Giving up sex

So here’s The Deal.

I’m giving up sex for 3 months.

That means three months of no sex, not even a teeny little bit.

Not even the kind that doesn’t “count.”

This means I have to be celibate until January 7, 2018.

Now, there is one exception to this rule:

The Swede.

IF The Swede comes to visit, then my vow of abstinence goes on hiatus.

I rationalize it like this – The Swede happens to be the one HEALTHY friendship I have and therefore shouldn’t be included in my vow of abstinence, which is supposed to weed out the dirty boys and rebels.

I told Tejas about my vow and he just laughed and laughed.

Then he thought about how much bitching he will have to listen to and he STOPPED LAUGHING.

Personally, I think the biggest challenge for me isn’t going to be giving up sex.

No.

It’s going to be giving up the sexting and flirting that goes with it.

Because for me, flirting leads to sexting leads to sex IRL.

So we’re gonna have none of that.

Do you think I will survive?

I’m my own f*cking problem

All this time I’ve been thinking that I can’t find a good man because a good man hasn’t crossed my path yet.

But that’s a lie.

I think I’ve come across a few.

You see, I take an odd approach to meeting men.

I bombard them with my sexuality and dare them to see ANYTHING AT ALL beyond it.

Of course, the good ones run away, and the bad boys stay.

So I have a bouquet of rebels and dirty boys to choose from.

They’re the ones who value sex as much as I do.

And I’m not in love with a single one of them.

And none of them are in love with me.

Maybe, and this is a BIG MAYBE, I need to relinquish my vice grip on sex being the most valuable part of a relationship and consider that there are other things infinitely more valuable.

Conversation, for one.

Thoughtfulness, for another.

A great sense of humor.

God, I can’t believe I’m going to say this but maybe I’ve been valuing the wrong things all along.

Maybe, if I want to find someone, I need to just stop with the sexting, and the nude pics, and the dinner dates at his place and just SLOW THE FUCK DOWN!

I think I’ve forgotten that I’m a woman, not just a vagina begging for earth-shattering orgasms.

Is this what my friends* have been trying to tell me all along?

If I really want to wind up with a decent man, then I need to embrace the woman I am, not the sex that I want.

Am I my own fucking problem?

 

*Barbara, Lisa, Rob, Michelle. . .

#MeToo

A few days ago, I posted #MeToo as my Facebook status to show my friends and family that I had survived sexual assault.

What was a little unexpected to me was the total deluge of women (and some men) admitting that they too had experienced sexual assault.

The first sexual assault that I can remember happened in 7th grade when I was 12 years old.

I was with my mom shopping in Payless. I was in the toy aisle, looking at toys.

I was wearing my school uniform – a blue and green plaid skirt, a white peter pan collar short sleeve blouse, white knee socks, and comfortable shoes.

My mom was elsewhere in the store when a man moved past me and as he did, I felt something brush my butt.

It almost seemed innocent, at the time.

I thought for sure I was making things up.

But just to be safe, I moved to another aisle, away from the man.

As I was looking at merchandise, the man came down my aisle and THIS TIME HE STOPPED, REACHED UNDER MY SKIRT, AND GRABBED ME BETWEEN MY LEGS.

In the pit of my stomach I knew this was wrong, just like I now knew the earlier touch had been intentional.

I should have screamed. Yelled. Pointed my finger at him and shamed him.

But I was little.

And scared.

I only told my mom what happened when we were safely at home away from the man.

The last time I was sexually assaulted was when I was out to dinner with my kids.

We were eating at Fresh Choice, and I was carrying two trays with food – one for my boys and one for me.

A busboy offered to help me with a tray.

When he reached for the tray, his hand rubbed slowly against my breast.

That sick feeling in the bottom of my stomach started to bubble up again.

I sat down immediately, trying to calm myself.

Feeling tears coming on.

When he set the tray down on the table, he brushed my breast AGAIN WITH HIS FUCKING HAND, and I nearly came undone.

This time, I’m happy to say I reported him to the staff at Fresh Choice AND to the Campbell Police Department.

Since it was a he-said-she-said case, the District Attorney opted to not prosecute, but at least I started (continued?) the paper trail on this predator.

In the 30 some years that transpired between these two incidents, there have been countless others – friends of my sister’s boyfriends who thought I was there for their pleasure, strangers in bars who liked how I looked and wanted to touch me, predators who offered to take my photo but turned it into something else, etc.

I’m proud I fought back as an adult woman but I have to admit, whenever I get sexually assaulted, my initial reaction is ALWAYS the same.

A sick feeling followed swiftly by fear and the urge to get as far away from the predator as I possibly can.

I’m still 12 years old.

When you start hitting on friends

He’s single.

I’m single.

We’ve known each other for decades.

He’s a decent guy.

I’m a decent (if slightly naughty) gal.

So when I found out he’s single, I took a leap of faith.

You see, the guys I meet online who are good guys are few and far between.

The Swede and basically NO ONE ELSE.

So even though I’ve been friends FOREVER with this guy I thought, “Why not?”

So I told him when he’s in a good place for dating, we should go on a date.

I suspect he will not take me up on my offer.

And that’s okay.

Going from vanilla relationships to me is like switching from the kiddie roller coaster to the Sky Scream – it’s a real mind fuck and you just may puke but it’s also quite exhilarating!

So I put it out there in the universe.

And even if he isn’t the man for me, someone decent will come along.

I’m keeping my eyeballs peeled for him.

Santa Rosa Fires

I have two lovely sisters. One I grew up with and is my best friend, the other I met when I was 22.

One lives in Reno, the other lives in Santa Rosa.

I was desperate to get in touch with my birth family while fires were raging in Santa Rosa, Napa and Sonoma.

My sister was the first person to respond.

She told me that our mother’s house was likely burned to the ground.

I was heartbroken and yet I didn’t cry. . .

. . until she sent me a photo of a gutted building.

I burst into tears.

All I could think of were lost memories. The history that house contained. How special it was to me because it was where I reunited with my birth mother’s family and met my stepfather and his enormous family.

I cried and cried.

I forwarded the photo to my boys and my family.

I sent it to everyone who mattered to me to let them know that the house was gone.

10 minutes later I got a message from my sister.

It was a picture of her school and MOM’S HOUSE IS STILL STANDING.

From the depths of despair to the wings of angels, I was lifted up out of sorrow and so thankful for this miracle.

How blessed are we?

The house survived. All my family survived. Their pets survived.

What more could we ask for other than to mitigate the suffering of those who did lose everything in the fire?

I could KILL my sister for letting me think Mom’s house had burned, but I’m just too happy that my family is intact to stay mad about anything.

Really at times like this you realize that we all have each other and that’s all you really need to be happy.

God bless the families who lost property or loved ones in the fires.

Up in flames

As soon as I stepped outside the house, it hit me.

The overwhelming scent of fire.

One thing was clear: Something had burned during the night.

I drove to work and was walking to my building when I got a text from Barbara.

“Hope your family in Santa Rosa is safe.”

What?

Was there a shooter? An earthquake? What happened?

I immediately called Barbara back.

“There’s fires in Santa Rosa,” she told me. “It’s bad.”

I immediately got on the phone and tried to reach my birth mom.

In my haste, I inadvertently walked into a crosswalk that was closed due to construction, incurring the wrath of a very tall, beet faced man.

He was waving his arms at me wildly.

I stepped out of the crosswalk but he continued to make wild gestures at me.

Sigh.

So this is how the day is going to go.

First, the fires, and now an angry construction worker.

I burst into tears.

Nightmare

I had a nightmare.

Not your average wake-up-stressed-out nightmare.

No.

This was a wake-up-barely-breathing nightmare.

I started to sing an ABBA song to myself to calm my nerves.

Waterloo.

Something peppy and upbeat to combat the fear coursing through my body.

“Alexa, turn on the light,” I commanded.

Alexa, that smarmy little bitch, did no such thing.

“Alexa, turn on the light,” I repeated.

My Amazon Echo did not respond.

So I reached over and turned on the light.

Relief.

I dreamt that someone was hurting people and I was chasing it. I cornered it in an old, scary house and looked it in the face.

The face was black, like a dementor from Harry Potter, but gradually a face emerged.

My brother.

That’s when I woke up.

I texted The Swede.

I knew he’d be up at 1 am PST, 10 am Swedish time.

Sure enough, he texted me back.

He calmed me down and settled my nerves.

He didn’t laugh or make fun of me.

It’s as if he sensed that I needed to get it out of my system before I could go back to sleep again.

So he just let me vent.

What can I say?

He’s just an amazing man.

Maybe it’s because he has daughters that he seems particularly in tune with the feminine, my feminine, particularly when I’m freaking out.

But I’ll tell you, had he been in the bed with me, I would have wrapped myself around him and thanked him from the bottom of my heart.

I was SO GRATEFUL!

Itchy palms

I came back from Burning Man with a few problems.

1 – I had really, really fried hair

2 – My liver was in desperate need of a detox

3 – My cuticles looked like something out of The Walking Dead.

Dry.

Peeling.

Like something you’d expect to see on a zombie.

So I went to my nail salon and got a manicure.

The woman took one look at my hands, clucked at me, and proceeded to work on healing my hands.

She gave me a paraffin wax treatment.

And since it had been so long since my last paraffin wax treatment, I forgot that they make me ITCH.

Fast forward a few hours later and my beautiful looking hands are starting to itch

BAD!

Believe you me, you have no idea how irritating itchy hands are until it HAPPENS TO YOU.

So I did what any person in their right mind would do.

I SCRATCHED them.

Well, it’s now been three weeks since Burning Man and my itchy palms have subsided and turned into FLAKING palms.

Yes, sir.

The skin is now FLAKING off my palms and fingers.

I can peel it off in big sheets.

It’s irrelevant that peeling my skin is about as satisfying as picking a scab off.

My hands look HORRID.

And they feel worse.

And ironically, since I’m a pervert, it does occur to me that I should put myself on a hand job TIME OUT.

No handjobs. No way.

Sandpaper is smoother than my hands right now.

And no one wants a sandpaper handjob.

Save

Perverted and inappropriate

I am once again taking off and going to RENO for a weekend.

No, it has nothing to do with Burning Man.

I’m going to visit my sister.

And she’s taking me to the Spa at the Peppermill for massages!

Woot!

However, she requested MALE massage therapists for us.

She says they give better deep tissue massages than a woman therapist.

This gives me pause.

First of all, I’m not too fond of DEEP TISSUE massages.

They tend to make me cry and BEG for mercy.

Second, I’m not too thrilled to have a man working on me.

It’s not that I object to a man massaging me.

It’s just that I do watch a lot of massage parlor porn.

Throwing a man into the mixture makes me tense up and think about sex.

A lot.

Because I’m perverted and inappropriate like that.

Can’t I just have a female therapist and enjoy a nice Swedish massage. . .

. . .then go to Sweden and give a nice sexy massage to The Swede.

I wouldn’t mind if he massaged me.

On the inside 😉

‘Tis the season for WEDDINGS!

You might think, given my staunch support of my single status, that I wouldn’t be into weddings, but in fact I LOVE GOING TO WEDDINGS!

There’s nothing much better than watching a couple celebrate their love with all their loved ones around them.

I cry.

K&B’s wedding was no exception.

The groom got choked up and I INSTANTLY started to cry.

Thankfully I got a packet of tissues from another wedding guest, so I was prepared for the WATERWORKS.

My dear friend Michelle officiated the wedding and she did an amazing job of knitting together the story of the lovely couple with their appreciation of the family and friends who attended their wedding.

Personally, I was THRILLED to just be out of the Bay Area, breathing the fresh air of Yosemite.

It also helped that I was on painkillers and muscle relaxants for my injured neck so not only was it a beautiful wedding, I was also high as a kite for it.

I was blissfully happy and that’s the EXACT state that you should be in for a wedding!

And GOD BLESS THE BRIDE for NOT throwing the bouquet.

There were two – count them TWO – single women at the wedding.

Me and a lovely guest who flew in all the way from Boston.

I actually turned to the other single woman and said, “So, I’ll arm wrestle you for the bouquet. . .”

She looked aghast.

“You can have it,” she replied.

“I’m joking,” I told her. “Last thing I want is a bridal bouquet.”

What an awkward moment that would have been, no?