at her." 

The bus stop is in my old neighborhood, where the ex still lives, where the kids live with him during the week.  The Other Mothers are women I know well, who thought they knew me well, who pretend they don't see me when I run into them at the grocery store.

I see them.

How different things are now... they used to fall over themselves to talk to me.  And that's not conceit.  I promise.  I didn't understand it then, like I don't understand it now.

The Other Mothers don't realize that we all gave birth the same way.  Yet... I'm beginning to really learn, we are nothing alike. 

It's fine.  Pretend you don't see me.  Because really, you don't.  You never really did.

Saturday, September 18, 2010


I think the last time I had any communications with her it had to have been 2001... almost 10 years ago... maybe.  It seems like longer.  It seems like yesterday.  Two days ago there was a "request" in my inbox on Facebook.  It wasn't a name I recognized, and for whatever reason... after two days, I accepted the request.

When I saw your face inside some of those pictures, I felt like I was looking at a ghost.

There have been times in my life that I had searched for you, using all of the resources I had at the time.  When I first filed for divorce in 2003, I wrote you a letter.  I never mailed it.  When I applied to grad school I looked for you.  When I did finally leave him... I looked again.  I might have found out little tidbits of your life via my little searches... but I didn't know.  I didn't know if you were happy.  I didn't know if you were healthy.  I wasn't sure where you worked, lived, where your favorite restaurants were... I didn't know if you were still with J.  I didn't know if you were in love and I didn't know if you were being loved back.  I didn't know if you ever wondered about me.

A picture, a song, a poem, a book... I've been haunted by your memory.

Time has not changed your smile.  I used to wonder what you look like now.  I was so young the last time I saw you.  But not so young to think we'd never age, we'd never change.
So now what?  There's so much to tell you, so much I want to know.  But for now, I've been haunted by a ghost.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

It feels undescribable.

But I will try anyway, to describe what femme feels like...  to me at least.

Femme feels like brand new baby skin.  Soft and a little squishy... almost like a puppy's skin, but brand new babies smell like fresh baked cookies for about a week.  Then the smell is gone.  Forever.  However, while finding my Femme, don't ever worry it will disappear in a week.  It's here to last.  Forever.

Femme feels pulled in a million directions.  Daughter-Sister-Mother-Friend-Lover-Secretkeeper.  Cook-Maid-Nurse-Therapist-Comedienne-Student.

Femme feels hard and soft at the same time. Femme feels like every emotion is right on the surface, but if I let them see, then I might be considered less than.  Femme feels good in the arms of someone strong.  Femme feels good to me. 

Femme feels like a cool autumn night, windows open, crickets chirping, sun-setting earlier and earlier each evening.  Femme feels like the chill on my sweat laced skin as the night breeze rushes through the room.

Femme feels invisible.  Unseen.  Unheard of.  In my very rural community to be Femme is an advantage probably.  Therefore, Femme... is isolating.

I don't know what the fuck Femme feels like, but I know that I'm the expert on whatever the fuck it feels like to me.  Femme doesn't really give a shit and is done wasting time wondering if you do too.

Femme feels like soft, warm skin ... fresh after a bubble bath. 
My favorite part of this is when I can finally stop.  I can stop everything I'm doing and the world seems to stop too, and S is there to make sure of it.  Without fail, she's there...with her oil and her strong hands.  And I can just be.  I can stop.  I can be.  I am Femme.

Femme is wearing that because I like to.  Femme is taking care of myself.  Femme is taking care of her.  Or all of us.  Femme is the smell of the laundry that I've taken off the line... Sunshine.  Femme smells like sunshine.  Femme is doing her fucking laundry every week because I WANT to, not because I have to, or because she asks me.  There is something incredibly satisfying about doing her laundry.  Especially when I can dry it on the line.

Femme is sitting in a salon chair and not a barber chair.  This is complete torture for me.  The two and a half hour procedure of "getting my hair done" requires me to premedicate with xanax or ativan or both.  I'd rather sit in a barber chair.  I have nothing to say to the women there.  They have nothing to say to me.  Usually, I try to talk about my job, because... oddly.... we all birth the same.  (Note that is sarcasm.)  But I like my long chestnut hair and without the said procedure my hair is less than spectacular.  So off to the salon I go.  I dream of the day I can take my son to the barber - just for the experience alone.

Femme wears her girlfriend's cowboy shirt when they are apart.  S's shirt on my skin, nothing else.  I can smell her, and smelling her is remembering her.  Sometimes I wear the shirt out and about and sometimes I wear S's shirt to bed.  She doesn't know this.  Sleeping alone, in that huge bed, feels very lonesome when I can smell her so close to my body.  I shut my eyes tight and make myself come, alone, but in her shirt.  And I wonder if the next time she wears it, she will know.

Femme is wearing heels, all year, and yes... sometimes when the weather determines one might should wear other shoes.  I've worn heels with the usual skirts and dresses, but also with jeans, capri pants, and even shorts.  I've worn heels to bed (and kept them on).  I've worn heels while 9 months pregnant (which probably looked ridiculous... I'll give ya that).  I've worn heels in airports and at at the zoo.  I have high heeled sandals and boots.  I will never own enough high heeled shoes.  If S is smart, she will never question my choice in footwear.

S has asked me, a few times, about how I came to understand the world in certain ways, or how I became who I am based on where I've lived my entire life.  This is a compliment.  Really.  The only thing I can tell her is one of my strongest memories from childhood... is my mother's voice telling me, 'You can do anything you want to so long as you set your mind to it and work hard.'  Other values she instilled in me were that of equality.  Equality between genders... races... etc.  I grew up feeling equal and of value... that I had something of worth to offer the world.  My mother made sure to tell me that there were others that did not believe this were true and that someday I might have to fight for equality.  I learned about others before me, before us, that did fight that fight.  I grew up feeling pretty proud of my mother.  I grew up feeling very goddamn proud of womanhood.  THAT feels like Femme today.

Anal Sex and Fisting

Anal sex is like eating Papa John's pizza (or any other chain restaurant type, college town type pizza... Domino's, Pizza Hut, etc).   Let's discuss.  One is usually introduced to this cheap and quick "pizza" in college.  Here's a scenario:  You're super drunk, and very hungry.  Or maybe not very hungry, but the beer makes you think you are hungrier than you really are... and you don't have a LOT of money... it's college... Papa John's pizza delivery is quick!  So quick you don't even know what happened.  You might not even remember ordering it.  In fact the next morning, the only way you can tell that you did, in fact, have Papa John's pizza... is that the box is out.  Probably still 1/2 full of uneaten pizza.  Because let's face it.  Papa John's pizza is not that great for a lot of people.  Especially under the conditions I just described.

Next scenario:  You're all grown up now.  Have a couple kids... but they're spending the night at grammie's and gramps.  It's just you and your lovie and a bottle of wine.  'Let's have something a little different tonight honey,' lovie says to you.  'Okay!  Sounds good.'  You remember Papa John's pizza from your college days and all these fond memories come flooding back.  But... what you don't realize is that the fondness you recall really isn't for the Papa John's... no no no!!!  It's the freedom of college, the parties, the lack of responsibilities, etc.  All of the things that you may be feeling tense about right now, but with the kids gone and the bottle of wine gone, you start to attribute the warm fuzzies to good ol' Papa John's.  So, before you know it, you are partaking in it again.  But this time you are older and have a more diverse palate.  You go for the GARLIC BUTTER DIPPING SAUCE thinking this may help.  And it does.  At first.  But after a few pieces (yes, pieces not bites) you realize it's still just Papa John's pizza.  You really are craving a handmade brick oven pizza with fresh basil and mozzarella.  You are feeling a little cheap, wondering why you didn't just splurge on that.  No.  It's you, the lovie, a hangover in the morning, and garlic sauce all over the sheets.

Papa John's pizza is never as good as you remember it.
Papa John's pizza is sometimes the only pizza available to you.  When this is the case, don't order it hastily.  Do your research about the toppings.  Maybe even decide to try different dipping sauces.  Definitely have some wine with your pizza.

I can speak from experience, not all chain restaurant, college type pizzas are terrible.  I've even craved it before.  But I've done extensive pizza research.  I also enjoy making my own pizzas.

  Now... who wants to read about how fisting is like eating sushi?