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I’m sure you’ve heard of the clever phrase “drunk dialing.”  

I have absolutely no such excuse for a phone call I made.

It was the middle of the day. I’d had lunch and a bottle of water.

I thought that talking with a certain individual, an individual with whom I had agreed never to speak again, might make me feel better. Why? Because that individual had made me feel good in the past and I was feeling very bad indeed.

I had no agenda. I was not (at least not consciously, but I can’t speak for Miss Id) seeking contact. 

I just wanted to hear a kind male voice. I’d been fighting the urge for days.

I did not want a record of the call on my cell records, and he most definitely did not want my cell number anywhere on his records. So I’d been looking for pay phones, specifically pay phones in a different area code. Surprisingly, they no longer sit on every corner or at every gas station. I’d identified a likely candidate. Every time I drove past, I thought, “There it is. I can always go there if the pain gets to be too much.”

You’d think I was talking about a heroin dealer or something.

It’s not a bad analogy.

Yesterday was the tipping point. I’d been driving in a daze for about an hour, thinking about this and that and this again. Comparing the now and the then. Aware, in my intellect, that nothing was ever as good as it seems in memory and knowing somehow, in my viscera, that nothing will ever be as good as that was. 

And there was a phone.

And here’s where – for a very brief time – this story becomes really funny.

The universe did everything it could to prevent me from connecting. 

1. First, it didn’t take one of my quarters.

2. Then it told me I didn’t need to dial a “1.”

3. Then it told me I didn’t need to make a “coin deposit.”

4. Then it told me I did.

Finally, the call went through.

He said his name. I said mine.


“I can’t hear a word you’re saying. I hate these cell phones.”

“No, X. I’m calling from a pay phone.”

“You’re not coming through at all. I hate these cell phones.”

“I’ll try again.”

More quarters.


“Can you hear me any better?

“I can’t hear a word you’re saying. This is a really bad connection.”

“I can hear you perfectly. I just wanted to know that you’re okay.”

“I hate these cell phones. Let me call you back.”

Pay phone rings.

“Hello? Is this any better?”

“I still can’t hear you. Sorry.”

“I really hate to do this, but I’ll call you on my cell.”

And here is where it all goes to hell.


“Hello,” in a very tight voice.

“Hi. I’m so sorry to call from my cell. I hope it won’t cause you problems.”

“Well, actually, it will cause me huge problems. Are you okay?”

“More or less,” as tears begin to creep into my voice. I keep them at bay. “And you?”

“Fine.” With finality.

“Sorry to have bothered you. Best of luck.”


I return to my car, crumple into the driver’s seat, burst into tears and say to the universe, “That was the biggest mistake I’ve ever, ever made.”


After another 20 minutes of aimless driving, I realize I may need to do some damage control for his sake. My stupidity should not damage another’s life. So I find yet another phone and leave this message.

“I am so sorry to have called your cell by mistake when we agreed to have no further contact. You were still on my cell, and I hit your name instead of XX. Again, this was an error and I hope it doesn’t cause you problems; it will not happen again.”

I figure that gives him an out if his wife notices my number – the forbidden number – on his records.


Two hours later, when I have my children in the vehicle and I’m driving home, my phone rings.  I pick it up and this is what I hear:

“Don’t ever call me again. I told you not to. If you do, I swear I will cut your heart out with a knife and feed it to my wife. I won’t hesitate. Do you hear me?”

And then he hands the phone to her. I can’t even begin to recount the horrors and threats that follow.

The morals of this immoral story?

1. When things end, they end.

2. Seek comfort within.

3. It’s never just sex.

4. Uhmmm. Maybe some things are wrong, after all.

5. If a woman decides to make her husband “pay,” the cost will get spread around.

6. TAKE THE FUCKING HINT. It might be the universe preventing you from completing the call, or it might be an old lover telling you NOT ONCE BUT TWICE that the connection is bad and he can’t hear a thing…either way DON’T MAKE THE CALL, YOU MORON.

My one reader (or at least the only one who writes) impatiently awaits more tales of exploits past and present. 

All I have to offer right now are tears. Not the dramatic tears of yore, but the kind that just seep out of eyes unbidden, unexpected.

Lots of sadness in my heart. I fear big, difficult decisions are looming. And no choices will be pleasant. Each will represent a failure of some sort. 

And I don’t like failure.

With tears like these, it’s just not easy to retell stories of past pleasure.



So what I fear has come to pass.

I’ve been memed, by my old friend Blue.  Someone who actually knows me.

Here goes. As is my wont, I’ll play only so far.  The meme stops here.


1. How many songs are on your iPod?  Hell if I know.  I’d have to get up to find out, and I’m lazy that way.

2. What music would you want played at your funeral? On a bad day? anything that would make people wish they’d been nicer to me. On a good day? mariachi music.

3. To what magazines do you subscribe? Ones I no longer read. I wish I had the time and inclination to read Shambala, Foreign Affairs, and People.

4. What is your favorite scent? the forest

5. If you had a million dollars that you could only spend on yourself, what would you do with it?  Procure solitude and love

6. What is your theme song? “Essence”

7. Do you trust easily? yes

8. Do you generally think before you act, or act before you think? Act first, think next, regret finally.

9. Is there anything that has made you unhappy these days? yes.

10. Do you have a good body-image? no

11. Is being tagged fun? no, unless it leads to good sex, which it obviously didn’t this time!

12. How do you spend your social networking (Facebook, etc.) time? I am anonymous, remember?

13. What have you been seriously addicted to lately? worry.

14. What kind of person do you think the person who tagged you is? good to the last drop, salt of the earth, oldie but goodie

15. What’s the last song that got stuck in your head? “Mamma Mia!” (Now aren’t you sorry you asked?)

16. What’s your favorite item of clothing? anything that doesn’t involve a bra

17. Do you think Rice Krispies are yummy? no

18. What would you do if you see saw $100 lying on the ground? put it in my purse

19. What items could you not go without during the day? email, coffee, fantasy, worry

20. What should you be doing right now? not worrying, helping children with homework

Just before dawn, I walked outside and noticed the beautiful full moon.

And it hit me: am I so very sad right now because I deserve to be?

I can explain all the “bad” things I’ve done. Or am I rationalizing?

Is guilt a valid feeling? Can I turn my karma around in this lifetime? 

Under the moon, I thought, “What right do I have to expect kindness?”

I am honored (and stunned, quite frankly) to accept my first blogging award! Since the site is only 14 posts old, I’m particularly pleased.

A hearty “Thank You!” to Gaia’s Daughter who finds my musings praiseworthy. I urge you all to click through to her site and also to her poetry blog, Don’t Take My Wings. This young woman has escaped the passivity that hampers so many of her peers.  At fifteen, she is a strong and talented voice. The more support we give such voices, whether we agree with them or not, the more certain we can be that our nation and our world will thrive.

Why? Because they THINK.

A nation of followers is not what we need. It is not what our country was envisioned to be.

And now, back to me.

Here’s my prize:

These awards, apparently, come with rules:

1. The winner can put the logo on his or her blog.
2. Link to the person from whom you received the award.
3. Nominate at least 7 other blogs.
4. Put links to those blogs on yours.
5. Leave a message on the blogs you nominate.
Of course, as you’ve no doubt noticed, I’m kind of a rule breaker. And I’m anonymous. And my blogfriends may not groove on a public association with my, ummmm, explicit self. And what was that I just threw out the window? Rules 3-5. Hope you ducked.
I will notify the winners privately. Sorry. After all, it’s not if you win or lose; it’s how you write your blog.

Last week on this blog, I typed what I thought were these pretty ordinary, obvious words:

“Anything that can’t take place in the open comes with a price.”

Who knew Mrs. Sarah Palin would prove my point, so well, on the body of her daughter?

I’m not going to turn all political on you or anything.

But let me offer this one rant:

For the love of whatever you choose to believe in, do not continue to keep information about and means of contraception out of the hands of kids who are already or who are likely to become or are in a position to influence those who are sexually active. 

Honestly, the more I knew as a teenager the less inclined I was to risk my life plans by getting myself knocked up.

The more I knew about my body and how it functioned (and more importantly the bodies of boys and how they functioned), the less vulnerable I was to pressure.

It’s a cliche, but knowledge is power.

An entire generation of young women seems to be learning that it is just dandy to cede knowledge and control of their desire and their plumbing to others who will “take care of them.”

Guess what?  The only one who will take care of you IS you.

Rant over.

I was grabbing a quick lunch the other day, and couldn’t help but overhear the conversation of a group of women at the table next.  They obviously enjoyed good fortune that provides leisure time for daytime television viewing. At one point in my life I would have sneered at these types. Now I envy them, although I might spend the time in other ways. Like a nap or a long walk.


They were talking about some author who was promoting yet another book about affairs. Apparently, dalliances come in seventeen flavors.

I only know of one.


Anything that can’t take place in the open comes with a price.

Don’t mistake this observation for judgment. Pain leads people on all sorts of journeys. Relief arrives in many forms. But just as pharmaceuticals mask rather than eliminate, elicit passion can soothe but not cure. You may pop a pill now and then, or you might develop a full on habit. When the good stuff runs out, though, you must either seek more or go without.

And the going without?

It’s hell.

It appears I’ve been reported for mature content.  Tell me, readers, was I too explicit for you?

All I can think about these hot summer nights of sleepless tossing is the voracious mouth of Zaldo

I love to give oral sex. Really. A lot. It’s power and pleasure rolled into one.  I can be completely disinterested and after two minutes with a cock in my mouth I’m soaking wet.

But while I don’t mind receiving oral sex, it’s never been the be all and end all for me that it seems to be for other women. And there’s the worry. How do I smell? How do I taste? Am I tidy?  It seemed like a lot of work for something that I much preferred via other means – guess I’m a penetration girl. I always come pretty quickly. I’m fun that way.

Then came Zaldo. 

He would do this thing – the sensations were so intense I could never concentrate on exactly what was going on – that involved his mouth on my clit and two fingers of one hand deep inside me (the other hand holding down my abdomen). The first time he made me come this way, I cried. Tears.

“Why?” he asked.

“It’s been so long since someone has taken that much time with me.”

Sorry, readers.

No time these days to think or remember, much less to write. Funny. Children adore summer, but most parents I know are maybe not as enthusiastic.

Of course, I adore the offspring. Don’t get me wrong. But might they not enjoy CAMP next year?

The good twin is on duty, at least for now!