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I am going to break from my trip posts to post something very special.

I’ve known Paul since I was a kid, our grandparents were friends. I have photos of us from when I was about 5 years old and consider him a very good friend, even though I haven’t seen him for a few years. We keep in touch.

He’s inspiring and funny and witty and talented and you can check it out here.

Bad Cop, by Paul Bacon is being released on March 17th and can be found on Amazon.com.

And there was this written up in the New York Post.

I pre-ordered mine a few months ago. Can’t wait to read it!

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A Telegram

In Heaven.

Stop.

Don’t wanna come home.

Stop.

Three more days.

Stop.

Happy New Year!

Stop.

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I imagine that at some point, those cavemen decided that their feet and frostbite and all that, needed some covering and they whipped up some feet buntings from the skins of some wooly animal that ventured into their caves. After butchering, skinning and eating the creatures, they made socks, scarves, and condoms from the skins.

If I were really really good, I would invent socks for kids that have no line. Are you a parent? If so, you remember “the line”. It never fails, you get the sock on the kid, put their shoes on, tie them, and they start walking and then perhaps a whine, a scream…”THE LINE! THE LINE!”

And the shoe comes off and more time is spent readjusting the line.

If seamless pantyhose were such a major thing for women, why hasn’t anyone made it mainstream to make seamless socks that I can find at Target, for my “ever-so-picky-about-how-socks-feel” kids.

One of my early memories of annoying socks was when we wore knee socks to school. It drove me nuts after I cranked them up above my knees with full force and eventually the elastic stretched and I was walking around at the end of the day with wrinkled elephant ankles and chilly legs. Even worse, when my mother bought us wool knickers, the kind that go down to mid-calf (nowadays we call these “capris”) the idea was to pull the socks up underneath the knickers and we looked like little page boys, in our wool knickers. The problem was, the knee socks would slide down to my ankles and I was left with the bottom of the wool knickers, rubbing and itching on my legs. 

Let me say it again.

“Wool Knickers”.

No good.

In my panty hose days (I seem to think, we all did have those at one point in our lives), I remember commuting on the train at the end of the day and feeling like my crotch was at my knees. I felt like I was wearing a diaper, waddling around, hoping they wouldn’t just split right then and there. Or hoping they wouldn’t fall to my ankles in the middle of South Station in Boston while I waited for my train to go home at the end of the night.

Back in those days, I was grateful when the dress in the corporate world changed to “business casual”. I haven’t worn pantyhose since.

You wondered if I would go back to the “condoms” mention that I slid in there at the beginning. I’ll never forget when I was a kid and read in a sex book (once I discovered how to use the card catalog at the library, I was looking up all sorts of stuff) that early on, condoms were made of cardboard lined with lambswool. I often wondered who got the lambswool side. Was it the guy or the girl? Was the wool on the outside or the inside of the condom? The thought of cavemen skinning animals and perhaps using hide as a condom, has struck into my imagination. I have no idea if they even tried not to get preggers back in those days, if they even knew what it was that made a woman get that darn baby inside.  But I imagine if they did, they used animal skins. I mean, why not? You cover your feet? Your body from the cold? Why not “down there”. Of course, I never read in any prehistoric books, mention of families  with millions of tots running around, so I tend to think that they had some secret to birth control.

And socks. Well, I am grateful J is not one of those kinds of guys to keep his socks on when we’re in bed. There is nothing dorkier and uncomfortable or non-sexy about wearing just socks when being intimate. 

Take note, people.

No socks.

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Annoying

I can’t remember how much I had transferred over onto this wordpress blog, about The Chef. In case you are fairly new, I’ll tell you, I dated him for a few years when I was going through my divorce and after it was final. He was an important part of my life at the time but it was easy to move on when I realized he wasn’t going to contribute to a nurturing and close relationship filled with love and respect and honesty.

Anyway, I know Chef had my very first blog address, a few years ago. Then he searched for the second one. And as you know, I changed my url a few weeks ago to throw off local folks. In the back of my head, knowing that Chef continues to read here and there (sometimes more than others), I was thinking “oh good, he’ll stop reading”.

Well, it appears I’ve thrown off local towns-folk but the Chef, well, he’s still reading. I saw him go to the old blog and then not long after, saw him at the new blog. He obviously has gotten good at searching other blogs who link to me to find me again, knowing I will continue to read and comment on ones I read.

It’s fine, but I mean, I wonder what the point of that is? He wants to read about my life so badly? My life? After all this time?  A life without him because I couldn’t handle how he lived his life and he could care less about mine, or being in mine unless he was the sole beneficiary of the time he spent here?

Anyway, it’s annoying. I have nothing to hide, but I find it super annoying. And kind of creepy.

I wish he’d let it go and go away. It feels invasive. Which is hilarious since blogging is “putting our lives out there and strangers are reading and knowing me.” That doesn’t bother me for some reason, but having Chef reading it is super annoying.

I think the worst is that I know him well enough that he’s sitting there reading and analyzing me and my life and probably analyzing J and our relationship and has all sorts of things to say to himself in his head to make himself feel better about himself. I find him to be a very very lonely person by nature, merely because he puts himself there… and it makes me feel weary for him, that he’s continuing to follow me through the blog.

Does he like what I write about J? The kids? What?

I ain’t changing the url again.

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Ending with bed


My art reception was yesterday and I knew beforehand that the crowd would be slim because the gallery is actually 40 minutes from my house, away from everyone I know. There were people that came through and I stood there for two hours and talked to strangers about my work and then packed up and went home.

Piano Man, who usually heads back up north on Sundays after playing here for the weekend, was coming to my show and offered to drive me, along with the extra portfolios and racks of paintings I was taking to the reception.

As I was driving there, in the passenger seat, with his hand on my leg and my eyes closed, relaxing before the event (which I’ve been thinking about and stressing out about for the last few weeks) I was conscious of the fact that I’ve been with a man the last few months who adds no stress to my life. No worry. No fear. None at all.

After the show, we stopped at a Thai restaurant that looked pretty good. I had awesome Pad Thai and he regretted the reception snacks and blueberry coffee cake he’d eaten during my art event, before he had his Thai curry dish.

We were in a town I was not familiar with and it was one I avoided because it has a reputation for some witchcraft and such. But decided to walk around a bit after dinner anyway.

Seriously.

Creepy stuff.

I kind of held on to his arm, walking cobblestone sidewalks, not thinking about how next, he’d be driving north for the week and I would go home and go to bed.

When we got back on the road to my house to unload and then send him off, he made a sigh of exhaustion, which was much like I felt. I said, “you can stay tonight, you know, if you want.”

And he goes, “okay”, without hesitation. He was not energetic enough to drive two hours at night to get home, and I don’t blame him. Plus, I loved having him stay another night.

Imagine how much we perked up after stopping off at Blockbuster for a movie, having a hot shower and getting in bed to watch it with boxes of Junior Mints and Woppers and hot cups of tea.

That was us, in bed at 7pm on a Sunday night.

 

We were lying there, both exhausted from the weekend, he played two nights of gigs until after midnight, I was up and out with him but also working, getting ready for my art reception. We were happy, though… and we were lying there in bed after the movie, satiated by relaxation and chocolate, down comforters and tea and he  goes, “So, hey, are we going to do it tonight?”

Me, wiped out:  “Sure, but can I just lie here?”

His tired response?  “Great. And how would you like me to do you?”

Laughing in bed is a part of love, I think.

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Oh Lordy Lordy Lordy…thank GOODNESS I’m not FORTY. (I say that just because it rhymed)

Lordy, please let me get through the next ten days without getting my head unscrewed. Let me finish the last few paintings on time and be happy with them. Let me varnish them without killing myself  or at least passing out and let me hang with delicacy so nothing falls and breaks.

Let me have a decent turnout and sell lots.

I know that what I do is more about DOING it than making a buck. I am a fortunate single mum who gets to be home with the kids when they are home and paint in all her spare time, whenever she wants, and make money at it.

But this year. Please, LORDY, let this stuff sell so I can pay off my new(ish) Mac. It’s a need, not a want.

Give me the courage to plow through the three other arts events between now and Christmas, so that I don’t meltdown or screw something up.

Now, speaking of “wants”…I want to go out of country to see Piano Man for a week in December. And again in February.

So, dammit, Lordy, make people want to buy art and make them want to buy it now.

Lordy, I am not wishing life away, but I dream of January once in a while, so I can get caught up on my Oprahs.

I hope exhusband…I mean, the girls’ father, gets off my back and stays off my back.

And a light winter so I can keep walking and have sun and not shovel snow.

Let me have the patience and strength when Piano Man is away, to go with the flow and feel okay. And sell lots of work so I can pay for the ridiculously expensive flight to go see him. Even though he says he wants to fly me there. On his bill. That’s amazing. But not okay with me.

Please bring him back.

Lordy, please let this excema on my arms go away. I hate it. Steroid cream is not only expensive but doesn’t seem to be working. Excema is JUST-NOT-SEXY.

Lordy, please keep my sis safe. It’s taken her years to get preggers and now she is and she has only told me and her husband and her doctor, it’s very early. May it stick and be healthy and good for her. Give me the strength to know what to say when she calls me in the middle of the night with a screaming nursing baby and cracked nipples.

May I get through the winter without anxiety, depression, gaining weight or acne.

May my girls continue to talk to me every day after school, during breakfast, at bedtime, on the weekends, on the phone when they are with their dad, so I know what they are thinking, wanting and needing. May they continue to get along and be respectful to each other, me and everyone else around them. And be creative and make stuff and explore and express.

Let them know how to be happy, no matter what.

Let us all stay safe, feel safe and continue to live each day through love.

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The things they will do

Laughter is what drew me first to him, aside from the quirkiness he portrays, both at and away from the piano.

There is nothing better than lying in bed with someone and laughing. Something that I haven’t experienced with someone in a long time.

We climbed into bed late at night and lay there talking, facing each other. He reached over to pull me close and I pulled back and grinned.

“Sing me a song!”

Without hesitation, he started singing Andy Kim’s “Rock Me Gently”…after the first verse, he stopped, thinking it was enough.

“Keep going” I demanded. “Finish it.”

The greatest thing is that he did.

He lay there in bed, next to me, with a priceless look on his face, singing “Rock Me Gently”, chorus and all, with soul, with pizazz and hand gestures.

At 1 in the morning.

When he was done he goes “You’re making me sing for my supper, aren’t you?”

Yes. Yes I am.

Now, he seems to save the song at his evening gigs, for after I arrive.

I got a little bossy the next day, when we had a conversation about the things men are and aren’t comfortable doing, for fear of portraying a lack of manliness to others.

We took a shower and I handed him my razor and the shaving cream.

“Are you man enough to shave my legs?”

And so, he did. 

Good thing he didn’t cut me, I was laughing so hard, I was shaking.

I had my nail polish sitting out on the counter in the kitchen. I pointed to the polish and put my leg up over his, handed him the bottle…he opened it and started painting my toes.

He’s got these wide piano man hands, that were all awkward and clumsy with a nail polish brush. The frustration and murmurings under his breath that came out of his mouth in the following fifteen minutes (yes, it took him that long) as he tried painting my toes a hot red color (he picked), most of it ended up all over my skin, some on his leg and ALL over his hands. I led him to believe there was no way to get the red polish off his hands except just “time”…alot of “time”.

Imagine the panic in his face when he thought he’d be playing a gig that night with red nail polish all over his fingers..

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