Settling down

Well, things are settling down at last.

Tinton and Nirand left this morning to go back home. We won't see them again until they both come for Christmas. Liv surprised me by not weeping. Tinton surprised me by weeping copiously when he said his goodbyes to her. She stood in his arms, his tall reed of a daughter, her arms around him tenderly, patting his back gently.

I think his tears took him by surprise too. He texted me an hour after they were on the road to apologize for acting like "an old woman." I laughed. Texted him back that it is no crime to love his child that much. I asked Liv if she was feeling okay and she said that she was and I believed her. She said that while the summer trip was fun, she did suffer more from homesickness then she let any of us know and confessed that she was very glad to be back home.

"I'll miss Dad, but December is very close. Plus...I promised him that if it is okay with you, maybe we can make this a yearly thing. I could maybe spend my summers with him?" she asked.

I said we would absolutely think about it.

Hell, no.

Well, maybe. Next summer is far away. Let's cross that bridge when we get to it.

Bing and I took a mini vacation from Thursday through Saturday. We went to Des Moines, Iowa to see The American Idol tour. Or as I thought of it, The Lee DeWyze concert.

Big fan. And I never thought I would even watch American Idol. But...what can I say, Lee pulled me in from day one and I stuck with him until he won at the end.

Bing suffered good naturedly through the concert. She is not an AI fan, but not only did she encourage me to buy a program, she sat in the second row center with me and laughed when I actually got up to dance with all the teenage girls.

I paid for it the next day with my RA. I could hardly walk and could not raise my arms above my head. She tenderly took me home and drove the entire way, letting me sleep in the back seat, drooling and snoring. That's love, folks.

Despite my dark yearnings, I'm not an idiot. I know how good I have it. And I am hopelessly devoted and in love with my wife.

Tinton, Nirand and Liv had a huge barbeque waiting for us when we got home last evening, complete with Lee DeWyze albums coming through the speakers.

Now, we are settling back into real life. Bing is teaching, I am healing, Liv is top dog in her sixth grade class at Montessori.

It is still hot outside, but the cooler winds are emerging with the morning light and the evening star and pretty soon we will be watching leaves change.

It is time for Bing and I to watch Dexter when Liv goes to bed. I will can and freeze next week and keep Liv home from school one day to help me and learn how to do this. My mother taught me. I will teach her.

I will soon put the blankets back on the beds and put our sun dresses (well, mine and Liv's...Bing would rather die then wear a dress) up in the attic until next summer.

Life keeps turning. And I keep following. And dreaming. And planting my two feet sturdily in my reality. I think John Lennon was right.

You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one.

I may pine for a darker dream now and then but I am not foolish enough to stray far from the sheer goodness of my everyday life.

My phone rings and it is Tinton. They are nearly to the Nebraska border. "How is my little girl doing?" he asks. I tell her that she is fine, she is doing her first homework of the year, a math equation that her teacher assigned especially to her. A hard one. Something related to string theory.

"How's my other girl doing?" he asks. He means me. I tell him that I am fine. Happy. So glad to have Liv back.

"I love you, you know that, don't you?" he asks. He tells me that he grew to love me more each day he spent with Liv.

"She is such a remarkable little girl," he says. "And she is you all over, Maria. She may look like me, but she sees the world with your eyes and I am glad for that. She is so much like you. And so much like just herself, too, you know? How did we get a mathematician? Tell me that. Did she tell you that she has been sending two dollars out of her allowance every week to Feed America? She's ELEVEN."

We both laugh proudly. Because, seriously. How did this happen?

We say goodbye and I hang up the phone and turn to my family.

Bing is getting ready to go running with the dog before it gets too hot. Liv is holed up in her room working on her math problem.

And me? I'm eating a perfect Colorado peach and feeling like maybe, just maybe, I am doing just fine.

The real me

It's not who you think.

Sometimes I read my blog and roll my eyes. I sound so contented and warm and earthy. A blissful mama and her baby cub all cuddled up with another mama bear and a frolicking dog to boot.

It's true, I suppose. My life is that idyllic a lot of the time. And my love for my daughter is just about the most peaceful, joyous love I can imagine.

But, what I have hinted at but probably not given enough space to is the other person who lives in me.

Sometimes I feel like a fraud.

Because while I love my life, love my friends, love my family, love my freakin' dog for fuck sakes, I also have a yearning for a darker reality.

Sometimes I hear a song and it melts all over me because I feel like maybe there are others in the world who are like me and it is sort of a luxury to feel like that.

I tend to be kind of a lonely woman even in the middle of all this love in my life. I am not much of a hugger or a gusher. I read my blog sometimes and get a bit gaggy from all the sweet sweet.

I am a complicated woman.

I am mostly good. I don't lie, cheat or steal. Well, I lie sometimes, but only to protect someone or to keep a cruel truth from surfacing.

I work very hard at being a good mother. I work less hard but I do try to be a good partner to Bing. I earn my own keep, pay my bills on time, keep a happy, healthy stance in my home. I take care of my own. I try to do good in the world. My job benefits children.

I carry blankets in my car in the winter to hand out to the homeless. Bing and I make sure that no kids in her classes go without a coat if they need it. I say sure when I am asked at the grocery store if I want to donate a dollar to help find a cure for juvenile diabetes. My friends know that I will help if they need me. Always.

But sometimes, like the song that melted all over me says, I wish that I could take a holiday. By myself.

This is what I sometimes ache to do:

I want to get on an airplane and tell everyone my name is Brigid or Francine or Bess or Caroline. Anything but my real name. I want to check into my hotel in Europe and go out and find a dive bar to play pool in. I want to beat the pants off every man or woman who plays me. And fuck it if their fragile feelings are bruised. I want to not care.

I want to drink so much that I can barely remember my own name. So much that he or she has to carry me up to one of our hotel rooms. While I am getting good and stumbley, I want to dance to Dave Matthews and smoke some cigarettes. Drink Tequila.

When we get upstairs, I want to be thrown on the bed, not gently laid down. I want to kiss him/her so hard that I get carried away and bite their bottom lip and draw a bead or two of blood. And I want to fuck. Not make love. Fuck.

And laugh. I want to laugh and for it to be fun and intense and naughty and oh so nice too. Because I want to be with my counterpart, someone who is basically good and kind but has this thin reedy streak of no-no sliding up in their veins sometimes too.

I want to be someone's crazy memory of a wild night. The kind of girl that they really don't want to even think of bringing home to their mama. I want them to shake their head when they remember that crazy girl that drove them just a little bit insane that night. I want to be the girl who talked them into wearing that metaphorical bunny suit. The girl who snarkily showed them a real crazy time and made them do foolish things, just for that one night.

I don't want to be a mother, a partner, a devoted friend. Just for that short time, I want to be right next door to a dangerous woman.

And then I want to move on, to some place else, someone else. I want to leave a lingering scent of something sexy and silly and sweet and totally off the chain.

I want to leave my angel wings at home and be kind of a beautiful mess.

Not forever. Not for long. Just for a holiday.

And then I want to come home and step gently into my life again with no regrets. I want to look off in the distance at nothing and then blush and smirk a little when I remember it all.

Whenever I hear this song, I feel like the guy that wrote it knows exactly how it feels to be in my skin, to read my mind.



I'll probably never act on it. I am too cognizant of the danger that a life like that could bring. I have no desire to crash and burn.

But, yeah...a little bit of blood on your bottom lip wouldn't kill you, buster. And I'd be gone before you knew what really hit you.

Thoughts at 2:58 a.m.

Is there anything more beautiful than waking up at 2:45 in the morning and gliding across the hall to see my daughter fast asleep in her own bed with her dog not at the end of the bed where he usually sleeps, but right up next to her in the bed with one doggy paw resting on her chest? Protective. Possessive. Loving. Relieved.

It's 2:58 a.m. and all is right with the world.

Happiness

Happiness is

a phone call from my daughter saying that although they are running late, they will be home by 8 tonight. She said, "When I see you, I plan to kiss your face off, Mama!" Oh, honey, right back at you tenfold.

coming home from grocery shopping to find Bing outside trimming the lilac bushes and then going inside to find the DVD of DEXTER season 4 on my bed pillow with a vase of soft pink roses on the bedside table and a note that says, "This is for us to watch after our company leaves and Liv is tucked in bed. Just you, me, Dexter and a bowl of cherries or maybe some peanut butter toast. Just us. Alone. With Dexter. Romance is alive and well in this house, sugar foot....." It was good to run outside with the DVD in hand and insist that she put the trimmers down and let me kiss her good and hard and long in front of all the birds in the back yard.

the dog fresh from the groomers. He smells good and his fur is as soft as silk. He wore the yellow bandanna that was tied jauntily around his neck for exactly 8 minutes but he looks fabulous. I can't wait to see him when he sees that Liv is home.

a day taken off from work on Monday to take my daughter shopping for her back to school clothes and everything else. Her school starts back on Wednesday and we will go out to lunch together. I plan to buy us both some new shoes too. Happiness is Ferragamo. Well, for me. For her, she is fine with sneakers and maybe some ballet flats for special occasions.

a bowl of juicy ripe tomatoes from my garden. Along with cucumbers, zucchini, snap peas, red and green peppers and baby potatoes and even a few onions. Some lemon basil from my herb garden to be tossed into spaghetti sauce this week. Lemon verbena for my bath water.

the bright yellow ring on my finger that Bing brought me home from Africa. The ring that was in the pretty white box on my bedside table when I came home from work one day with a note saying in true romantic Bing fashion: I love you big large.

knowing that I not only survived my summer alone, but I fucking THRIVED. No coward soul is mine. (Thank you Emily Dickinson.)

loving my job, my family, my friends and my cozy life that fits me like a soft blue cashmere sweater on a day that is nippy.

lemon cookies in the cookie jar, a bottle of chardonnay in the fridge and the fixings for a perfect summer salad in a drainer in my kitchen sink.

the book, Backseat Saints by Joshilyn Jackson sitting on the dining room table, just waiting for me to pick it up again. I am on page 28 and already hopelessly hooked. How lovely to be so seduced by a book.

a life that feels like a thousand puzzle pieces suddenly snapping together perfectly.

The sex question

Tonight, Liv and her father called. They have slowly started their drive home with our friend, Nirand in tow. When I finished talking to Liv and Nirand, her father asked to speak with me. With a lowered voice he informed me that Liv had asked him what sexual intercourse was.

"I told her that I thought it was a question that you could answer better than I," he admitted sheepishly.

I told him that it was fine, that actually I think it was the right answer. I am better at this shit than he is. But, I thanked him for the heads up. And thought to myself that it was a good sign that she felt comfortable enough to ask him about this. Liv is a cautious child in many ways. She has to trust completely before she risks looking foolish.

So, I have it planned in my head what I will say. And I can assure you it will not be what my mother told me.

What did my mother tell me, you ask?

Listen closely, my friends, because it is just too bizarre to not be true.

This is what my mother said to me, in a nutshell when I asked her what the carnal act (I was raised Catholic, enough said) was.

My mother was a very pragmatic, practical woman. She didn't sugar coat. She didn't romanticize and the world she lived in was stark reality; she was not one to day dream or have a vivid imagination.

This is what she told me:

"You've seen what happens when Penny (our dog) goes into heat, haven't you?"

I nodded. We lived out in the country but dogs from a ten mile radius came slithering into our yard like junkies looking for crack. Penny would be nonchalantly loping around the yard when suddenly she would be leaped on and rendered immobile while some junkyard dog had his randy dog way with her. I didn't know much about the act itself except that it didn't seem all that fun for either of them. I knew that the male dog attached himself to Penny and that she whimpered and even yelped while he looked like he was in a state of terrible anxiety. Eventually, the male would start to relax and then somehow they looked to be attached at the butt. Penny would attempt to escape from time to time, but it was useless. He would just be dragged along behind her. Sometimes my mother or da would get out the hose and aim it the dogs and this usually eventually separated them.

My mother went on.

"Well, it is the same with men and women. The man puts his penis in the woman's vagina and they are stuck together for a while. When it is over, the man shoots liquid out of his penis into the woman and if God is good, a baby comes from that seed and grows in the woman's belly."

I was thunderstruck and horrified. As I should have been.

I remember stuttering around a bit and finally asking (with abject horror) if I would go into heat and boys would all come snarling and running at me.

"No," she answered. "But, here is the truth. Boys always want to do that but you are never, ever to do that until you are married. If you do let them do that to you, you will go to hell. It is a big sin, Maria."

As god as my witness, I could not fathom why ANY intelligent girl would think it was okay to let some sniffing male come up and stick his penis inside of her. And then, well...what happened? Did you just stand in the yard like Penny, looking slightly pained, but stoic? Or would I try to run and end up with the man running with me, attached? And how did that work exactly? I mean, okay. If the man put his penis in my vagina how did we suddenly get butt to butt attached like Penny and her male dog rapists suitors?

I was confused. I was also sickened to think of my da doing that to my mother.

My mother said I could ask one question and then she had to go back to doing laundry. I asked her how long it took.

She said, "It goes much faster if you give them a little kiss now and then to speed up the process."

I had no idea what she meant but nodded and allowed her to go back to her chores. Later, a small pamphlet entitled something totally lame like Now it is time for the bride to give her husband her greatest gift: her virginity! was placed on my bed.

I didn't read it. I didn't want any more information. The whole thing was so barf inducing that I tried to black it out.

Of course, I grew up and realized how truly awful my mother's explanation was.

And so yes, I feel obligated to do much better with Liv. She deserves honest answers. But, I don't want to creep her out. I think the best advice I ever received on the subject was that I should simply answer her questions as honestly and succinctly as possible. No more information then she asked for, no less.

So..anyone have advice for me? And I'm curious. How did your parents (or whomever) explain sex to you?

Fess up, dudes.

In one week

In one week, Liv will be home.

I will go back to being somebody's mother again. Not that I wasn't someone's mother all summer, but I was on call, not on the job.

And I didn't like that much. I went to see her briefly for her 11th birthday and was astonished at how much she'd changed over the summer. She left as a scrawny, scabby kneed little girl. The girl who met me at the airport, standing next to her father, holding his hand and swinging it as he looked back adoringly at her, was a sight for sore eyes....but she looked different, I swear it.

And what really upended my world was that I noticed that she is turning heads! Yes, at the mere age of 11. When she left she was almost as tall as me (I'm five feet even) and this time when we hugged, she was exactly my height. At age ELEVEN. When she left, her hair was a dark honey blond, but days and days of hiking in the sun have lightened her hair to a true blond color. Her skin, always olive colored (from her father who is an american indian) was a deep cafe au lait. She was still incredibly slim with long colt legs, but instead of gangly and knock kneed, she now looked almost modelish, as if she were strutting down a runway.

Several teenage boys in the airport nearly came down with whip lash following her with their eyes. I wanted to smack them, tell them that she was just ELEVEN for fuck sakes and to stop that right this second, creepsters.

But, there is no denying it. She is like a mermaid come onshore. And what is most refreshing is that she has no idea whatsoever that she is drop dead beautiful. She is still my brainy little nerd of a girl, spilling over with news about all the rocks she had in her knapsack for me and how she is teaching her father french and the news that she has now officially bungee jumped and it was so much fun, but hey...she likes rock climbing the best. Her father smiled at me at this point and told me that she was a little spider monkey at rock climbing.

Well, I was still reeling at the fact that he allowed her to BUNGEE JUMP, for the love of Mike.

And now she is coming back home to start her sixth year at Montessori. Her father and his assistant and my good friend, Nirand are coming to visit for a week before they head back to Colorado.

But, I will be the parent in charge again, not him. And I am more than delighted to take those reins.

My life will go back to normal again. It has been a rewarding summer for me, I admit that. But, truly, honestly? I missed being Liv's mother, Bing's wife. Now it will all start again. The clitter and clatter of three people and one perky dog living together in one house again.

My days will start again with dropping Liv off at school and end with me coming home to Bing and Liv in the kitchen making dinner and the dog flinging himself into my arms as if I have been gone for a year instead of a day.

Homework will need to be done and once again I will have to admit that my eleven year old daughter has surpassed me mathematically, although I can still help her with everything else.

Groceries will be bought for three instead of a simple box of oatmeal and some rye bread for toast for one.

I will keep Liv home from school one day to help me can and freeze the vegetable bounty from our garden.

Liv and I will go clothes shopping together for the first time at a store instead of me just ordering her clothes from Hanna Andersson. Liv told me gently last year that she felt that it would be her last year as a "hanna kid." That the clothes were just a bit too babyish for her. She's always had strong opinions about clothes, was never into bows or fancy dresses, she inclines (as I do) toward straight lines and comfort. But...I am pretty sure that she won't be the Chanel whore that I am and that she won't be addicted to Ferragamo shoes. She is more...J Crew.

She is thinking about cutting her hair. I am hoping that she keeps it long just because it is such a luscious blond color, but it is her hair and her decision. She is also debating about getting her ears pierced. Initially, I told her that she would not be getting anything pierced until she was thirteen, but I noticed that every single one of her friends has pierced ears, so I told her that she could decide for herself in sixth grade. Of course, at the time, sixth grade seemed like light years away.....

I am hoping that she doesn't choose to pierce. I can't help it. I'm old school. I think it looks cheap when I see little children with pierced ears. But, as she reminds me over and over, "I am not a baby anymore, Mama!"

A friend of mine tells me that she thinks Liv looks like Mia Wasikowska with those long honey locks.

So, if she gets her hair cut, like this, she might get less attention from those pesky teenage boys....

And is it wrong of me to think that maybe there will be fewer boys ogling at her if she has shorter hair? It's just...I don't know...it sort of CREEPED ME OUT when they did that. She is a CHILD, for godsakes. MY CHILD.

I swear that I have no idea where she gets those luminous looks. She looks nothing like me. And although she looks a lot like her father, who sort of looks like this:

....she honestly looks like herself, like some sort of magical creature that came from someplace bright and beautiful.

I wonder what the year ahead will hold? I have never been one to look ahead really, but I am faced with an upcoming year that may surprise me, I suspect.

Liv is growing up. She is no longer my baby girl. She is my almost-a-teenager girl. She has stronger opinions lately. I raised her to think for herself and now I am starting to see the luxury of raising one's children to hold their parent's views. I suspect that she will start pulling away from me intellectually this year, wanting to be more of her own person and less of her mother's child.

I also know that she will still snuggle on the sofa with me from time to time because she still needs my touch. But, now...our roles are reversing. I am beginning to need her more than she needs me.

That scares the hell out of me.

I refuse to be one of those creepy mothers who insist on holding on to their children with both hands. I will try to avoid that, but I still need to crawl in her bed with her on Sunday mornings and have long discussions about which Beatle is the best (I say John Lennon, she is a George Harrison fan) or what we should buy for Bing's upcoming birthday.

And I still want her to crawl in bed with me sometimes....just because I am her mama and my arms feel just right around her.

As her head under my chin feels just right to me.

Except that it is looking like she will be about a foot taller than me soon.

Ok. Time to calm down.

Liv comes home in one week and I am almost chafing at the bit to see her. Her father tells me that he thinks she is ready to come home too. That she has been talking a lot about me lately, about how much she wants to see me.

He also admits that it will be very hard for him to tell her goodbye. Which is why I have already invited him to spend Christmas with us. I understand his pining for her, having experienced it for myself all summer.

All I know is that a week from today will be a happy, happy day.

My baby daughter is coming back home.

All's well that ends well

The alarm went off at 6 a.m. I groaned and leaned over Bing to slap it quiet. She put her arms around me before I could crawl away.

"Wow, there is this hot looking woman in my bed," she said, smiling.

"About fucking time you noticed," I said.

The homecoming

Bing came home today. Flight came in around noon, so I took the day off to meet it.

I wish I could say that we rushed breathless into each other's arms.

We didn't.

Her first words to me: "Couldn't you get closer to the curb?"

Apparently, my parking skills are still not too hot.

Well, THAT set the stage beautifully.

We brushed lips hello.

She looked almost gray with exhaustion. I tried to be understanding. Not only did she have jet lag, but she had been on an airplane for almost 20 hours.

I immediately did the wrong thing. I asked her if she missed Africa.

She looked at me, incredulous.

"Well, um...NO!" she said, a bit unkindly, I thought.

"It is beautiful in many ways, Maria. I think I mentioned that to you in all of my emails, but the poverty is just...jesus. It is heartbreaking. These people live in conditions that you can't even imagine. Americans have no right to complain about anything ever."

I was shamed into silence. I had been crabby about the recent heat wave on the prairie. My garden was slurping up water like crazy, I couldn't give it enough. I would come in from weeding dripping with sweat and sheer crabbiness. But, I came in to air conditioning. I came in to plentiful food and clean water.

I closed my mouth. We were silent the rest of the way home.

She dumped all of her bags all over the floor when she came in, stating that she was going to take a shower and go to bed. To wake her in a few hours please.

I stood looking at the mess all over my floor. Bags everywhere. Duffel bags full of dirty clothes. I walked into our bedroom and gathered up all of the candles that I had set up to be lighted for our homecoming love fest. Later. This could wait.

How thoughtless of me.

Of course she would need sleep. What had I been thinking?

I heard the water shut off in the shower and pulled back the covers on the clean mahogany sheets. She came in naked, toweling her hair and then stopped and looked at the bed.

She sighed.

"Brown reminds me of Africa. The sheets on our beds were always brown," she said. "I'm going to sleep in the guest room. Later, you." She pulled a clean tee shirt out of her drawer and walked down the hall. And then came back. I smiled, waiting for my kiss.

"It is really cold in here," she complained. "Can you please turn the air conditioning to a better range? Have you had it on this way all summer? What has the electric bill been like? Jesus...." she wandered off before I could answer.

I didn't go in to tell her to have a good sleep. Instead, I clunked downstairs and stood gazing at the mess of her belongings all over my clean house. I leaned down to start unpacking her dirty clothes bag.

She called down the steps, "Please just leave everything alone. I'll unpack after I've slept and I have everything exactly where I want it for now."

I gave her the finger, knowing that she couldn't see.

Tomorrow is another day.

I glanced outside at the white heat of the day. The temps were already in the mid 90's and it wasn't even late afternoon yet. The humidity was in the 70's. Ick. I'd wait to garden when it was twilight. Or no. Maybe I'd wait until tomorrow. The Teen Choice Awards were on tonight and Lee DeWyze was up for an award.

If Lee DeWyze was my partner, I'll bet he would have noticed that I had on my new sun dress with the tiny green flowers. He'd see me at the airport and smile and say, "You look GORGEOUS!" He wouldn't comment on my faulty parking.

If Lee DeWyze was my partner, we would be spending the afternoon in bed, getting to know each other's bodies again. He'd like all those candles and tell me how pretty I looked in the candlelight.

If Lee DeWyze was my partner, he wouldn't leave his filthy bags all over my clean floors. He'd just know how sloppiness bothered me.

I smiled. Lee DeWyze is twenty something. He would not be partnered with a 52 year old woman. I should just stick to listening to his music.

No. My partner is Bing and it is what it is. Flawed and imperfect. Me with too many expectations and she with too much fatigue to notice if I had on a burlap bag or a dress.

I settled on the sofa and opened my book.

Welcome home, Bing.

How to suck at phone sex

Your partner has been in Africa all summer. You miss her. She misses you.

Table is set for some good phone sex. One problem: you are a phone sex virgin. But, frankly, it is not exactly a problem since you are ignorant of your lack of expertise in that department. Since you have never had it, you don't even think of it. But, apparently your partner has been thinking about this. A lot. For a long time.

She calls you. She sounds tired but wanted to catch up with you since you haven't spoken in four days. Her voice goes soft towards the end of the conversation. Her voice is one that you recognize as the bed voice. Meaning: this is how she talks when you are about to have sex or have already had really good sex. Her voice is soft and husky. A little urgent. This sort of baffles you but you think to yourself that maybe she is just really, really exhausted and it just sounds like her bed voice but it is really her very very tired voice.

She says, "So...what are you wearing?"

The ball has apparently been thrown but you don't have a clue. Because, yes, you are taking her literally.

You look down at your clothes. You are wearing one of her old tee shirts. You tell her this. You elaborate by saying it is the old Gin Blossoms tee shirt, the one that she spilled spaghetti sauce on and remember you tried and tried but neither of you could get it out?

Longish silence.

She finally says, "Um...oh. Okay."

You can tell that you have misstepped somehow, but haven't a clue about what. So, you being you, a very upfront and sort of practical person, you ask her what is up, why does she sound so profoundly disappointed.

She chuckles. Says: "Weeeeelllll, I guess I was hoping you would say you were wearing a black teddy."

You are totally befuddled. You don't own a black teddy, what the hell is she talking about?

You tell her this. You say, "Honey, I don't even own a teddy and why would I? They are so uncomfortable, all that scratchy fabric."

She sighs. You ask her again what is going on.

She sighs again. This time she says: "It's just...I miss you sooo much and I was hoping that you would help me out here and tell me you were wearing a thong or those lacy red panties with the black lace on the top that are in your second drawer down on the left side. The ones that you used to wear a lot when we were first together, but now...not so much..."

You are completely lost.

You say, "What do you mean, I should help you out?"

Another silence. Suddenly, you get it. This is about the same time that she says: "Um...never mind. Nothing. I love you."

Ohhhhh.

You giggle like a sixteen year old girl in the backseat of a chevy.

You say, "Oh. Sorry. I get it. You want me to take care of your um....needs. Well, ok. I'm game. Let's um, see. Give me a sec."

You know that she is rolling her eyes. She has lost that bedroom voice tone and it has been replaced by the you are sort of annoying me one.

Before you can answer, she says: "Um...sweetie? Do you have to make it sound like a chore you have to do? It sounds like you are saying that you have to empty the dishwasher, take the trash out and oh...yeah....take care of my partner's needs..."

You try to make amends. You try to explain to her that it isn't like that at all. Just that you know that you BOTH see to each other's needs sexually and that you are happy to comply.

She is rolling her eyes again. You can just tell.

She says: "And of course, my needs are so much more front and center than yours are. Do you ever just...I dunno....miss me? Like I miss you? Like spend the whole day thinking of getting lost in my hair the way that I do with you? Somehow I don't think so."

She is right but you don't admit it. The thing is that you just aren't built that way. You think about sex, yeah. But, not DAILY. And not achingly really, more like fleetingly.

You tell her that you will try.

You try to think of something to say. Finally you let out a halfass really cheesy moan and say, "Oh, baby. I can feel you."

She is doing that eye rolling thing again, you think.

She mutters something under her breath that it is probably best that you don't hear.

She says out loud: "Sweetheart? You can stop. Really. I'm good. I just...like I said, I am just missing you tonight."

You admit to her that you have never done this before and you are pretty sure that you suck big time at it. She finally laughs and agrees with you. And then she says: "But, you know, I find that surprisingly sexy."

You both laugh together. This feels nice. Sort of like when you are laying in bed after sex and stroking each other's skin and telling each other about your day. All the stuff that had to be put on hold because you both just needed to fuck. Right then. Right there. Right now.

You and your partner talk a bit more. She tells you that the next time she calls and asks what you are wearing, you should say nothing. Or maybe say that you are just wearing a black leather mini skirt. You both start one upping each other with garb ideas.

A silver belt around your waist and nothing else.

High heels. Those red ones.

A see through negligee.

An unbuttoned men's shirt.

It starts to get silly as you come up with more outlandish ideas.

A whip wrapped around your waist.

Hand cuffs with fur lining.

A man's tie. A top hat.

Finally, you both admit that you are beat. So tired.

You whisper that the reason you are wearing her tee shirt is that it smells like her.

She is quiet for a moment and then finally says in an answering whisper: "Ok...now THAT is sexy. Thank you. I needed that."

You remind each other that she will be home in less than a week and promise to have crazy girl sex as soon as you can. You tell her that you will make sure that Liv has a long play date for at least one day and you will catch up on each other's um....needs.

You hang up. Before you go to bed, you make a mental note to stop at Victoria's Secret to buy a black lace teddy.

It is scratchy, yes. But, it won't be on for that long anyway......

Smiling, you get in bed and fall asleep.

Sitting on the airplane right next to Jesus.

The flight was on time. I was relieved for that. Found my seat easily, walking past the bored, privileged people in first class. I can't imagine having money to buy first class tickets and then look bored. I would be jumping out of my seat with excitement.

My seat is a window seat, not my favorite. I like sitting on the aisle. That way I at least have the illusion that I can get up anytime I wish. I sit down and wait with trepidation for my seat mate. I admit to praying that it won't be like last time when I sat next to very fat woman who smelled like pickles. She sweat profusely and kept trying to talk to me with her pickle scented breath. It was a long flight.

I may or may not have lucked out on this flight, I thought as an elderly woman sat down next to me. She looked like that stowaway on that old movie...what was it called? I shuffle through my brain pan until I hit on it. Ah. Yes. It was called Airport.



Either the old biddy would fall asleep quickly or be a talker. I fervently hoped for a sleeper. At any rate, I had my book handy just in case. I could always crack it open and read or my ipod was in my purse. I could pop my ear buds in....

She settled in her seat, a tiny woman who did not take up much room and didn't seem inclined to share my arm rest. She wore a little black hat and was gussied up, one of the generation who dressed for airplane rides. She looked at me and smiled. I smiled back briefly and then looked out the window.

The flight attendants went into their pantomimes and she politely listened while the rest of us barely paid attention. The plane began to circle and then up up up we were in the air. The woman took off her gloves (yes, she had on black gloves!) and held out her hand to me.

"My name is Eleanor and I want to know your name in case we crash. I want to be on a first name basis if you are my seatmate to heaven," she said.

Oh, fucking hell, I thought. A nut job.

I looked her right in the eye and told her that my name was Layla. I always liked that name.

"I think you are telling me a falsehood," she said, but she didn't look peeved. She looked pleased with me.

I shrugged.

We were silent for a few moments and I picked up my book, opened it and began to read. Until her next sentence.

"Do you have a family?" she asked politely. I should say that her voice was polite even though she had rudely interrupted me.

I contemplated saying no but instead surprised myself by pulling out the photo that I had picked that day to take with me on the airplane. Every time that I fly, I take a photo of Bing, Liv, Socks and me. If we crash, my plan is to center on that photo and let it be the last thing I see before I die.

She smiled and looked at it for a very long before she said anything and then she pointed to Bing.

"Who is this?"she asked

I smiled wickedly. Maybe this would shut her up. Elderly people were more likely to be baffled by homosexuality, in my experience.

I looked Eleanor full in the face and told her that Bing was my life partner.

She didn't flinch, just nodded. "I thought so," she said, thoughtfully. She pointed at Bing in the photo. "Look at how she isn't looking at the camera," she mused. "She only has eyes for you. I will wager that she is like that in life too. You are her world."

I looked down at the photo, really seeing it this time. Bing wasn't looking at the camera. She was smiling down at me as I smiled at the camera and struggled to keep Socks from sliding out of my arms. In the photo, Socks' tail was a wagging blur.

Eleanor pointed at Liv. "This is your daughter?" I nodded.

"She looks like you," she commented.

I smiled ruefully. Told her that she is the first person who ever said that. Liv, in fact, looks almost nothing like me. She is the spit and image of her father.

Eleanor frowned. "No,"she said. "She doesn't resemble you physically, but she is very much her mother's daughter, that is plain as the nose on her face."

I peered closer at Liv. She was smiling at the camera and it was not a camera smile but a real smile. I remembered that Socks has just licked her face right before the photo was taken and she had laughed.

Eleanor went on. "And my, that little dog is a loving creature, isn't he? He is a happy little boy, that's for sure. He will live a long time, I suspect."

I didn't ask her how she knew this. I was already slightly wigged out.

Eleanor tapped my face in the photo. "And there you are, looking just a little impatient, but my, you are glowing. You are smart enough to know how lucky you are but restless enough to always be chafing at the bit, huh? You have the world right there around you, but you don't always see that, do you?"

I didn't answer and she handed the photo back to me. She stretched her legs out and peeked all around her at the other plane riders. She turned back to me and said in a low voice, "Did you see anyone suspicious looking get on the plane?"

I wanted to say that she was the most strange person on this plane, but that I found myself liking her anyway. Instead, I tucked the photo back in my purse and told her that I was sure this was a safe flight. The safety precautions were pretty stringent.

She shook her head as if I were slightly stupid. And said, "Doesn't matter one way or another. I'm nearly 87, I am ready to go anytime the lord wants to take me."

I asked her if she had any photos. I wasn't being polite. I really was curious.

She gave me a long look before she said that no, she didn't. "Everyone's dead that mattered," she sighed.

I asked her where she was going.

"My only living brother is dying and I am going to say goodbye," she said. I said that I was sorry and she dismissed me with her hand.

"Don't be," she said. "He has had cancer for the past seven years. He is more than ready to go."

I didn't know what else to say so I didn't say anything. She didn't either. She did what I hoped she would do at the beginning of our flight: she fell asleep.

I looked at her closely while she slept and was reminded of that song by Joan Osborne.



Because I felt like maybe I was sitting next to a prophet or Jesus or maybe just a slob like one of us.

I pulled out the photo in my purse and looked down at it. Love for my wife, my daughter, my dog and my life in general hit me right in the chest.

Images popped out at me.

Socks laying on the end of Liv's bed while she sleeps. Protecting her. Smiling up at me in the moonlight when I slide in to kiss both of them goodnight before I crawl into my own bed.

Bing winking at me across the kitchen table, reading tidbits to me from The New York Times. She grabs my hand as I walk by and kisses it.

It is storming and we are all in the basement in the eerie green light of tornado weather. Bing notices Liv's pinched face and she takes out her ear buds and hands them to Liv. Tells her to listen to Mozart and close her eyes, let the grown ups do the worrying. I watch as Liv's eyes close as she sinks into the music, relaxing.

It is Autumn and we are all raking in the back yard. Afterward, we troop in to have bowls of hot chili from the crock pot. The faces around the table are red cheeked from the cold.

It is Winter and the first blizzard. We stand looking, all together, out of the picture window as the snow swirls around the street lights. We shut the curtains then and watch Star Wars for the hundredth time, it seems. Bing and Liv can both recite lines from heart and entertain each other.

It is Summer and we are all at a neighborhood party. Bing is playing her guitar. She looks at me as she always does when she plays the first notes of Ventura Highway. Liv and some kids in the neighborhood are flying around the yard with their peanut butter jars with holes in the lids as they attempt to catch fireflies.

It is Spring and Liv comes skipping into the house to grab my hand to drag me out doors. "The chinook is blowing!" she says, excited. I go outside and yes, she is right. The wind is soft and gentle. I want to cry. Winter is over.

I am laying on the sofa reading and Bing comes up, lifts my tee shirt and does some noisy raspberries on my stomach. I laugh.

We are at a party. Bing is halfway across the room. Nobody is looking, so I yank up my shirt and flash her my bra. She bursts out laughing and the group around her startles and looks curiously at her.

I've had a bad day at the office. Too many children needing so much help. I come home, peel off the pesky nylon stockings and crawl up on the bed. Socks puts one paw on the side of the bed to ask permission to climb aboard. I pat the bed and he curls up beside me. It's okay, I'm right here, Alpha woman," he tells me in his Ernest Borgnine dog voice. I pet his soft black fur and he settles down beside me, reminding me that life doesn't have to be hard, simple pleasures are all around me.

It is Thanksgiving and my table is full of good food and good company. Liv's father and I exchange proud parent glances as Liv stands up to read a poem she wrote called Who I Would Like To Have Dinner With: George Washington. She is eight.

The pilot announces that we are almost there. I tuck the photo back into my purse. I glance over at Eleanor. She is awake.

"See?" I tell her. "We made it in one piece,"

She looks at me wryly. "Honey, we haven't landed yet. Hold your horses."

I laugh because I feel like I might cry if I don't and I don't know why. I want to thank her but I am not sure why.

I feel back to myself. Soon I will see my daughter and we will celebrate her 11th birthday. In one week, Bing will be home and yes, I have started pining for her again.

I know exactly who I am. I am a woman who tends to have a restless heart, but like Eleanor said, I am also smart enough to know that I am incredibly lucky.

I pat Eleanor's arm. "I really like your hat," I tell her.

"Too bad," she tells me. "You can't have it."

I have to smile, so I do.

Do you want to touch me?

I am dreaming. I know this even as I dream. I am kissing a man. No idea who it is. When I try to see his face, everything goes out of focus as if I am underwater.

Doesn't matter. The kisses are too sweet to care about the lips pressing them.

I notice that my hair is this beautiful coppery red. It falls across my shoulders and I am stunned for a moment at the sheer shine and prettiness of it. Is that MINE? Or his? It's mine, I think. Well, wow. I always wanted that shade.

The kisses are deeper now and I am lost in the force of the intensity, the urgent insistence that I kiss back. I do.

I open my mouth just a little bit, just enough to breathe the kisses in. I think to myself that he really knows how to kiss. Jesus. Jaysus. Not too much tongue, just a small taste now and then, no slobbery rubber invasion. I am smitten by these kisses.

I hear myself groan out a name and try to hear it so that I can know who I am kissing but the name eludes me over and over again.

His hands are callused and I sort of like that although they feel rough on my rib cage. He has a five o'clock shadow. I can feel it rubbing against the side of my face. I smile. Been a looooonnnnnggg time since I experienced beard burn.

I pull back, determined to find his face, to register it in my mind.

I don't recognize him and tell him so. He laughs. It is a sweet, tender laugh from such a rough faced man.

"This is from your life before this one," he explains gently, and then goes back to kissing before I can really take this thought in.

I get lost again and am a little embarrassed by lack of interest in who I am kissing. Shouldn't I care a bit more?

No, I think...you are just dreaming...so it is okay.

I nod and lose myself again. He is truly skilled at the art of kissing and I hope that I don't wake up soon. Occasionally, we stop to share short sentences. I tell him that I think I am dreaming this because my sisters and I saw Joan Jett last night in concert and that song she sang was sooooo fucking sexy. He agrees. Tells me about how pretty the sunrise was last night in his city.

"I think we knew each other in a previous life," he says, slowly. "I think we are both dreaming about each other. Isn't this just...AMAZING?" I agree. We smile and wait for a beat. We wait until we can't stand not kissing each other again and then grinning in agreement, resume our perfect kiss.

I hear some sort of growling noise and it jars me enough to start pulling me out of my dream. I clutch on to his arms, trying to pull him out of the dream with me.

"Stay with me!" I beg. He shakes his head. He can't. I know this. His look is resigned but understanding.

I awaken to my bed with the baby blue sheets, the air conditioner droning. I sit up, feeling slightly dizzy. Realize that one side of my head is pounding. There is a strange sound coming from outside. I get up gingerly and grope for my glasses, find them and peek out into the street. There is some sort of back hoe at the school across the street, it is shoveling up dirt. I glance at my watch. It is not even seven a.m. Kind of early for this shit, isn't it? Especially on a Sunday. Good hell.

I stumble to the bathroom and take my migraine meds, knowing that it is too late for them. The migraine isn't in it's early stage, it has already begun and there is no way to stop it now. Will just have to endure it.

I crawl back into bed and place my hand on my left breast, remembering his there.

But already I have lost his face. Can't remember it. I run the dream through my head so that I don't completely lose it and then, shivering, let the pain in my head block out everything else.

I fall into a migraine sleep. Not really deep, more like skimming on top of sleep, sliding around the pain.

My last thought before I fall asleep is that I am grateful that Bing and Liv aren't here. I am alone in the house and can sleep knowing that I am not disrupting anyone's day.

I will awaken around ten to let the dog out to pee and then fill his bowl with food and water and stumble back to bed. I will stay there until nearly five and awaken to the pounding of the migraine slipping into a smaller, staccato beat.

I will get up and stand in the shower with the water pulsing on my back and will be able to grab just enough of the dream to ponder it.

Hmmm..past life?

What do you think?