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What is that taste?

rockin good wayThere are some moments in life that are meant to be savoured; long, lingering, mid-winter dinners spent at wizened harvest tables with too much wine and just enough friendship, being curled up with your lover in a breathless, sweaty limp-from-loving half-sleep on blushing, rumpled sheets or watching the slow spread of delight cross an old woman’s face and creep into her eyes.

These are all delightful moments. These are the moments which reveal themselves without pretense or ceremony  to our cluttered minds.

But there are other moments to be savoured. The ones that are not so easily recognized, cause your brow to crease, and the corners of your mouth to turn down before they turn up.

There have been a few instances in my life where my wee, little, girl brain has spun quickly ’round and come to a sudden, and definitive conclusion after asking, “What is that taste in my mouth?”

Much like a long-ago  Friday evening when I arrived home after a long stretch of twelve-hour days feeling alone and unloved. Don’t lie to me darlings, you’ve also visited that, nobody-loves-me-everybody-hates-me-place.  

Anyway, I arrive home to the quiet, solitude of singledom, kick off my shoes and pad into my boudoir, only to be taken by surprise at the sight of a pair of dust-bunny-ravaged men’s gitch which had been mercilessly dragged from the unholy darkness of underneath-her-bed by the cat.

It was a split second; my brow creased, the corners of my mouth turned down and then up as my girl-brain came to a screeching halt and definitive conclusion; some poor bastard had gone home commando.

And I laughed.

I laughed the tears-rolling-down-your-cheeks-kind-of-laugh all alone in my bedroom. In that moment I knew that the price of my loneliness was worth every second of my solitude.

The man-gitch were most certainly a souvenir from a morning-after that found my first thoughts asking, “What is that taste“?

Usually that taste was accompanied by some fuzzy memory of the night before; dirty gin martinis, laughter, the company of a delightfully sensual gentleman and whatever the flavor of the 3 a.m. craving was. It was usually a granola bar that only half fulfilled its destiny of reaching my tummy. The other bits would be found clinging to unlikely places on my sticky, hungover flesh.

After having spent a much-anticipated evening of mutual adoration with the love of my life, I was drifting off to sleep and thought, “What’s that taste“?

In the sputtering candlelight, wrapped in a once-in-a-lifetime-drifting-off-to-dreamland-full-body-embrace, my little girl-brain did not need to spin.

A slow, smile in all its fullness spread across my face and seeped into my body. “I know what that taste is”, a delicate fleeting thought crossed my consciousness just as it slipped away, “It’s gin, my man and joy. Now go to sleep darling, you have everything you’ve ever wanted”.

We make our memories in every moment. Sometimes they are the brow-furrowing, laugh-until-you-cry-memories that leave you asking, “What is that taste”?

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A Love Letter for When You Feel Old & Worn Out

emptybenchYour voice sounded withered today, like a vine that’s gone too long without the sun; no longer offering fruit but reaching outward, for something solid to cling to and wrap yourself around in order not to break.

Clinging is such an ugly word though, and people our age know better than to cling. Yet, holding is another skill, and that’s one we all seem to be trying to master now. Holding onto: the people, places and memories that give our ego definition. But people come and go and places change. Even memory needs some reminding now and then.

If I could tell you anything now, I would read to you some words I wrote two, three, maybe four or five years ago. I forget exactly when it was that you came flooding back into my memory.  I was so sure then that I would never see you or talk to you again and at that time, I was afraid no one would remember me when I was young and so carefree.

But here we are over a decade later talking about how life is relentless, you battling traffic to a meeting, and I waiting, thousands and thousands of miles away for an appointment with a tax accountant.

Where are those two people who laughed when old couples remarked to us how good we looked together, and asked how many children we had? I remember answering them and laughing, “We have four children.” How very ironic that seems now.

If I could sit next to you again on the sunset bank of a spring river, there would not be tears.  I would want you to know how my memory has kept your boyish smile and jeans-with-no-underwear-first-thing-in-the-morning routine pristine, so I could come back to you over and over again. Sometimes in the blue light of dawn, and sometimes during that lonely hour between afternoon and sunset. There were times that your letters and photographs fell out of their hiding places and suddenly I was staring at your smiling face, and reading your letters.

After all of these years and the wear and tear of living, I would tell you that you were the last man I loved enough to really break my heart. You and I both know now what it’s like to grow more tolerant of loss, grief and the way lives become woven together, fall apart, make way for growth and maybe find each other again or forget completely.

I was so certain when I saw you last, that I would never see you again. Certainty is a fickle thing though. One minute it exists and the next it has vanished, never to land in our consciousness the same way ever again. Now I know that if I were to see you again, I would carry with me that visceral knowledge that  it may be the last time, whether by choice or chance.

Life’s magic rests in the not-knowing, the uncertainty and the ability to really live with all of our senses, in the moment and from the heart.

Words may not convey everything the way a slow, sensual all-the-time-in-the-world kiss that leads to a dreamy weekend of love-making and laughter might do, but for now, these words will have to suffice.

All those years ago you were my best friend and lover. Your laughter, conversation and the way your body moved in the night delighted every part of me. I want you to know this one thing; no matter how much life wears us down or how old we feel, you will always be that handsome, once-in-a-lifetime man to me, and I am grateful for the memory.

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Shhh!!! This is my Favourite Part…

shhmyfavouritIf you don’t have one, you need one. At least one. If not a few, you know for special occasions; waking up, driving to work, road-tripping, wine-sipping, skinny dipping, cooking, cleaning, bathing, preening  and everything else you get up to in life.

You don’t have any idea what I’m talking about do you? I could be talking about pairs of shoes, but I’m not. I know, I’m straying from my usual bubbly-without-brains banter. What I’m talking about in this case my darlings, is music; playlists, albums, or, if you’re an 80’s child, mixed-tapes.

Today I share with you some of my favourite lines from some of my favourite songs. I’ll give you the line, you give me the song or artist.

1) Don’t let yourself fall. Don’t let yourself stumble. If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime…

2) And it ain’t that I’m wiser, it’s only that I’ve spent more time with my back to the wall…

3) You came to me this morning and you handled me like meat. You’d have to be a man to know how good that feels, how sweet…

4) Another Saturday another date. She would be ready but she’d always make him wait in the hallway in anticipation…

5) Oh it’s hard to be a boy when all the men have lost their joy and they can’t find the ones they’ve left behind…

6) Take the ribbon from your hair. Shake it loose and let it fall, laying soft against your skin like the shadows on the wall…

7) Drive in. You guzzle gin, commit a little mortal sin. It’s good for the soul…

8) When you’re loving somebody, baby, you’re taking a gamble against some sorrow. But who knows, baby, ‘Cause we may not be here tomorrow…

9) No, there’s nothin’ you can send me, my own true love.  There’s nothin’ I wish to be ownin’.  Just carry yourself back to me unspoiled from across that lonesome ocean…

10) Nothing could be sadder than a glass of wine alone.  Loneliness loneliness, is just a waste of  time,  But you don’t ever  have to walk alone…

This may have left you with a song in your head, or maybe a bit annoyed that we don’t share the same taste in music. Whatever else, I hope  it reminded you that music can change your mood, and can speak to your heart when words are inadequate.
 

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Decolletage & Other Temptations

Free Pink Woman's Foot in Bubblebath Creative ...
Free Pink Woman’s Foot in Bubblebath Creative Commons (Photo credit: Pink Sherbet Photography)

My sweet darlings. It’s been too long. I’ve been busier than a bee in a clover field, but I have not forgotten you. NO! Of course not, how could I?

As last summer was as season of pure indulgence and delight, this summer has been equally intense with hard work and business.

With the onset of summer’s end and harvest (yes, yes, I’m afraid, I did see a leaf fall from a tree today), I have begun the work of nesting for the long, cold, winter months that are meant for snuggling and indulging in all pleasures of the flesh; Rich wine and food, long stretches of night with our lovers and languishing weekend afternoons reading, writing and socializing to our hearts’ content.

I was listening to some Rachmaninoff in the tubby-wubby last night, sunk up to my shoulders and sipping hot tea. I was thinking of someone special…a tall dark and handsome someone…or someone(s).

A someone who had in the past, perched on the floor and recited Neruda poetry and poured Cava for me as I indulged in a long soak. There was also a someone who always unwrapped a small, fresh bar of lemon soap and ran a bath for me while he prepared dinner (making sure to have a glass of beautiful Burgundy at the ready). The man who always knew what hors d’oeuvres and drink to order before I even got to the restaurant.

I also thought about the man who would take me to a pub every Friday night and how genuinely happy he was as we sipped our beer and took in the live music. There was also the fellow who bumped me around a perfect autumn in California wine country, in a jeep that had an endless stream of Van Morrison playing.

Ah yes, the memories came flooding back.

In my friskier days, I was a woman who knew exactly what her décolletage was capable of. I knew what temptation I could bait with a shy smile, a quick breath on the neck, an innocent dance or a look of surprise.

These days I know that the relationships I desire with the more handsome sex require no secret hooks, just sincerity, generosity and compassion.

After all ladies, these poor little men-folk think we’re all just fabulous as we are. For the handsome princes who are eager to please, so should we be. The rest can rot darlings.

As I mature, my intimate moments with men have taken on a flavor of deep friendship, mutual respect, and long-standing companionship. My lovers are my friends, and not a nemesis to be conquered or toyed with.

Don’t get me wrong friends, I still have my sly wit and twisted sense of humour. I’m not completely cured of an occasional indulgence of ego. Especially with the young ones. After all, they’re just so damn cute!

I’ve merely fallen in love, time and again, with the wonderful, lush machismo of my male compadres. The temptations are no longer superficial and fleeting. They are real, meaningful, and abundant with promise.

Wishing you the joy of lovers who are friends, lemon soap, and at least one fellow who knows how to order your favourite drink without having to ask.