More snapshots

Best surprise in a magazine:

Rolling Stone. I bought a subscription to this magazine for my old neighbor (and now big shot college football player), Sven for Christmas. It was a buy one, get one free deal and I figured that if I gave us the other subscription, Bing might enjoy it. So, our first month magazine came and I took it to bed with me one night when I wasn't sleepy yet.

And I read the thing from front to back. Who knew that Rolling Stone has the best political articles I have ever read? And interviews with Sean Penn, Jay Leno, and Pete Wentz that are not just celebrity fare, but really, really interesting? I don't like music much, am not a big music fan, but I am becoming educated. I actually had a discussion at work with someone about Wilco and that could not have happened a year ago. When Bing brought in the mail today and I saw Lady Gaga on the cover of my Rolling Stone, I promptly curled up in an easy chair to read it.

Best coincidence that keeps happening again and again:

I will call Bing and she says, "I was just going to call you! Seriously, I was just taking out my cell right this second..."

This has been happening to us since college. We are so in sync and have been so for over 2 decades. In college, I would go home for Christmas and just when I decided that I honestly must have been adopted, because...please God, this group of people were not my family, I would head for the phone to call Bing and it would ring and I would pick it up and it was always her. This happens to us so often that I sometimes just sit at my desk at work and stare at the phone for a second before I go to pick it up to call her. It never rings until I go to reach for it, giving in, finally.

A song that I loved the first time I heard it and still love it just as much:



I have so many great memories of dancing to this song, but the best ones are always on summer nights in our back yard.

Songs that I hate loving so much:



I have always been the leaver, never the one who gets left.

Except for once. And right after it happened, I heard this song in the car while I was driving and had to pull over so that I could sit listening to it while I cried with my head on the steering wheel.

And then, this one:

I hate cloying songs and this one is all cloying and saccharine sentimental. But, it kills me each and every time I hear it.

Surprise book/movie that I liked:

Twilight. I had no intention of reading the book series until my 17 year old niece begged me to read it so that she could discuss it with me. So, I grudgingly had Bing bring home the book from her high school's library. I was amazed at how quickly the characters, the storyline took hold of me. And therein lies the rub: it is an incredible story with even more incredible characters. But...okay...the writing is only so-so. I gritted my teeth every time Stephenie Meyer used the word glowering or glowered or glower or glowers, and believe me, she used every tense of the word. Many times. One of the main characters is a vampire and she was constantly talking about his ice cold, marbled, smooth skin. She also had a tendency to have nearly everyone in her story take her heroine, Bella's chin in their hands at least once. I mean, how many times have you had people take your chin in their hands, really? Bella gets it done nearly every other paragraph, it seemed to me.

But, the poor writing aside, those books are incredible. The story is masterful, the characters jumping off the page at every turn. I became a Twilight junkie right along with all those teenaged girls.

And when the movie, Twilight, came out, I sort of rolled my eyes, but allowed my nieces to drag me to it. And I genuinely loved it. Well, everyone except the actress who played Bella Swan. I thought she was not quite right, but Robert Pattinson was so much like the Edward in my imagination that it startled me.

I am in the minority in my house as a Twilight fan, though. Bing seldom reads fiction and Liv read one chapter and loftily informed me that it couldn't touch Harry Potter (she's right, it can't), so I am on my own.

Foods that I just cannot stand:

On the top of the list is butter beans. When I was five, my Mother decided that she was sick and tired of my refusal to eat butter beans and we had a standoff. She made me sit at the table until I finished my butter beans one night. My sisters tried to help by sneaking small bites for me when she wasn't looking, but eventually, it was down to the last two bites. My Mother sat across from me at the kitchen table. It was nearly ten p.m. I had been sitting at that table for five hours. I was crying. My sisters were crying. My Mother was not crying. She was mad as hell and bound and determined to teach me a lesson. Finally, I force fed myself the beans and then jumped from my chair and barely made it to the toilet where I vomited them right back up. The taste of butter beans stayed in my mouth for days and I could barely eat anything. Apparently, my Mother decided not to put me through this again, because she never made me eat butter beans again. But, even as an adult now, just the smell of butter beans makes me feel sick to my stomach.

Most fish

I just dislike it. Fish smells fishy to me. It has a rancidness to it's odor that puts me off of it. Bing and Liv, on the other hand, LOVE fish. Bing makes it for dinner at least once a week and I usually have a few bites and call it a day, fill up on whatever else is on the table.

Mushrooms

They are just so....soft and slimy. I literally get goose bumps when I accidentally eat one. Just makes me go all cold and shivery with revulsion.

The truth about my addiction to 2 reality shows.

I have watched every single episode of Survivor and The Amazing Race and I am not going to apologize for it. I love both of them and no matter how hard Bing teases me about them (actually, she kind of likes The Amazing Race but she cannot stand Survivor), I will NOT feel sheepish.

I could never be on Survivor because I think having rheumatoid arthritis and type 1 diabetes might hinder me. I am drug dependent. But, I think that Bing and I could kick ass on The Amazing Race. I could do the thinking puzzles and she could do all the physical tests. And we could trade off once in awhile because she isn't stupid and I am no pussy when it comes to endurance.

Small annoyances

Having so many physical problems. I have rheumatoid arthritis, meniere's syndrome and diabetes. On any given day, these can make my wrists/ankles/knees/hands/shoulders swell up like puff fish, make me lurch around with vertigo or force me to sit down and drink a glass of orange juice before I can move around and speak coherently for a while. Bing jokes that there isn't much else that can befall me, healthwise. I tell her not to talk too loudly, that the gods might hear.

I also find it very annoying when I do ridiculously stupid things like I did last night before bed: I had just washed my face in the bathroom sink and reached for my eye cream. I squeezed out a bit and rubbed it into my eye, only to discover, too late, that I had somehow managed to grab the toothpaste by mistake.

Crest fucking stings.

Things I love to share with my sisters:

Books about a character named Beany Malone, by Lenora Mattingly Weber.

Books about a character named Betsy and her friends, Tacy and Tib. By Maud Hard Lovelace.

My sisters and I all still claim that these are the best books written for teenagers and we are always trying to foist them off on the teens in our family who do not find them even a little bit interesting. Fools.

Doris Day movies. Especially Caprice, in my humble opinion. Patrice will say no, that it is anything with Rock Hudson and Celia and Jessie will argue that they are all good, every stinkin' one of 'em. They are right.

Turkey skin.

We are all slaves for it, would all rather eat the skin instead of the breast meat. You take a nice swath of skin and dunk it in some salty turkey gravy and it is fucking heaven. It is.

The anti-pink.

My sister, Jessie, is a breast cancer survivor. After she was diagnosed, suddenly people began giving her pink things. Pink plaques, pink bracelets, pink cards, pink shoes, pink socks, pink everything. It was all with love. But, she said that she got so freakin' sick of pink that she felt like her life was coated in pepto bismal. So, we made an agreement, all four of us. NO MORE PINK. We would be the anti-pink. No pinks for us.

Bean soup. We all could live on it. Well, for a few weeks at least. And we all claim that our recipe is the best. But, seriously, mine is.

Things that help when the world is too much:

Sleep. I love to fall into bed on a good day. On a bad day, I NEED to fall into bed. I love to sleep. Love it. Everything looks better after I've slept on it.

Watching Liv. She can be doing nearly anything. Playing, reading, watching television, practicing her piano lessons, anything. If I am upset about something and I purposefully begin to watch her, really watch her, I go outside of myself and find bits of joy sliding into my soul.

Petting my dog. Socks is one of those dogs. He has soulful black bean eyes and a tendency to worry when one of us sad. And then he makes it his business to help us through it. When I lean down to pet him, he automatically flips over on his stomach for a belly rub. He insists that this will make me feel better and I always call him a liar and then I rub his belly and I feel better. Socks knows best. He also smiles at me. I swear he does.

Cap'n Crunch. A bowl of this and I am already feeling like maybe I can survive.

Fights that Bing and I have over and over.

The can we afford this? fight. This is usually Bing's sentence because she is such a penny pincher that she thinks twice before she spends a dime on anything. I am frugal. She is a tightwad. And I use this facet of her personality to win arguments. Bing hates soft lighting. If she had her way, our house would look like Walmart at night with every light in the house on. I like soft lights, candlelight, and Liv and I really love watching television with all the lights off. So, when Bing gets light happy, I frown and tell her that she is being so, so....wasteful and it works every time.

Bing shops for literally all of her clothes at Goodwill and thinks that in a perfect world, we all would do this. ("Don't you think that we should all just meet once a month at a huge warehouse and bring the clothes that just aren't working for us and we could lay them out and then everyone could wander around and find clothes that work?") She thinks my attachment to Ferragamo shoes is disgraceful and my Chanel suits nearly make her quiver with righteous annoyance.

Bing is all about thrift and while I am a careful shopper, sometimes I just need to buy that purse.

The I do more than you do fight.

We both do plenty. But, sometimes Bing will bring the laundry up from the basement and say something like, "Do you think you could fold this since I am the one who washed it and put it in the dryer?" I usually tell her that she did NOT wash it, the washer did and that it took all of five minutes.

Sometimes Bing gets tired of cooking, but all it takes is one dinner prepared by me to snap her out of that.

The You are doing that all wrong fight.

Bing says that I can't decently load a dishwasher. That I am not a thorough enough duster. (This means that I don't lift up a dresser and clean behind it.)

I think that she is a pack rat and needs to learn to throw things away. No, we do not need, nor will we ever use the coupon for a water pik. She is not going to read those pamphlets that the Jehovah Witness people left stuck in the front door. Why can't she just clean the kitchen without insisting on scrubbing the floor each and every time?

And the similar Why can't you think like me? fight.

Bing thinks that all towels need to be folded a certain way, that they fit better in the closet if do this. I am fine with a folded towel, as long as it is clean, I'm good.

I think that she should be nicer to waiters and waitresses. She retorts that they are there to serve us, not to sit in the booth with us and be our friend. That she is not going to leave a 20% tip, are you fucking kidding? 18% is STANDARD.

It is 2% more. Big fucking deal.

Bing says what she thinks to everyone about everything. I tell her that social politeness is important. ("UM, you mean social lying, don't you? I am NOT going to tell Mary that her hair looks good when it looks ridiculous.")

The good news is that after knowing each other for over 30 years, we know what battles are worth fighting and which aren't.

Usually. It still bugs me each and every time we go to a restaurant and she asks for substitutions. If the salmon comes with broccoli and rice, she insists on green beans and a sweet potato. ARGH!

Cranky making moments.

Appliances that have the cheeky arrogance to break down. Why is the freezer not able to freeze ice cream? That is it's JOB. It isn't like I ask it to iron my shirts.

I hate it when the check engine light comes on. I mean how fucking temperamental. This happens a lot in my car and Bing always swears it is something called "bad gas." Well, excuse me. I pay enough for the stuff, I think it should be all be good. But, invariably, she is right. She tells me to wait for 2 cycles of gas and if the light is still on, to let her know and she will take it in to be looked at. And as soon as I fill up again, about halfway through the tank, the light goes off.

Harriet's car is nearly the same. Except she has had her car looked at over and over and they can never find anything wrong. So, she and her husband came up with the brilliant idea of putting a piece of masking tape over the light so it won't annoy them.

Liv's friends.

And now I feel guilty. Mostly, because I LIKE her friends. She has one best friend and about six other friends who she will hang with if her bff, Constance, isn't able to play.

I remember when she was three and I decided that we had to try pre-school. I signed her up at one with good reviews. She screamed as she realized that I was leaving her. She had such a choke hold on my neck that I felt like I was handing her over to Charles Manson for babysitting. The teacher kept assuring me that once I left, all would be fine.

So, I did it. I left. And yes, you know this story, I drove home bawling. I felt like I had betrayed her. Gotten her all gussied up in her new overalls with the daisies on them, put her hair in sweet little ponytails. And then heartlessly dumped her, left her screaming out my name while every other mother in the building looked up thinking for one terrible moment that it was them being called. (We all hear the screaming of "MAMMMMMAAAA!" and we all have our hearts stop cold for a few seconds.) Even as I teetered out of the building, blinded by my own tears, I felt two women reaching out to sort of pat me. They were living it right along with me.

I got home and within an hour, the pre-school teacher called me to come get Liv. She had broken the school record of screaming for over an hour and they feared that she would make herself seriously ill if I didn't come get her.

When I arrived at the school and saw her still weeping forlornly into one of the helper's shoulders, I almost started crying all over again, but managed to hold it together.

When Liv looked up and saw me, she scooted down and ran pell mell into my arms as if she hadn't seen me in a year. Her arms were tight around my neck and her legs criss crossed across my back, threatening to snap my spine. Her pre-school teacher waved us off, saying, "Let's try again next year, ok?"

On the way home, Liv was nearly silent and white as a sheet. Finally, she spoke in a horrified whisper. She said, "I threw up in the teacher's hands!" She was beyond mortified and so terrified that I would leave her again that for the next three days, she insisted on going into the bathroom with me every time I peed.

She was fine the next year. Ready for school. But, for a few scary months, I worried that she would be one of those children. You know the ones. The ones who cry if the teacher looks at them the wrong way. The ones who weep because Scotty took the red crayon and I wanted it!

She wasn't. She had a circle of friends by the time she was 6. This may be partly because she attends a small, very progressive Montessori school. They are all a very close knit bunch.

But, at nearly ten years old, Liv is a social butterfly, a far cry from the child who broke the school record for crying.

Some days, I feel as if I am either picking up a friend or driving her over to a friend's house or taking my turn with the carpool.

She spends some time alone, but she BY FAR, would rather be with her friends.

Sometimes even more than she wants to be with me.

Which, I suppose, is the real crux of the matter.

And the only alternative to not taking her places is either having her take a bus alone (no fucking way) or waiting until she is old enough to drive.

Oh, NOOOOOOOOO!!!

So, yeah, being a social butterfly is just um...FINE with me.

Surprise visits.

I don't like these. Some people do. Some people look up from their baking, their books, their whatever and just think, "Oh, GOODIE! Company!"

Not me. If I didn't invite you, I don't want you coming to my house. I am doing something else and do not want company. Also, there is the chance that my hair is dirty or I just got in from the garden and am hot and thirsty and no, I don't feel like visiting. So, step away from that doorway. Now.

And of course, there are other snapshots...but you get the picture. I haven't pulled any punches. I tried to paint the real Maria. Some parts aren't all that attractive.

So, c'mon...what are some more of those little snapshots that make up YOU?

Snapshot

What I love:

icy cold green tea with a splash of cranberry juice added

my dog, Socks' eyes when he sits next to my bed, waiting, as trained, for an invitation before he joins me for a nap

sitting outside in my lawn chair, watching Bing mow the lawn in her jean shorts and sleeveless orange t-shirt, a book in my lap, unread

books that call to you from across a room...read me, read me!

my daughter's hair, straight as a baby seal, when she is fresh from her shower

hot pumpkin muffins with honey butter

that moment when the lights go down in a theater as you wait for that movie that you have been dying to see

a long soak in a hot bath with lemon verbena scented water, at the end of the day

my blue cashmere sweater that is warm and cozy

Liv's voice pouring into my ear on the telephone when she is far away

lemon ricotta cookies for my birthday instead of cake

looking in the mirror and thinking..not bad at all for fifty...

the sound of my sisters laughing as we all sit around a kitchen table

lunch, dessert, coffee...anything with Harriet

dusk in the summertime

waking up at 5:30 and realizing that it is Saturday and I don't have to get up in a half hour for work

Bing's arms after bad news

the clean, white scent of lilies of the valley

knowing that Johnny Depp is in the world

walking to my car after a long day at work, sliding in, turning the key and listening to one of my books on tape on the drive home

Bing giving me a foot rub and her fingers sliding around and around over my bunion, the ugliest part of me, feeling the soft, tender, delicious ache as she presses gently

the first sip of coffee in the morning

the smell of the stadium on Cornhusker game day

windows that have just been cleaned

watching the baby squirrel finally decide to make the leap from one branch to the next, and then succeeding

tootsie pops when you are almost at that chocolate center

laying in bed, coming down off a migraine and hearing the soft sound of Bing playing the piano and Liv's voice as she plays in the back yard with a friend, knowing that the pain is fading, soon I will be able to arise without feeling vertigo or nausea

What I do not love:

the way fish smells up the house and just stays

giving in to the air conditioner...we are always the last house in the neighborhood to turn ours on, usually the end of June, but still...I hate that sealed in feeling and smell of chemical air

the way Socks smells after coming in from the rain

pants that used to fit but are now a little snug

green olives, everything about them, their taste, their smell, their appearance

books that start out well and then sort of peter out

clothes that looked pretty good in the store but look like shit when I get them home

the halo aura that comes just before a migraine hits

hearing the phone ring, checking the caller id and seeing that it is my doctor's office with the latest results

snow...after a lifetime of prairie living, I am done with it...don't think it is pretty, hate driving in it, hate the damp, seeping chill of it

funerals where the priest keeps referring to the deceased as "Dorothy" when everyone called her "Dot" so you know that he barely knew her and has no business talking about her as if he did

the way some women look at you in public bathrooms, that sizing up look

packs of teenagers who walk around the mall together

looking outside and spotting a rabbit eating pansies right out of my big flower pot

jazz music, makes me feel like rubberbands keep snapping at me

the way some people's nostrils dilate when they sing

listening to my asinine brother in law say the word nigger and then looking around all pleased with himself...reminds me of a strutting rooster and I can't help it, I have to find something verbal to throw at him

people who suddenly are interested in me when they find out I am a lesbian

people who suddenly lose interest in me when they find out I am a lesbian

men who lift their legs up when they fart and act like it is funny

waking up at 5:00 a.m. and realizing that it is Monday and a workday, no sleeping in

people who talk in movies and always sit right behind me and then to add insult to injury, they keep accidentally kicking the back of my seat

parents who let their children talk loudly in libraries

microwaving something and realizing too late that the food has bubbled all over the place, over the plate

So, what are some of your snapshots?

In tears

I came home tonight from work, hurrying, rushing.

Liv and her Father had been camping all weekend and were finally home. Tinton will stay for a few days which pleases me. He and Liv need to soak as much of each other up as they can.

I came into the house and heard the piano, so walked into the parlor.

And there they were. All these people that I love so much.

Bing was playing the piano and Tinton and Liv were dancing together on the hard wooden floor in their bare feet, Socks winding around their legs, vying for attention.

It was such a beautiful sight that I just stood there, briefcase in hand as I watched and listened.

Bing ended the piece and then Liv saw me and rushed into my arms, smelling like lemons and cut grass, my Liv summer smell.

I twirled her around and then we hugged while I kissed the top of her head over and over and beamed up at her Father and Bing.

"What was that gorgeous piece?" I asked Bing.

She smiled and showed me the sheet music.

It was all so lovely. It is raining outside, but here in my house a pizza has been ordered for dinner and I have my sweats on and my baby back home.

What a lovely thing to come home to...

Sorry for being so....me.

Dear Ben, Michele, Mary, Mark, Dan, Conchata and Bonnie, All of you,

I just wasn't ready. I know that I probably seemed like I was, probably seemed like I was all there and all that. I wasn't.

I hurt some of you, merely disappointed others, and in one case, I really don't think you were nearly as bummed as you pretended to be about us not going any farther.

I am a very late bloomer.

I didn't honestly fall in love for real until I was in my forties. And it was with a woman who I hurt, ran through the wringer when she deserved so much better from me, and basically, I was just damn lucky that she gave me another chance.

It all started out pretty well with all of you, the come hither looks, the flirting, the dating, the breathy assurance from me that I really did like you back, really.

I genuinely liked each and every one of you, in many different ways. I just wasn't ready to be all that and then some with you. In most cases, I was pretty up front about that fact from the beginning so you need to own some of the responsibility here. I believe that at some point with all of you, I did say that I wasn't the forever sort of woman, was not interested in anything long term. And then, at least some of you didn't believe me, told me that you were sure you would be the exception to the rule, if I would just give you a chance, etc.

I tried. With some of you, I tried really hard, with others, not so much. But, I did want to believe that I could be true, could be in a long term grown up relationship.

I just didn't like the way the outfit wore on me. It fucking itched. I would sit there with you and suddenly you would be talking about our future, our kids, our life together and well, that was probably when you saw me go a little green in the gills.

Commitment. Did not want to ride that pony.

One of you (no...wait...two of you) have asked me if I have regrets. Well, I guess so. I mean, I suppose that if I had just been a kinder, less freaked-out-by-togetherness sort of person, I would have been happy with you.

I don't believe that there is just one person for all of us. I think that there are a lot of possibilities.

I was with Bing, my current partner, once when I was in my thirties and it lasted for all of four months before I bolted. I woke up one morning and she was smiling lazily at me across her pillow and I....okay...I felt like I just wanted to throw up. I could not STAND the thought of waking up next to her each and every day for the rest of my life.

And at some time, I felt in the same boat with all of you. So, I would leave. Sometimes I showed some grace, most of the time, I was a coward.

I was not particularly kind. And that was wrong, very wrong of me. And in once case, I was downright cruel. I still wake up at night and feel badly about how I let things end, Michele.

I think that if I had let myself, I could have been reasonably happy with all of you. Well, most of you.

But, I just could not be with anyone. It felt all wrong. Like badly fitted shoes that gave me blisters. Like jeans I could not button anymore.

Until, I was in my forties. By then, I had a daughter and I was well on my way to changing from a career driven woman to a mother. To a person who didn't go around promising the moon and then dropping out of sight.

And one day, I woke up and realized that for the first time, I was in love.

With Bing. The woman who I had hurt so badly about five years prior to that.

To this day, I cannot believe she allowed me in her life again, let me in. If the shoe had been on me, I can honestly say that I would never have allowed her in, not after she had hurt me that much.

But, she did. And I still am counting my sheer good luck over that.

Anyway, I am heartily sorry for all the pain I caused in your lives. I hope you found someone who deserved the incredible goodness of yourselves. Because you were all good people, all worthy of being so, so loved.

It just wasn't me. I hope you can forgive me for leaving. Maybe you can, but in at least two of your lives, I would be very surprised if you could ever forgive me. Because I don't deserve it, not after the callous way I left you.

You were all ready and I just wasn't.

This probably says it best.



Love, me

On a roll.

Okay, tackled sex. Now how about religion? Politics might be in the cards next.

I am not religious. I do not attend church services nor am I raising my child in any sort of religious belief.

My family is sort of scandalized.

I was raised in an intensely religious Catholic family. We went to 7:30 mass every single Sunday. The only time it was okay to miss was if you were sick. And we are talking deathbed sick. A measly little cold did not count.

Each and every night of my childhood, my Da would make the sign of the cross on our foreheads as we knelt in front of him before going upstairs to bed.

I went to Catholic school until college.

I didn't question my religion until I was about 16 and then I did it on the sly. I would have died before I let my Mother know that I had my doubts about Jesus.

When my high school played another high school for football, or basketball, whatever, we all prayed on the school bus to Mary, Queen of Victory to let us win. If we won, we thanked her on the bus ride home. If we lost, no one said anything. But, we knew what had happened. The other team was holier, more deserving of a victory than we were. I used to sit on the bus after games and listen to one of the cheerleaders call out, "Mary, Queen of victory, THANK YOU!" I privately thought this was ridiculous. But, I never once thought to say anything to Father Franklin or Sister Coraline about my feelings. I didn't much cotton to the idea of having my Mother called and told that Maria needed to stay after school for a few weeks for some extra religious teaching because, well, she was slip sliding rapidly away from Jesus.

But, privately, yes. I doubted. I had questions.

To be perfectly honest, I probably had a few doubts even when I was in grade school. I remember once, in about fourth grade, our whole class went to mass and Mary Bernadette, the class tattle tale, told Sister Angelique that she had spotted Ben chewing the host at communion.

"Sister, everyone knows that it is very, very wrong to chew Jesus."

While Sister quizzed Ben about his inappropriate behavior, I sat biting my cheeks, trying desperately not to giggle. The thought of chewing Jesus just seemed so freaking odd to me. WHY did we have to be so careful with our communion wafers? Wasn't it just plain silly to sit there trying not to let Jesus tap against your teeth too much? Even at age 9, I was having doubts.

It wasn't until I was on my own in college that I really felt free to give voice to any of my questions. I had been taught that all religions besides Catholicism were just plain wrong. That Catholics had the get-in-free ticket to heaven. To this day, my sister Jessie believes that if she can just get a priest to my side before I die, I will be spared going to hell if she can get me those last rites, that extreme unction before I kick.

In fact, I have visions of her sneaking into my hospital room with a priest and me laying there completely oblivious while Bing is off grabbing a sprite in the nurse's lounge.

I have no problems with this, mainly because I know it would help her deal with my death. I honestly do not believe that getting last rites will make one iota of difference when I die.

And if there is a heaven (and I have my doubts), I think that it will matter so much more that I tried to be a good person and do the right thing in my life than anything else. I don't think God will care much that I had carnal knowledge with another woman. Or that I didn't go to confession for decades.

It might matter to him or her if I was a liar, a cheat or close minded and cruel, though. If I saw others around me suffering and walked away. If I hurt those around me by my actions, by what I did or what I didn't do when they needed me the most.

I seriously doubt that it will come up that I may have inadvertently chewed Jesus a few times at communion when I was ten.

My family was very big on not being guilty of committing any of the seven deadly sins. But, C'MON. They are all pretty opaque sins. How do you know how much pride it is safe to have, how much lust you are allowed to feel before you step over that line into the land of TOO MUCH? What if you feel sort of jealous that Bill, a guy at work, gets promoted before you do because his Dad just happens to be a big performer in the company? Are you guilty of too much envy? And wrath? Just how mad can you get and still be in the safe zone? Gluttony? What about that time you ate like a pig at Easter dinner? Greed? If you have a blackberry because you have always wanted one? Is that walking on the wild side? And of course, sloth. All those days of sleeping in on Saturday mornings....

I read all the books that I could, books that I knew my Mother would be very upset if she knew I was reading them. I read The Origin of Species. the Qu'ran, the Guru Granth Sahib, The Torah, The Avesta, The Vedas,

I even read The Book of Mormon and a few Scientology texts.

No matter what I read, I still came down to the idea that we are all making a too big deal out of something that is actually incredibly simple.

Do your best to lead a good life. Be kind to others. Try not to hurt anyone unless there just isn't any other way. Be the kind of person that others feel they can trust.

Why complicate it with a bunch of rules about who we can sleep with, what the circumstances have to be before we can sleep with them and whether or not we procreate or not?

After reading all the books and thinking hard, I still wasn't sure how I felt but I was sure about one thing.

I was never going to be a good Catholic. I did not share the belief system and I wasn't going to be a hypocrite and pretend anymore.

After I had a child, I considered trying to find a church but discarded that idea eventually. It seemed silly to me, just like chewing Jesus or thanking Mary for a basketball victory.

I decided that I would keep all the books that I had read in the house and give Liv easy access to them. If she felt inclined to follow one religion or another, I would be fully supportive. I'd happily let her believe whatever she felt strongly about. But, I wasn't going to pretend that I had answers because I don't.

I am 50 years old and I still don't know if I believe in God or not. I believe in Good and that will have to be enough.

So far, it hasn't really come up. We put up a manger at Christmas time mainly because I have a really spectacular one that has been handed down in my family. And Liv knows the story of Jesus' birth and his death. I've told her what I believe. That it may or not be true, may just be a good story. That I just don't know. I'm not really sure.

The only thing I am absolutely certain of is love and it's power to heal, to change us, to make us strive to be better people. Her birth brought huge change in my life, for the better. My love for Bing has changed me for the better as well. Love can move mountains. I believe that.

I do not believe, however, that if there is a God, that he or she decides the outcome of sports match ups. Or if your cat lives or dies after it gets hit by a car. And I will NEVER, EVER believe that if there is a God, he or she decides if you will die of cancer or go into remission. I don't care if you pray every hour or have an entire town praying for you, it doesn't have any effect on the outcome.

Maybe there is something to prayer, there have been some interesting research studies on it. But, I suspect that if there is something to it, it has very little to do with God and more to do with love, with the power of, the sheer strength of love.

If there is a God, I refuse to believe that he (she) is up in some throne in the sky, looking down and smiling benignly as he points to one team winning over another or whether you will live or die from a car accident.

I tend to believe in good and evil. Good is all of us doing the right thing, the loving thing, it is the best in us rising to the surface. Evil is when we go the wrong way, succumb to hatred, spread pain to others.

I want to raise a child who strives to be the good in the world. I could care less if she attends a church service or not or if she has a ring on her finger before she sleeps with someone.

One of my sisters sent me this. She said, "Meet your clone..."

It made me laugh. But, it also make me feel somewhat relieved that at last, I think my family is finally starting to get me. Maybe not accept me, but that's okay. For now.

So, what do you believe? What does religion mean to you?

Just curious. As always.

The thing about sex

Now, I feel like everyone is looking at me. Waiting.

Like I am going to talk about being multi-orgasmic or some such thing.

Well, I'm not.

I'm not much of a sexual being. It used to worry me. Like...why don't I like sex more? Am I doing it wrong?

I had a friend tell me once that she figured that I must really, really love sex if I was bi-sexual. That made me laugh because I am just about the most unsexual person I know.

I mean talk about double your fun... was what I think she said.

She figured that I was getting about twice as much as everyone else.

The thing is....sex has always been a tricky wicket for me. It's just so....personal.

So much is exposed. All that skin. All that bouncing off of each other and swirling sweatily around. The noises you make. The....okay....the dampness of it all.

I am not really into sex.

There. I said it.

When I used to date and a woman or a man would ask me if I wanted to go upstairs and "see my place"....that is PRECISELY what I wanted to do.

See their place. What they had on their walls. The kind of books on their shelves. What kind of cereal they ate. If they had ice cream in their freezer.

I wanted to well.....talk.

I was like this even in college, when I should have been more intent on fucking than conversing. I never was.

Don't get me wrong. I slept around for a period of time. And it wasn't like I was frigid or anything. It just took me a long time to warm up enough to want to do more than kiss chastely goodnight.

Still does.

I rarely, if ever, just want to fuck someone when I see how good looking they are. It doesn't work that way with me. Well, okay...maybe with Johnny Depp, with Robert Pattinson, with John Cusack, Laura Linney, Tina Fey. But, they aren't exactly real people to me. They are more like fantasy figures.

I have honestly never met anyone who I had the hots for licketty split. My mouth has never watered much on that first date. A first date is usually almost painful for me. First, I have to dig into their brain, their personality.

Where do they stand politically?

Are they religious? And if so, just how damn much?

What sort of books and movies do they like?

Do they have any weird obsessions, like they wear latex gloves to movies or say phrases like that is awesome! a lot? Because I am savvy enough to know that even small things that are sort of cute at first meeting are anything but when you have been together for a year.

Like...I knew that Bing's tendency to fold towels a certain way would grate on my nerves someday. It does.

Or that her vegetarianism would get tiresome one day.

It does.

And it matters to me more than it probably should that I be with someone who isn't a sloppy kisser. I don't much like to be drooled on when we are making out.

I'm just going to admit this right up front: I don't enjoy french kissing.

I don't mind a little bit of tongue but any sort of thrusting makes me feel as if I am being force fed. I get a little gaggy when I see couples who suck face like they are eating each other. Or close ups of french kissing in movies.

I do not want to have my toes sucked. Or my fingers for that matter.

Other places are okay. Breasts. Pussy. Suck away!

The whole sex dance is such a personal thing for me that I want to be sure first. I think that is prudent. If I am going to get naked and start undulating and moaning, well...I want to really, really like you first. It is sort of important for me that you be a Democrat. I don't care if you go to church every Sunday as long as I'm not dragged along with you and absolutely no speculating on what you think Jesus would do.

Bing once told me in a moment of frankness that sometimes it drives her crazy that I am so slow to heat up.

"Must you always make me work so hard for it?" she asked me.

It isn't personal. Really. I just...it takes me a while. Once we are sailing through second base, I can pretty much assure you that I am not going to back up or suddenly get coy.

And yes, I am human. (Truthfully, though, most of my lovers at one time or another have accused me of being Vulcan.) I do get...horny.

Just not often.

I can easily go months without sex. Maybe even years, although I have never tried that.

I have had many one night stands, but most of them were when I was much younger and much less discerning. Back then, I wasn't so choosy. If you could make me laugh and knew who Walt Whitman was, I would probably fuck you as long as you didn't get too spitty.

One night when my bff, Harriet and I were having dinner together, she sighed and said, "Does it ever make you crazy that Bing is probably going to be the only person you fuck for the rest of your life?"

I thought about this and finally admitted that no, it didn't bother me one bit. Actually, it was kind of a relief. No more worries about buying sexy lingerie. All I really have to do is pull off my socks and she is ready to roll. I asked her if it bothered her that her husband was going to be her last lover.

She said yes, that it did.

"I mean, I am still fairly young," she commented. "I have a decent body. I think it might be nice to learn a few new tricks, not know that if I wear that dress or show some cleavage, he will want to screw that night and then....well, I know exactly what his moves are and when he does them. I know that he likes it a lot when I play with his nipples and if I don't moan, he gets all worried that I am faking..."

I was plugging my ears by then. I asked her to stop talking about her husband's nipples, please. I was eating, for god sakes.

But, the thing is...for once, Harriet and I weren't of the near same opinion on a topic.

Sex, for me, has never been all that important. I read all those articles about how to keep your marriage spicy, etc. and well...I am sort of bored.

I would find it much more exciting if Bing bought me a book than if she bought us some sex toys or a porno movie to watch together.

I know that her libido is much more active than mine, so I try to keep that in mind. I try to initiate once in a while so that she feels like she is attractive to me. Little does she know, though, that the nights that we sit outside on the back steps sharing a bowl of ice cream and talking are much more stimulating to me than the nights when I am getting ready for bed and she catches my eye and smiles that certain smile that means she would like to make some eggs with me. (Every couple has some idiotic private reference to sex and well, this is ours...)

I'm wondering...am in the minority here? What is it like for you? Has age changed you or are you still pretty much the same as you were in high school about how you feel about intimacy?

What color is your libido? What number is your sex drive? Are you in sync with your spouse/partner/whatever?

If you had to give up sex for the rest of your life, could you?

Does the thought of sex with your partner only for the rest of your life distress you or comfort you? Both?

And if you are single...do you miss married sex?

Let's open the bedroom doors here. Be anonymous if you must, but tell me what the mood is like in your bedroom....

Please excuse Maria.

She had intended to write a rather funny blog about sexual preferences, even had it sort of laid out in her head.

And then she came home from work and decided to let the dog out first. She opened the back door to let Socks out and the scent of lilac bushes in full bloom coaxed her outside. It was heady stuff and she could not resist.

Liv came out too and she and Socks ended up playing in the yard while Maria sat in her adirondack chair and read her book. Bing came home from work and it was decided that it was a good evening for cold leftover chicken sandwiches, leftover cole slaw and big drippy dill pickles. Some bbq potato chips. A chocolate chip cookie for desert. All eaten in lawn chairs in the back yard off of paper plates.

The temperature was a summery 88 degrees with a soft balmy southern wind.

Afterwards, Bing took the dog for a run and Liv and Maria just stayed outside and read their books in companionable silence, the smell of lilacs wafting through the air and intoxicating both of them.

Maria tried to get up out of the chair several times but each time, the smell of those lilacs enticed her to stay put in the early evening sunshine.

She eventually came in and sat down to write the blog, but suddenly, a snarky blog about sex seemed to need to wait for another day.

She sighed and when Bing and Socks came back from their walk, she picked up her book, asked Socks if he wanted to go outside again for a while to smell those lilacs.

Bing and Liv decided to go too....so, another day for the sex blog.

Another day to write the blog about how incredibly cool this movie was. Another day to talk on a sex blog about whether Spock is hotter than Jim.

Because right now, it is spring on the prairie and the lilacs are blooming.

Enough said.

Maria attends a seminar/workshop.

This is all Julie's fault. About a month ago, she approached me with this too perky smile on her face and asked me if I had seen the brochure she had put in my mail box. I looked up at her from my desk.

"Did you leave that piece of junk?" I asked her. "I barely read it. It's in the trash can."

It was a brochure about an all day long seminar called How to balance your work life and your home life!!! I don't have any problem doing that and all those exclamation marks sort of irritated me, so I had barely glanced at it. I had no desire to pay to attend a seminar like that. Now, maybe if they paid me...

Julie retrieved the brochure and sat down across from me.

"I think you and I should go together," she said, smiling an encouraging smile.

"I think not," I retorted and held up a chart, indicating that I was kind of busy.

She tried again. "C'mon. Don't you think it sounds kind of...fun?" she asked. Again with that smile.

"No," I answered shortly.

"Maria, we ALL can use good ideas in this area of our life," she said.

I asked her if she thought that I was having problems balancing my home life and work life. She shook her head no.

"So, why should I attend?" I asked her. I was starting to feel annoyed with her.

She faltered. "Weeeeeeelllll," she finally said, clearly uncomfortable.

I waited.

She finally fessed up.

"It is being put on by my massage therapist and I told her that I would go and Piper already said no and I really, really don't want to go alone," she admitted.

I stared at her. "So, let me get this straight," I said. "I'm not even your first choice and you are only doing this because you want to please your massage therapist? Is this the same woman who told you that you needed to relax because you acted like you had a cob up your ass?"

She sighed. "I knew you would mock me," she said sadly, looking down at her feet.

I snorted. Stared at her until she turned up her very hurt, very Meryl Streep face to look at me.

"Faker," I whispered.

"PLEASE," she begged me. "I will pay your way and hey, the lunch they are serving looks good," she coaxed. "You get your choice of beef medallions or ginger chicken over rice and there is even a vegetarian plate..."

"Well," I said, pretending to be sold. "I don't know how I can say no to beef medallions. Are they in mushroom gravy? Because if so, I just may pee my pants with glee here..."

She jumped up and clapped like a little girl. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" she gushed. "I think it will be fun, don't you?"

I rolled my eyes.

So, the seminar was scheduled for yesterday. The night before the seminar, guess who calls me to tell me that she is sick?

Yup. Julie. And I couldn't even call her a liar because I'm the one who walked into the bathroom at work that day to listen to her having explosive diarrhea in one of the stalls. I'm also the one who made a run to a nearby market to buy her Pepto Bismol. And I am the one who told her to just go home and go to bed before we had to fumigate the whole office.

I thought about skipping the seminar. But, since it had cost Julie over 300 bucks to reserve our places, I felt obligated to go.

But, never again. As God and Jay Leno as my witnesses, I will never go to anything like this again.

Not even if they serve prime rib next time.

Or pancakes with butter pecan syrup.

Or whiskey sours.

Or all three.

The brochure instructed us to wear "comfortable clothes" so I wore jeans and a long sleeved tee shirt. Nikes.

Everyone else must have gotten the "casual dressy" brochure because pant suits abounded. Pastel pant suits.

It started at 8 a.m. and while there was a platter of wee cartons of orange juice, there was no freakin' coffee. What kind of a dog and pony show was this? NO COFFEE? Were they insane? I drink a cup of coffee at home, take one in the car on my way to work and often drink three more before lunch.

Next to the oj was a platter of plain doughnuts. Not even a stray sprinkle or a drizzle of glaze to be seen.

Plain doughnuts and orange juice? I turned up my nose and stalked over to a table of women who were sitting in shock. We all made snotty comments together about how this was a very bad start.

Two white haired matrons sat at a table with all of our name tags. They were color coded and I immediately looked around to see who the others were who had red borders. There were four others that I could see. One was a tall, striking black woman in nice black pants and a black shell. Another was a squatish, shortish woman with short clipped black hair and a bright lemon colored polyester suit. I could see a faint mustache above her lip even from several feet away. Another was a tall, willowy woman with large sad doe eyes. She looked like she was about 16. The last one I could find was a vivacious red head who was wearing plaid and actually looked not bad in it. I sighed, but vowed to be a good sport.

We were obviously going to be put into groups and this could only mean one thing:

Stupid adult get-to-know-each-other games.

I was right. As the doors to the seminar room opened, a petite woman wearing a navy blue pantsuit came out and exuberantly clapped her hands to get our attention. She looked like Sarah Palin's slightly less attractive and shorter sister.

"Welcome, ladies and three brave gentlemen!" she exclaimed, smiling at the three men who were clumped together and looking like they were going to bolt for the exit at the first opportunity. "Please sit at the table with the matching border color from your name tags!"

I found the red table and sat down with the four other women in my group. We all smiled at each other in a tentative way.

"First of all," Sarah P's sister said, "Let me introduce myself. My name is Mitzy and I will be leading this workshop."

Workshop? The brochure said seminar. A workshop and a seminar are two different things. A seminar meant that we listened to lectures. A workshop meant that we had to um...do some work. I looked around to familiarize myself with the closest exit.

Mitzy Palin went on. "Now, you will all know each other well when we say goodbye this afternoon, but for now, I want you to pick up one of the tablets on your table and write down three things about yourself so that the others at your table can get an idea what you are like. But, and here is the fun part!...I want you to write two true things about yourself and one lie!"

I inwardly groaned. Vowed to put a live snake in Julie's desk. Or wait. Didn't she mention that she was scared of mice once? I wondered how late that pet store on the way home was open...

I quickly wrote down

I have a little shoplifting problem.

I once kissed Barry Manilow right on the lips.

I am the mother of septuplets.

When we had to pass around our tablets, I immediately realized that I was probably with a boring group.

The others had obeyed the rules. No Harriets for me today.

Soon, the room was buzzing as everyone had to guess what the lie was in their lists.

It was quickly discovered that in my group we had women who enjoyed scrapbooking, liked to cook, enjoyed Dancing with the Stars and had never been outside of the United States. Oh, and well..me. The shoplifting mother of septuplets who was probably lying her head off about smooching Barry Manilow.

After this fun start, Mitzy handed out an article about how to balance work and home. It appeared to have been lifted right out of a Good Housekeeping magazine.

Have dinner every night with your family to stay connected.
Spend 20 minutes every day doing something just for you.
Have a hobby.
Try to do something physical every day, even if it is only putting on your sneakers for a quick ten minute walk around the halls of your work place.
Make a list of everything you need to do the next day before you go to bed. Read it once and then crumple it up into a ball and forget about it.
Don't drink coffee after 6 p.m.
Find a church and attend services to keep yourself grounded.
Resist gossiping at work.

And my favorite:

Look into the mirror every morning and smile at yourself. You are your best champion!

This was going to be a long day.

Mitzy then went over the list and spent an incredible amount of time on each suggestion, expounding on it and drawing it out as if we were freshman in college at orientation.

I knew what was coming next, so started preparing for it. She would ask us to go around in a circle and have each of us "introduce" one of the members of our table to the rest of the room. I wasn't sure who I would be assigned to, so I made a mental paragraph of each of the women at my table.

First I would need to remember their names. They were Debbie, Uma, Mandy and Betty. Ah. Too simple.

Debbie.
Uma.
Mandy.
Betty.

Ok...now. Personalites.

Debbie would be easy. I liked her the best, so far. She sort of reminded me of one of the writers of a blog that I enjoy and conveniently, her name was also Deb. Aka Middle Girl. They were both black too and one of Debbie's truths was that she was originally from Chicago. Just like Deb. So..I would have no trouble remembering Deb.

Uma was more of a stretch. She looked amazingly like Hitler's little sister with her mustache and that short black hair, parted on the side. I decided to remember her name by thinking she looks NOTHING like Uma Thurman. She said that she enjoyed watching Dancing with the Stars, so I kept an image of Uma dancing in Pulp Fiction.

Mandy. Hmm. With those dark, sad almond eyes, she looked like she could easily be the woman who inspired the Barry Manilow hit, Mandy. And hadn't she mentioned that she was Jewish? Well, I think Barry was Jewish. Ok.

Betty. Betty had the red haired look of a sidekick. If this was a movie, she would be the heroine's spunky best friend. I thought of the comic strip where Veronica and Betty were characters. Yes. That would work. And Betty, if I recall, even had a sidekick job. She was a doula. The ultimate sidekick job.

And I was right. As soon as Mitzy finished her diatribe of suggestions on how to cope with the problem of balancing work and home, she looked slyly around in the room. She stated that now we would all meet each other! And, yes, of course, we were to take turns introducing the person to our right and telling them one interesting thing about their personality.

I was sitting next to Betty. So, this was easy. I said her name and told everyone that she was a doula. Now, it was Debbie's turn to introduce me. She smiled at me and shook her head once and then stood up.

"This is Maria," she said. "And she is a cop, specializing in catching shoplifters."

I looked at her gaping a little and then Debbie smirked at me and I had to laugh. I just might have a Harriet at the table after all....

When she sat down, she leaned over and whispered, "Didn't think you wanted me to mention your affair with Barry or that he is the father of your septuplets..."

We both laughed. And the day got better.

Deb and I sat together at the luncheon, snarfed up our beef medallions and talked. About Chicago, my favorite city and her birthplace. About her brother, who actually IS a cop who specializes in catching shoplifters. And about our kids, her teenaged daughter and my Liv. She gave me an idea about what to expect when Liv hits high school. It wasn't pretty and involved menstrual cramps and crawling out of bedroom windows to meet boys with motorcycles who would call me "dude." We also revealed that we both had been coerced into attending this seminar/workshop. She, by her mother who thought she might meet a nice man. ("My mother is so desperate for me to meet a man now that she actually introduced me to a guy that she met at the rehab facility where she works. He was admitted for cocaine addiction and she thought that I might be a reason for him to go straight.")

After the luncheon, we had to go back to our groups and sit and listen to a female comic talk about balancing work and home. She may or may not have been funny. I have no idea since I think this was her first gig. She had no idea how to hold a microphone and kept flailing around her arms as she spoke, causing us to lose many of her sentences halfway through.

After that, it happened. I had hoped it wouldn't, but had this sick feeling that it might. And it did.

We were told to all stand up with our group and one of us was picked to stand in the middle. I was picked, of course. Debbie thought this was hilarious, of course. And then, yes, of course...we were instructed to turn our backs to our group and free fall into their arms. This was to show us the importance of trusting our "friends" to catch us if we needed it. That we should be able to depend on our "friends and family" to be there to catch us if we fell.

I pointed out to Mitzy that I had known this group for exactly 7 hours and that didn't leave me assured that I would be caught. She didn't find this helpful and frowned at me.

"I think you might be surprised how willing people are to help, even those people that they don't know well," she said, her voice dripping with the deep wisdom of a massage therapist.

I looked around me. One group had unwisely selected a very obese woman as the one who stood in the center of their group. The rest of the group were tiny, perhaps only a bit taller than midgets. With stick arms and legs.

That fat woman was going down. No doubt about it. And maybe taking her entire group with her.

I looked behind me, cautiously. Deb, Uma, Mandy and Betty stood grinning at me.

Finally, someone (I believe it was probably Deb) hissed, "Chicken..."

I sighed and just did it.

And they caught me of course. Because, they were after all, a pretty decent group of women.

"We have to make sure you get home safely to Barry and those septuplets..." Betty said, laughing.

On the way out, we all exchanged business cards. But, you know we won't be calling. Well, maybe Debbie. She and I might be destined for an apple martini one of these days.

On the way home, I stopped at that pet store.

"So," I said to the acne scarred boy in the red smock with a name tag that said, "My name is Bradley and I can help you!".....

"Do you have any snakes?"

All in the family

Well, finally back at work and home. It was a pretty nice visit to my old childhood home in Iowa. The first time in many years that my sisters and I were all together. Funny, how we are so different and so the same in so many ways. Politically, I am always the odd woman out. A typical comment came from my sister, Celia. We were talking about strange people who we grew up with and she mentioned a person we all knew.

But, what can you expect? She's an Indian. This was Celia talking.

This person is a Native American. I think I said something like, "Thank you, Ma Ingalls" and then let it go. And I didn't mention that Liv is part Native American. She would have said that of course she didn't mean Liv and would have meant it, but as I age I am learning that some fights are just not worth staking out. My bff, Harriet, told me once that before she attacks anyone now, she asks herself, "Am I willing to die on this hill?" Meaning, is she willing to make that big a deal out of it and more than not, the answer is just no. I am old enough now to know that my sisters have their belief systems just as I do and no arguing is going to change that. Unless the comment had been said in front of Liv...I decided to let it go.

My sisters and I look nothing alike and yet, people are always telling us that we all look alike, that we sound exactly the same on the telephone and that we all have that pointy witch chin, the way all Lastnames do. We also have the same laugh, the same way of walking and the same degree of stubborness, meaning that our spouses know better than to take us on in an argument. (I would rather fight a buzz saw than any of you...)

We have that sisterly telepathic thing going on. We often can tell if one of us is sick, depressed or in need of a phone call. We have something that we call sister shorthand. We all love Doris Day movies, so can call each other at any time and simply yell, "Doris on the movie channel! That one where she wears that cute red scarf!" and hang up. And then we all watch Caprice or That Touch of Mink or Teacher's Pet all together. The cake gets burned, the dishes can wait. DORIS IS ON!

We all have a weakness for the turkey skin at Thanksgiving. When the turkey comes out of the oven, all of the sisters furtively wander over to pick a nice swath of skin off the bird to shove burning hot into our mouths.

We have an easy sisterly humor with each other. Patrice, the oldest, tends to be a very light eater. She is not only a vegetarian, but she takes small, dainty spoonfuls of food. Her plate looks like a doll plate at dinners. She scoops portions out for herself in teaspoon portions, not tablespoons or larger spoons. At breakfast, Jessie, our youngest sister, made an egg bake dish and hash browns and toast. On Patrice's plate was a small scoop of eggs and maybe three strands of hashbrowns. Dry toast. Not even butter!

Jessie gently admonished her: Patrice, honey. Leave some for the rest of the family. No one likes a sow...

Patrice also gets teased each and every sister get together for what is known as the church incident. This happened several years ago when we all went to mass together and Patrice fell asleep during it and not only made some very loud, unladylike snorty snorts as she slept, but when Jessie gently elbowed her to try to wake her, she woke up with a start and shouted out, "WHAT? WHAT?" causing everyone in the church, including the priest to stare at her. The altar boys were laughing so hard that they could barely do their job.

Jessie can never decide what to wear, so we were all ordered into her bedroom to help pick out her outfit. Jessie has no problem with stripping down buck naked in front of us as she changes. She lost her breasts several years ago to breast cancer and I love it that she could care less about walking about naked. I was surprised to see how tan her legs were and when I commented on them, she turned around to expose her lily white butt to us.

"Yeah," she said. "I go tanning sometimes. So what?"

Well, so what, I suppose. Looking down at my paste white skin, it occurred to me that this was gonna show up in the obligatory sister pics that we take. My sister, Patrice, orchestrates them and always insists that we stand in age order. This leaves me and Celia in the middle, flanked by Patrice and Jessie. So, let's see...me in between the well tanned Jessie and Celia, who tans also. I not only look like I am in dire need of a haircut, I look like a white pasty worm. I am shown the resulting picture and yes, there I am, looking like I am recovering from the flu, while Celia and Jessie look like aging beach bunnies.

One sister, (usually Celia, the fashion plate) will notice that the rest of our toes look totally gross without nail polish. Again, this happens each and every time we get together. This will erupt in a sister round robin where we each sit with some sister's feet in our laps, painting toe nails. It will be the only pedicure that I will get for years and the nail polish will chip off in tiny increments at a time, causing me to look totally messy. I know ahead of time that I will be too lazy to take it off with nail polish remover.

My sisters are also unfailingly kind hearted. Jessie and I went for a walk and as I hesitated before strolling down a grassy knoll with her, worried that my rheumatoid arthritic ankles would buckle, Jessie didn't say a word, just looped her arm through mine and didn't pause in the conversation. I was grateful.

Celia and I drove to get something at the store and ended up parked in the store lot talking instead of shopping, our feet propped up on the dashboard, comparing our newly painted red toe nails. She was the one that I confessed to that I really, really wanted to slap Bing for bailing on me about this trip.

"But," she said, slowly, "Isn't it sort of more fun to be on your own? I mean, think about it. She would hate all the sister talking that we do and you'd be trying to find things for her to do to keep occupied."

As usual, she was right. Celia and I have a built in comfort with each other from years of sharing a bedroom growing up. I used to be terrified of thunderstorms and our twin beds were only about a foot and half apart. Celia would reach across the span between our beds to hold my hand and together we would count between the lightning and the thunder to determine how fast the storm was leaving. She is still the one who I am most honest with.

My sisters and I are comfortable at a kitchen table together. The rest of the family swirl around us, the older children leaping around on the trampoline in the back yard, the younger ones toddling around careening into furniture with their sippee cups. We sit back and just talk. At one point, Jessie looks at me deeply for a moment and then intructs me not to move while she runs from the room. She returns with a tweezers and informs me that she thinks I have a...yes...she is sorry to say....it looks like a lone whisker on my chinny chin chin. She leans down and plucks it quickly before I can even look properly horrified.

I look around at us and wonder if we all got what we wanted in life. I feel pretty lucky. I have Bing. Liv. A job that I love. Patrice is retired and wealthy. Her husband didn't come with her this weekend and for that, we are all relieved. Even she is, I think. She doesn't speak badly about him, is loyal to a fault, but even she cringes at some of his racist remarks.

All that Celia ever really wanted was a man to come sweep her off her feet and take care of her. She got that. But, the lines blur over who is taking care of who.

Jessie is a small town girl through and through. While I was so eager to leave our little town after high school that I practically burned with the need to escape, she dragged her feet and as soon as she had her teaching degree, she was back to our small town, a teaching in the same school that we all attended.

We swap books but it is usually futile. Patrice likes memoirs, Celia, romantic fiction and Jessie her fantasies. I usually plain refuse to read love stories. But, we all confess that we go to sleep every night with a book in our hands. We are all big readers. I took my copies of David Sedaris with me and handed them out to my sisters. I will be really surprised if they like him. We just don't gel when it comes to books. I brought home a love story set in England that Celia insisted that I would love. I won't. Love it. I know this going in. But, I took it anyway, just as she took the Sedaris books from me. We were raised to be polite in our family.

We argue. Sometimes we gossip. Especially Patrice. But, in the end, we have each other's backs. And fronts. I can bitch and moan about my sisters, but just let someone else try.

When Liv and I got home, I let her stay home an extra day to help me put in the garden. It is all in now and as I planted, I remembered those long hot summer mornings spent in my mother's garden with my sisters. Pulling weeds. Picking beans. Peas. Carrots. You name it. I remember long, even hotter late summer days in my mother's un-air conditioned kitchen, canning. One day, after a long day of canning with Celia and Jessie while Patrice helped with the haying, we all ended up cooling off in the sprinkler.

"You look exactly like you all used to when you were kids," my Mother called out to us.

We had let the water hit us and get that awful sticky canning smell off of us. Later, when we had dried off, we all went our separate ways, as sisters do.

We still go our separate ways. I am never going to truly fit in. I'm the one who left the Catholic Church, who followed my heart and didn't deny my lesbianism. I'm the one whom my Mother banished, called a deviant.It would not be until my mother died that my sisters and I called a truce and became a family again.

But, sitting around the kitchen table now, I step outside of myself and take a good long look at those four sisters.

We are a family. And someday soon the phone will ring and it will be one of my sisters on the other end. She will scream out, "Turn to the movie channel, Doris is on! She is yelling at Rock and soon he will scoop her up and she will flail around and pretend that she hates him! Hurry!"

And I will.

You can't choose your family. But, you can love them as is.

And I will.

There's no place like home.

Liv and I are off to Iowa for a few days. Bing bailed on us at the last moment. Said she had too much school work....this, of course, caused us to have one of those lovely whispering hissy fights that take place when a child is in the next room.

She has since left for school to "catch up" and I am left to get through a visit of being the lone liberal at the table. This is very like being the orphan at the table, I have discovered. I love my family, but...just once I want to feel as if I belong, you know? Instead, I often feel like some stranger who wandered in off the streets.

I'll be back soon to catch up. Have a great weekend and if you see Bing sitting around on her ass watching television, be sure to get the cattle prod out remind her that that leaky kitchen faucet needs fixing. I'm still too mad to be capable of civil conversation.

What's a Maria to do?

Last night, Liv and I went out to smell the freshly budding lilac bushes in our backyard. It was heady...they aren't very scented yet, but it is in the air.

So, there we are sniffing away, smiling at each other and Liv says, "Wow. I am damn happy right now."

Hmm. I gave her a long look but ignored the comment. Figured this was a repeat of the phase she went through at four when she heard me say shit and then went around saying it all day.

Then, this morning Liv walked into my room and said, "It's a pretty morning, isn't it? The sun is out!"

I sat glumly with my headache ridden skull throbbing, but managed to agree that, yes, it sure was pretty out there today.

"I'm in a damn happy mood today!"

That was Liv, of course, not me.

I sighed. And this is one of those small battles. The big ones won't come sliding in until a few more years. Then, I am told, she will not want to be in the same room with me for more than two minutes at a time.

So..time for a talk, I suppose.

Any suggestions?

She'll be coming 'round the mountain....

Bing comes home tonight. And yes, I have missed her. But...

I do enjoy my alone time too. Last night, as we talked on the phone, she said, "One more day and I get to kiss you. One more day and you get to kiss me. One more day and I get to sleep in my own bed. One more day and you get to see your coming home present...."

I already know what it is. She couldn't wait to tell me. It's....peanuts.

Yes, you read correctly.

Peanuts. Raw peanuts, to be exact. They are hard to find here on the prairie. You can buy them roasted, salted, etc. But not raw. And we want to try growing them this year in our garden, but you have to use raw ones. Apparently, they are so prevalent down south that people sell them out of their front yards, which is where Bing bought ours for 40 cents.

She got lost when she was out taking a drive and ended up on some country road. She stopped at a farmhouse to ask directions and sure 'nuff, the guy was selling raw peanuts, tomatoes and even some early peaches. So, Bing, being Bing, bought all of the above and found her way back and also had herself some lunch.

We talked a bit more. I told her about that marmalade ginger cat that keeps hanging around our yard. She stressed to me again that she is allergic to cats and please, please, please, she does not want to come home to a litter box set up in our den. I told her not to worry, that I had already told Liv that we are not to take him in the house. I didn't mention, however, that we bought a sack of cat food and he knows that he can come snack at our house anytime he wishes...

Before we hung up, Bing asked if I was missing her too.

"Don't be needy," I told her. "You know I have missed you..."

"I guess so," she sighed. "I just...sometimes I worry that one of these trips I will come home and you'll tell me that you are ready to be by yourself again."

She is right...and wrong to worry.

The truth is that I have enjoyed my solitude. I truly am a person who likes her own company. I am never lonely. Well, Liv is here, so I can't really ever be alone, but the truth is that what I enjoy most about Bing being gone, is well...Bing being gone.

I've grown accustomed to her face.
She almost makes the day begin.
I've grown accustomed to the tune that
She whistles night and noon....

I love only watching television when I want to watch a particular show. Liv seldom watches TV, maybe a cooking show once in a while. She watches The Amazing Race, Lost, and Heroes but that is about it.

Bing is a news junkie and a music lover. The second she steps into the house, she either turns on CNN or music. It is one of those things that drive me crazy. She will be tapping away on her computer in the office and I will come home to find the television on. When I turn it off, she yells at me from down the hall: "HEY! I was listening to that!"

If the television isn't on, the radio is on or a cd. The genre varies. Sometimes she listens to jazz, sometimes country, sometimes alternative, sometimes rock, sometimes classical. I once came home to Polish polka music.

That woman cannot bear a silent house. I cherish just that. A SILENT house. I love quiet reading times, curled up on the sofa with a book or sitting outside in the sunshine with a book in my lap and a smartly sliced apple on a napkin.

Her smiles, her frowns,
Her ups, her downs
Are second nature to me now,
Like breathing out and breathing in....

And well...okay...the food thing. Bing is the healthiest eater on the planet. She buys organic if we can't eat from our garden. She rarely eats meat, but does enjoy fish. If it is processed, we don't eat it very often. Same with preservatives. She buys everything fresh, cooks everything fresh and I will admit that we eat well and healthily. Because of her. Not me. Our grocery bill reflects this. It is not cheap to eat fresh. Occasionally, she goes hog wild and buys something totally out of character, like girl scout cookies, but this is mostly because she has a soft heart and the nurse at her school has a daughter who is a girl scout, not because she had a craving.

When she is gone, I let us cheat. A lot. So far this week, Liv and I have gotten take out from KFC, had Cap'n Crunch for breakfast and pot pies for dinner. We have also pigged out on oreos. And licorice snaps. We went out for breakfast and Liv ordered biscuits and gravy because she had always wanted to try it but knew that it would make Bing nauseous. She didn't like it much, she said it sat heavily in her stomach, but damn it...she had to TRY it.

When Bing gets home, she will discover frozen pizza in the freezer that we didn't get to. Mint milanos. An empty Krispy Kreme box will be in the trash. And yes, Hot Pockets. I refuse to hide anything, not because I am so honest, but because I have Liv to consider. If I lie, it will force her to lie and I can't have that. And also, because I am a grown woman and if I want to eat badly now and then...I FUCKING WILL.

Bing will argue that this is fine for me...but that now our child is full of preservatives and chemicals. The last time she went out of town, I bought a large bag of cheetos, one of my weaknesses. I love the soft ones, the ones that turn your fingers a lovely shade of orange. She came home and then walked mincingly into the bedroom one night and proceeded to force me to listen as she read the ingredients out loud to me. Then she said, her eyebrows knitted together, "And this is what your beloved daughter now has floating around in her body, Maria!"

So shoot me. I'm okay with that. In small doses. It isn't as if we eat like this often. And I don't want Liv to be one of those kids who go to other kid's houses and gets sick on Hostess Ho Ho's because she never gets them at home. Or go off to college and have dinners of Mountain Dew and flamin' hot doritos because she never got them at home.

I was serenely independent and content before we met,
Surely, I could always be that way again, and yet
I've grown accustomed to her look
Accustomed to her voice,
Accustomed to her...face.

Setting aside the food and noise...I just like being by myself. I like not having to...to...visit with anyone except Liv. I have always been a loner, a solitary person. The only person I have ever been completely comfortable sharing a home with has been Liv. The day she was born, I worried that I would hate giving up my solitude, but I discovered, to my surprise, that I loved sharing my life with Liv. It felt natural, like the right way for me to be from day one.

I haven't been so successful with others. Bing included. I don't like compromising and there is so much of that involved when you are part of a couple.

This is complicated by the fact that Bing and I are nothing alike. She is outdoorsy and athletic. She doesn't read fiction, reads mostly political books or books about computers or technology. She is almost ridiculously excited because soon the new Star Trek movie will be out and that one where Hugh Jackman plays some sort of wolf. She is a bonafide Trekkie, loves those awful Terminator movies. She once admitted to me that she had always secretly longed to go to a Star Trek convention dressed as Scotty. I've already mentioned that she treats her body like a shrine. She is careful what goes into it. Even when we were in college, she was always the designated driver. I was the one who got drunk and danced around like a wild woman. She was the one who carried me home and held my hair when I puked.

But I'm so used to hear her say
"Good morning" ev'ry day.
Her joys, her woes
Her highs, her lows
Are second nature to me now,
Like breathing out and breathing in.

She's the one riding her bike at the park with Liv, racing around in her little hat ("Um...Maria...it is called a HELMET.") I'm the one sitting on the bench, lost in my book with Socks curled up beside me as we both smile up at them when they whiz by us. She's the one mowing the lawn in a sleeveless tee shirt and shorts, her skin bronzed by the sun. I'm the one weeding my garden with my big hat on my head because I burn as red as a lobster in ten minutes.

I'm the one watching Atonement perched on the edge of my seat, weeping at the scene where James McAvoy dies in battle. Bing? She's the one sleeping next to me. At the end of the movie, she will stretch and say, "Good lord, that was LOOONGGG. Is it still light out? Maybe there is time to go for a bike ride before the sun sets. I feel like I have been penned up in this dark cave for years..."

I'm not good at compromise. Not good at sharing. I don't much enjoy learning to live my life next to someone. I am made for silence, for aloneness. I always have been. So, this coupledom shit is really, really hard for me. I don't do it well or naturally. And the hard part is that Bing knows this. She knows that I don't really want to go play frisbee in the back yard together. And I think, no...I KNOW that it hurts her a little. Because she doesn't really understand it. She is giving and gregarious. She doesn't mind compromising and she sees her life with me, our togetherness as a great adventure, a wonderful journey.

She doesn't forget our anniversary. No. That would be me.

I'm very grateful she's a woman
And so easy to forget
Rather like a habit
One can always break
And yet...
I've grown accustomed
to the trace
of something in the air
Accustomed to her...

face. (And no slapping me around about those last lyrics...I didn't write them and I don't think she is less than because she is a woman. I could have substituted the word human and it would have meant the same to me.)

So, okay. I stink at romance. I stink at being part of a couple and I relish my privacy, my solitude. But, there is this other part of me, this stronger part of me...that...yes...MISSES her.

Because...boy howdy...

I love the way she looks when she comes in from her run or her bike ride with her sunglasses on, her body all loose and happy. She will be going through her mail, perched by the sideboard and catch me looking at her.

And then...ah...

that slow, sexy, southern smile will inch out over her face.

Because she knows that I am looking at her and thinking just how...wonderful she looks. She will take her sunglasses off, cut those brown eyes over at me and drawl in her soft voice....

c'mere...

I love sitting in the big chair with her, watching SNL or the news, a television program or whatever. She will absentmindedly stroke my arm or play with my hair. And I will feel content and cozy.

I love watching her when she is outside grilling or pulling weeds or just enjoying the sun. The stray marmalade ginger cat will come wandering into the yard and sidle up to her, weaving around and around her legs, stretching it's neck to rub up against her.

And she won't shoo it away. She won't pet it but what I love about her is that she can't bring herself to shoo it away either. Sometimes she will talk quietly, so seriously, to the cat. I can't hear what she is saying, but the cat does. It will nod slowly, they have an understanding. She needs to pretend that she isn't a cat person and the cat allows this. But, he knows she is bluffing and likes her just the same.

Bing is always planning. And I am always in her plans. I'm never far from her thoughts and neither is Liv. That means more to me than I can say. As much as I chafe against the bonds of coupledom, I also admit that they soothe me. I am an enigma. I know this. Sometimes I just don't know what the hell I want.

I like watching her talk to our neighbors. She will throw her head back and laugh her southern drawly laugh, her eyes glinting, the toes on her sneakers tapping. And then she will come in the house and there is always news. Did I know that Tom bought a doily for his wife's birthday present? Did I know that Nick's flowering crab is finally in bloom? And what about all those rabbits this year? Did I know that Burt claims that he goes outside after midnight and sits naked in his lawn chair to have his last cigarette before bed?

Bing just called me to say that her stopover flight just landed in Atlanta. She'll be home in a few hours.

"I can't wait to see you, kiss your face off," she says, happily.

I say something like right back at you, baby because endearments don't come easily to me.

And then I throw caution to the wind and oh what the hell...

I tell her that I can't wait to see her either. That I changed the bed sheets today and that nothing has been right without her.

She is quiet on the other end of the line. But, I am sure that she is grinning.

Oh, fuck it. I suppose I am just THAT crazy about her. Who else would know that bringing me raw peanuts is the best gift?

Eliza, where the devil are my slippers?