A Memorable Recovery

A few days ago Marty was given what was basically a clean bill-of-health from his doctor following a scare on his life via Lou Gehrig ’s disease. It turned out his illness was actually a poison now believed to be in some fertilizer or something used near where Marty was working.

Anyway, the next day, which was Thursday, I had all kinds of emotions rushing through me. My life suddenly felt very valuable, but yet frail. Marty was still not feeling exactly like Superman, but that evening I almost insisted that we do the deed. We had not been intimate for about a week, and with my mental state being a little wacky, I was unusually hungry for it. Marty, on the other hand, was not entirely up for it physically, so as a selling point I told him that I would do all of the work. He laughed and agreed. The encounter did not take long. I felt this unbelievable passion. It gave me a wild, uninhibited but yet warm emotional feeling. Afterwards I told Marty what I had felt. I told him that I knew I was literally making love. I then sort of snickered and added that the sex was pretty good too.

Last night Marty was feeling much better, much stronger. We did it on my sofa this time with Marty on top. After his orgasm, he laid there atop me for perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes with his elbows supporting most of his weight, all the while remaining inside of me. Marty knows that I like for him to stay inside of me even when he has finished and he is losing his erection. Last night he added to that pleasure with gentle kisses laced with some very affectionate, very tender words whispered to me.

Two days and two of the most powerful, most sensual lovemaking encounters I have ever known. Don’t get me wrong; I would have preferred to not have had the scare that comes from the prospect of a fatal disease, but on the plus side; the emotional recovery has been marvelous.   

The Power of Relief

Well, we had quite a scare, Marty and I. About ten days ago he started getting a tingling in his fingers. Within a few days there was an appreciable weakness in his hands. He went to his doctor and was referred to a neurologist. There was a preliminary test and a number of possibilities diagnoses were offered, one being amyotoophic lateral sclerosis, or Lou Gehrig’s disease.  Marty described for me the neurologist visit, but he did not tell me at first of the ALS possibility. But I knew by his manner that there was something he was hiding. After a short cross-examination, he finally spilled the beans and admitted that there was some chance that it was ALS. Naturally I instantly became a babbling mess; after all, there was good reason why Marty would conceal such a thing.

After a number of various tests, it was discovered that there was some poison (they called it an “agent”) in Marty’s environment that was causing his problems. I think they came to this conclusion based on the simple fact that when Marty was away from work for four days his condition improved. I don’t know how they can tell what exactly is causing the condition, maybe they can’t. All I know is that Marty and I feel amazingly relieved, perhaps me especially. In fact, when it was officially determined that the cause of Marty’s problem was something relatively benign and not ALS, I once again became a babbling mess. At least this time it was a good babbling mess.    

The Idiocy Begins Again

I wish I knew why I like bird-watching. When I step back and think about it, it has to be the most boring activity imaginable. Looking at birds… how idiotic. And what’s worse; I've seen almost all the species I’m going to ever see, at least as far as my home turf is concerned. I guess about once a year I’ll see someone new. He’ll likely be some feathered guy intending to migrate through Pennsylvania or Ohio but thrown off course by a storm or something. Last year I saw a summer tanager. They usually do not make it this far north, but there one was; sitting on a tree branch in a woodlot. It isn’t entirely impossible that global warming is at least part of the reason for his being in the area. Climate change has done some peculiar things to nature, after all.

Anyway, the bird-watching season has officially begun, at least for me. I decided to forsake the Bruins game and instead go out with my binoculars hoping to see at least one migrated new arrival. I saw nothing spectacular but I could have sworn I heard the call of the bobwhite. I just can’t believe one would be around this early in the spring, let alone calling. But they do have a distinctive call. I chalked it up as a “maybe”.

I did see a possum rooting around in the underbrush. It is one of the uglier animals found in the wild in this area. For my money there is one animal that is more unsightly; the star-nosed mole. Yikes. Fortunately I've seen only one or two of them. 

I noticed that the Bruins won without my help. It's almost enough to make me think that my occasional shouts at the TV during games are non-factors.     

My Scar of Egotism

I sit here slightly annoyed. I am going to have to buy a new swimsuit. I recently had an appendectomy and the not-so-pretty pink scar is not hidden under my relatively small two-piece swimsuit. I know it is not hidden because I just checked. In time, perhaps a year or so, the scar will shrink, and although it will never completely disappear, it will become less fresh-looking. But for right now, it reminds me of a small, unsmiling upper lip attached to the right side of my abdomen. 

Anyway, I am partly annoyed because I bought the swimsuit last August, so it is really almost new, but mostly I am annoyed because it bothers me that I am so vain as to need a new swimsuit just because the old one does not hide a scar. I am 28 years-old. Maybe it is time I dismiss some of this adolescent self-absorption. If nothing else, it would save me some money.

What’s more, Marty, my boyfriend, swears he actually likes the scar. He thinks it is kind of sexy. Heck, sometimes before intimacy he will lightly, sensually stroke the pinkish raised area with his fingertips. So he is probably being truthful, at least truthful in so far as that is what he thinks about the scar. Still, I do not like the looks of it, and it is my body. 

I have not worn a one-piece bathing suit in a long time. In fact, I do not know when that time was. I must have been about 13 or 14 years-old. It might seem almost nostalgic to put one on again. Maybe the feelings of nostalgia will help hide the guilt for having misplaced feelings of vanity. Who am I kidding? No, putting on a one-piece swimsuit might seem kind of quaint, and it will definitely cover a scar, but it will not hide the totally idiotic egotism. Unfortunately, nothing can do that. 

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.