On the drive I kept telling myself to relax.  If we meet him at the gate, great.  If we wait for him in baggage claim, just fine.  There are things I cannot control.  BoyWonder.  Traffic.  My puppy-like bladder. His flight.

Turns out they landed early, a half hour early and long enough before we were standing in line to get processed through security, gate passes secured.

We met him in baggage claim, silly signs in hand.  I jumped up and down, holding the sign that said “Tango, Alpha, Charlie- we have incoming!” and  “Welcome Home SPC Dewes, our favorite soldier.”  I wrote, “That’s my son!” in the corner, so people would know. Why not?

There was no crowd in baggage.  Garret.  My brother, also known here as First Uncle.

Heath later asked if “Tango Alpha Charlie” meant something.  I told him we tried to think up a meaningful acronym, but failed.  He suggested, “Alpha, Mike, Foxtrot.”  Figure it out.  Starts with “Adios.”

On the other poster we said “Welcome Home” and listed “Happy….” fill-in-the-blank with every holiday he missed over the past year.  “Won’t it make him sad to realize how long he’s been gone?”  BoyWonder asked.

“I think he knows,” I said.   “I think he was sad on the day, believe me.  Now he’s just happy to be home.”  I added to the poster “We missed you every day!”

ManBoy’s dad and his wife, their other lovely children and her parents met Heath walking on the concourse and came downstairs with him. We all went to breakfast where my sister, her husband and one of Heath’s girl-cousins joined us at Perkins where we ate eggs, toast, and potatoes, listening to the war stories he would tell barely loudly enough for our table to hear, not so loudly the restaurant would hear.

I drank scads of coffee.  Sucked Diet Coke with my potatoes and Kielbasa sausage dipped in ketchup and yellow mustard.  I finally exhaled.

And surprised myself.

I’m so big on not worrying.  I listen to my gut, my intuition, the small voice of the Holy Spirit speaking to me.  It’s all in there.  I pray when directed and act when needed and listen, sometimes not as hard or well as I should.  But I try to make paying attention a priority.  I’ve tried to do this for a long, long time.  I’d say I’ve gotten better at it in the past twelve months.

In July, at our 25-year high school reunion, a classmate who has seen lots of duty, Afghanistan twice, assured me Heath was fine… as long as he’s not on a FOB.  I didn’t tell him at the time.  But he was on a FOB.  In a region I had researched.  Lots of action.  Research didn’t help me with the not worrying part.  I decided I would engage the listening part and the trusting God part.  That’s simple enough.  I stopped researching.

Once- just once-I felt a sense to pray especially intensely.  Heath was out on a mission… about 14 days they’d be out.  He wouldn’t have contact.  It seemed to me the longest stretch of time he’d been out of contact since his deployment.  It wasn’t.  He was just on my mind all the time during that mission.  I prayed.  I reminded God to please pay attention to ManBoy’s safety.  To please especially protect him and his entire unit.  The time ticked slowly waiting for him to get back in range where he could send a Facebook message.

That mission-where, as usual, they engaged in vertical construction- also earned him a medal for engaging the enemy or being engaged by the enemy.  I don’t know what that pin is called.  I just know what it looks like.  It goes on his chest above the US Army patch.  And I know what it feels like being here at home while your oldest son is earning it.  That’s what I know.

I also know my radar works.  And prayer works.  And love matters.  I know that for certain.

I’m a little surprised how tired I am today.  But I shouldn’t really be so surprised when I consider that even when the rest of life has been happening, while I’ve grown close to friends Heath hasn’t even been here to meet, while I’ve changed careers and happily divorced, and lived all by myself for the very first time in my life, I’ve also been holding my breath every day.  Just a little.  Just a tiny little bit every single day.

Even when I wasn’t consciously thinking about the fact my beautiful, sweet, strong 23-year old son was living across the world on a Forward Operations Base on the rim of the desert in the most dangerous part of Afghanistan in the middle of a war.  Even then.

You bet I nearly bawled talking to the gate agent.  And talking to the man in the line at security who told me his nephew has been there just four months, eight to go.  Of course I teared up and could hardly answer when First Uncle said, “excited?”

But it makes sense now.

Of course it hurt my lungs to run from the car to the ticket agent.  Of course my chest was tight like it hasn’t been in years.  Of course I could feel my pulse in my ears, a rush of blood whirling circles around my jugular.

Of course.

It hurts to let it out when you’ve been holding your breath that long.  Especially when you don’t know you’ve been doing it.

Now I want eight hours of sleep.  I want to work out in the evening and spend my mornings, once I do get up, well, doing this, or editing photos, or studying, or paying bills, or writing something I wonder if anyone will ever read.  Well, I don’t wonder if anyone will read it.  I know someone will.  I just wonder how I will get thousands and thousands of people to read it, since I’m to the point where it seems best to have thousands, maybe millions of people actually read the good thing I’ve written rather than a few read the masterful thing I’ve crafted.

Excellence, pshaw.

Did I say that?  Let me rephrase.  Paralyzing perfectionism, to hell with you!  You suck.  You are useless.  You stumbling block, you ignacius, pugnacious, insipid, self-defeating, self-righteous pompery!  You don’t serve me at all.  Or anyone else around me for that matter either.

Well, no.  Not quite right.  Paralyzing perfectionism does serve those around me who are also paralyzed by their own fears and trapped by their own human frailties yet unable to face them.  Some think it would be better for them if I clung to the standard of perfectionism.  If I avoided all hope of liberty.  If I listened to the condemning voice of the Law as I consider my actions of the day.  It might be momentarily more comfortable.  Less risky.

It has certainly been more comfortable for me, the demon one knows being better than the demon one doesn’t.  You know the saying.

Our mother likes to quote a verse her father recited:  “Whatever you do, do with all your might.  Things done in halves are never done right.”    She means well.  She really does.  She’d take it as blasphemy knowing I disagree with her application of such a verse.  Never mind it came out of the mouth of a man sorely gripped by addiction and questionable moral proclivity.  We don’t talk about that.  She loved him after all, and by all accounts, he loved his little girl.

And that is my point.  The penchant toward effort and doing things right is not at all the point.  Of life.  Of human worth.  Of human success.  Love is the point.  The truth is the point.  Not telling the truth or finding the truth but being the truth.

Who really wants to have a rude awakening and get real?  That would mean an adjustment of all things, wouldn’t it?  Admitting the old way was not working.  Admitting imperfection.  Admitting flaws in the system, flaws in one’s thinking, flaws in one’s behavior.  It seems to me few people are willing to do this, or know how to do it, or want to do it.

And yet, it is what has improved my life two thousand percent in recent months.  Rude awakening.  Getting real.

Don’t get me wrong.  I am tempted again toward perfectionistic effort, the A+, the stellar performance, the pressure of the standard.  Why, just days ago I was agonizing with insecurity over the merits of my hockey photography.  If I’m asking people to pay for it, after all, I must be certain it is worth paying for.  And everyone knows, excellence is worth paying for.  But love is worth even more.

I’m not opposed to excellence.  I just find its pursuit so very wasteful, so laughable almost when analyzed.

Just think:  for whom am I aspiring to excellence?  For my parents?  A lover?  My children?  For the world at large?  For the good of mankind?  Are any of these served by my performing?  And if so, how are they served?

Can any of us be so impressive that we earn our parents’ delight?  Do I want to be good enough to engender the acceptance of my lover?  Do I want my children to grow up with the same insatiable drive toward an impossible, unreachable intangible?

Is the world better served by my pretense or my humanity?

Imagine if the repetition of my grandfather’s verse were something like:  in everything, pay attention, be 100 % present.  Enjoy life.  Live fully, not half way.  Pour yourself into the thing in front of you as if it matters because in that moment it is the only thing that matters.  Freely experience the goodness of your own lively effort and see where that adventure takes you.  Don’t be afraid to fail; eventually everyone fails if they try anything worthwhile.  Fail big!  Live without regret because you gave of yourself, loved deeply, and lived honestly.

That to me is the essence of doing all things for Christ.  Not that I can perform for God.  Not that I work to impress a truly perfect being.  (Can I ever really do anything worthy of impressing Him, after all?)  Not that I strive and try harder.  Not that I aspire to all sorts of law-abiding and good deeds.  But that I love.  Love IS the more excellent way.  Without it, I am an annoyance.  Love is all there is.  Love is what I was perfectly made to imperfectly do.

So, no New Year’s Resolutions.  No trying harder.  No effort even to love more or love better.  Just a graceful step into the next moment and the next thereafter wherein I am certain I will be invited, time and time again, in everything I do, to LOVE.

I still have lots to do.  I’m not doing much buying; I simply don’t anymore now that the kids are all legal adults.  Still, I have a bit of shopping.  (And it’s not last-minute until Christmas Eve.)

I have candy-making to do!  Hordes of it, hopefully.  Stacks of English toffee, and orbs of drunken apricots.  I may even try my hand this year at cherry cordials in cream.  I think I’ll repeat Christmas Granola.It ain’t low-fat or low-calorie but it is delish!  Biscotti?  Indubitably!  Swedish tea cakes?  You bet your buttah!  Dipped and dazzled and strewn chocolate edibles I haven’t yet dreamed up?  Of course!  I’m counting on a flourish of creative energy.  And enough time to squeeze it all in.

Christmas Dinner menu?  Still a blurry idea of crown pork-roast with corn bread stuffing and such.  Perhaps poultry with a wild rice stuffing.  We shall see.  It’ll be a bit of a feast.  I’m certain of that.  It’ll be quieter than I prefer.

ManBoy will spend his Christmas in a tent in the Afghanistan desert.  Hopefully they will feed him well.  He’s surrounded by people who would literally give their lives for him and yet, I know there’s no substitute for being home, surrounded by his flesh and blood.  (He cares about my food, and the sweets, and the decor.  He loves his mama, this I know.)  And he will still enjoy all of that when he returns in early January.  That’s the primary reason I took the tree in the living room out of the stand yesterday before lacing it with lights: I had to be sure the vascular system wasn’t clogged with sap; it has to last beautifully until mid-January, the latest we could see him home.

The Girl, newly married… not making the trip home for the holidays.  She’s twelve hours away and at times like this, it might as well be half a world away.  Hopefully they’ll come up when her brother returns from the war.  She’s repeating some of her favorite traditions right there in Oklahoma.  And I will sorely miss her.

It occurred to me today while flocking the final boughs, it will be colder in January when I take the porch tree down.  For sure, there will be needles everywhere. (It was cold enough out on the screen porch today when it’s unseasonably warm and we have yet to see snow blanket the ground.)  That’s enough ornaments, I told myself. The rest came inside where they tumbled in a festive jumble, catching light through a crystal bowl.

It’s the first Christmas in this ancient rental I moved into just as BoyWonder was starting fall semester.  (Read about that here.  And about his first return after six weeks.  Nice.)  Now his return feels almost routine.  The other bedroom is clearly his.  He brought five boxes of things home for the nearly-month-long break.  I texted while he traveled “I’m so excited u r coming home!”  He said, “I’ll be working a lot.  Don’t get too excited!”

His mustache is thicker and his hair is longer under that furry flapped hat.  He doesn’t care about the sweets I might produce for Christmas gifts.  He doesn’t care about the cookies I’ll bake.  He expects the house to be decorated, but he probably doesn’t care so much about that either.  He cares about pond hockey, his friends, his bed, and the relatively expansive space in his room.  He cares about a break from studying.  He cares about the money I’ll give him and the gifts he’ll get, hopefully lots of money he will take shopping with us on December 26th.  At least I hope I still get to do the after-Christmas shopping trek with him.  It has become a bit of a tradition.  (I like that one better than Black Friday.)

I understand these things, and I don’t expect a whole lot more than the sweet rhythm of his breathing, the comfort of knowing my bear cub has returned to the den for some holiday hibernating, and the pleasure of occasionally getting to stand next to him, fit nicely under his arm-pit, and lace my limbs all the way around him in a squeeze.  I won’t get much of anything in the way of gifts for Christmas, I’m sure.  But I don’t need anything more than that.

I’m proud of the fact my blog shows up on the first page when people google turbo sex.  And that that search apparently brings some people here to read.

Also another attractive search key word that brings people here (at least in the last week) is:  Daniel Day-Lewis.  I’m honored.  Of course, no student of mine would be surprised by that, nor by the depth of my sense of honor to be among the google hits of such a revered actor.

I’m proud of the fact that last night, when I went with a girlfriend to consume a celebratory glass of wine and found myself hungry, I discovered I was craving vegetables!  The wedge salad with tomato, scallions, and croutons was just perfect with blue cheese and a spot of french dressing for sweetness.  Perfect with a glass of Pinot Noir.

I’m proud I know a good Pinot Noir when I taste one now.  I didn’t used to.

I’ve been proud of a few things that are pretty silly to proud of:  getting a whole household packed up and moved in less than three whole days, unpacking completely in less than another three.

I’m proud of some of the photography I’ve captured over the past two years, especially some of the sports photography.

Occasionally I’ve even been proud of my cooking, a thing I hope to post a lot of here in the next days to come.

But today, I am taking just a few minutes to be proud of the fact I am a NaNoWriMo winner!  I finished the first draft of a novel of 50 K words (actually more) in (less than) 30 days!

No one says it’s a masterpiece.  It’s a rough draft.

Yes, I will try to publish it.  I certainly hope people will read it.

I’m not all closet-writerish… if I write it, I want people to read; that’s the point!

Finally, writing a novel is just like any other writing assignment and those I have done scads of.  I’ve required scads of them.  I’ve graded scads of them.  This is no different.

It’s just a whole lot more fun.

The kind of fun I’d like to do a whole lot more of.  Fiction is fantastic.

Thanks for all your support, personally or from a distance.  I still need it— in lots of areas.  I’m excited to have made this goal.

Next:  finishing football (banquet tomorrow night), on to hockey photos, holiday baking and decorating and gifting!

Ahhhhh, what a glorious November.  Life is good!

I like this.  And I shake my head about it too.  I mean, I don’t want to be crazy.  The whole idea was that I would do divorce more sanely this time around.  Because yes, I have done this before.  I was 23 back when I was single for long at all.  I like to think I’ve learned something in the past twenty years.  I’m trying to avoid crazy, not embrace it.

Turns out I don’t necessarily have to try one or the other.  Crazy just happens.

Now, I know you might think I mean with all those men drooling over me, alert with desire, waiting for their chance to spin me around the dance floor.  Well, I could mean that.  But no. That’s a different post.

I’m talking about my current situation with work, how I spend my time, and the inherent challenges there!

Did I say I was going to bake soon?  Make candy?  Post food pics?  You’ll have to wait, I think.

I’m finalizing orders of our 25 year class reunion Memory Book, a thing I should have done in August (when I was moving and shipping BoyWonder off to school.)  I’m working on the football yearbook and its approximately 40 different versions for which I have taken literally thousands of photos.  (Just two pages of each version are different.)  And did you hear I’m writing a novel this month?  Fifty thousand words in 30 days.  We are half done date-wise.  I am one-third done word-wise.

My online teaching gig starts in January and my boss wants the curriculum finalized this month.  Of course.  It would be great to get that done now instead of over Christmas break.  (Still, privately, my goal is by the time Boy Wonder comes home from college.   That’s still before Christmas break.)

Um, also getting an on-line presence finalized for the hockey season where I hope to be able to market individual action shots and posters.  But I need some new glass in order to do that really well.  That’s about a thousand smackers. (oh, glass is trade jargon for lens, in case you didn’t know.)

Suddenly, sleep seems so overrated right when I feel I need it the most.  Something is definitely happening to my hormonal system and let me tell you, I do not like it one bit.  Yet, I am, little by little, releasing my life to its inevitable course.  (It’s like during childbirth; fight the pain and it’s so much worse.)  I want to be virile and vital and fertile forever.

And wouldn’t you know, just when I sense a shift, I still want to lose some weight.  Key for me there is  surrendering the delight of spiking my glycemic index.  I’m smart.  I read.  I know the science.  I know what I should do.  Now, doing it is a very different matter.  I’ve decided I might be verrrry happy to lose fifteen pounds… instead of 20 or 30.  Ten would be nice.  Five would be progress.

In the midst of all this self-employment, I’ve had the privilege to work out at the YMCA.  Still doing it!  Let me tell you, I think I look sooooo sexy doing Zumba but it’s not as hard as it used to be.  Sweat-wise.  Breathing-wise.  (You do realize me looking sexy has nothing to do with reality, right?  I mean, it only has to do with how I feeeeeel inside.  Like how those people on American Idol feeeeeel inside about their rotten singing.  I could be totally deluded here.)

At any rate, I am still working out in a big way at least seven hours a week if not eleven hours.  I could work out for a total of eleven glorious hours!  Not that I necessarily have that kind of time to spend.  (See the above list of projects.)  But it does feel good.  Dependably good.  I just have to push myself to tax myself as much as at first.  And that’s a good thing; it means I’m getting in shape.

All that said, trust me.  I do feel a little crazy.  I spend all my time doing what I love and I am paying attention to every little flavor!  No matter what happens next, I still intend to take a big bite out of life.  Every single day. For the rest of my time here.

This is just my rapid-fire apology for not doing what I said I’d do and posting a bunch of holiday cooking, baking, and candy-making posts.  Or it’s me-for the first time ever-broaching the subject of DAMN! my changing hormones.

Now was that a hot flash or just a wave of anxiety?

I think I’ll call it a little wave of crazy.  That works for me.

But!  when I do come back to answer the question, “okay, what happens next,” some pretty fun things happen next.  I even surprised myself by introducing a new character today.  An important one.

One of my other characters suddenly became a smoker and I thought, “that’s so perfect! Exactly.  Of course she would.”  Literary inevitability.  Accidentally.  Such fun!

One of my friends not too long ago commented how she’s thought of writing but she doesn’t have the imperative to do it and she believes writers must have the imperative.  They must feel the need to do the writing.

Our college professor, the venerable Lawrence Owen, said the difference between writers and non-writers is that writers write.  Of course he let us guess all sorts of more Romantic answers first.  And he liked saying “no” to our answers.  “Oh hell no,” the look on his face said.  I love him still.

He was so right.

My sweet Girl said recently, “write the books, Mom.  Who says you can’t be a famous author?  It would be such a waste if you didn’t at least try.  What are you afraid of?”

I’ll tell you what.  I am afraid of failing and I am afraid of succeeding.  It’s a thing I’ve wanted forever.  It’s one of those things like breathing with my lungs.  I know I was designed to do this.  And I may find I suck at it.  Some higher authority may come along with a big rubber stamp and write SUCKAGE all over the thing I create.

It may be that no one will read it.  No one may be moved by it even if they do read it.  No one may even care about the inherent commentary or the underlying themes (Remember students:  the comment or statement the author makes about human life.)  Believe me, I have plenty of comments and statements to make about human life.  And I have stories to tell.  Mine and yours and everyone else’s.

Maybe I will succeed and you will read what I write and you will love it or hate it or respond to it or let it make you feel all sorts of intense things.  But you will pay for it and be willing to pay for it and feel better for having read it and send me e-mails you hope I will answer but I’ll be too busy to get to all of them so I will hire a secretary to field my e-mails and the offers for hundreds of thousands of dollar book contracts gathering dust on my desk since I will slyly publish on the internet and make a mint from that and the speaking engagements I will have to keep to a minimum in order to preserve my own sanity.  Who knows?

That could happen.  And that sounds pretty scary to me too, even though I prefer the second scenario.  A lot.

I have come to the point, however, where not doing the writing itself is more painful than taking the risk.  So I am doing it.  As silly as it seems.  As clichéd as it seems.  (Did you ever hear, for example, so many people saying, “hmmmm, I’ve always wanted to paint a picture.  I have a gorgeous picture in my mind and I know I could put it out there, but I’m just not sure I should do it.”)  So believe me, I know how ludicrous it sounds that I am joining the ranks of millions of people who have to get their gumption up to even DO the ART.

Dang, I feel suddenly pathetic for all this neurotic hemming and hawing.  I’m writing the damn books, people.  Like it or love it.  I’m writing the damn books.  Every last one of them that seems to come next after this one is finished.

“Is it true?”  Larry would ask me during my independent study with him where I churned out a new draft, a brand new story every single week all semester.  I  let my friend Dan hack it up as best he could before I fixed it and presented it to Larry.  Invariably, Larry still went to town on the draft.  “Is it true?  Cuz I’m only interested in true stories,” he’s say.  Then he’d grin mischievously beneath his mustache.  “And they’re all true, Beth.  They are all true.”

And I am going to tell them.  Every last one.

I love how the rush of ideas crowds my head at other times of the day.  I need my little notebook now more than ever.

Already I have done the thing my daughter warned against.  I’m second guessing my choice of project.  Maybe I should have started with the other one.  But no, I think she’s right.  The important thing is to choose and go with it.  This is the project, my best one at the moment, my deepest, most multi-faceted piece of fiction.  And I’ve only been waiting about ten years to write it.  Okay. More.

God knows I’ve spent at least that long on character sketches and back-story, on research and drafting, on alternating between view points and narrator’s ages.

My college poetry professor  says I’ve been writing this one my whole life and I know he’s right.  (Dear lord.  College graduation was almost 20 years ago!)  It’s about time I get this one done though  I don’t know if I will finish it in 30 days.  I know this: I will have 50,000 words to upload.   I will get my success certificate.  Success is sometimes, after all, about productivity more than perfection.  Well, always, success is about productivity more than perfection.

I’d do well to remember that one.  In every area of my life.

That’s why yesterday when my friend called to see if I would follow through on the idea to pierce our navels, I said yes!  YES!  Let’s do it now.  (Well, we waited until today since I was swamped with novel writing and picture business.)  But the point is, we did it.  Like we said we would.

I said yes even though I’ve lost not a single ounce for all the sweat I’ve poured out at the YMCA.  I said yes even though I knew the needle would pass through my stretch-marked skin.  I said yes, even knowing the sparkle of the clasp will be cushioned with the warm pudge of my soft middle, the only fat on my body that bothers me.  (Remember from the former post you are supposed to forget that.)  I said yes though initially I could think of no landmark reason to do it right now.

My girlfriend just turned forty.  She lost a bit of weight.  Why now for me?  Friends asked.  I asked myself.

Well.  I’ve been meaning to for seven months.  The moment I saw Girl’s piercing last March, I knew I needed to have one.  She told her friend, Steph, “when my mom sees this, she’s gonna want one.”  And she was right.

“But I have no particular reason to do it now, ” I said to her on the phone today.  Really I was calling for reassurance I wouldn’t faint, that I’d still be able to dance at Zumba tonight, that the healing is not painful.  I got all those assurances and more.

“You’ve had a helluva year,” she said.  “That’s reason enough.” It made me tear up and swallow hard.  Have I told you how much I LIKE my kids?  (Dang, they’re awesome.)

On top of that, I pierced my navel because I think they’re pretty and sparkly and sexy.  I don’t care a single bit whether a particular man likes the idea and thinks I should do it.  I don’t particularly care whether HE thinks it’s pretty or sparkly or sexy.

I’m certain I know men who think they’re pretty disgusting.  But the point is, that’s not the point.  And that’s my point.  Get it?

The right man will like it.  And even that is beside the point.

Most importantly, it’s a way to love my middle even when my six-pack is still hiding in its insulated cooler.  Who cares?  Even this least lovely part of myself deserves to be loved too.  And that’s why I did it.

Do I feel sexy?  Oh yeah, baby.  For lots of reasons.

Never mind we went to a dark whole-in-the-basement-place my dad would cringe seeing.  He was a young kid I could have had in class four years ago if he hadn’t dropped out, later got his girlfriend pregnant.  He loves Jesus.  It’s spelled all around his shop and up his arms and around his neck in all sorts of symbolic, meaningful shapes.  Never mind he pierced us, me first, in the very first open chair and made me pull up my shirt and walk to the mirror where other waiting customers could see.

Never mind when I went back to the chair, he pumped it up to height, each increment jiggling my soft, naked middle in the direct gaze of an Army recruiter who stopped by to dream about his next tattoo.  And apparently watch each step of our piercing.  He waited patiently.  I concentrated on loving my belly.  I asked Cassie to hold my hand.  The kid called me a wuss, which was comfort in itself and told me to breathe deeply once and it was over.

I bet you want pictures.  I will post one.  When I’m not sweaty from Body Blast followed by Zumba.  When I’m not exhausted from the weight of wonderful creative work I’ve been waiting way too long to finish.  When my head’s not full from updating my operating system and choosing a host where my photography can’t be right-clicked and pirated.

The title refers to thousands of football photos I’ve been sorting.   It refers to my absolute delight with my choice to spend time shooting high school sports.  For the football project, I’m getting love letters from parents to their players.  It makes me ache.

Those young men are just wonderful.  Parenting is just wonderful.  And I still get to see it, up close and personal.  I get to show it for what it is in real life even though when you’re in it, nothing seems to slow down long enough to capture it.  I get to make it into art.  I get to capture life’s best moments. (c)

And that’s a beautiful life for me.

I just have no one to feed.

Be patient with me if I invite you for dinner.  Humor me.  Say yes.  Bring your children.  Weather all sorts of questions about allergies and preferences between cream, blue, brie, and Gruyère cheeses.  Don’t mind me if I also quiz you on onions, mushrooms, garlic, and celery since I like to cook with those too.  Except mushrooms- but for you and your children, I will conquer mushrooms given your desire and demand!  I want your kids to like what I make.  I want them to eat it and like it.

I want you to like it too, of course.  You matter to me.  I see you.   I’m not ignoring you.

Better yet, let’s cook together.  Having never shared a kitchen with anyone other than my children, who I simultaneously bossed and instructed, I’m not sure I’m good at that.   But I’m willing to try.

I promise not to yell at you or shame you for scalding the milk or huff at you for getting in my way.  I won’t tell you to move twice as fast and get the pepper slices uniform.  I PROMISE!  Not that I’ve ever done any of that before.  Don’t worry, I live in reality.  I know you aren’t my son or daughter and we don’t have a holiday meal to perform ten dishes and feed twenty, plating on two separate tables with separate matching dishes for each.

It’ll be a relaxing time sipping wine and sharing techniques.  (C’mon, if you’ve ever said we’d cook together, look at your calendar; now’s the time!)

Pretty soon I will be posting glossy pics of dipped candies and rolled doughs and delicately sprinkled spices rolled between layers of poultry.  I will.  I’m gearing up.  And I’m excited!

All the years of teaching I whined for time at home from now until Christmas break to revel in my domestic diva-ness.  Nearly every day, I had visions of gingerbread men, of towering layered tortes, of piped and chocolate-dipped drunken apricot orbs dancing in my head.  To say nothing of the garlands of tangled fauna I mentally strung on every railing.  While I was teaching.

This season, although I have the luxury of more time at home, I also have other demands on my time and an equally pressing demand on my pocketbook.  More than that, however, I’ve learned to Get Real and enjoy what is.

That means I am going to enjoy getting up before first light to write.  (November is National Novel Writing Month; I’m participating this year.)  Then I shall enjoy the YMCA where I will sweat copious amounts and feel refreshed, return home to edit photos and do some writing I’ll be paid for.  In the evenings I will enjoy shooting hockey, perhaps some basketball, maybe down-hill skiing if I get my contracts in order.  I will enjoy dancing at least three times a week, entertaining friends, and cooking!

The important thing:  what’s right in front of me.  That means this post.  Never mind I’m sitting in a 62 degree kitchen wearing my bath towel and the Afghani scarf ManBoy brought last June.  (Those scarves make excellent head and hip wear for the pirate I became last night for a costume birthday party and will repeat tonight for pre-Halloween dancing festivities. Thank you, Heath!)

I’m ignoring the two sinks of dishes stacked kitty-wampous from last night’s successful venture mixing, rolling, braising, finishing, and saucing six pounds of delectable beef and pork meatballs in about thirty minutes.  I’m ignoring the splotches of sauce on the floor, the loaded dishwasher, the dirty and satisfyingly empty crock I brought home at 1:00 last night.

I’m ignoring the camera sitting on the table next to me, whose settings I must check for the 2pm semi-final Section playoff game I will delightfully capture in brilliant vivid color starting just about an hour from now.

I am not lying when I say I love my life.  Every single moment of it is just delicious.  Including the shower I will take in about five minutes from now.

That’s weight loss kind of food talk.  Decisions-about-food kind of talk.

I did something amazing today.  Something I haven’t done in a long time.  I returned a candy bar to the shelf at Mill’s Fleet Farm, where “if you can’t find it, you don’t need it.”

I decided I didn’t need it.  Even though I went searching for it and found it.  Plus, some tall, dark, handsome, overweight guy was standing across the aisle watching me and talking loudly on his cell phone about insurance rates after purchasing a used boat.

It’s a good time to get a deal on a used boat.  His eyes were definitely following my every move.

I decided 1.)  I did not want Handsome Guy to think I was a pig.  It was a King Size Take 5.  (I’m thinking that may refer to the five pounds it would help me keep on my hips.)

2.) I did not want to end up like Handsome Guy i.e. appearing like everything desirable and outwardly successful-looking and then get stuck in Also-Fat-Looking-Zone.

Listen, I have accepted, even learned to glory in the bump of my rump – it goes nowhere even at my thinnest, so why fight it?  “I’m on the right track, baby.  I was born this way!”  (That’s a Gaga song for those of you who missed the allusion.)

I’m not so comfy with the squish of my middle, which I also know from experience, CAN go somewhere, can shrink to reveal a perfectly proportionate rib cage, abs of steel, and a whittled little waist.

Okay.  So I was 23 last time I saw that.  Big deal.  It did happen.

My point is the flesh of my belly is really the only fat on my body that bothers me.  Let me apologize with this disclaimer:   If you were hoping to date me, forget you read that last line and for heaven’s sake, don’t act like you KNOW I revealed this.  Treat such information as the rambling of some other crazy, wonderful woman you don’t know and will never actually meet.  

Turns out my habit of sugar every day spikes my glucose, in turn elevating production of insulin, an element that helps in the (smart design if I needed it to survive) retention of (primarily belly) fat.

Isn’t science grand?

In fact, it’s the awareness of science helping me push that peak of brain activity into a definitive decision regarding sugar intake.   And it’s my meta-awareness of the peak of reasoning brain activity needing to overwhelm the desire for sugar peak of brain activity that has me thinking “hey!  I can DO something about this!”

I’m in charge of my brain after all.  And I’m not a chimpanzee.

The last speaker at Nobel talked about a study offering chimps two piles of candy, one bigger than the other.  Without fail, the chimp chose the larger pile of candy even when the larger pile went to another chimp instead of to them.

The interpretation was that the chimp was unable, with the visual object of desire, to choose differently.

They were, however, able to choose the smaller pile when taught symbols for the piles and shown the symbols as opposed to the piles themselves.  Then they could choose the smaller pile of candy for the other chimpanzee.  Fascinating stuff.

Lesson:  do not look at food.

Or be sure to substitute the sight and smell of food with symbolic information (aka language) and then do it to such an extent you overwhelm the peak of brain activity devoted to the sight, smell, and desire for food.

Otherwise, sugar wins every time around here.

Believe it or not, all this heady analysis is just the kind of thing that actually works for me.

I have a friend who says regarding difficult choices “I just don’t think about it.”  All this time, I’ve been thinking he has a steel-trap mind.  After getting the scientific info, I’m realizing it’s not that his mind is a steel trap, he just makes it think about something more important.

Now, that I can do.  And so can you.

As one presenter explicated, application of neuroscience has gone beyond Science and Medicine.  That’s not news.  I’ve been using brain research data in teaching for almost ten years.  Psychologists and self-help gurus lean on it for evidence.  Savvy marketers are studying brain patterns of preference.

Just this morning, on my favorite stationary bike at the Y, with sweat droplets coursing down my forehead into my eyes and vaporizing up my nose on inhale, I read articles in Yoga, AARP, and Sports Illustrated exploring brain chemistry and some aspect of health. Two of the articles talked about the adrenal secretion of cortisol under stress and its effects over time.

You might be interested in knowing sex and exercise are both good for your brain, your memory, and your cortisol levels.  They both help prevent Alzheimer’s and other forms of dementia.

Why do you think I’m going to the Y six days a week?

I’d have greater benefit and so will you if you do both six times a week.  Still looking forward to that.  Read on.

My dad took me to my first Nobel conference at Gustavus Adolphus College when I was a sophomore in high school and I’ve been going since.  Not every year, but enough years to know there will be something I can take home from the experience even if it’s just a reminder there are really smart people in the world doing really interesting things.

This smart woman is trying to make decisions how precisely to cope with an empty nest and mid-life (I almost choked on that adjective) dating.  Further, you know I’ve been doing some very interesting thinking about SEX relative to my values.  When last I left that discussion, I had shared the bottom-line guiding principle of “listening to my gut” which I also likened to listening to the Holy Spirit.

That conclusion was not concrete enough for a few people in my close realm who thought I needed to say “I will not have sex outside of marriage.”  I bristle at anyone telling me what I need to say.  As should any sane adult. On the other hand, I try to remember such comments may come from people who haven’t experienced how well they can trust their own gut.

Some readers were disheartened by the results of the poll which heavily favored a woman in her forties becoming sexual with a decent and good candidate… without imposition of commitment.  Again, the poll is of interest, it’s not something I use to guide my behavior.

The conclusion of this post, may (or may not) leave those readers a bit more comforted.  Back to Nobel.

Larry Young has been studying prairie voles for sixteen years precisely because they bond for life and remain (mostly) monogamous, one of only a few mammals who do this besides humans.  Of course, his work isolates the brain chemistry differences in prairie voles versus other types of voles who do not develop a monogamous bond.  The existence of oxytocin and vasopressin in the female and male respectively emerged as primary agents; targeting specific regions of the brain also proved important in the bonding process.

I decided my many foibles in relationships could be linked to an excess of oxytocin, which enhances bonding between mates, between mother and child, and amplifies trust and openness.  I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the maternal bonding, but I was clearly excessively inundated, (quite naturally because of the way I’m made) with oxytocin.

I was using my brain, Grandma.  Just not the logical parts that might have evaluated certain mates as inappropriate.  I was being a different kind of smart!  I’ve always known I’m not a floozy.  I bonded permanently; I married them.

(An aside: Trust Liquid or oxytocin nasal spray IS available on-line.  I’m not recommending it.  Also, the fact it’s a nasal spray means you’d have to shove it up someone else’s nose in order to get them to trust more.  It’s marketed as something you inhale to make others trust you more.  Clearly counter-intuitive.)

Another speaker explored the neuroscience of consumer choice by studying the brain activity of decision.  I loved Paul Glimcher’s graphics, so vividly depicting a flattened cortex with colored peaks rising from its surface in different regions of the brain during decision-making.  Research found choices closest in weight or value by the thinker were the most difficult for researchers to predict.

At some point, brain activity surrounding one of the choices has to overwhelm the other choice.  A peak would rise to a certain height, the other sinking to nothing and the choice was made.  But if peaks remained nearly equal in height, no choice was made.

The final lecture explored moral responsibility, where research established the symbolic use of language in the decision process as a uniquely human property; the relationship between choice, consequence, imagination, and moral responsibility gathered under one umbrella.  I won’t tell you all the particulars of the research, though it is fascinating for those of us who like that kind of thing.  I’ll just tell you a story.

About two weeks ago, I went on a pre-birthday shopping date with a girlfriend.  I was handling a pair of lovely high-heeled pumps, sometimes crudely referred to as CFM pumps.  (If you don’t know what that means, I’m not going to explain it.  You’re smart;  you can either figure it out, or you’ll intuitively know when you finish the story even if you don’t literally know.  Cuz the human brain does stuff like that!)

Looking at the desired object, considering my budget, and fully aware of my current life situation I had two very clear thoughts (using language to help guide my choice)  in rapid succession.  The first one was “Damn, I wish I had a husband to play with” the second,  “OR I wish I were okay playing with a man who isn’t my husband and who isn’t going to be my husband.”

And that, in language, my dear friends, clearly defined my own choice and decision-making process.  Here’s what I knew about myself in that moment:  1.  I want a husband and 2.  I’m not okay playing with a man who doesn’t fit that category.

And there you have it.  No way did I expect to have a clear thought about wanting a husband so soon.  Seriously, I’ve employed lots of symbolic use of language and expected a thought like that maybe sometime next spring.

But the result of the second thought was most surprising.

I don’t feel unsettled about being without a sexual partner.  It’s like the weight of the other option just sunk right back into the cortex of my brain and all the symbolic language about why I don’t want to be sexual right now with any presenting candidates makes perfect weighty sense.

At least that’s true for now.  I’ll let you know if it changes.

Boy Wonder will still come home on breaks.  We answered that question nicely this past weekend and you can read about it in yesterday’s post.

In the meantime, I do live by myself.

I grew up the tenth of eleven children twelve miles out in the country with almost 600 acres to roam. I’m used to lots of people but I loved some alone time away from the throng and there was plenty of space to find it when I needed it.  I spent hours and hours alone outside.  From a really early age. I vividly remember, by four-years old, rising early and taking refuge under the lilacs with the mud and bees.

As I got older, I galloped a few different horses down the fence and runway, giving them their heads, goading them faster until it took me to the edge of fear.  I took my guitar out to the rock pile and sang my little heart out.  I waded through the stream to the huge mossy rock where I sat silently under a canopy of trees, branches parting to a crisp autumn sky.  I ran through the fields.  I yelled at God.

I wanted to get the baptism in the Holy Spirit when I heard it was a thing.  I told Him, “hit me, I’m ready.”  Way out there in the meadow beyond the treeline.

I don’t mind alone.

It IS different doing creative work from home and not seeing more than 300 people every single day at school.  But I have the Y and lunches with friends, and all those sporting events, not to mention church, Bible Study Fellowship, and small group.  I get plenty of people interaction.

And I’ve always had time alone to do the creative things.  It’s necessary.  Before now, not enough of it.  I like that part.

What I can’t seem to adjust to is having no one to COOK for.  No one but me.  This is after a lifetime of cooking for an audience.  Cooking toward someone else’s tastes and opinion.  Listening to the response.  Listening to the quietest comments under the “mmmmm”s. Watching the additional use of salt or pepper on a particular dish, the cutting around the best parts, observing who went in for a second helping.  I was triumphant when eaters leaned back saying, “I ate way too much.”  It actually made me throw my head back in a pleasurable laugh.

Some people were more fun to cook for than others.  One man, early in my life, was critical of all I cooked.  He was even critical of my methods.  He’s now a pretty accomplished cook himself, but there wasn’t room for both of us in any kitchen we’ve shared.  Our egos were too big.  Maybe I was too sensitive.

Another was easy to please night after night with a standard, simple fare of meat in some form.  Potatoes in some form.  Ocassionally spiced with the switch-out of rice or pasta.  Bread and butter.  A vegetable.  Easy.

Still another thrived on taste and I will admit, he was the most fun to cook for.  I could try new techniques and exquisite taste combinations.  The menu ran the gamut with desserts and baked goods allowed. He gave lots of valuable feedback.  Thanks, Stan.  You’re probably the reason I got good at any aspect of cooking at all.  You were a good audience.

Still,  you should not have lied to me about liking cookies a little darker.

To help me feel better when I burned a batch, he said  “no, I like them a little more caramelized.”  I found out the truth after twelve years of over-browning the last sheet of every batch of cookies I made.

Take my two sons, as different as night and day.  One, now an accomplished cook himself, sought flavor experiences from the time he was a small boy.  He would eat anything I put in front of him and love most of it.  Stan got him to try pickled herring with ice-cream just by telling him it was a desirable combination.  He liked it.  (Not so weird since they do cream herring.)

Boy Wonder’s faves:  mac and cheese (from a box)  pb n j sandwiches with Jif peanut butter, pizza, and, because we ate it so many days after kindergarten at the Magic Wok, orange chicken, fried rice, and beef and broccoli.

He’s been happy when I’ve made him Hamburger Helper, though I tried avoiding that as much as possible.  Since it was just him and me at home for more than a year before he left for college, you can imagine I’ve had to scale down the creativity of meals.  My job was mainly to keep his protein levels high and his carbs complex and supportive.  Hence, lots of meat and potatoes.  You saw some of those posts here.

I can’t tell you how excruciating it is to have no one to please with tastefully concocted nourishment from my hands and heart.  I mean wring-my-hands kind of painful.  Who knew that would be the thing I’d miss the most?

True to form, I’m confronting this as merely a problem to solve.  Either I accept this change in my life as a good thing and move on, or I find some way to continue cooking to please.

Rather than accept my lot,  of course I’ve been looking for alternatives.

I could cook just for the blog.  I did have several people think that’s what I was doing already.  But no, I’m not a food waster.  I was actually feeding all the food you saw pictured here to my family.

I will cook for the IHN ministry.  That’s very satisfying but it only happens about four times a year.  I invite people for dinner.  I’m so out of practice, I actually overcooked the amazing foolproof baby back ribs I love.  Guests still said they tasted good, but I know…

I took homemade au gratin potatoes and pork loin with apple rings to a family with seven kids just today.  I hope they liked it.  But I wasn’t there to observe.

I refuse to cook and fill my freezer with one portion size bags of meals I’ll probably never eat.  The pleasure I’m seeking after all, is not making the food.  It’s not eating the food, but feeding people I love.  There’s no substitute for that.

I insisted on hosting Sunday dinner including meat, potatoes, squash, green beans, sliced peppers and tomatoes,  bread with honey butter and jam, apple crisp with ice-cream for dessert.

Dad leaned back and said, “Everything was really good, Bether.”  That’s what he’s always called me when he hasn’t called me “Pinker.”

“There’s just one thing wrong,” he added.  I listened closely, of course.  “I ate too much.”

Can you hear me laughing?

“Sorry,” I said.  “Why do you think I’m doing it?”  It was a rhetorical question but he answered anyway.

“So you make more physical contact.”  Smartie.

He showed me his chemistry lab report.   About a third of it sounds remotely familiar, but I’m certain if I ever wrote a chemistry report it was not in college and did not include so much math.  His intelligence clearly differs from mine.

“Well, you didn’t have to,” he said.  “For your major, why would you?”  Still, I’m awed by the things he knows and can do sometimes.  By his generosity not claiming superiority.

Friday, he went to Girlfriend’s mom’s house and then out with friends on two conditions:  that Girlfriend come to our house for Sunday dinner (I’ve missed her too!) AND that he come see me first.

“Aight.  Deal.”  His text verbatim.

I was blowing my hair when he snuck in the front door, crossing the dining room of a house he’s slept in less than six hours, bag-laden, heading up to his room.  He hadn’t even seen the way I’d set it up or where I put his stuff or hung his autographed cards, Joe Mauer poster, and life-size Adrian Peterson sticker we transferred from his old bedroom wall.

I thought I might cry.

I mean, I’ve missed him in particular.  I’ve missed parenting every day generally.  I’ve specifically felt the sting of having no one to cook for.  (Actually, that change in routine pleasures has maybe been more wrenching than the rest.  I was made to feed people.  I think I’ll post on that tomorrow!)

Not that I was counting the days, just trying to accept the changes, but I suddenly realized I’ve had a suspended question about whether he would ever come home again, silly as it seems.  I realized this past six weeks is the longest I’ve not seen him.

I dropped my hair dryer.  He dropped his bags more slowly.  But he dropped them.

He beefed up.  Working out everyday.  He’s sporting hair over his lip and chin.  Says he’s not used to being around people as smart if not smarter than he is.   The girls sang with every song on the five-hour ride home.  Can’t get enough good food on campus.

I tried not to stare at him while he talked.  I resisted petting him.  He doesn’t need me to fawn ALL over him.  I hugged him and kissed his jaw.  Hugged him some more.  And I let him go.  I was proud of myself.  See, I can do this.

Homecoming was Saturday, full of action, including photography.  And I talk too much.  To everyone.  The place was packed, full of people I haven’t seen for a long time and incredibly distracting for my mission of getting glorious photos.  Ten-thousand-true-word photos.But photos are no substitute for talking with real people so I’m always trying to do both.

Couple times I bolted down the sidelines after a shot I need.  I probably looked like a dork, my short legs motoring as fast as they will, homecoming beads flailing, camera and strap all kitty womping in my hands.

I used to be in track.  I still run.  Fairly slowly most of the time.  I might not want a picture of me doing that but I like the pictures it enabled me to get.After the game, about nine guys who played football with Boy Wonder last year grouped around their head coach, who gave them some more of his wisdom on life.  It almost made me cry right there but I took photos of it instead and, when Coach was done talking,  of the guys together.

They sense everything has changed and can’t be certain what will remain.  But they aren’t trying to figure it out.  They’re just living.  It’s a beautiful way to do life.I told them I love them.  They love me too.  Group hug.  Luckily no one pushed or shoved; I would have been a smooshed bug in the center of that heap.

Sunday, after dinner and a visit with Grandpa and Paula, Their Guest, First Uncle, and, as promised, Girlfriend, Boy Wonder took his computer out to the front porch, plugged himself into Netflix and cozied up on the day bed where I’ve spent afternoons reading, researching publications, and (I must admit) napping a time or three since moving here six weeks ago.  It’s a farmhouse porch, bare windows on all four sides, screened to the outside if I’d put them back up.  The light is perfect.

“Why is this bed so comfortable?” he asked.  I joined him and watched some of the Best of Jimmy Fallon, moving pillows to fit.  Then I left him where he napped until 6:30.

I woke him to go see Grandma; we stayed visiting until after ten. She asked questions; I strained to hear answers from the other room where I was cutting First Uncle’s hair a little too short for this time of year.  “Talk louder, Garret.”

He didn’t.

This morning I asked my questions over french toast for breakfast.

“Did you have a good weekend?”

Yeah.

“Does it seem like it went fast?”

Really fast.

“Stressed at all? About getting visits in?  About going back?” I asked.

I gotta get Chemistry done, but no.

“Does it feel like home?”

“Yeah,” he said.  “Course it does.”

Suddenly, it dawned on me, that’s all I needed to know.

I love to hear how he’s doing.  Love to feed him again.  Love to see him in the flesh, hear his breathing in the bedroom across from mine.  But knowing whether it still feels like home is the only real question I needed answered this weekend.

It answers a whole lot of other ones too.

I shot a sophomore football game tonight and among other delights, captured two interceptions and some great tackles, good carries.  The varsity showed up after their practice so I forfeited my bathroom break for pics of the guys tossing the football sideline-happy during half-time.  Gorgeous stuff.  The light was stunning.  The kind of autumn light between Indian Summer and the high crystalline blue of wind blowing crisp chill.  It’s precise.  Specific.  God must have made weather like this especially for football.

The wind started to whip and I felt tough.  It might sound stupid, but I felt beautiful even shivering.  I felt invincible like I know the boys naturally feel more often than not.

For some reason I can’t look at the pics until tomorrow.  I can preview them on my camera while I’m shooting, but I can’t come home and immediately look at what I’ve made.

Too soon and the image gets in the way of the truth of having lived through the event, whatever it is.  After some time passes, I can test the truth of the image.

For some reason I flipped through Facebook profile pics of the past couple years.  I can read the events by looking at my face.  Of course I have memories of the events but what I remember most is how I felt.

Can you see it too?  Or is it just me inside the event remembering?  I’ve often said I have no poker face.  I used to think this was a good thing but maybe not so much.  It might be everyone needs one sometimes.

The past year has been especially rich with deeply emotional experiences.  Heath’s BASIC training.  His tour in Afghanistan.  His leave from there for Garret’s graduation and Alexie’s wedding.Photos from Garret’s dad’s funeral are too painful.  I don’t have a photo of me bawling under Boy Wonder’s chin leaving him at college.  I did that suddenly for just about ten seconds before grabbing his jaw and telling him “I’m so proud of you and I love you so much.”

We didn’t get a picture of the four of us at Alexie’s wedding.  That we missed it still stings, but I did capture some beautiful images:

My daughter is gorgeous don’t you think?  I love that she knows how to play.  It’s one of my favorite things about her.  I know it’s one of Nathan’s favorite things about her too.

It won’t make sense to the bride and groom, but below is one of my favorites.   It makes me remember how we felt once they were gone, standing aimless, letting sparklers burn to ash.  Garret checked his phone as soon as possible.  It’s stunning composition.  But does anyone else see what I see?

That’s what I’m least sure of as I start this venture. I know my objective: capture the truth of the moment.  Make people remember.  More importantly, invite them to feel.  Life is beautiful. It’s full of moments worth capturing, for sure.

The question is, will I be able to do justice to the subject?

Will I be able to, ten or twenty years from now, inspire these young men to remember how tough, how invincible, how very alive they felt on the football field?  Will they remember, even more than a specific play or game, what it felt like in that moment.

Or is mine the only heart that aches looking at an image like this one?  It’s not even my best, but for me, it translates into a thousand true words.

In the month since his absence, I’ve learned a few things.

I don’t pee on the toilet rim.  Ever.  Neither one of the bathrooms smell of urine.  Uncanny.  However, the house still gets dirty… all by itself.  I’m pretty sure it’s just the sediment of life filtering through the air with no help whatsoever from me.

I don’t drink milk.  Much.  A gallon lasted a month.  Not so fresh near the end.  Told you, Garret.  You ARE the one who always drank all the milk.

I don’t feel as lonely as I sometimes was being unhappily married.  That’s no surprise.  I figured.  Being alone now makes good sense.  Crazy gets pretty tiring and not-crazy is a lot less effort.  Besides, I’ve always enjoyed my alone time.  Now, I’ve got plenty of it when I want it.

Other firsts:

I have a television in my bedroom.  I hear this interferes with sexual intimacy.  Hmmm.  That works, since there’s none of that to worry about.  Though I would like to have a very good reason to worry about it.  You probably read all about that here and here and most amusingly here.  Still.  No worthy candidates proposing their undying love, presenting diamonds, and professing their unconditional devotion.

Dang.

Still, the television is great.  I’ve wasted some money on RedBox for the first time in a long time.

I blast the music whenever I feel like it.  I sing along again like I used to when it was just me and the kids.   Thank God I ended up in a house and not an apartment.  Seriously.  Thank you, God.  I’m singing along with Rascal Flatts right this second.  Not lying.  “Won’t let you gooo , no I won’t…”

(See, still on the Country station.)

I have an M&M candy dispenser on the wall of the kitchen thanks to dear wonderful Jody and Donny who made a fantastic housewarming gift of the thing.  Bravo!  Perfect choice!  For the first time, however, I get to take one hundred percent responsibility for the level of the dispenser.

Which brings me to the mono no aware moment of this post. (My former students should understand that literary term!  Let’s hope, at least.)

I’ve decided there are not enough children in my house.  I need one or two or three.  How about five.  Does five work for you?  Five might work for me.

I like little humans.  They’re so amusing, so wonder-full, so excruciatingly beautiful.  Even when they’re little shits (pardon my french, but sometimes they are shockingly naughty, hence the shocking expletive) they’re stinkin amazing.

I know I can get a Kinship partner and teach Sunday School and volunteer.  I can do foster care… seriously considering that, but what I’ve learned most acutely this month of living alone is how very much I MISS the fun of kids’ schedules and their growing bodies and minds, their need to be fed and guided and the sometimes painfully sweet, astonishing clarity of their thinking.  I miss the responsibility and the huge burden of being a permanent influence.

Most of all I miss the changing dance of loving them selflessly, then loving them with boundaries, then loving them while those boundaries get tested and finally, loving who they’ve become while you have the heart-expanding joy of looking at them and seeing every single age all at the same time.

Damn.  No wonder God loves us.  (I like being His kid.)

It’s great.  There is no substitute for parenting.

I’d still like to do more of it.  Hands-on.  Daily.  In my house.

I’ll take the pee on the toilet seat.  I’d still complain about the urine smell and the enormous volume of milk I’d have to buy.  I’d share the M&Ms and curb my music-blasting a tiny little bit.  I’d clean up REAL messes and organize more stuff than I want to.

Whats more, I’d love a good man to play with.   ( I’m just living, not actively LOOKING, but the thought of having a good marriage has occurred to me. of course.  For now, I’m good with the television.)

But the desire for more children hasn’t gone away.

I’ve decided I better choose pretty soon, since feeling sorry for myself is a stupid waste of time.  Either  1.  accept this stage of my life or  2.  figure out a way to parent some more.

I am considering what #2 actually entails.  Including the man to play with.  Also other logistical stuff.

It further occurs to me God loves me and I should probably ask Him for exactly what I want.  What a novel idea!

Just so you don’t think I’m a complete dork, I do realize living alone IS something of a luxury.  Especially if I marry and parent more children, this time might not be repeated til I’m a sad, old widow.  It probably won’t be nearly as much fun when I’m crunched over, wrinkled, and nearly dried up.

It occurs to me- not for the first time, but in the biggest way of my life thus far- it really IS the choices we make every single day that determine the life we will have.

That being said, I’ve also decided I better take advantage of my freedom.

Hey!  I think I’ll go watch a movie all alone in my bed!  While I still can.

1.  I’ve made comfortable the old Victorian-style farmhouse we finished moving to at 3:30 the morning Boy Wonder moved to college.  He slept here exactly four hours in the room we both call his.  I’m proud it took me just two and a half days to unpack every box when I got back from Brookings. I’ve had repair men in the house and on the grounds almost as many days as I’ve lived here.  One was here today.  He’ll be back tomorrow.  I’m actually looking forward to being left in peace even though I’m living alone for the first time in my life.  (I smell a separate blog post on that subject!)

2.  I’ve been listening to an excessive amount of country western music.  It’s about family, God, love, loss and all the stuff that really matters most.  You’d be surprised how much of it’s about children growing up.   For instance: “I’m lost in her there holding that pink rod and reel.  She’s doing almost everything but sittin still…talkin bout her ballet shoes and training wheels…and her kittens…And she thinks we’re just fishin’”

Hey, it helps me cry.  (As if I need encouragement.) They call that cathartic.  It’s working for me.

Then there’s “You and tequila make me crazy” with its mournful harmonies and “If I die young bury me in satin, lay me down on a bed of roses.  Sink me in the river at dawn.  Send me away on the words of a love song.”  In case you don’t know, the death of Young Beauty is a classic topic of high literature.  More tragic: Virginal Beauty, which she turns out to be: “I’ve never known the love of a man, but it sure felt nice when he was holding my hand./There’s a boy in town says he’ll love me forever./ Who would have thought forever could be severed by the sharp knife of a short life?”  Good Lord.  That’ll wrench yer heart as long as you have one.

Don’t worry, there’s relief in the celebratory and drinking songs.  My favorite might be “I ain’t here for a long time, I’m here for a good time.”  I finally figured out the rhythm to the line “folks are always dreaming bout what they’d like to do but I like to do just what I like.”  Who thinks this stuff up?!  Maybe my absolute favorite line in all of it (besides “she thinks my tractor’s sexy“) might be “God is great, beer is good, and people are crazy.”

Okay!  It’s true!

Ask anyone, I’ve always said I have to be in the MOOD for country.   Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been known to listen to it for pleasure.  But who knew in mass quantities it would be such good medicine.  Apparently, I’ve been in this mood for a while now. But, truly, I digress.

3.  I’ve begun a photography “business.”  I can call it that, right?  Since I anticipate being paid for the work I’ve been doing the last five weeks. Luwandi Photography: capturing life’s best moments.  Currently working on a sports photography contract.  Athletes are so thoroughly present in the thing they’re doing.  So wholly alive, striving, completely focused.  And that is beautiful.  All the time. I aim for journalistic coverage other photographers might miss.  Stories on the sideline.  A particularly hard hit in practice.  The instant a dad greets his son after a stunning win.  The look of Mom’s worry as she’s watching in the stands.  It’s great stuff.

I will do other events… if they qualify as life’s best moments.    Marriage, birth, celebration, endeavor!  Can you think of other ‘best’ moments?

4.  I’ve also commenced fall schedules at church, in the community, and certainly not least, at our local YMCA.  I’m working out six days a week and twice on Monday and Tuesday.  Not kidding.  I’m not losing weight if that’s what you think.  No, not yet.  I’m eating anything I want.  I mean, my metabolism is revvved and I’m hungry. “Lay off!  I’m starving!”

I weigh the same but I can feel my glutes and hams and quads and those muscles over my ribs.

I can feel them from the inside at least, even if they still appear to be covered by a layer of fatty insulation. I’m glad my body responds well to exercise.  It wakes up and says, “what are you doing?”

I started Zumba three times a week.  Latin Dance workout?  You know I love it.  (It’s a good substitute for dancing to hip hop at the only decent dance joint in the lakes area.)  Three different instructors.  Big differences between each of them.  One of them makes us do things that make us look like 20-something gangsters and I’m wondering if I manage to get really good at those moves whether my children would be proud or embarrassed.

Seriously.  I’m finding there’s a huge difference between what I was doing for activity last year and these workouts.  That was easy crap compared to machines changing your incline and effort, monitoring your heart rate continually and telling you you’re just 30% done while you stare at an episode of the Today show or Sports Central.  One morning, someone chose the FoodNetwork and Bobby Flay had a throw down over homemade baked macaroni and cheese.  For some reason, it distracted me more effectively than the highlights from last weekend’s college football games.

Even more distracting is the parade of 80-something bare-naked  bodies in the locker room.  I bet I have a different view of the flesh I’m living in by the time I get to be nearly-dead too.  I mean, then I’ll be anticipating leaving it soon enough and I’ll be proud of the fact I can get my clothes off and my swimsuit on eventually.  There will be no hurry.  I won’t care if ten forty-something chickens stand gawking while they try to cover their transfer from dressed to swim-ready.    I’ll either be truly comfortable in my own skin or so detached from it I won’t even feel naked.  If my mind is sharp enough, I’ll probably think of this blog post and laugh at myself.

Either way, the locker room is a reminder that 1.  we’re all human  2.  exercise does not make you beautiful and 3.  getting old pretty much sucks rock in a bottle.

If nothing else, going to the Y six days a week and twice Monday and Tuesday reminds me “I ain’t here for a long time; I’m here for a good time.”

I’ve been trying to specifically define “good” which has me pretty busy, but I’m pretty sure posting more regularly is “good.”

From the looks of the store it’s hard to tell if they move much candy or not.  That’s how you gauge freshness, of course.

The two girls in front, dressed in frumpy red polos, were deep in conversation when I arrived to ask.

I heard the freckled girl say, “I know!  I was like, ‘well, I’m glad they get along!’  I just wasn’t expecting them to drink like fish together!”  They both laughed and it made me wonder who she was talking about.  Her divorced parents?  Two old boyfriends? I almost asked but stopped myself, instead curious if they sell lots of candy.

The plump one looked at me, puzzled.  ”Average I guess.”  It didn’t sound promising.  She twisted her lips in an unattractive grimace.

So finding the freshest bag of my life: surprising.

Even more surprising, a lightning-bolt-thought came to me while trying to solve the dilemma where to sleep tonight. I didn’t know until about 5:00 my ride wasn’t going back til the next day and all the hotels in town answered “booked full” when I called.

I don’t know where the lightning-bolt-thought came from.  (I like God.  I figure He deserves a little credit.  I’m good with that.  I’m no genius all by myself.)

“Check the diviest joint in town.  They probably have room.”  And of course they did.  The guy answering smoker-coughed into the phone and said “we don’t really take reservations.  It’s more first come, first served.”

Of course it is.  The joint is one you park at and enter from outside.  That’s why they call it a MO-tel, cuz you mo-tor up to it.

The attendant came from across the lot where he was smoking with a guy in jeans and a dirty white t-shirt.  A cluster of bikes fenced their gathering.  The attendant didn’t know the Wifi password by heart.  Of course they have air-condiitioning. Of course I’ll be safe here. He rolled his eyes and said, ”It’s Brookings.”  One of his blue eyes lagged behind the other.  His camouflage shirt was too big for him.  He lumbered off to get the Wifi password.

Weeds grow from cracks in the cement and pavement.  The outside staircase is steel.  My cush room along the balcony marked “no smoking” has an ash tray on the table. The door has a dead lock that reads “Open and Occupied”  depending on the position.

Yet, the room is surprising.   It has everything you need.  The AC is amazingly strong.  It even has a fridge and a microwave that makes me wish I’d thought of popcorn and an escape on the TV though I’m not sure i want an escape. I have big things on my mind; my baby boy is going to college. I actually want the mix of all these big feelings.

I made Garret take me to get the razors, Sour Kids, some chocolate, and a Diet Coke.  I’ll lock my door and be good with that.  After three hours of sleep last night (different post) and a four and a half hour drive down, I just want a bed and my little treats.  So you can imagine how it surprised me to discover I’d left them in Garret’s car.

He had walked me to my room, carried my bag past an open doorway where three or four men gathered around a television. More empty bottles than bodies rested on the hotel table.  Other bottles nestled in hand.  Outside, a white-haired man lounged, moving bare feet and bending to move his tennis shoes as we passed.  He shared a gappy smile and continued talking on a cell phone.

Both Garret and I were responsible for the Family Dollar bag staying on the car seat.

Imagine my surprise when Boy Wonder actually agreed to come back as I realized twenty minutes later I didn’t have it.  He brought Girlfriend and New Roommate.  They surveyed the place, immediately grateful for their nice dorm rooms.  They stayed just a few minutes.

Perhaps the nicest surprise of the day is how Boy Wonder let me hang just a little too long with my arms around his waist and my head up under his chin.  I realized before he did that I was snuggling him in front of a New Person. Even though he didn’t seem to mind one bit, I let him go.

They had fun planned and Garret has his first hall meeting at 9:35 sharp, but did you get that?  I let him go.

I’ll cry later.  I might bawl tomorrow.  And it all feels good.

Now that just might surprise me most of all.

“Why would you EVER write about that?!”  he exclaimed.

It’s a good post, I assured him.  God is in it a lot.  It got a lot of traffic.

“From sicko men!” he pointed out.

Btw:  hello sicko men.  Thank you for reading.  I had no idea you were with us.  I figured there were plenty regular type men reading.  I mean, if I were a man and I saw a headline like “This one might be X-rated” I’d definitely read it.  I’m a woman, and I’d definitely read it, especially if someone like me wrote it!

I told him I was planning to write a post titled “the Final word on sex.”

He said, “I’ll write it for you. Here it is:  Dear men:  Stay away from me.  Do not touch me.  You will get nothing from me.  I HAVE CHILDREN!”

There it is, the guest post from my 18-year-old son posing as me.

He did sit down last night and read yesterday’s less than 500 word post because I insisted.

1.  I wanted to prove it was not about sex (though he said I DID mention it) 2.  I knew he’d get all the damn references since he’s listened to his auntie’s music and  3.  I needed to let him know, even though it’s been nearly 8 years I’ve been without her, I still miss my sister like crazy and that’s normal (since he’s always going to miss his dad and that’s normal too.)

It’s like pulling teeth to actually get him to read anything I write.  So, be assured, his is not the final word on sex at this little blog spot.  Stay tuned.

And as for the feature image for the x-rated posts, I reminded him it’s a pic I used for a dream sequence last year.  ”Well, it looks like something else n I don’t wanna see that!” he said. Hence the new photo, a little less intimate. wink wink.

Damn garage sale schtuff needing to be sorted and cleaned.

Damn dusty books and broken furniture and bed frames that need to come apart.  Damn, I hate moving!

Damn weeds in the grass and garden.  And for that matter, damn lawn mower whose pull-string keeps breaking, giving me an excuse for the lawn being so shaggy.

Damn huge skidloader that needs a tire fixed, it’s joints greased, and it’s hide all polished and shiny before all sorts of scummy, virile, wiley, or handsome men show up looking for a good deal.  On the skid.  (Now that I can do all sorts of fun stuff on it, I’m sad to see it go.  This has nothing to do with yesterday’s post!  Stop that!)

Damn air conditioning that taunts me with its reprieve from the humidity only to gouge my wallet.

And damn, it’s August already so here we go into the fast and frenzied end of summer and beginning of the fall schedule with football games, sweatshirts, campouts, bonfires, and hikes through the turning trees.

Hey!  That’s not so bad…

And I was gonna say, damn belly fat sitting around my middle, (having plumped up real gradual-like since the middle of April when I had a stupid little surgery and my son’s father died and then the end of school and my mom’s 80th birthday party, Boy Wonder’s graduation, and the continual rounds of grad parties, ManBoy home from Afghanistan, Girl gets married, the finality of the divorce, the 25-yr class reunion, and the commencement of the Summer of Fun….)

but no!

I gained five pounds.  And maybe it IS all sitting around my soft middle.  But for some reason this morning, I think it’s pretty cute.

I think I earned it.

I think I earned a little cute, soft, plush belly fat.

I think it goes fairly nicely with the rest of me, thank you very much.

And when I think of all the great meals and treats, the new adventures, the house parties, the luscious creamy beverages, the late-night bonfires with s’mores, the sippin sum-in lakeside days and evenings

all with fabulous friends this summer…

so worth it.

And really, I’m still proportionate… just cuter and softer.  I can live with that.

So, damn, I’m cute! So there.

BUT, in the words of my closest sister, now departed, “Damn, I wish I had a motorcycle!” (listen at the link, you’ll understand the post a whole lot better!)

Wish I could hug you today, sis.  Wish you could feel my silly, soft middle and agree with me how cute it is.  damn, Damn, DAMN,  I miss you, Mary!

Same disclaimer:  if you are a student or former student of mine, a family member, (particularly my kid,) or a friend of mine with a certain sensibility, you might not want to know this much about me.  You’ve been warned.

This is the real-life experiences of a 40-something, nearly empty-nesting, pretty newly single, hot-blooded, Northern Woman.  I’m also a devoted Christian and if that does not seem to jibe with the content, then you have sorely misunderstood my intent to “Get Real.”  It’s what I do here. On purpose. The WHOLE thing.  Together.  Cuz that’s life.

There.  Not that people LISTEN to that.  My oldest son read yesterday’s post, as did at least two of my former students who posted to my Facebook wall.  And to clear up any misconceptions about the role of the poll, I am not going to DO what you TELL me to do.  Since when has that ever been a real concern?

My beliefs:  1.  human beings are the most valuable thing on the planet.  2.  human behavior is one of the most fascinating things ever.  3.  human sexual behavior is one of the most fascinating facets of human behavior.

So, I study.  By interview, by survey, by observation, and by participation and reflection.  And in case that’s too much for you, remember what I’ve told my kids since adolescence, “If you think it’s about sex, it IS about sex.  And anyway, it’s all about sex.”

Of course, it’s not all about sex.  It’s about other things too.  But it’s related.  We wouldn’t be here without it.

And no, that does not mean I’m out having un-married sex.  I hate when people assume that.  People who can’t seem to fathom why one might enjoy playing with a man in a context that does not involve sex first, then marriage, children, abandonment, him having sex with someone else, and everyone’s eventual demise.

Once and for all, I’m just curious, Mom.  I’m not scared of the men, the questions, or the answers.

And lest you think I’m dealing with sexual hang-ups here,  um, no.  Love sex.  Love my sexuality.  It’s not all of me, but it’s a part of me I embrace.  I was born this way.  Thanks, God.

I’m just questioning the nearly unbearable agony of such a fantastic, cruel gift as I’m stuck in my forties trying to live a really healthy life.  I intuitively know dealing with this rightly may indeed be the final surrender in a year of them.  Check out the list of losses and letting go right here.

Also, for the rule-book shakers, here’s a list of the commandments I have been able to keep (at least for some contrived period of time):

Loving God, Loving my neighbor (but not always as much as myself) avoiding stealing, (except once when I was eleven… I got over that real quick!) I’ve never killed anyone, I’ve kept the sabbath, I’ve not coveted my neighbor’s wife or manservant, his donkey or his ass, (but maybe his boat.)  I don’t bear false witness, and I moved back up here to honor my mother (and be by the lakes) plus I adore my dad.

May I just point out “thou shalt not be a glutton” is not in the top ten.

Now, here’s a list of the commandments, the spirit of which I’ve been able to keep:

(that’s blank, in case you thought it was just a fluke.)  My point exactly.  Who’s throwing the first stone?

That’s what I thought.

That’s what Jesus is for.  Period.

I live by grace.  And I walk by faith every single day.  I’ve also discovered there is a strong, knowing, wise inner part of me some people get all spiritual about and identify as God’s voice or the Holy Spirit.  That works for me, but calling it my gut works just as well.  He put it there, after all. *

My gut is never wrong.  I can trust her.  She was designed to protect me and when I listen to her, she does an excellent job!  Sooo simple.

And that is the part I am learning to listen to when making the choice about (a lot of things but particularly) spending time with specific men. Get this:  I have come to believe it really IS this SIMPLE:

Good men make me feel good.  I love the way they treat me and I love the way I feel when I’m with them.

I feel free to be myself.  I feel good about myself.  I feel open and sexy and safe.

I don’t feel judged or boxed up.  I don’t feel pre-identified.  I don’t feel like every move I make is being scrutinized.  I don’t feel anxious when I’m around or away from them.  I don’t wonder if they’re being honest with me.  And I don’t demand anything from them.

Guess what?  There are such men.  And I’m still not sure if I will get to have sex with one of them anytime soon or ever.  And some days, that really bites.

But just because I feel good, (remember the lasagna from yesterday) does not mean I should eat the feast.

*BTW, I know God’s voice too and He never yells at me; sometimes He kicks my ass, but that’s way different.

(It’s okay to post comments here.  That way anyone who wants to can get in on the conversation.  What do you think?)

Truth is, if the real-life experiences of a 40-something, nearly empty-nesting, pretty newly single, hot-blooded, Northern Woman are too much, this blog ain’t the right place for you.

If the fact I’m also a devoted Christian does not seem to jibe with the content, then you have sorely misunderstood my intent to “Get Real.”  It’s what I do here.  On purpose.  The WHOLE thing.  Together.  Cuz that’s life.

That settled, here’s the deal:  Having been rightly deprived of any kind of regular and meaningful sexual relationship for quite some time now, I am noticing a tendency toward whining… that’s W-H, not wine, since that seems to make things worse, not better!

I have likened my state just recently -and I think quite aptly- to being on a diet the likes of which leaves one feeling CONSTANTLY HUNGRY. Who would go on such a regimen?

I know.  We try.  We punish ourselves after gluttony.  We disdain our rolly softness and think the harshest measure is the answer!  So we embark on a nonsensical journey of regimented eating that throws our bodies into starvation mode, leaving us worse off than whence we began.

It’s the antithesis of my whole mission to lose weight.  I am out to prove you can enjoy life and food, while getting healthy. I’m not a dieter anymore.  At all.

However, I’m not opposed to discipline.  Some feeling of unsatisfied craving is, I think, intrinsic in losing weight.  At least for a time.

Don’t freak.  I’m not suggesting the right balance of casual sex sprinkled into a mostly disciplined life is just the ticket.  The analogy only goes so far.

Some of my friends do tally their votes in that direction, however.  Men and women.  They wonder aloud to me, “why not?!”

I don’t tell them it’s cuz the Bible tells me so. (Like some diet program.)  I don’t tell them it’s cuz I can take it or leave it. (Like particularly rich food some people love, but I happen not to prefer.)  I don’t tell them it’s cuz sex is dirty and bad.  (Like some health nuts seem to want you to think about certain food.)

For the record, SEX is fantastic!  God made it and He knew what He was doing!  I miss it.  A lot!  I miss it more than I’d miss chocolate… Waaaaaaayyyy more!  Notice, I have not stopped eating chocolate.  Every single day.  Thank God for that.

But really, I have an internal thing that is its own radar.  It’s simple.  It’s easy.  Some things just don’t settle well. Like my mother’s homemade lasagna, which I loved at the time, but, which, without fail, had me puking in the bathroom by two a.m. every time I ate it!

Notice, I ate it several times.  I did not learn right away, nor by someone else telling me.  Not even by my sister warning me, “hey, Barf (one of her favorite nicknames for me) remember when you puked that up last time?”  Did I listen?  Heck no.  The lasagna tasted good!  Really good!

Same thing.  You can draw that analogy all by yourself, right?

Even now, twenty years after I was last “on the market,” I would no more have sex with a mediocre prospect than I would spend my calories on food I don’t actually relish.  Why?

We live in America. There’s no shortage. Of food or willing partners, believe me.  And of course, some food, some willing partners…. waaaaaaaayyy better than the others.

Okay.  So the point is, as much as I feel sorry for myself, as much as I whine, as much as I feel like I’m on a starvation diet for some reason I can’t even clearly define, I’m not interested in table scraps.

I’m waiting for the three-meal-a-day, gourmet, healthy, moveable feast including all the vitamins, minerals, and good-for-your-heart flavor that I positively expect when I fall completely head over heels in love with a very good man.  Well.  That for the first three or four months at least. Then one meal a day might do it.

What can I say?  I’m picky.

And optimistic.

In the meantime, there’s whine and chocolate.