hot Friday night date

La Princesita and the Young Prince were supposed to have a night, to start out a weekend, with their father. However, the Young Prince threw such a tizzy about wanting time alone with me--and granted, he does not get a lot of alone time with his Mama Llama--so I took him out as my date for the night.

To Friday Night Live. The last concert of the season. Drop Dead Sexy was headlining, an 80s party band. I saw them last year; they have so much fun while they perform, they are creative and they are good. So I was not going to miss them this year.

It was a perfect night. No humidity, lovely sunset, great patch of grass upon which I spread my Peruvian wool blanket and my Young Prince at my side. I got myself a glass of wine and the two of us dinner, and we sat and ate. The opening band was okay, but was an opener. There were three men sitting next to me in their chairs with young girls. Two were in their 50s, one perhaps mid-40s. I'm a people-watcher, and it's also a safety thing for me, to always be well aware of who is around me. Anyhow, the children kept coming over to me so I got to talking to one of the men a bit.

As it became darker, the Young Prince became sleepier and, as Drop Dead Sexy came on we only were able to dance 2 songs together when he begged me to hold him and he fell deep asleep on my shoulder as the band rocked the entire audience.

I sat myself down, cradling my son in my arms when the one man I had been talking to came over to my blanket with a glass of wine in hand.

Dude.

So he squats down by me, but then starts to complain of his knee and I offer him to sit on my blanket; there was plenty of room. But I thought, if his general age (although I suppose I am The Target Age for the age 50+ male set while I am 36, that ain't what I would be looking for IF I WERE LOOKING--which I am sooooooo not doing anyway) and physique (I would hypothetically require someone in my life who will care for and respect his body...if he can't, how could he possibly respect mine?) weren't enough, strike one. Why? Because I am demanding and I require very good physical condition, in almost every aspect of my relationship with my partner.

Take that any way you want.

Bad knees *can be* a bad sign. Must take these clues in context, however; an athlete with bad knees is a bit different than an overweight, gray-haired 55 year old (maybe I'm overestimating the age, but that's also not good if I can't estimate clearly). But his "baby sister" was there--and she is 41.

We had a nice chat, and he assisted me in folding my blanket while I gathered the rest of my goods while holding Young Prince, still zonked over my left shoulder like a sack of potatoes in a red sweatshirt.

He gave me his card, almost apologetically as my hands were full. I said that perhaps next year we'll see each other at another concert.

"Let's not make it that long."

Duuuuuude....Smoooooooth. Yikes.

I smiled, glad I had an excuse to leave and suddenly extremely happy I had not, in fact, indulged in a night out at the concert by myself.

I drove home feeling a huge balloon of disappointment rising in my chest. Is this all I would have to look forward to? Mama Llama holding Sleeping Son--desperation choice? I am, evidently, so past my prime. How would I ever get back into the dating game again when I'd be ready to do so? Or ought I plan to live the rest of my life alone? Perhaps I'll be happier that way. I really couldn't feel more alone than I have felt while married. And as a 36 year old (now...even older as time goes on...maybe that's another reason why He is stalling so on the residential separation), I would never be a very hot catch for anyone under, say, 60 years old.

I suppose there are a few things I don't understand.

1. Is wearing a ring--or not, in my case--an assumption of status? Will women who wear a ring be left alone? Do the same standards go for men? Should I just wear my ring, even charged with all that wearing a ring implies, so that I am not bothered if I ever do go out? I like to be social, I just really want friendships now. And a gay Latino dance parter. Is that too much to ask?

2. This man went and got me a glass of wine. I obviously could not go as I had a 4 year old zonked out in my arms, but did not ask him to go. I offered to pay for it, as I could have used another glass of wine, anyway. But he refused. Ought I have insisted so as to not have any obligation? Not that it was bad talking to him--it's just that it was evident that he wanted to continue this, on my terms, at a future date and I have absolutely zilcho-desire to do so.

All I want to do is have fun. I will not deny that I hunger...and that is natural for any human. But I will not use someone to satisfy my hunger. That just runs contrary to my grain. And like we talked about before regarding FWB, I need to attach myself emotionally to truly satisfy my appetite.

friends with benefits?

A girlfriend and I sat around on a lazy Friday afternoon, having opened up some dark chocolate, Neufchatel cheese and a bottle of Cabernet; and we decided to start solving the world's problems.

The root, of which, is--of course, as always--sex. Or the lack thereof.

"On Oprah a few days ago a sexologist was on. I should have called you. She was talking about the newest thing for people in their 40s, 50s, 60s..."
-Yeah, I hear even the retirement homes are hopping now!
(snicker) "Uh-huh. She said that having a "friend with benefits" is proving to be a healthy release for lots of people. She even has one herself."
-Great!

Thinking, of course: Where do I sign up?

"I don't know, though. How do they get around the emotions? How don't they get attached?"
-Evidently it's possible.

And I took another long sip of Cab.

*----*

I had long believed that my developing a relationship like this with another, on a purely-sexual, no-deep-emotional-attachment level could have saved my marriage, just to have the human need of physical contact and sexual energy fulfilled. This is, in our society, unacceptable and considered infidelity if the marriage is not outright defined an open marriage. Thinking it through past the initial excitement of suggestion, however, I realize a great part of sex can be the emotional vínculo, the bond and trust between the two individuals that can, ideally, carry into other aspects of the relationship. Is it possible to simply have sex as "fun"...and have it remain fun? Or is "love" required to make it fun? I guess the answer depends on the individual. However, those issues have played a great part of why my marriage has not, in fact, worked out: my basic intimately-physical and intimately-emotional needs have never been met. There is an absolute lack of chemistry in the bedroom and lack of desire to work to learn how to make it work.

I suppose it is merely frustrating to me to realize that my prime is rapidly passing me by while I cohabitate with an individual that does not even know where certain key pleasure-filled nerve endings exist on a female--and I have given up trying to teach someone who insists "I know what I'm doing." And ending up in tears after every single coupling due to needs not having been met, him leaving to shower off immediately as if my essence were too 'dirty' for him, I came to realize that I deserve to feel better than that. I deserve to have had an orgasm in my marriage. Even one would have been nice. I deserve not to have to do all the work all the time.

I would rather abstain than feel so frustrated, so this is where that decision of over two years ago leaves me.

Don't ask what I was thinking when we initally got together ten years ago. You'll dope-slap me for having been so naive.

The question:

Could you have a bonding and a friendship with a sex-friend (that's what this is called in Japan; yes, of course there are names for this world-wide, cross-cultural phenomenon) that neither individual would want to extend to economics, raising children, medical issues, fixing the home, and the other menial duties required of a live-in mate? Is it indeed possible, now that we are in our 30s, 40s--mid-life arenas with other areas of our lives being fulfilled--to draw a line...and remain on one side of that line without possessiveness, jealousy and all those other evils setting in?

Here's the link to the short article write-up of the Oprah broadcast that featured this topic.

wrap-up of the cooking experiments

Today's kitchen activities centered around three different Christmas treats I have never before experienced problems with: sugar cookies, gingerbread cookies and fudge.

The fudge didn't set. And I even used the thermometer the entire time. Failed.

The sugar cookies melted and expanded into one gigantic cookie in the oven, and were too crumbly of a consistency to even break apart to munch on. Failed.

The gingerbread angels actually maintained shape in the oven and did well, but the flours' pungent tastes overcame that of the ginger and spices that I normally love in gingerbread, and they are absolutely disgusting. I am not going to waste the time in even icing them later. Failure.

So 0 for 3, and a complete and utter waste of...how many hours? Four. So remind me again: why do I bother?

And also remind me NOT to do gluten-free again. Even though that doesn't matter with the fudge. I just won't eat any of the cookies next time.

...if there is a next time.

Oh my gosh, the *!#$%/&* bird!

Thanksgiving is next week.

Duuuuuuuuuuuuude.

It just hit me. I forgot.

And I don't have the bird.

I AM the Bird Woman. We're feeding 12. One of which is my mother...

MUST HAVE BIRD!

Whole Paycheck (our nickname for our well-known organic poultry outlet), Here I Come!

Got any 18-pounders in?

Phew!

Lucky this time. Better stick this on the calendar for next year.

rightfully returned to her throne

My crock pot died last week

The ceramic pot cracked and with it went my spaghetti sauce.

Today my new pot arrived in the mail. Bigger, better, and right to my doorstep.

Behold, the Crock-Pot Queen has been Returned to Her Rightful Place.

May we all sleep easier tonight.

like, duh...

no, freezing a smashed cake will *not*, I repeat, *not* put it back together.

At least now I know.

Mothers everywhere: This is what happens to little girls who are not allowed to help in the kitchen. They turn into ...ME!

And life continues...

I struggled all night to get a good night's sleep through a terrible sinus headache. Not even medicine--for those of you who know me, yeah, GASP! I took something!--helped. Just splitting. But I made it through the night and decided to go on with the plan to take the monitos out for a little Buckies treat this morning. It can only get better, right? So they sat like angelitos as I made the order...not even daring to touch the black-and-orange sprinkled doughnuts that sat right in the middle of the table (one thing about my kids, they know when not to make the proverbial "fit hit the shan"). I got the single hot chocolate to split between the two, no whipped...excuse me, I said no whipped, please...sent that back and got my decaf iced (yeah, I'm nuts) mocha--oh (here insert choice swear words) as my decaf iced mocha spills all over the *bucks floor behind me...and my jeans legs received some choice splatters as well.

And I'm not even pms-ing. Yet.

Knowing it can really only get better (right?!) I took a deep breath and didn't even fulfill my social responsibility of reporting the mess I made...another rarity for me. I just left. Total escapism. I told the kids we are heading to the next Buckies down (yeah, two *bucks within about 100 feet of each other) and they followed, each toting their 1/2 hot chocolate in their own cups.

And we sat and enjoyed.

Got the groceries without much ado. Of course, I decided to do it all this way since gas prices seemed to have hiked 20 cents overnight, so time to start condensing trips. Funny how *buckies enables by hooking up with Safeway.

And I got 10 cents off per gallon of my fill-up. Whoo-hoo!

So, I figure, go get the kitty food. But they were closed, so I wasted the gas that I would have used by going to the *bucks my kids would have rather gone to. Such is life.

Now I am feeling like my sinus headache is starting to break up a bit. I think we are going to rake the silver maple leaves that are all over the backyard and play in them this afternoon.

And screw everything else right now! At least I have already-filthy jeans to wear for the job! (wink-wink)

By the way, I stuffed the entire cake back in the cake pan and stuck in into the freezer. Let's see if physics will stick it all back together...?! HA!

I can do absolutely nothing right.

My daughter's birthday cake just fell completely apart as I removed it from the pan.

Completely.

I am tired of everything I try to do in the kitchen ending in complete fracaso.

I learned recently that, to get a cake to frost well, one must freeze it first. So I thought I would actually plan ahead a bit.

I am not a cook. I don't know why I bother or try...except that I, for a change, actually wanted a piece of cake for a birthday and, since I'm off gluten and soy, I can't just go buy one and still eat it. I must make it.

I am tired of being the one to smile and say No, thank you.

As this happens, C is pelting me with some stuffed animal. I am the robber and he is the pizza man. I am tired of being hit by flying toys.

Feeling the rage boiling inside, I finally just yell.

WILL YOU STOP THROWING THINGS AT ME! WILL YOU JUST GET OUT OF THE KITCHEN? BOTH OF YOU. OUT!

I am tired of yelling at my children.

They just fled, C meekly uttering an "ok mommy" as they ran from the kitchen into K's bedroom. They have been fighting each other all morning, including while I had a student this morning.

I chose the wrong repair service, evidently, for my washer. It is filled with water and I had to hand-wring out my clothes yesterday after finally giving up. Yet I have had not a minute to sit, go through the phone book, try to blindly find (yet again) a more reputable service.

I am tired of having to make all decisions.

I don't have the patience and I don't want to. Honestly, I don't want to do anything. But I have to. All day yesterday I kept reminding myself of the women along the Río Tomebamba in Cuenca, Ecuador, washing their brightly colored clothing on stones in the freezing Andean water and then decorating the riverbank hillside with brilliant reds, yellows and blues to allow their clothing to dry. How I used to beat the ice out of my panties in Japan to get them to dry in the winter. What do I really have to complain about?

I'm tired of wishing to have my past life back.

The past three days, my children have flung themselves on top of me to bury me in hugs and kisses. I ask why; they say that it just looked like I needed to be hugged and kissed.

I will never tire of that.

But I just feel so tired. I would like to migrate south. I would like to not feel so alone. Amazing, how I am constantly surrounded by others, namely my children, and I can still feel so alone.

worms in blood sauce with maggots...

The menú for the evening--aka spaghetti with meat sauce.

Quiet as a mouse...

It was 5:30 in the madrugada, the sound of school buses warming up to begin their morning rounds droned over the crickets' tired chirps. Perhaps the crickets weren't so tired, but I was and could only imagine how exhausted I would be if I had to chirp all night long.

All still asleep in the house, so Mommy could get a few important tasks completed before helpful little hands would be reaching in over the knives to assist me in taking them out of the dishwasher and putting them away. I clicked on the radio, NPR, with the BBC early morning broadcasting only to those who choose to awaken this early, as I do each morning. Then the litany of the Putting Away of the Dishes ensued.

Perhaps it was the fact I had not adequately warmed-up, as normally I work top-to-bottom and unload the top rack (cups, glasses, little plates, lids, and the like) before I empty the bottom level but, for some reason on Monday I decided to start with the bottom and work up. I put away the silverware and the children's plastic forks, then get to the collection of Designer Tar-get (soft "g", "t" is silent, of course) Dishware, which are sets of mismatched but fun-colored plastic plates of all different sizes that I like to use and which can keep mealtime even more interesting in the eyes of the monitos ("I want that plate." "No, I wanted that one.")

I had five of those in my hand, heading over to their storage space on the counter when, suddenly I sensed slippage in the center...and all five plates fell to the tile kitchen floor with a crash that ought to have awaken have the dead in the cemetary next door.

I stood still, biting my lip.

Would anybody come running? I mean, Mommy could have easily fallen and broken her arm, or Tiggy could have jumped up and knocked something over or, worse yet, somebody could have broken into the house and, in not noticing one of the wisely-set booby traps of toys on the floor could have fallen...

...but nobody stirred. Not one soul.

Lessons learned:

1. Those plastic plates, for being light-weight and pretty and unbreakable and all, can make a heck-of-a-lot of noise when dropped onto tile at 5:30 a.m. I'm told the noise is the same at any hour, but it simply seems less amongst the din of the daily routine.

2. Nobody in this house will wake up and save me from anything, so maybe I should stop rising before everyone else! (nah, that would be too convenient!)

3. I am the only one in this house who will hear if someone breaks in so I had better never sleep! :) Fortunately, our house is so old that I think anybody would be afraid to even try.

4. Five plates at a time, no matter fine china or plastic Tar-get ware, is just too many. Period.

Will I actually learn from and/or practice any of these lessons? Probably not. I'm too stubborn. And now I must excuse myself to go and, um, empty the plastic plates out of the dishwasher yet again, so the day can begin.