Dear madam,

Every time I look into your eyes I can’t help but think, “My god, those are gorgeous. Like the golden brown of a perfectly baked pound cake.” And while it’s safe to say that I notice the imperfections – one eye just a shade larger than the other, the scar over your left brow, the occasional dark circles – they don’t make me love you any less. In fact, sometimes when you look less than your best, I think of you as a tragic figure in a novel, that’s been hurt and is in need of tender love and care.

A tragic figure in general, actually...if I’m honest. When I really stop to think about some of the hardships you’ve gone through, it nearly brings me to tears. And is there anything more romantic than tragedy? I daydream about your rescue. About your sudden lottery win, your unexpected discovery and ascent to the top of the best seller lists, your immense sexual satisfaction from the person you want most, and the eradication of Japanese Cherry Blossom lotion and shower gel. All things I know would make you immeasurably happy. I’d give them to you if I were able.

Adoring you isn’t easy, though. I’ve always been worried about what other people would think were they to find out just how involved we really are. It’s not that I’m ashamed of you exactly, but it would be nice if you could behave yourself. Gallivanting around, throwing yourself at people that don’t understand you and appreciate you the way I do...well, it just doesn’t help matters. But it’s time for everyone to know that, for better or worse, it’s the two of us. And you must face it as well – it’s far too late for that “let’s just be friends” line. I love you.

I love the way you wrap your wet hair in a towel, even though you know it’s going to keep coming loose, causing you to curse and flip upside down repeatedly. I love the way you curse, actually – the way you say fuck out loud where everyone can hear, but mutter “darn” to yourself, then get angry because darn is such a pussy sort of word and you’re no pussy. I love the way you walk around the house brushing your teeth, bent slightly at the waist and leaning out so that no toothpaste lands on your shirt...yet it always does.

I love the way you make faces in the bathroom mirror, alternately attempting to look serious and seductive. It’s rarely the latter, but that’s ok because I don’t need you to seduce me. Our love making is perfunctory and that’s as it should be. Our relationship is about deeper emotions and commitment, not finger strokes in the dark (Well, sometimes in the afternoon when you’re stressed. Don’t ever say I don’t take care of your needs.).

I’ve never much liked mouth breathers, but I can’t deny it’s slightly endearing when you watch movies with your jaw lowered like a drawbridge, completely oblivious to anything else. Your lips are a bit too thin and your nose a bit too pointy, but you have simply marvelous tits. I know you’re well aware of this since you’re often seen shaking one or both of them at people...even me, which just makes me laugh.

I love that you often have to remind yourself to make eye contact when meeting someone new – because after some workshop years ago it was stressed that people take you more seriously if you do. Yet consequently, you end up over thinking the whole thing and staring at them in a rather intense, creepy way. I love the way you mingle at parties – staying close to the alcohol and the people you know until you’ve had just enough, plus maybe an Adderall, then making your way around the room introducing yourself like a politician. You’d be a shit politician, by the way.

Your ego is an issue. You have a bit of a problem with thinking everything is about you...all the time. When there’s a nameless insult, you automatically think it’s directed at you. And when there’s a period of silence, you automatically assume you caused it. This is more prevalent on Twitter, but it shows up in other social areas as well. For instance, you tend to believe that every man that smiles at you wants your vagina, even though I’ve told you a million times that isn’t necessarily the case. Those could be pity smiles, my dear. You’ve taken to leaving the house without makeup quite frequently over the past year. Still, I can’t help but admire you in spite of your navel gazing.

In spite of a lot of things, really. Your nose picking habit...in fact, your habit of constantly mentioning your nose picking habit. Your tendency to be louder than 85% of the planet – your voice carries, there’s no need to shout. Your abysmal finances, your refusal to take care of your car or learn how do anything with it other than drive (changing the oil is, I hear, not that difficult), your complete lack of patience, and your uncanny ability to drive people far, far away.

But let’s not dwell on your faults any longer.

My love for you is like a Kamikaze pilot - proudly plummeting toward a target, intent on going out with a bang. We’re perfect for each other. And as long as you’ll let me care for you, I promise I’ll never try to cut you or get you arrested (for anything larger than a misdemeanor), and to let you have sex with whomever you want (provided you haven’t been on an all night drinking binge). Because that’s what a real relationship is all about – trust, sharing, honesty, and the avoidance of herpes.

Always love,

Yourself

BONed

Monday morning started just like any other. I was honing the fine art of procrastination - swilling coffee, possibly picking my nose, and flipping through my blog reader. Being back at work after the long holiday weekend put me rather far behind and, though I was itching to put off the reading and post something of my own, I knew I’d end up deleting half without a glance if I waited too long. I get overwhelmed and distracted quite easily, you see.

My boss, having missed me terribly, wouldn’t stop coming by my office door and making random remarks. “Did you watch the football game Saturday night”, she asked.

“I got home in time to see the second half. I went to see Harry Potter.”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You missed the first half of the Carolina vs. Clemson game...to see Harry Potter?”

“Yep. STUPIFY”, I shouted, pointing my letter opener at her.

As usual she laughed a little too obnoxiously. Then, blowing a trumpet blast of a fart, turned around and ran back to her office, red faced and giggling – leaving me with the stench of my own joke. It was quite rancid.

That woman has taught me many things about becoming older and shared lots of valuable life lessons, but none more helpful than: “When you get as old as I am, you just can’t hold it in anymore. My pucker reflex is plum puckered out.” It is, apparently, the only acceptable excuse a Southern woman can use to justify public flatulence. That or “my husband did it”. And try as I might, I simply can't justify getting married in order to let one rip whenever I choose.

I had a can of Dust Free Multi-Purpose cleaner (its compressed air that you spay to clean your keyboard and the like, in case you weren’t aware) so I sent a few blasts into the air around my head to clear the fog a bit, then got back to my blog reading. But as soon as I started, my phone vibrated with a new email. It was a comment notification.

The comment said a few things, lovely things, but the part that caught my eye was “I found you via blogs of note”.

My very first thought was, “Psssh, no way.” My second thought was, “They probably meant ‘through one of the blogs of note’ since so many of my friends have won it. I’ll bet they came over from Philip, Baglady, or Mr. London Street.”

Still, I couldn’t stop myself from clicking the mouse (which, in this case, I am not using as a euphemism for masturbation) until I reached my dashboard and the Blogs of Note tab. And there it was...my URL. I was completely bowled over. My normally dull Monday suddenly resembled a Friday. A Friday when I get off work early, have money in the bank, have a babysitter, and a date for marathon sex.

So now it’s Wednesday and here we are. I’m still insanely excited.

Welcome to all of you new folks and thank you for all the wonderful comments. I’ll be responding to them soon and checking out your blogs in return. If you haven’t yet had the chance to flick through my archives or check out more than the first one or two posts, here’s what you can expect to find (and read more of in the future):

I swear a lot and I occasionally write about sex in a graphic manner – not Harlequin throbbing-manhood- and-heaving-bosoms sort of graphic. It’s a bit more real than that. Like the time some guy insisted I call him “The Shump Daddy”  and produced more sweat than an entire football team or, when I realized that I’d have to make an appointment to spend time with my own vagina.

I write a lot about my family (the main characters being my mother, my mother’s fiancé Ray, my teenage sister Leigha, The Grandmother, and my five year old daughter Hannah). Those posts are occasionally sentimental, but more often than not, full of exasperation. I also have a very large extended family and they make plenty of appearances.

And, just over the past few months, I started writing about my foray into the world of online dating. It’s definitely been an interesting experience...sometimes disturbing, occasionally satisfying.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy what you’ve read so far and that you’ll stick around for more.

Next up on the agenda is “Thanksgiving – Part two”, and possibly a rant about a man that is obsessed with himself and taking the dirt road.

Cheers.

“I can't think about that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow.”

At 6:20 in the morning I go out and start my car. I crank up the heat, push the defrost and the seat warmer buttons, and leave it running in the drive.

It sits there, emitting plumes of whispy grey exhaust while the windshield slowly starts to unfog, while one tiny patch at the base spreads out, allowing me to see inside little by little. I watch it from the dining room window and raise one corner of my mouth in wry acknowledgement of the metaphor that flashes through my head. I’ve just likened myself to an idling car – its insides becoming more apparent as heat softens the thick, cold misted glass. And it's insides are a mess.

I have an hour commute and most days I spend it listening to my favorite radio show, on autopilot as I turn the wheel, press the gas, and chuckle at their jokes. Today my brain is in overdrive and the only sound is the whoosh of tires. My thoughts are like a bag of unlabeled jelly beans in the hands of a compulsive eater – I pop one in and chew it for a minute, swallow, pop in another, grimace and spit it out, try another and another.

*****

I think about how I’m changing. I’m starting to want things that I never did before and it makes me feel... ashamed. Like a fraud. Because though I’m starting to feel differently on the inside, I’m still clinging to my old habits, scared to death that new ones will only bring disappointment. One of my biggest fears, however silly it may seem, is becoming one of those women. You know...desperate.

I think about the fact that I haven’t heard from Sam at all since last Wednesday, and it was only a distracted text. I acknowledge the fact that I like the idea of him – the successful, intelligent, piano player who is good in bed. In reality he talks too much about himself and now only seems interested in what I have to say when it’s directly related to sex, which is partially my fault. I’ve been fooling myself into believing it might turn out to be more than a fun fling with an aging playboy. I don’t really want more from him, but I’m still offended that he doesn’t want more from me.

I think about my sister. She exasperates me, makes me feel much older than I am. Too often lately Mom and I sit on the couch discussing what should be done about her. She asks me for answers, asks me to make decisions that aren’t mine to make. I do it because I’m afraid of what will happen if I don’t. I’m walking in her shoes and they’re entirely too tight.

I think about the things I need to get done. Paperwork that needs to be filled out and turned in for health insurance, bills that need paying, a coat that needs dry cleaning. I flip through the mental to do list quickly then move on, before I become too overwhelmed.

I think about the book nestled in the handbag on my passenger seat. I wish I could bury my face in it and stop thinking. Right this instant.

I think about my plans for the weekend. How excited I’ve been to have real alone time and an opportunity to invite my friends over. Now I can’t decide which is worse – I don’t want to be alone, nor do I want to be with people.

I think about making an appointment with my doctor – getting more pills. But of course I won’t. That requires too much effort. I’d rather write a melancholic blog post instead. Besides, my mood will be up by tomorrow again anyway.

*****

I arrive at work and wind my way up six flights of parking deck, taking each turn faster than I should. I always do. I walk across the rooftop and through the double glass doors. An elevator is going down, but the doors are closing. They take forever in the mornings and I know if I don’t catch it, I could be waiting another five minutes for it to come back, or forced to take the stairs. I hate the stairs.

I rush forward and throw my arm between the doors. But instead of springing apart like they’ve always done before, they slam into either side my arm. There’s a woman inside dressed in a black business suit. According to the badge around her neck she works here, but I’ve never seen her before. She screams, “Oh my god”, and backs away with her hands on her face. The doors don’t want to open and resist my attempts to push them back. It hurts, but not badly.

I finally manage to push them open and dive inside; the woman continues screaming while I examine my arm. Just a few red marks, nothing more. “Are you alright”, she asks loudly.

“Yes”, I say, not looking at her.

She lets out a nervous laugh. “I’m so glad you didn’t lose your arm!”

I raise my head and look at her, not in the least angry that she didn’t attempt to help me, just curious. “Are you really?”

“Yes! Thank goodness you can go on to work with it intact”, she says still laughing nervously, trying to keep the joke alive.

The doors open on my floor and I get out without another word. Any other day I would have been angry; I would have said something scathing and shown her how well my middle finger still worked. Today I can’t make myself care.

I put my things in my office, fix a cup of coffee and amble over to lean on my boss’s door frame – a routine I’d love to abandon, as I’m not a morning person anyway, but if I didn’t show up she’d just come to me. We say hello and she goes on about a few things, then looking at me more closely asks, “Are you alright?”

“Yes”, I lie. I reinforce it with, “The elevator closed on my arm.”

She bursts out laughing and I tell her the story.

“It was your right arm?”

“Yes.”

“Ah well”, she says, “you’re left handed. You don’t need the other one anyway.”

“I do. I masturbate with that hand”, I reply flatly. I use the obnoxious laughter, when her head is thrown back, to make my escape.

I spend the rest of the day ensconced in my office, trying everything I can to avoid thinking without actually having to do any work or socializing. I butcher a humorous post I’ve been working on and I doubt I’ll ever be able to fix it, which sinks me further into my funk.

At 4:45, when I climb in my car, I’m exhausted. I feel like I’ve been running around in circles – and in a way I have. I merge onto the interstate and start the hour commute home, this time flicking on the radio. It doesn’t do any good. The same thoughts that have been plaguing me all day go marching back through my brain in quick succession. I grind my teeth and do my best to suck it up, stopping to collect the kid from daycare. I ask her about her day and put on my parent voice when she whines about having a sucker before dinner.

When I arrive home I take care of business – bath, dinner, homework, bedtime story, and tuck her away for the night. Then I grab my book, wrap myself in a robe, and nestle into a chair on the porch – it’s the first time I’ve felt good all day. I’m going to escape at last.

And I do. I read and read, losing myself in the pages. I’m relaxed and content. Safe from hurt and confusion, blame or acceptance. For a few precious hours, I’m in someone else’s world.

So what if it is a hooker’s?