Archive for January, 2009

hill jumping

An up day begins.  I call these days the good ones; the other days are called the bad ones.  There’s seldom a day I can simply call an average one. 

Up and down, I ride a rollercoaster every single day.

A good day begins with laughter.  Always laughter.  The optimism I feel is rooted in small things – a lover’s message, restful sleep, kind words, warm smiles – which lift me up and carry me through my day as if I am gliding far above the world, smiling down upon it.    Far above it all I can’t make out the dirt in the cracks of my life; I only see the top of the rollercoaster, the pinnacle of exhilaration and the promise of good things to come.   Laughter is easy, my thoughts sublime.

A bad day always begins with remorse.   My thoughts spin in a labyrinth of regret and moroseness for many things – lost tempers, missed opportunities, failed loves.  Down days take place in the world of the subatomic, a place where I can examine my individual faults in minute detail, tease open their black shells and expose the rotton nuclei at the center.  The bottom of this rollercoaster goes far beneath the crust of the earth.   It free falls down to absolute darkness and crashes onto bare rock and this is where I lie – surrounded by detritus of disappointment, sadness and self-loathing.

I see the people who can jump over the chasms of darkness and hill jump from one  good day to the next.  I wonder how they avoid the skeletal arms of sadness that seem to be able to snatch me down into their dark portal at will.   My good days are cherished because of the dark ones.  During those good days, I gather pennies of strength and laughter and store them up in my heart and my psyche and use them as currency to buy my way out of the madness. 

 I sometimes ask myself if I’d be satisfied living on top of the hills all the time, jumping from one to the other, and honestly the answer would be no.  For as much as I ache when I’m drowning in the chasm,  it makes the good days that much more valuable.  I live in a world of polar opposites, rarely in the middle – up, then down, then up again. 

I ride the rollercoaster.  I am alive.


Six word memior

Six-Word Memoirs on Love and Heartbreak has just been published in paperback and has inspired me to write my own succinct love & heartbreak memior:

Unlucky in love.  I still believe…

What does your six-word memior say?  It’s easier than you think.

52 YO SWF ISO SM for LTR – Must love music

I’ve spent a lifetime marrying, divorcing, dating, fucking and just plain horsing around, Along the way there have been compromises, accommodations, deals with the Devil, trade-offs, give-ins, cop-outs and arbitration.

In other words:  Concessions have been made

And so now, after much consideration, pondering and contemplation, and with hope still coursing through my swiftly sclerosing arteries, I’ve decided to compromise no more.   Look, I’m a reasonable person who plays well with others; I can put up with a lot of shit and still retain my world-famous biting wit.  But experience has taught me one thing:   You must meet certain requirements if you want to be my guy. 

Got that?  Good.  Let’s review:

#6:  Must provide copies of financial statements for review.   I’m not a spendthrift and I don’t want to waste a good portion of my time worrying about your spending habits.  If you’re bad with money, find someone else. 

#5 Must be masculine (but also have big enough balls to romance me every, single day).  I plan on taking good care of my man and I expect reciprocation!  Frequently! I want you to be a man and do manly things.  But fellas, it’s not gay to be romantic.  Really.   Remember, foreplay starts before bedtime and 90% of a woman’s orgasm is cerebral.  90%!!

#4:   Must not be a hoarder.  Look, I expect you to have your own shit, but seriously, if you have a proclivity to collect things-  like scrap lumber or empty tubes of toothpaste, or if you haven’t thrown a newspaper or magazine away in the past 25 years, or if you keep every single empty box belonging to every single item you’ve ever purchased (just in case you might possible NEED IT SOMEDAY),  or if you don’t currently have room in your house to walk because the shit’s piled up EVERYWHERE – then we have no future.    I will not abide clutter.  Enough said.

#3:  Must be able to spell and have a working knowledge of proper grammar.  If you can’t write a coherent sentence, move on.  My perfect mate will be able to spot the misspellings on public signs and laugh with me about them, write a love letter that will knock my socks off and be able to compose effective business correspondence.   Mmmm, business correspondence. 

#2:  Must have a sense of humor.  OK, this is a big one.  Let’s say we’re having a disagreement and things get a little heated.  You need to know right now that I’ll probably burst out laughing at some point during the argument.   I expect you to do the same.   If you can’t, then hook yourself up with a grim-faced bitch who loves to fight and I predict you’ll be very happy together.

#1:  Must love music.  This is essential.  My perfect mate must be able relate music to every aspect of his life, have an extensive listening background and be able to converse with me at length on nuance and form.   I expect you to have a comprehensive music collection that you’ve been working on for several years (preferably since high school).     One of the very first things I’ll notice about you is the music you listen to and I expect you to do the same.   It should be incredibly easy for the right man to make a mix tape for me that will knock my socks off. 

OK.  There you have it – Six simple rules if you want to be my man.  My needs are few and I know you’re out there baby.  Come to me.


Observant has writer’s block, so her best friend/twin from another mother, Tracy (aka Miss Texas), has graciously offered her talents as guest blogger with this short, but beautifully parsed essay:

She glides in silently on broad wings and lands in the shallow surf.  Perching on one preposterously long leg, she turns her head this way and that, staring imperiously down her beak at the lesser avian life around her.

  She ignores all other life forms on the beach, but a two-legged mammal recognizes her for what she is–the supermodel of birds.

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