Books ruined me for sex.

Books ruined me for sex. Books and movies. But especially books.

Jitterbug Perfume was one of the biggest culprits. If you know the book, then you know what I'm talking about. The couple discovers that the key to eternal life is frequent lovemaking. The only thing is, it's not just that it's frequent, it's GOOD. And they are in love. So just having sex all the time won't do it. It has to be mind-blowing orgasmic sex with your true love. EVERY TIME.

I'd like to know how much luck the author is having with that.

The first book that unfortunately I can't forget, and that gave me false expectations for sex forever, was Lady Chatterley's Lover. It was famously scandalous in it's time and to some people, perhaps it still is. The wanton woman having sex with the woodsman in the woods. Whatever. What stood out to me was SIMULTANEOUS ORGASM. What a crock. And that is the gift that keeps on giving. Every movie, every book, every porn - you name it - simultaneous orgasm. Cuz that happens all the time.

Not.

Don't even get me started on how "easy" FICTION make it seem like it is for people to even HAVE an orgasm - or all the LIES real people tell about how easy it is for them. But I guess there are also plenty of movies and books about women faking it - so maybe it evens out. Maybe.

But the pressure, right? That's where that comes in.

I fell in for awhile with the polyamorous crowd. Gimme a break. All that is is another - rather wily and successful - framework for men to have their cake and eat it, too. I don't know what the statistics are, but I'd be willing to bet that the number of men who consider themselves to be SUCCESSFULLY polyamorous is wildly larger than the number of women who say the same. It's just another harem. This is absolutely what I witnessed in person. I thought maybe if I could be more "free" then I would learn to "express" my sexuality and thereby gain more pleasure from sex. It might have gone that way, I suppose, if the current concept of polyamory weren't such a farce. If they didn't still have so many RULES. If everyone didn't fall into disappointingly TRADITIONAL roles. Women still fighting over men. Wringing their hands, pulling their hair, and crying over men. Women having HUGE difficulty getting more than one partner and on the contrary, settling on and doting on that one - devastated if he left - while men filled up their calendars with who gets Mondays....who gets Tuesdays...who gets Thursdays...AND NO DEVIATING!

The FOUNDER of the polyamorous movement of which I was a part is a woman with ONE PARTNER for something like FIFTEEN YEARS. But her partner has multiple women. The founder! Her man is not polyamorous, folks. He is a cad and a cheat and no matter what she says, I would be willing to bet that she is NOT okay with it. Just look at her eyes.

The more things change the more things stay the same.

But anyway, you would think "free love" might have worked. Didn't. Could've. Didn't. As, sadly, humans are not really capable of coming up with a truly new and creative system that is equal.

I'm back on my own trying to figure out how to cultivate happiness in sex and love and partnership. Not trusting any book or movie or "guru" about it. Following my own way. It's hard, right? The flush of new love wears off and where are you? Maybe you can't afford to get your nails done so your guy is less turned on than before because you are not as visually exciting. But WTF? It's not just him. I start to dial down too. Probably, deep inside, it's those old traitorous expectations kicking in, and wondering:

Why Isn't It Like That?

Letter to my Brother

Do you love me?

More.

Do you respect me?

Love, I've come to find out the hard way, is not enough.

And it doesn't excuse...so many things.

I thought you loved me. The quick, spasmodic hugs. The winning flash of your smile.

Family. What is family? A prison. A haven. Why are we obligated? We aren't. Call it my French background, or my French blood, but the French have a penchant for challenging accepted norms about family. I have long held the belief that family is who we choose, and might not be, in fact often is not, composed of blood. Maybe it's just that I refuse to be bowed down by guilt.

All the times we sat beside each other, yet each within our own cyclone, as our parents raged. I thought, foolishly, that we shared that. It was the more precious for the tight tension of silence that I thought bound us. I thought that finally, on the day I said goodbye to Father, you were with me.

I was wrong. Years later when you said, "I knew that one day I would be the victim of your silent treatment," I realized I had been mistaken. You hadn't understood at all.

Why had I tried so hard? I had in some way worshiped you, even though you are the younger. Your pan-like dancing bright eyes and tightly curled hair. Maybe you kept us all in thrall with the constant threat of your anger. When we were little you used to chase me. You slapped me. Then you blamed it on me when Mother came home. You tore the posters from my door when I shut it to keep you away. When we fought, you would never stop. That I remember most of all.

You, who always ate too little as a kid and I, who ate too much. How miserable you made me feel about my weight. When I would visit you, you wouldn't feed me, and I always wondered if it wasn't just your horrible lack of hospitality, which was legendary, but your way of imposing your judgement on me. When you visited me, you had no desire to socialize over a meal such as, I don't know, lunch, and I again felt chastised. You would ask me, a look of concern on your face that was also one of embarrassment - for yourself - if my health was okay. Guess what? It was. When I finally lost weight, no thanks to you, I loathed to share that victory with you, but it was inevitable you would celebrate how "great" I now look. Your smile of amazement and relief made my blood curdle.

Yet you drink like a fish and when you do eat, you sit down like the King of England at table and gorge yourself on meat and cheese. WTF?

The time I came to see you, and got lost. I got hysterical on the phone, and that made you angry. I was crying by the time I got out of the car. You said nothing and grabbed my bag.

That was our hello.

The jealousy you felt whenever I came around you and your friends. I grant that I earned part of that when I slept with your roommate in college. Probably you were afraid that would happen again. And what, by the way, in hell was that all about? Were you upset for me - or for him?

Get over it. It was college!

But gay men? The looks you shot me in Hawaii when I shared a pineapple drink with Fernando. Or when Alfredo and I shared a bed in the hotel because we had to! How threatened you were.

Am I somehow cooler than you? That is laughable.

And me feeling so inadequate - so ugly - surrounded by all of your beautiful bodies.

When your marriage came, and I asked to please not be roomed next to Father at your Italian wedding that none of us on Mother's side could afford - you refused. Then grudgingly - yes, very grudgingly - you allowed me to attend your small, stateside ceremony. "Don't bring too many people," you said. What was I, a gypsy caravan? There was only me and my husband.

I was so proud of you. Photos of you, articles, programs, are littered around my home. They spill out of boxes. I purchased your paintings.

Have you ever read a single one of my articles?

And you looked up to me, I thought. I felt terrible about my divorce in case it somehow led to yours. You had seemed so charmed by my marriage. As if I'd proved that marriage could work. Then I didn't.

I was the only person in the family who understood what you do for a living. You were constantly bemoaning that none of us did. I was the only one. The art of it. Did you even know that I taught the history of dance in my classes? You always acted surprised if any of us knew anything about it. It was your personal domain. I get that you needed it to be. That none of our attention was good enough.

We would never be artists.

I would never be an artist.

And yet, you denied me the chance to see you dance your final dance. "Don't even bother coming to my final season," you told me. "I don't want you around with your cloud of negativity."

You would have thought, at our age, just for a second, it would have occurred to you that was something you could never take back.

How wrong you were.

How long I withstood your torture.

It's not about negativity. At least. Not mine.

It's about HAPPINESS.

Mine.

Don't try to live your life in one day - or do

I'm a huge fan of HoJo (that's Howard Jones to you folks that didn't grow up when I did). After gluing myself to the TV during LiveAid, still one of the coolest things that ever happened in rock music, the next best thing was watching HoJo perform live at Milwaukee's SummerFest. It was particularly fun to hear him tell the stories that led to his songs, and about his life working in a factory before he became a musician full-time. I enjoy the bouncy catchiness of his fast tunes, and I often sing along. But the other day I realized that I've been fooling myself that I ever agreed with what the song, Life in One Day, is saying.

"Don't try to live your life in one day. Don't go speed your time away."

Why not? Life has always had a sense of urgency to me. Since I was in high school, I felt a constant agony that life was not happening fast enough. All the things I wanted to do. All the places I wanted to see. "Don't try to live your life in one day." You know what this type of platitude is? It's what you say to people who haven't done what they wanted. In one day. A year. Or a lifetime.

Can you imagine saying that to someone really successful? Would you tell Elon Musk, "Dude, just relax. Don't try to live your life in one day." No. You would not.

Achievers DO try to live their lives in one day. There is so much to do and not enough time to do it. That is a given, I would think. Life is short. But don't panic! I think that's what well-meaning folks intend when they say "Don't try to live your life in one day." To quell your panic. And all of those quietly inspirational suggestions about the merit of living a simple life, of being accepting, of being happy with what you have. Don't you sometimes feel conned? Be happy with what you have - that's the only way to be happy. Why? Because you should just give up that you're ever going to get what you really want? Oh, but you don't always get what you want. "You get what you need." Yeah, sure. A kick in the pants can be something I need. Some really crappy things can be defined as something I "need." I so "needed" that lesson about money by not having any. About trust by being abandoned in a restaurant by some asshole. About loyalty by being told by my boss I could easily find another job.

People that get what they want. People who are successful - (and not the "I'm happy with my average life and you can't tell me what success is - happiness is success!" Okay, you go with that) - you see I've never been okay with that, either. People who are successful feel the urgency of life and they fill it with the things that they want to do. They attack life. I can't say that I even do this. And that's why this advice, "Don't try to live your life in one day," makes me disappointed in myself. Trying to make myself feel better that it's okay to just kick back. "Life was meant to be spent farting around and don't let anyone tell you any different." Kurt Vonnegut. One of my heroes and yet, not sure about that one. Of course, I've been happy and fully satisfied at times. Moments with my boyfriend or out in Nature are like this. Yet, is life really just to fart around? I don't think so. That attitude is a great way to take off the pressure, no doubt, and sometimes we DO need to reduce the pressure. Yet, we should also be using that pressure as our motivation. Because I don't think that life is about sitting around. It's about giving back. It's about experiencing as much as you can and fulfilling your promise - and your promises to yourself.

Life can't be lived in one day, 100 days, or a 100 years. So go get it.

Not everyone is in love with fall

While I am as big a fan of pumpkin-flavored everything as anyone, the onset of autumn is a difficult time for me, for many reasons. I am a summer baby, I love summer, I crave summer, and I fear the end of summer. So when everyone (and it feels like it's "everyone") starts posting daily about how excited they are that fall is here, it's very difficult for me. Because I'm in mourning. My favorite season is ending. And in spite of all the folks who showed us their beach pics over the summer, no one else seems to care that it's over.

I looked it up and there is actually a Seasonal Affective Disorder that some people feel at the end of summer. There are people that feel anxious fall is starting. Not everyone is excited! People, like me, who mourn the passing of summer, might feel anxious for weeks at the end of August and into September. They might feel anxious for the missed opportunities, what they didn't get done, that summer body they didn't achieve. They might feel anxious for the start of school and changes in daily routines that were modified over the summer.

Me. It's the sun. I am sad I will not be feeling the warm sun on my skin. Where I live, once September hits, it's almost never. And that fall sun doesn't feel the same. I know that winter will last "forever" and I will be seriously in need of sun.

I don't care about winter clothes. Sure they hide more of the above-mentioned summer body that didn't happen, but I like summer clothes. I like cute dresses and flip flops.

And the traffic in the fall. Dear God. Summer is over and everyone is back to school, so while touristy traffic is over, day-to-day rush hour is worse. Much worse.

So the next time you post that scenic photo of autumn leaves, coffee and pumpkins, remember that not everyone loves fall. Some of us love summer. And because so many of you are so damn excited to go buy your pumpkin lattes, we feel like we don't have anyone to talk to about it. I know I can't post anywhere else, such as on any of my Facebook groups, because I would be ostracized for daring to say I'm not excited about Halloween. So I'm posting here. Be mindful. I'm in mourning. I love summer.

Daddy Issues

Like everyone, my dad has good and bad points. Unfortunately, the bad, combined with the bad points of his second wife, necessitated my distancing myself from him over 10 years ago. What people who have never had to do this don't understand is that I love my dad and admire his good points. Everyone wants everything to be black and white, but it's not like that. Even though I don't talk to him anymore, I'm proud to be his daughter. On the other hand, there were a lot of hard times. In my life, I have tried to keep the good and discard the bad. Here are a few things my dad taught me:

If you take a soda out of the fridge, put one back in.

Wash the dishes with the least grease on them first.

Take your time when you buy something. Research. Get exactly what you want. My dad was an airline pilot. Oftentimes he would buy our birthday and Christmas presents in airport gift shops. It fascinates me how he would see something during a trip, just flying through, and make sure he went back to get it the next time he was there, weeks or months later. And this was all still done in advance.

Write thank you letters.

When you write thank you letters, make sure you include your stepmom. Or else.

Guilt your children. Everything is their fault. Preferably, cry in front of them about how miserable they are making you and rant a lot.

Drama means love.

Follow fashion until you become neurotic.

Don't wear pink if you are a boy. Also if you're a boy and you're too short, do something about it. Both of these really happened to my brother. My dad actually took him to the doctor to see if something could be done about his height. This doesn't cause any type of complex...not at all...

If somebody gives you something, you'd better fucking wear it and/or display it in your house.

Make your sandwiches like Elvis. My dad was a big Elvis fan (partially because it was trendy to be so when he was a young man), and he also looks like Elvis - the handsome Elvis. There is a photo of him and my mom together in an officer's club during the Vietnam War and they both look like movie stars. Many a time my dad and I would make sandwiches together in the style of Elvis: peanut butter and slices of banana. Or, as an alternative, peanut butter and marshmallow creme. Many of my childhood happy memories revolve around peanut butter. My grandmother, who did not cook, also used to feed us a tasty peanut butter-inspired treat: a bowl filled with peanut butter and honey, a piece of bread, and a knife. Was I overweight as a child? Yes. Was that even more painful given my father's predilection for criticism, judgement and perfection? Yes. I was the one that ate too much while my brother ate too little. It took me a painfully long time to wean myself of these culinary temptations and I wouldn't say I'll ever be done so much as recovering in the same way alcoholics are recovering.

Post Edit: I didn't realize until after I published this that today is my dad's birthday.

I really try to get it but then you don't get it

I'm reading a book in a genre that's been cropping up lately: advice to white people. I love it. I'm all for it. I make part of my living supporting people of color. And have been of that mindset basically since I was old enough to have coherent thought. I've always been a full-on advocate of diversity and cultural competence and my life is a testament to that. So it comes as such a let-down to me when as much as I wish to play with others, they don't wish to play with me. My greatest dream is of unity, not separation. Always has been. But there are a lot of groups out there that just want white people to get them, and do not care about white people at all. Ok, I get it. There has been a lot of suffering. And justice has still not been done. The solution, though, surely cannot be charting a course that still leads to divisiveness and exclusivity versus inclusivity (which I think is a word I just made up).

So I'm reading this book, and I'm on board with every word, until about 75% of the way through I get to this sentence, which I paraphrase here: "White people don't know anything about having a single parent."

WHAT.THE.FUCK.

And this is where I'm done. I put the book down. I did not finish it. Really? You don't care about me at all. You couldn't conceive to make one simple change to that sentence which would illustrate that you do not generalize white people the way you are tired of white people generalizing YOU. All you had to do was add the word "some." Because how could you really think that a white person knows nothing about the trauma and hardship of having a single parent? It's just such a ridiculously unfair statement and with it you alienated what could be a hugely supportive portion of the population. It was, in fact, a very hostile statement. And I do not argue with your right to feel hostile - but don't be ignorant.

I'm a white person with a single parent. My childhood sucked. We were on welfare. My whole life has been at a disadvantage because I started it below the poverty line. How dare you say I don't get it. You don't get ME. And yet you expect me to go along with you.

So tired. So so tired.

The New Backlash

It's been long enough since the Me Too Movement started that the backlash is in full force. This backlash is often found in conjunction with the backlash against diversity, and comes primarily from white males. They are figuring out, for instance, that we white females do not like to be associated with them. There are some comedians out there, and I will not name them, that are not doing women any favors. And in this politically incorrect climate, it has become okay (again? still?) to do such things as laugh about rape and complain about the attention women's issues are getting, thereby dismissing them as hyped up and irrelevant. How far we have NOT come.

This same angry bunch -- that is angry about us being angry -- usually combine their complaints with gripes about liberals, as you might expect. Recently, I heard this comment, which I paraphrase here: "I've never met an ageing hippie that wasn't stingy."

I've been chewing on this. Sure, I've run into some annoying ageing hippies. But I think I AM ONE. And here's what I think. Maybe someone else's "stingy" is my "poor." And maybe someone else's "stingy" is my "distrustful" and "disenchanted" because I've been disappointed so damn many times.