One Night Only

This may be an X-rated post.  I would feel morally responsible for damaging the vision of any  Cinderella-esque fantasies.

In my whole life I have had a few of the so-called fairy-book romances.  Not one ever worked out just as I had always dreamed.  I often wonder what that must feel like for the ones for whom it “had been fulfilled“. Does that relationship exist?  God bless them if so.  I know that  I have had a long, strange trip, as the Dead would say.  And all the better for it.

If I could sit down with a young woman today and share with her the trials and triumphs of love, I’d likely share the following series of lessons.  Much more.  But here’s a start.

Lesson #1: Ford Tempos.  Intercourse in the front seat of a Ford Tempo (or any car)  is uncomfortable under any circumstances.  In the case the antagonist tries to assert himself, affirm your boundaries and request that he relocate to a more appropriate venue, like a coffee shop, where you can discuss, freely, under florescent lights, the reasons why sex is not an immediate need.  In this light, things become much clearer.

Lesson #2: Intoxication.  Young men under the influence tend to not make the best decisions when it comes to carnal relations.  It is best to regard their advances with general benevolence, but it is best to affirm a virtuous boundary that without the long-term promise there is no penetration.

Lesson #3: Crushes.  The guy that you’ve had the crush on for two years and finally decides to acknowledge you means less about him discovering you and more about him running out of prospects.  Hold tight to your lessons 1 & 2.

Lesson #4: Big Brother’s Best Friend.  Don’t ever, under any circumstances date your big brother’s best friend.  Even if he approves,  he will always butt-in and try to manipulate the outcomes.  It’s best to remain the “one who got away”.

Lesson #5: Traveling.  When traveling in foreign countries remember that foreign men prey upon foreign women.  When they say things like, “you are the most beautiful” or that “they have never felt this way” it’s really simply a cultural difference that we, in America, have yet to experience because most men have never really explored feelings beyond the penis.

Lesson 5 a: While in France, remember that they drink A LOT.  Their forward advances are nothing more than an indication of their intoxication; not about your beauty.  Look around you!   You are not all that amazing when compared to the millions of women around the world.  We are all beautiful.  

Lesson 5 b: When in Croatia, remember that, due to the economic conditions,  the many expatiates seems to think they can own, redistribute and confiscate all and any foreign properties at will.
Lesson 5 c: When in Austria, remember that studious hostel workers are really as sincere as they look.  Please do not damage their innocence.  Go to the cafe until the urge passes you.
Lesson 5 d: In Slovenia, all young men are generally interested in learning more about the language, but they are also interested in practicing sexual exploration at all costs.  Again, cafes are great places to explore your emotions.  I think that is why European cafes are always bustling.
Lesson 5 e: Argentinean men prefer the made-up, sophisticated, alluring women.  A lot of independent, strong American women do not succumb to their standard.  But if you were to express yourself successfully and then they want to marry you, be careful.  Mammitis may displays her ugly head. And she can be a challenge.

Lesson #6: Final Lessons.  As you age, learn to focus more on yourself and less on what you think “he” or “she” wants from you.  YOU are the only person in your life.  Even as a devoted mother I can say this.  As painful as it is to admit, my son’s life is HIS life, not something I have any control over.  All I can do is allow life to unfold as it may and trust that it was always be a blessing.  Curses only happen to shift us from the unreal to the real.

All the loves of my life have done nothing more than give me a better insight into my own light.  And without those loves, I’d not have discovered the beauty of my light.  And they do not create my light; it’s mine.  Yet, it is so often how we associated that feeling of love with the creation of light.  Yet, it’s always only our light that ever shines.  Even the love I feel between me and my son.  Our lights are our own lights; even as much as I wanted to control it and be the source of his light, I know that his light shines with or without me.  He is a beacon of his own volition.  How scary and yet how beautiful that is.

What lessons would I share with him?

“Your soul once sat on an easel on my knee.
For ages I have been sketching you
With myriad shapes of sounds and light;

Now awake, dear pilgrim,
With your thousand swaying arms
That need to caress the sky.”

~~Hafiz

All I can say for myself now is that I have had the privilege of love and the opportunity to test my theories.  I am grateful to all the past loves to have allowed me to come into their lives and experience the exhilarating ecstasy of love at its purest form.  And most of all, I am so grateful for the opportunity to love this child, Ziggy Finn Santos for all that he is now and know that all he is to become.

I will never forget the one night in which he came to me.  Long, laborious, painful and beautiful night of confusion and trust.  And then he appeared, so peaceful and beautiful.  He is the LOVE OF MY LIFE and likely will always be such.  One night; how it changes your life.

I am a Change Agent

When I was a young girl I would go to church with my mother, who was an organist and choir director.  As she practiced the hymns for the service, I’d wander around the pews and read passages from the bible.  My older brother had been teaching me new tricks.  One, was how to catch things in my mouth.  So I practiced with my Sunday school offering, a quarter.  I would toss it up and try and catch it in my mouth.  Most of the time it would fall to the floor and I would have to clamber under the pews to find it.  But once, it slipped right into my mouth, down the back of the throat and, slurp!  It was gone!  I swallowed it! 

I was sitting quietly as my mother played the last hymn that alerted the children to leave service and head downstairs to Sunday school.  She looked back at me and asked, “where is your offering?” meaning the quarter, which I had swallowed about 15 minutes earlier.  “I swallowed it” I said.  She looked at me and then her face went white with panic.  She stood up and called to the Minister.  Service was stopped and she called the Catholic Church, where my father and brother were in their own Sunday service and apparently, a lay-person had to interrupt the Priest in the middle of his sermon to ask him to notify my father that there was a family emergency and to meet his wife at the Lutheran Church immediately. 

All the while, I felt fine.  I wasn’t quite sure what all the panic was for.  My brother smirked at me when they arrived to the church.  My father was impatient and annoyed that my mother interrupted service so this minor offense.  “She’ll just shit it out!” my father sighed. 

Nonetheless, we drove the 15 miles to the hospital; I was admitted to the emergency room.   Our family doctor happened to be on call and appeared from behind the curtain, ear to ear with a grin that noted his pure delight in this latest catastrophe I’d gotten myself into.  Earlier that year I had fallen on my bicycle and well, I required stitches in a rather conspicuous place. 

“What seems to be the kerfuffle this time?” he asked.   “She swallowed a quarter.  Her Sunday school offering.” my mother pressed.  He looked me over, took my pulse, my temperature, and looked into my eyes.  “Well, there’s not much we can do.  I can take an X-ray to make sure it’s not stuck anywhere.  Likely, we’ll just have to wait until she, ah, discards of it naturally” the doctor said. 

Xrays were taken.  You could see Washington’s head and the date on the face.  My brother took them to show-and-tell at his school.  For a few days, my mother would examine the contents of my bowel movements.   My father told her that this was her project and he’d have nothing to do with it.  She gave up after a few times.  “Yuck!” she'd scream as she was riffling through my poo. 

We never did find the quarter.  The inside family joke is that I made change: two dimes and a nickel.  I guess we just never saw them come out.  And that is why now believe it was my destiny to be a "change agent".