One Less Secret

I visited my parents earlier this week and I started talking about marriage. In the process I learned that my grandfather was once married to someone other than my grandmother. This revelation came as a mild shock. Both of those grandparents are now gone, but I knew and loved both of them, especially my grandfather who died about eight years ago, out living my grandmother by about five years.

Yesterday afternoon I stopped by my parents' house yet again and in a moment of casual conversation I confessed that the previous marriage of my grandfather came as a surprised to me. My mother calmly stated that such a thing should not come as a surprise; after all, she had once been married to someone other than my father.

For a moment I paused to evaluate what I had just heard, I then asked my mother to repeat what she had just said. As instructed, she did, the second pronouncement coming with a tiny, slightly contrite smile on her face. Then while I was still reeling from the shocking, never-before-heard news, my mom went into some detail concerning the marriage.

She was married at 19 against the wishes of just about everyone on the planet who had anything to say about it. She knew the guy for about a month and as my mom will freely admit, she had a wild crush on him. The marriage itself did not last longer. It did not make it through the third month. Apparently the marriage was annulled and in due time the whole thing was all but forgotten. My mother went back to college and within a few years she lost track of the guy. When asked why she never told me any of this, Mom kind of shrugged and said that she hardly ever thinks about it and when it comes right down to it, she really did not think it was worth mentioning. My guess is that a third factor may be that my mom finds the ordeal just a little bit embarrassing.

Now 24 hours later I have had time to make sense of it all. The two primary ingredients are; my mother is somewhat religious, and; she has a pretty healthy libido. Consequently, to scratch the itch caused by the libido (and exacerbated by this guy who was probably cute and charming), my mother felt it necessary to follow her religious beliefs and marry the fellow. Of course once the infatuation wore off, there wasn't much remaining. 

Now I am left to wonder what other secrets my mother hasn't told me. I want to ask, but then again, I'm not sure I'd have the courage.        

The M-word

A few days ago Marty, my boyfriend, spoke the M-word. He spoke it to me. I knew it was coming, I knew it was just a matter of time. That's okay, I was ready for it so it did not shock me.

I do not think the human species was ever meant to be monogamous. Mother Nature did not make us that way. I actually want to be faithful to one partner, but then again, I don't. It's not like I am promiscuous. Every healthy human adult feels the same way. All of us have the same instinct. I want to be sexually active with other guys, but I want the warmth and reassurance of one loving, devoted man. The latter of the two options wins out, and it always will.

Still, I do not like the thought of marriage. Perhaps it isn't so much marriage, per se, but the image it conjures in my mind. I see the suburbs, the kids, and all that goes with them, which is a lot; more than I currently want, and quite possibly, more than I will ever want.

Marty just kind of mentioned it, marriage. He did not propose. It came into the conversation in this manner; "Someday we might want to think about it." I told him very gently that I've thought about marriage many times.

It's funny, a few minutes later he smiled and said something like, "There's this phrase guys use, 'why buy the cow if you are getting the milk for free'." Marty said that he does not want me to ever think that he is just getting the milk for free.

Marty can be so cute. I mean, I thought I was the one getting the milk for free.

A Not-So-Divine Website Glitch

The other day I was at Huffintonpost.com. There was a blog article about the death of Westboro Baptist Church leader Fred Phelps. If you don’t know; Westboro Baptist Church has protested other churches, funerals, etc. Most of the protesting is anti-gay in spirit. Anyway, the blog article’s author stated that people should not celebrate the death of the hateful Fred Phelps but rather use their energy to speak-out against other religious leaders who display open hatred towards gays. She named Scott Lively (http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2014/03/scott-lively-anti-gay-law-uganda) as just such a person.

I wrote in the comment section that directing wrath at Scott Lively and his ilk for their hatred of gays is like prosecuting the murderer but allowing the many hostile bullies to go on without confrontation. I then named the bullies; the Catholic, Mormon, and Methodist church, as well as perhaps the biggest offender; Islam.

For some reason my comment did not get posted the first time so I tried again, rewording my comment just slightly. Again it was not posted. Meanwhile other comments, poster after mine, appeared. I have posted comments at Huffingtonpost.com a few times before and never had a problem. In other words; I know the procedure. I never use foul language or sound at all threatening. So, I am left to believe that there was some sort of divine intervention preventing my comment from seeing the light of day. God did not want my comment to appear. 

When I was a little girl there was a Catholic kid, Thomas, who lived down the street. He insisted that Catholicism was the only “true religion” and that before I die I ought to join his religion if I wanted to see heaven. Maybe I should have left the Catholic Church off my list of offenders. It might have saved me fifteen minutes of pointless work, and who knows; when my life is over I might have been bestowed heaven. On the other hand, the other religions I named make pretty much the same guarantee. True to my beliefs, I'm thinking the problem was not God but rather a website glitch. Sorry about that Thomas.                 

Upward Financial Indicators

I think my number one financial objective is to buy my own condo. Right now it is a condo rather than a house because I do not like the idea of worrying about the condition of a roof, or the siding on a house, things like that. I’m not too keen on shoveling snow either, come to think of it. I would not need a fancy condo, but I would like something half decent. My second financial objective would be to buy a new car. That is; a car with no previous owner. First, however, would be that condo.

I’m still a ways away from amassing enough money for a good down payment. In terms of time, it is still a few years away. But I have recently looked at my current finances and I’m getting closer. I’m feeling more comfortable with my money situation. In fact, I found evidence of that comfort earlier today. This morning I was standing in front of a vending machine looking at its granola bar, when a dime dropped out of my hand and onto the floor. It slid under the machine, just out of sight. I bent down looking for it and I finally saw it in the dusky shadow about eight or ten inches under the machine. I had every intention of retrieving it but then I realized that I could not get my fingers on it by just kneeling down, extending my arm and reaching for it. Going down on all-fours was required. Well, I would not do it. I was wearing clean, light-blue slacks and I decided that I did not want either the slacks, or my bare hands to touch the tile floor. Ergo I sacrificed the dime. Somebody either more desperate, more agile, or with dirty pants could claim it, I was releasing it from my possession. Believe it or not; the ten cent sacrifice did not bother me.

To be honest, forfeiting coins in such a manner is not new to me. I have not picked up a penny off the ground since high school. I was once told that, on average, the time and energy required for a human being to pick up a penny cost more than one cent. Therefore retrieving a penny from the ground was an ill-advised venture. About a year ago for the first time in my life I intentionally failed to reacquire a dropped nickel. To be honest, the situation had a lot to do with it. The nickel fell out of a pocket in a women’s restroom stall and came to rest alongside the toilet. I decided I did not really need that specific nickel. However that decision seemed to initiate something of a habit. Since that first deserted nickel, there have been perhaps four or five that I have sacrificed to either a floor, the earth’s soil, or some form of outdoor pavement. The common factor in the later lost nickels is that I was both walking, or in one case jogging, and in a hurry.

Three years ago my financial situation pretty much demanded that I repossess all of my wayward coins except for pennies. But that is not so true anymore simply because things have improved on the economic front. The reality is; I can almost see that condo… well, at least the front door.          

Not Quite All Is Lost

Yesterday I saw a movie from last year; All Is Lost. To sum it up as simply as possible; it’s about a guy who sails his small boat out into the ocean and finds trouble. The only actor in the movie is Robert Redford. Robert Redford is something like 75 years old. About forty years ago my mother had a crush on him. She has freely admitted this enamoration a couple of times over the years. Forty years ago my mother was 20 and Redford was in his mid-30s. It makes me think that there could be something hereditary about my appreciation of older guys.

Anyway, in the movie All Is Lost, Redford says nary a word of dialogue. I think his one brief line is when he speaks over the microphone of a malfunctioning radio. Through all the things that go wrong on his voyage, and the few things that go right, he doesn’t utter a syllable. I found this strangely unrealistic. When I am alone I am constantly talking to myself. In fact, come summer time, I either have to forgo the self-chatter, or make sure the windows are closed because anyone hearing me would think I was crazy.

When something goes wrong I will often insult myself or call myself some name. Many times the name comes from my childhood. I could use “birdbrain” or “dumbbell”. Sometimes some long-forgotten derisive label will pop out of my mouth and I’ll get a chuckle just hearing it again.

When things go right I will sometimes compliment myself, give myself positive reinforcement. If it’s a day when I am really into talking to myself, I’ll compliment myself for almost anything. About an hour ago I gave myself a manicure. I did a nice job on my nails and I cheerfully told myself as much, right out loud. I could have given some lessons to the Redford character. Not only could it have helped him psychologically, but who knows, it might have made for a better movie.           

Remembered Fondly, If Not Quite Accurately

I got excited and wanted to write about this at noon today but I just could not find the time, so I’m going to quickly write about it now…

There was a visitor at my workplace this morning who recognized me. He asked me if my name was Katie and with surprise on my face, I told him it was. For the next few seconds I was left to guess who he was. I thought the guy looked familiar, but I could not come close to coming up with a name. He finally told me his name is Eddie. It turned out he was a fellow schoolmate of mine when we were kids, though technically I don’t know if we ever had a class together.

He told me that he remembered me for one specific reason. It seemed that when we were about 13 years old we both went to the same dance that was being held in a church auditorium or reception hall. While at the dance Eddie asked some girl to dance and she rejected him, in Eddie’s words, “emphatically”. I can’t remember now the exact phrase Eddie said the girl used to refuse his offer to dance but it went something like, “Wooo you’re gross, get away! Get away!” Eddie was smiling and shaking his head as he recalled. I found the recollection, given the way Eddie told it, mostly funny, but in a painful sort of way.

Eddie told me that he was just a kid and was crushed by the girl’s harsh rejection. He sort of chuckled and said that he was almost in tears. But according to Eddie, a few minutes later I asked him to dance and instantly he felt better. Eddie said that he had always believed that I overheard what had happened between him and the other girl, and my asking him to dance was an act of amazing kindness.

I told Eddie that I remember going to a dance or two in a church back in those days but I could not remember asking him, or anyone, to dance. I kind of smiled as I said that in all likelihood I had not overheard the rejection he remembers so well, and when I asked him to dance it was probably for selfish reasons such as; I wanted to dance.  

Eddie grinned and said that he would have to give it some thought, but that he was probably going to continue to believe that 15 years ago the 13 year-old Katie was so humane and sympathetic that she felt compelled to ask a forlorn 13 year-old boy to dance. I have given this whole thing a few hours of thought and I have decided that if he wants to remember it that way, I have no objections.          

Home Alone

This is a rare Friday night in that I will be home alone. Marty is going to a guy-only party. He says the festivities will go late and he’ll just head to his apartment when it is over and that he’ll see me tomorrow. I am full grown (pretty much, anyhow), and I spend a few days a week by myself anyway, but it has been several months since I have been alone the entire Friday evening.

It’s just after 6PM as I write this and hopefully I will be leaving to go to the fitness center by 6:30. I haven’t gone to the fitness center on a Friday in a long while. I’ll get in a good aerobic exercise and then I won’t feel guilty when I have some less than healthy food while I watch TV. I might watch the Celtic game, but I’m kind of leaning to taking in the movie Eat Drink Man Woman on TCM at 8 o’clock.

Later I’m going to have to get back on the Net and visit a few sites such as Massbird.org to see if there have been any bird sightings of significance in the immediate area. I won’t go clear across the state, but I’ll travel a couple of miles for the chance of seeing some unusual bird. So that could be on the agenda for tomorrow.

Marty has an opened bottle of scotch liquor over here at my apartment. I might partake in a sip this evening, if the mood strikes me. In about a forty-five minutes I’ll be earning that sip; I’ll be puffing away on an elliptical, my face flush and shiny with perspiration.       

C'mon Spring

It has been a hard winter. Last winter seemed pretty mild, if I remember correctly, but this winter was pretty tough. As an outdoorsy kind of person, I will still go out from time to time even in a brutal winter. I’ll put on two or three layers top to bottom, slip into my heavy coat with a hood, and go out the door. When it is bitterly cold I am not out for a long time. Maybe a half hour tops. But I like the winter stillness and quiet, and I actually do not mind the early darkness, at least for a few months.

Still, there’s no doubt about it; I like spring better. And aside from the extra daylight we’re getting with every passing day, the first signs of spring are already here. I think one of the first signs of spring is the cardinal chortling from the top of a tree. In fact, in the past few weeks when the sun has been out and the wind has not been howling, the male cardinals have been singing, at least a few of them have.

Any time now a few of the heartier flowers will appear. Crocuses are generally one of the first. They seem very anxious for spring. Sometimes they will make their way up between little packs of snow. For my money they are just about the prettiest flowers, but then I love the purple and orange combination. Red bud trees have pretty pinkish blossoms. They can often be seen along the side of country roads. My favorite color of blossom on a shrub is the flowering quince. I love the soft peach tone.

Sometime soon, when we have a couple of consecutive warm days, I’ll be outside and an insect or two will go buzzing by my head. All through the summer insects will fill the air and I won’t think a thing about it, but when the first few bugs motor by my face in late winter or early spring, I smile and take note.

In a month or perhaps a little less the first tree frogs will chirp. The grey tree frog does more than hibernate through winter; he freezes solid. No respiration, no pulse. He then thaws out in the spring as if the winter never happened and continues about his business. Winter is not my favorite time of year, but I would not want to become frozen and miss it entirely.  

In about a month the first wave of migrating birds will pass through heading north. There will be indigo buntings, black and white warblers, and scarlet tanagers. I’ll go out with my binoculars a couple of times a week to see what winged friends I can find. Pretty soon I’ll have to take my hummingbird feeder off the shelf and ready it for the summer. Those little guys will be hungry when they arrive from their long trip and I’ve got to be ready.

When I was about 11 or 12 years old a couple of mourning doves made a low nest in our backyard tree. It was mid-March or so. They had a couple of eggs and one night there was a late winter snowstorm. The next morning I went out to examine the nest, and there was the dove on the nest, completely buried in snow up to the neck. Only her head was visible. But despite the snow, she seemed none the worse for wear, and remained true to her nesting instincts. By midday the snow had melted, a few days later the eggs hatched, and within a few weeks the chicks had fledged.

According to Marty, his 11 year-old daughter, Melissa, seems to hold some admiration for me, god only knows why. Maybe I can get her into the outdoors and make a nature-lover out of her. It’s happened before to girls. I am exhibit #1. And there’s no better time of the year to begin than early spring.             

The Guys Lost... and the One Who Was Found

Last year I dated a guy named Dan. I met him at a 4^th of July celebration. We really got along well. I thought we had a real chemistry. I always looked forward to seeing him. I had this thought that he was going to be my permanent guy. I had had one “permanent” guy before. His name was Mike. He was permanent for four years. I really enjoyed the feeling of having one special guy in my life. It seems to suit me.

But Dan never got into the relationship like I did. He kept part of himself out of it. I sensed that very thing all along. He finally ended the relationship. I sometimes wonder if he ended it for my sake; as though he did not have the heart to lead me on any longer.

I was crushed when it ended. Though the relationship was not exactly a long-running one going on for years, I was devastated when Dan said it was over. For a few days I was just kind of numb. But of course I finally began to feel better, more like my old self. I said to myself the old axiom, the one about there being a lot of fish in the sea. And I told myself that the fish right for me would eventually swim by.

When I first saw the little photo of Marty there next to his comment below one of my blog posts, I did not think much of it. I figured it was just some guy who happened along, saw my blog, and decided to leave a few words. But the comment led to a response from me, which led to another comment from Marty, and before I knew it, we had talked on the phone.

I soon found myself in this strange emotional paradox where I did not want to get my hopes up, but yet I was excited. On the first date Marty and I hit it off. It did not matter that he was ten years older than me. In fact, nothing mattered other than the fact that when we were together something special seemed to be going on. Not only did I feel it, but I could tell that Marty felt it too.

Now some months have passed and a few small changes have taken place. I am no longer “Katie”, I am “Spec”, Marty’s nickname for me. He jokes about my ugly, gnarly toenails, my fondness of popcorn and wine, and my odd love of my microwave oven. I, in turn, joke to Marty about his ample midsection, his seeming contempt for exercise, and his occasional snorts when sleeping. Other things have changed too. The ratio of hugs and/or kisses leading to sex is not the same as it once was. This is partly due to our having sex a bit less often, but mostly due to Marty and I giving each other those non-lustful, but very loving, hugs and kisses more often.

I can say with utter certainty that not only are there a lot of fish in the sea, but the right one is bound to swim by, given time and patience. Of course none of it will do any good if the line isn't in the water. I don’t know much about fishing, but I do know that much.

 For the blurring guy.

A Few Unpleasant Memories From Marty

Well, before I hit the PUBLISH button I'm going to say that I have had a little trouble putting this into my blog/diary. It’s taken me a little time; an hour or so.

First; yesterday Marty and I were watching a movie at my apartment when things became a bit amorous between us. I have been still feeling the lingering effects of my appendectomy and intimacy has been kind of tricky. In fact, it has been so tricky that the intimacy has been non-existent. We tried a few days ago and at one point early on things got a little uncomfortable and I kind of let out a little yelp. That ended that. I told Marty I was willing to continue but my little yowl made him a bit too hesitant. I told him I could satisfy him in other ways but he declined. I think he prefers that we both be capable of full participation.  

Last night I was able to fully participate. We paused the movie and went at it right there on my sofa. I think I can safely say that we were both pretty horny. In fact, we were both pretty horny twice in fairly rapid order.

Afterwards we lay there together under a comforter with me kind of wrapped in Marty’s arms, and somehow we got to talking about our parents. Marty’s father is 69 years old. Marty says he likes his father but that was not always the case. Marty stated that when he was a boy his father was “a hitter”. He did not hit Marty’s mother, but he struck Marty quite often. He did not hit Marty hard enough make a bruise or welt, but Marty said that between the ages of 7 or 8 to about 15, he was hit a few times a week on average. Marty recalled that one day he was hit for leaving his bicycle in the back yard, the next day he was hit for parking it on the driveway, and the following day he was hit for putting his bike in the garage. After that he left his bike with a neighbor boy. He said that during those years he really grew to hate his father.

One day when Marty was 15 years old, he was going to take some girl to a movie and he decided to gargle with an ounce or so of mouthwash. As Marty was gargling, his father came up to him and hit him and barked at him to “quit making that awful gurgle sound”. Marty said that the adrenaline just surged through him. He spit out the mouthwash, turned around and slapped his father across the face with the back of his hand. He then told his father that he was to never hit him ever again.

As Marty was telling this, he became very emotional; a combination of anger and sadness. He said his father was shocked at being slapped. Marty's father did not say a word and just kind of hurried away. Marty said that his father never again hit him. These days Marty says that he and his father have become friends, but he says that it is something of a tragedy that there was a long period when he absolutely hated his father.

I did not know how to respond to Marty’s remembrances, but I’m glad he told me, and I think Marty felt better for talking about it. The only response I had was to say that my father never once hit me and that these days he has become a friend, yes, but I still think of him more as I did 20 years ago; as my dad.

In about a half hour Marty and I will be headed out for Thai. My stomach is growling.